CHAPTER 8
Nastya
Lit up by the fluorescent lights, Josh Bennett studies me across the garage. I haven’t moved or looked away. I don’t see any recognition in his eyes and I wonder if he knows who I am. I’m just now remembering that I probably look like a different person. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I don’t have a trace of make-up on my sweat-covered, and probably very flushed, face. I’m in running clothes and sneakers. I’m not sure I would recognize myself if I didn’t already know what I was supposed to look like under the crap I—just barely—cover myself in at school. I’m beginning to wish I at least had the make-up on because I’m feeling very exposed under the fluorescent lights with this boy staring at me. He’s skewering me with those eyes. I know I’m being assessed somehow, but I’m not sure on what criteria.
“How did you know where I live?” He’s annoyed and he doesn’t bother hiding the accusation in his words.
Obviously I didn’t, because it would have been the last place on earth I would have come, but I guess now he thinks I’m a stalker. My right hand tightens around the kubotan, even though I don’t feel like I’m in any real danger and my left hand matches it, even though it’s holding nothing. I probably look crazy or confused or both.
His eyes drop down to my legs, which are criss-crossed by the bloody tendrils that infernal shrub left in its wake, and then they return to my face and I wonder what he sees there. I wonder if he senses how defeated I feel. I did not plan for anyone to see me like this, much less Josh Bennett, who apparently I am supposed to fear or revere, though I don’t know why. Is he wearing a ring? Is he waiting for me to kneel down and kiss it?
One of us is going to have to blink first, so I take a tentative step back as if I’m trying to evade a predator, hoping he won’t notice that I’m moving until I’m already gone. I lift my foot to take another step.
“Do you want a ride home?” He looks away before he says it and his tone loses some of its edge. My foot comes down harder than I mean it to. If I had a list of the things Josh Bennett might say to me in this situation, asking me if I want a ride wouldn’t have made the top fifty. His voice is devoid of any emotion as usual.
For the record, no I do not want a ride home, but I think I need one. And it sucks to need something from someone who so clearly detests you, but I’m not proud enough to say no.
I nod, opening and closing my mouth quickly because I really want to say something, even if I don’t know what it is I want to say. He stands and walks to the door that leads into the house, opening it enough to reach in and grab a set of keys that must have been hanging on the inside wall. He turns to close the door but looks back in and pauses a moment as if he’s listening for something. I imagine he must be checking to see if his parents are awake, but they probably aren’t. They’re probably asleep at this hour along with the rest of the civilized world. Except for me.
And Josh Bennett who apparently likes to do woodworking in the dead of night in his garage. I look around to try to figure out what exactly he was working on but it all just looks like a bunch of wood and tools to me and I can’t tell. I glance at the garage one more time, memorizing it, and as much as I hate to admit it, I know I’m coming back here.
I walk out and wait in the driveway next to the truck parked in it. It’s the only car here so I guess he doesn’t have his own. It’s a beautiful truck, even I can admit that, and I’m not a big truck person. His father must take good care of it. I wish my car was that shiny, but I hate to wash it, so I’m lucky you can even tell what color the paint is at this point.
Josh stops at a small refrigerator that sits on the floor under one of the work benches and pulls a bottle of water out of it. He walks up and hands it to me, wordlessly, before unlocking my door and opening it. I take the bottle out of his hand and look at it, suddenly aware of just how much I must be sweating. I turn to climb into the truck and I’m glad I’m not in a skirt, because I’m seriously short and I have to take a pretty big step up to get into it. He closes the door behind me, then walks around and climbs in the driver’s side. He seems a lot more graceful doing it than me, like he was born climbing in and out of this truck. I’m wondering if I’m allowed to hate Josh Bennett, because I’m thinking I might start.
And then we sit. He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t start the car, either. I wonder what the hell he’s waiting for and maybe wandering lost in the dark might not be the worst thing after all. Everything feels endless right now. My stupidity hits me upside the head a moment later when I realize that he’s not sitting here to make me uncomfortable, he just doesn’t know where to go. Looking around the car for something to write on is futile. There isn’t a damn thing in here. It’s the cleanest car I’ve ever seen. When I get in my car tomorrow morning, it’s going to feel like a slum compared to this. Before I can do the eye-pleading thing with him and hope he understands, he reaches across the dashboard and pulls the GPS down and hands it to me.
The ride is ridiculously short. It takes only minutes to get back to Margot’s and I feel stupid for having him drive me. I paid attention to everything on the way. I tell myself it’s so I won’t get lost again, but really I need to find my way back there.
I should say thank you, but he won’t expect it and I get the feeling he’s more comfortable with the silence anyway.
When he pulls into the driveway, I reach for the door almost before he’s put the truck in park, determined to put us both out of our misery. I jump down onto the ground and turn to close the door. I don’t say thank you. He doesn’t say good night, but he does speak.
“You look different,” he says and I shut the door in his face.