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?”
Darn. Now I need an explanation. “Well, it’d be good for you because …” What would my father say? I search for a line from his book. “‘Adapting to change is an important life skill.’ You should embrace the fact that you live in Cross Pointe now and get involved.”
That sounds sufficiently sane and is actually pretty true. Jonah apparently isn’t a loner in Hamilton: the boys at the pizza place were cute and friendly; he has friends who throw parties and a girlfriend. For him to choose isolation now isn’t normal or healthy.
His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth. “I leave for college in a few months, and I’m not coming back. Why bother?”
“Because you’re missing out on things. Aren’t you lonely? Everyone’s really nice.”
He continues staring out the window, the portion of his face I can see folded into disapproval. “They’re nice to you because you’re Brighton Waterford.”
He gets out of the car and I scramble to follow, protesting as I shut my door. “No. They’re just nice people! Do you know that everyone else in the school volunteered at least once this year? Wait, what does that mean? Because I’m me?” This has the flavor of an insult, but I’m not sure why.
He leans back against his car—the blue of his shirt blending with the blue frame in the semidarkness of the road. “Kindness is your social weapon of choice, but it only works because you’ve grown up within the system and it’s what people expect of you. You get to be the ‘nice one’ only because you’ve got everyone trained to think you’re so sweet and innocent.”
“Trained?” I sputter. I can’t even train Never. “That’s not true.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll prove it. Give me your cell phone.”
I hand it to him immediately … then realize I should ask: “Why do you want it?”
“Who’s your best friend?”
“Amelia.”
“Okay, I’m calling her.” He presses the speakerphone button, and the rings echo off the empty street.
“Hey, B! Finally! Where’ve you been? I called you hours ago! Are we still going to Jeremy’s, or do you want to rest up for tomorrow? I thought you’d be home early? How late does this couple stay out? I can’t remember the last time my parents were awake past nine thirty. Not that I’m complaining.”
“True or false,” says Jonah when Amelia’s excessive cheer dies off. “Being mean to Brighton’s like kicking a puppy.”
“Who is this? Jeremy? Did she go to the party without us? True. Though, not her puppy; Never’d slobber you to death. Who is this? Is she okay?”
“I’m fine, Amelia,” I call.
“There you are! What’s going on? Is someone being mean to you? Hold on—speakerphone—Peter, someone’s being mean to Brighton.”
“What? Our Brighton? Who?” He sounds baffled and angry. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. No one’s being mean.”
“Where are you?” Peter asks while Amelia adds, “Are you sure?”
“Hamilton,” answers Jonah.
“Need us to come get you?” I can already hear Peter’s keys jingling in the background.
“Why Hamilton?” I wince at the insult in Amelia’s tone.
“I’m going to a party here.”
“Party? Whose?”
“A friend of a friend’s. It’s fine. Promise.”
“Which friend? We have the same friends! Who are you with? I feel like I should ask in case the cops are looking for you in the morning.” Amelia’s voice is one part concern and one part melodrama.
“Jonah Prentiss,” he answers.
“Jonah? The new guy, Jonah?” In the pause before she continues I count in my head: 1-2-3-4. “Brighton …”
“I’m fine.”
“I know who that is. He used to be a hell of a baseball player,” adds Peter.