Brighton’s in the living room, looking at me with pity while pretending not to. I guess she heard Paul’s lecture in all its condescending glory.
“Doing some reading?” I ask, gesturing to the book in her hand.
“What?”
“So tell me, what’s your favorite part?” I’d paged through Mom’s margin notes once. It had been crap like: Was Jonah overly attached to his imaginary friends? And So true! Jonah did wet the bed. I can only imagine what ammunition Brighton’s collected to go tell her minions.
She’s blinking a ton and tracing the cover. “Um, I’ve always liked his whole idea of ‘doing one thing every day to make the world better.’” She swallows and gives me a look that I’m supposed to believe is sincere.
I’m biting my tongue so hard, I’m shocked I don’t taste blood. Mom probably wrote a whole list of bathroom-mirror sticky-note quotes. Probably added things like, how when I was seven, I used to answer, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” with “I want to help the Easter Bunny.” Or how when I was twelve, I’d written a letter to every player on the Red Sox and asked them to help out a family in our neighborhood whose house had burned down. How, up until January, I’d tutored at the after-school program at one of Hamilton’s elementary schools. How I used to be a kid she was proud of.
“You tell anyone anything that you learned about me from my mom’s highlighting and stuff, and I will tell them their perfect girl is a psycho stalker I caught going through my underwear drawer.”
“No! What? It’s not like that.” She shuts the book and stands, touching the cover almost reverently and taking far too long to slide it back on the shelf. “It’s just that … You see … My dad …”
“Look, we’re not doing that thing where we trade stories about our families.” I’m sure hers is perfect. The last thing I want is for her to think snooping through Mom’s books or hearing Paul’s scorn gives her permission to ask about mine. “Let’s go.”
She follows me into the kitchen. She’s picked up the glass and spoon I purposely left out because my stepdad has fanatic rules about cleanliness.
“Paul said to give you this.” I hold out the check and grab my keys from the hook beside the door to the garage.
Through the baby monitor, his voice mingles with Mom’s. “Your son has got to learn some responsibility. He doesn’t think of anyone—”
Brighton reaches over and flicks the volume off. “Okay. Well, thanks for the ride.”
“Not my choice,” I call from halfway down the stairs to the garage.
By the time she catches up, I’ve already started the car. I back out while she’s still fumbling with her seat belt.
Can this night get worse? Brighton Waterford. In. My. Room. In. My. Car.
The first time I saw her was in the hall on my first morning at CP High. She’d been hanging posters for a food drive. Not just a food drive, a pet food drive for the local animal shelter.
“Who’s that?” I’d asked the student assigned to be my guide and “orient” me to the school, Preston something. It’s not like I was interested or anything, it’s just she’s the type of girl you notice.
“Don’t even dream it,” scoffed Preston. “A little piece of advice to save you some time: Brighton Waterford is not interested in you.”
When I responded to her name with “Waterford? Like the crystal?” he’d given me a look and a “Dude,” both dripping with scorn and showing how damn masculine he thought he was. I had to fight so hard to stop myself from reminding him his name is Preston.
Whatever. I only know it’s crystal because Mom and Paul got some for their wedding and threw a fit when I broke a wineglass while packing. But I didn’t get a chance to explain, because Brighton had come over with a hair toss and a smile.
“Hey! Are you new? Welcome to Cross Pointe. Where are you from?”
I said, “Hamilton” and caught the look she and Preston exchanged in the beat before her “Oh. Well, welcome. I bet you’re going to love it here.”