“Was I not clear in school today? Leave me the hell alone.” Jonah sinks onto the edge of his bed and kicks at the shirts on the floor. “Just go home. I’ll have my mom drop off a check tomorrow.”
“I can’t. She drove me here.” I wish I had my car so I could put distance between me and my humiliation. I wish I could go back in time to the salon and say no, or back further and not approach his locker today.
He looks at me like I planned it this way. Like I want to be here any more than he wants me here. I can’t stand him looking at me like that. I slink out of the room and chew the inside of my lip as I head back downstairs, cursing myself with each footstep.
Thankfully he stays put, but through the baby monitor I can hear him talking on his cell phone: “Mom, I’m back. The babysitter’s still here. When will you—?”
I consider texting Amelia and confessing everything, but I can’t. It’s too embarrassing. She’ll tease me and tell Peter. The idea of anyone knowing makes my stomach turn. Jonah won’t tell, will he?
I grab onto the back of a kitchen chair and take a few deep breaths.
No. He wouldn’t have anyone to tell.
I hear his footsteps coming down the stairs and start babbling before he’s even fully in the kitchen: “I’m really not stalking you. I didn’t know it was your sister at first. I met your mom at the nail salon and she introduced herself as Mrs. Shea.”
Without looking at or acknowledging me, he goes straight to the cabinet next to the fridge and takes out a glass. The collar of his shirt is folded crookedly in the back and I want to go smooth it. I can’t stop staring at the crease or the inch of skin between his collar and where the ends of his hair curl just slightly. Messily.
“Listen, we got off on the wrong foot and you clearly don’t want to be playing host, so you don’t have to entertain me until your parents get back,” I say.
“Wasn’t planning on it, but glad to know I have your permission.” He opens the refrigerator and studies the contents. “My mom’s on her way.”
“Thanks.” This is it, my last chance to persuade him to volunteer. I suck in a breath and squeeze my fingernails into my palms. “I’m not sure what I did before today to make you so unfriendly, but tonight I gave you every reason to be mad and I’m sorry.”
Jonah pulls milk and chocolate syrup from the top shelf. He puts these on the counter next to his glass before facing me.
“Can we start over?” I hold out my hand. My nails shine in the kitchen’s track lighting. “Hi, I’m Brighton.”
He turns his back to me and fills his glass with milk, squirts in far too much Hershey’s syrup, and leaves his stirring spoon in a chocolate puddle on the counter.
My hand is still extended, and he doesn’t show any signs of taking it. After swallowing a big gulp, he says, “Class president, yearbook editor, swim team, head of the CPHS Spirit and Key clubs. And Little Miss Popular, junior class.”
“Dive team.”
“Dive team. So glad you clarified.” He pushes off the counter and turns to leave, but I can’t let the conversation end like this.
“Wait! Hang on a second.” I’m surprised when he does, but he’s still looking at me like I’m contagious or confusing. “The only things I know about you are: you moved from Hamilton, you used to play baseball. And your mom says you have a girlfriend named Carly.”
His face changes and the knuckles holding the glass turn white. For a second, he almost looks sad. It’s just a flicker before he reverts to his mocking grin. “But you’re not stalking me.”
I should back down, but I’m angry too. The emotion sits unfamiliar in my mouth, making my teeth feel pointed and my tongue taste coppery. “What’s your problem? I’ve done nothing but try and make you feel welcome at Cross Pointe.”
“You’re right. I should probably be thanking The Great Brighton Waterford for taking time from her busy social life to follow around a nobody like me.” He bows low in my direction, his face a mask of contempt. “Don’t trouble yourself anymore.”
There’s something hot and wicked curling in my stomach, forcing its way up my throat and through my lips in a sharp voice I don’t even recognize. “You act like I’m the world’s biggest snob. But you’re wrong.”
He raises his eyebrows and snorts.
“I’m not some stereotype. I’m not a bully or backstabber, or any other label you’d like to slap on me.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m not! What have I ever done to you? And why are you acting like being popular automatically makes me evil? Isn’t the definition of “popular” someone people want to be around?”
“Maybe some people, but I’m not interested in your pity or stalking or whatever it is. Go find some other lost cause—I’m sure there are a dozen guys who’d be thrilled you even know they’re alive. Go mess up one of their lives and stay out of mine.” He drains his glass and places it on the counter, then turns and heads up the stairs without so much as a good-bye, see you later, or any other signal that the conversation is over.
And I’m not done.