“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.”
I’d snorted and she’d looked offended—a look that was glossed over with a quick reply—“Sorry I can’t chat. I need to hang these up. If you need anything, let me know”—and a rapid exit. Perfect manners. Perfect girl.
The name fits her—shiny and pretentious. And there’s no escaping her within the high school; she’s like the town’s poster girl for model teenage citizen. Besides her save-the-world-from-everything campaigns, her face smiles down from the video announcements broadcast every morning. Video. Because what’s the point in having networked hi-def projectors and a state-of-the-art video-editing lab if you can’t use them in flashy ways? And even among all the too-peppy students speaking way too cheerfully, way too early in the morning, she stands out: all smiles and school spirit while urging people to buy prom tickets, vote in student elections, support the Cross Pointe Cougars in playoff games, come to Gay-Straight Alliance meetings, see the spring musical …
In fact, I bet if I bothered to check the Facebook pages of any Cross Pointe students, the one thing they’d all have in common is her on their friends’ list.
And now she’s in my car too.
The car where—dammit! Like she didn’t do enough damage tonight.
I can’t think about Carly right now.
Brighton interrupts my brooding to say, “I’m sorry you got stuck driving me. I know it’s not how you wanted to spend your night.”
“It’s fine.” I do not want the drive to turn into a round of socially acceptable small talk. I gesture to the stereo. “Put on whatever.”
“Whatever you were listening to is fine.” She presses the power button and flinches back from the loud barrage of screaming and thudding.
I doubt she can hear my laughter till I turn it off and spin the dial on my iPod to illuminate a list of bands. “Probably not your taste. What do you want to hear?”
“Anything’s fine.”
There is nothing more annoying than people with no opinion. “Rap?”
“Sure.”
“Country?”
“I guess.”
“Classical?” No one can like rap, country, and classical.
“If you want.”
“God, how can you stand to be around yourself?”
“Excuse me?” But her voice doesn’t go up in a question, it goes down in annoyance. “I don’t understand why you’re so determined to dislike me.”
Does she really want to go there? Because I will. “How do you think people describe you? They say, ‘Brighton Waterford, she’s so …’”
“I don’t know.” She stares at her nails. “I hope they’d say nice.”