“You’re great with Never. Maybe you can teach me how to walk this beast without getting trampled.” I offer the flattery in a “my hero” voice and pair it with a smile. He stares for a second, then turns and walks out the front door, dog by his side.
We head down the driveway, the automatic lights flickering on one by one as we trigger their motion sensors. He casts a forlorn look at his car as we pass.
I can’t think of anything to say except things that would sound lame or like I’m sucking up: You’re so good at walking the dog. Don’t feel bad about the car; anyone could make that mistake. Did you know your shoulders are really broad?
My cheeks blaze, but at least it’s dark and he can’t see them or read my thoughts. He’s staring again though.
“You don’t look anything like your sister.”
“Really? You think?” I smile. He’s initiating conversation; we’re already doing better than earlier. “Evy and I used to be mistaken for twins when we were younger. My mother took total advantage of this by dressing and styling us alike for holiday photos until Evy rebelled.”
“Twins? She’s all curls and curves and flash. You’re …”
The smile freezes on my lips. “I straighten my hair.” Also, she wears push-up bras and too much makeup.
“Your hair’s curly like that?” Jonah sounds astounded. “God, you won’t even allow your hair to have personality. I’ve never met anyone as repressed as you.” His expression of disapproval is illuminated by a streetlight as he stops to let Never sniff.
My hair? He’s even critical of my hair? “You know, most people like me. Or, if they don’t, they’re not rude enough to tell me.”
“Rude, or honest?” Jonah asks.
“Rude,” I insist.
Jonah snorts. It’s the most infuriating sound I’ve ever heard.
“What’s that supposed to mean? You think people lie about liking me?”
“You said it, not me.”
“No, you said it first. You said rude, or honest. So tell me your version of the truth—I dare you.”
“You dare me?” He laughs and shifts the leash to his other hand while considering this. “All right. If you really want to know, people like you because there’s nothing there to dislike—that’s not a compliment. You’re vanilla ice cream. People like to build their sundaes on top of you because you go with everything. But vanilla on its own is boring.”
“I’m boring?” Now isn’t a good time for my Teflon coating to fail, but I can’t make this insult not hurt.
“Look at you.”
I do. Khaki capris, a navy pin-tuck tank. I’d worn light gold sandals to school, but traded them for white flip-flops for the walk. It’s an outfit I bought straight off a mannequin in Cross Pointe’s most popular boutique—I’m sure their stylists know fashion a little bit better than Jonah.
Never’s pulling at the leash, so he and the dog continue down the sidewalk.
“I am not boring!” I call after their shadowy shapes. I make my hands into fists. One of my nails hits a tender spot from earlier, but I keep forcing them tighter. “And I like vanilla!”
Jonah’s laughter drifts back. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll prove I’m not boring!” I stomp to catch up. “Turn left here, there’s somewhere I want to go.”
We turn out of Ashby and we’re back on Main Street. How could Jonah possibly think this town is confusing?
“Wait here, I’ll be right back,” I say once we pass the awnings for the art gallery, stationery store, and a clothing boutique to reach Yates Pharmacy. “Please,” I add.
The bells hanging above the door chime as I open it, and Mrs. Yates looks up from her place behind the counter. “Honey, we close in five minutes,” she calls at me.
“I only need one,” I answer and storm the aisles, searching for what I want. While it isn’t exactly the same, it will do. I hurry back to the register, and Mrs. Yates is waiting with a smile.
“You came out at nine p.m. just for this?” she asks.
“It was an emergency.” I smile at the bottle I’m rolling between both hands; it stings each time it coasts over the marks left by my nails. “But how about I add this too?” I hand her a Snickers bar.
“I remember being a teen—fashion and chocolate are always emergencies. Have fun.”
17
Jonah
9:01 P.M.
LONGEST HOUR OF MY LIFE
A Brighton rebellion. I’m curious what she’ll buy in the pharmacy. Or maybe she won’t buy anything—maybe she’s proving she’s not boring by shoplifting. Jeff once stole a Matchbox car after his older brother called him a chicken. But Jeff was eight, and I really can’t see Brighton pocketing anything without paying.
Bells signal her reappearance. Never barks once and strains to go sniff her. I tug on his leash and he sits, but his tail beats impatiently against the ground. I know how he feels. Is she walking slowly on purpose? If she’s waiting for me to ask, I won’t.
“This is for you.” She tosses me a candy bar—a very bad throw, but I stretch up and catch it automatically. “And this is for me.” She holds up a glittery-green bottle like it’s a trophy.