I choke on an ice cube and she hands me a napkin.
“This was a mistake, Jonah. I’m not sure why you invited me, but you don’t want me here—and I’m not saying that so you’ll disagree. Not that I think you will. Just take me home. You don’t even have to show up at the library on Sunday.”
“What makes you think I don’t want you to come to the party with me?” I’m asking purely to be difficult and because I’m pissed that she has the guts to admit it’s a mistake when I don’t.
She stares at me. Raises her eyebrows in a look that dares me to contradict her.
“We’re already here. Just come.” We’re so close. Even if we just stay for five minutes, it’ll be enough to replace whatever Carly’s saying with my own story.
“Two slices of cheese?” The guy who brings the plate winks at Brighton. He’s totally checking her out. I recognize him from Hamilton High—I want to say he’s on the wrestling team, but who knows—Hamilton’s three times the size of Cross Pointe. Ironically, it would be easier to be anonymous at the school where I was anything but.
The possible-wrestler is still hovering. “Let me know if you need anything else. Anything.”
He drops a napkin beside her plate, his name and number bleeding in black ink. I’m bothered and that bothers me. Why do I care? She’s not my girlfriend—we’re not on a date. Except—we could be—this punk doesn’t know we’re not. Neither did Zeke and Mike. No one has questioned my place across the table from her. What, they don’t think I’m competition? And this loser thinks Brighton’s in his league?
She smiles politely but turns away in dismissal. Turns to me. I take the napkin and use it to wipe the condensation off my cup. The digits blur to black-green starbursts. I’m an idiot. Next I’ll be tearing my shirt and beating my chest.
“Did you want this?” I ask, holding out the sodden, ink-stained mess.
She waves it away and gives me her perfectly imperfect grin. “Not even a little. You can keep it.”
22
Brighton
10:51 P.M.
14 HOURS, 9 MINUTES LEFT
Jonah does a decent job on the toxic pizza, stopping when only one slice remains on the tray. Does he actually like that flavor combination, or did he chose it to prove a point? I decide not to ask since we’re finally having a normal conversation. It’s like seeing his friends reminded him that kindness isn’t fatal.
Granted we’re only talking about college, how we both have no clue what we’ll pick as majors.
“One time, this guy my mom was seeing asked what I wanted to be after high school,” I say as we get back in his car. “I answered, ‘A college student,’ and he thought I was being rude or making fun of him because my answer was so vague. It was a mess; he was insulted and I felt awful.”
Jonah laughs and turns down another side street—a baseball rolls around in his backseat, pinging off something metal each time he turns. This street curves too, more roads and driveways branching off in all directions like a spider’s legs. There’s no logic to these streets, or to the houses either. Duplexes, capes, saltboxes, and a condo complex all share the same street. One house has a sign advertising a beauty salon out front. Two streets later there’s a house with a yard crammed full of bright plastic slides and toys. Maybe it’s actually a day care center? Some yards are landscaped and tidy, others have peeling paint and out-of-control weeds. We pass a building with plywood on the front windows. The houses are placed at random—some close to the street, others down long driveways. It’s like a giant opened his fist and sprinkled buildings—new, old, large, small—all over the landscape. It makes me uncomfortable—and the fact that I’m uncomfortable makes me more uncomfortable.
Jonah makes a sharp left turn.
“I don’t know how you can think Cross Pointe is hard to navigate. This is like a maze.”
He shrugs. “But in Cross Pointe everything looks the same. Here, we’ve got landmarks. There’s the park where I had Little League. Back there was the house we all thought was haunted. That stop sign is bent from when I hit it while Carly was trying to teach me to drive stick shift. And that’s the Digginses’ house.”
He pulls over, parking along the grass between two other cars. A long driveway leads back to a small, white two-story house. “We’re here.”
His words trigger my anxiety. I don’t want to unbuckle my seat belt or leave the car, or for him to remove the key from the ignition. “You could go to Cross Pointe parties instead. It’d be a whole lot closer and good for you.”
Jonah’s smile looks suspiciously sneerish, but he’s facing the windshield so I can only see half his face. “Good for me? How do you figure?”