“No, unlike you, I don’t want everyone to like me. There’s a difference.”
She abandons the iPod again, turning in her seat to face me. “Since you’re so brilliant, tell me, who should I want to like me?”
“People you respect. People you like. As long as you’re passing a class, why do you care if your teacher likes you? And why does it matter if the stoner kid whose locker is next to yours—”
“Phillip Walters is not a stoner!”
“It was an example. My point is, why waste energy sucking up to people who don’t matter? Why are you sucking up to me? I don’t matter in your life.”
I turn into Ashby Estates; more straight rows of matching houses in varying shades of dull. I wonder how often people try their keys at the wrong front door.
These McMansions alternate between models with a cross gable and those with a wraparound porch—I’m disgusted I still remember those terms from Paul and Mom dragging me along on real estate trips, so they could pretend my opinion counted.
“Everyone matters.” She sounds like she’s quoting Scripture or a manual on how to be a good person. Perhaps it’s another quote from that book. Maybe that’s next week’s sticky-note mirror message.
“Yet everyone doesn’t matter to you,” I retort.
“But it’s important to be liked.”
“Why? Because it got you a ‘Works Well with Others’ in kindergarten and prom queen now?”
She squeezes her hands into fists, and I wonder if I can make her mad enough to hit me.
“No!” I hear her swallowing breaths as she fights to calm down. Her voice is still shaky when she says, “That’s my driveway, the third one on the left.”
“Then why?” I demand as I turn the wheel.
“Because … because it’s nice!”
“Ah, and we’re back to nice,” I answer triumphantly as I put the car in park. Her house is beige. It has a cross gable.
Brighton sputters, practically trembling with repressed rage and frustration. I want her to yell. I want someone to yell at me so I have an excuse to yell back. “C’mon, Bright, use your words.”
Her mouth drops open. She clenches her fists so tightly her hands shake and she blurts out, “But you have to like me,” before bolting from the car.
16
Brighton
8:41 P.M.
16 HOURS, 19 MINUTES LEFT
Stupid! Of all the idiotic things I could’ve said, why had I said that? What happened to “Thanks for the ride,” “See you at school,” or simply “Bye”?
I refuse to let myself run up the walk to my front door. “You have to like me”? No, he doesn’t—have to or like me.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t.
Teflon.
I don’t care.
I’m shrugging it off as I fit my key in the door. Every light in the house is on, a clear sign that Evy’s home and wandering around like a lost soul. I need to pull it together.
“Brighton!” Evy pounces, ripping the door handle from my hand.
“Hey! Welcome home.” I offer a hug, and she flits in and out of my grasp. She’s effortlessly stylish in black linen shorts and a printed red shirt. It’s the type of shirt I wouldn’t look at twice—too busy and bright—but it hugs her skin, drawing attention to her waist and making the most of her chest. Her dark curls are twisted into a careless knot and anchored with a swizzle stick. The outfit probably took her ten seconds to throw together and makes me self-conscious about the hour and a half it took me to get ready for school—and the fact that I don’t, and never have, measured up to Evy in interest factor.
“Yeah, thanks and all that. Want to help me unpack?” she asks.
This will translate into me unpacking and organizing while she sits on her bed and tells me stories about all her college friends and college adventures. It’s our typical routine, and I’m about to agree when her eyes light up. “Or maybe you have other plans. Who’s the guy? Hey, handsome.”
I look to see what she’s grinning at: Jonah’s standing in the still-open doorway.
“Hi,” I say. It takes all of my effort to keep my feet planted on the foyer’s Oriental carpet instead of fleeing up the stairs. Looking directly at him is out of the question; I aim my gaze over his left shoulder at his car parked halfway down the driveway.
“You forgot your cell.”
Jonah hands it over and is gone before I even manage, “Oh, thanks.”
I stare at the back of our front door until Evy puts a hand on my shoulder and spins me around to face her amused grin. “Wait. Wait. Wait! I thought you were babysitting—who was the guy? Did my little sister finally learn to lie to Mom? I’m so proud. And, nice choice: he sizzles!”
“What? No. That’s the couple’s son.”
“And did you tuck him into bed and read him a story?” She raises her eyebrows and pulls her lips into a scandalized smirk.