The Creeping

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. Sam Worth is picking me up.”


Her neck lengthens as she gazes over my shoulder at a fast-approaching Taylor. She frowns and then nods her understanding at me. “I’ll tell Zoey you weren’t feeling well,” she whispers. “And just so you know, Sam’s been my lab partner a bunch of times in physics, and he’s way nicer than Taylor.” I smile gratefully before grabbing my things and jogging into the trees. My nerves are completely shot as I hurry through the woods. I check nervously over my shoulder every few seconds to make certain Taylor isn’t following. Fat chance. He’ll never look at me again. What a jerk. I haven’t messed around with that many guys, and even if I had, so what? Even if I’d made out with a billion guys, it wouldn’t make him entitled to anything. In a burst of understanding I know that it’s not only loyalty keeping him friends with jock scum; he’s just like them, except he’s smarter about hiding it.

The snap of a stick, and a flock of sparrows take off from the forest floor. I run. The impact of my feet hitting ground makes my head pound. I drank too much. I should have known better. I do know better. Now I’m alone in the woods with a killer on the loose. The air smells dank; it’s the scent of rain, and the bugs have multiplied like they’re drinking the moisture out of the atmosphere. I was just under the glaring sun and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I’m running from Taylor and to Sam. It’s as if the whole universe is out of whack.

The cell vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. I’m not slowing down for anything. There’s the whoosh of cars passing along the highway up ahead. Another few yards and flashes of the teal station wagon waiting for me, parked alongside Zoey’s car. I’m out of breath, but I urge myself on. With each stride I am closer to Sam. Closer to being safe. I explode out of the woods ten yards from him. Sam paces, jabbing at the buttons of his old cell. He looks up immediately, probably because I’m moving with the grace of a hurricane, huffing and puffing.

“Stella! I was worried when you didn’t answer.” He holds up the cell. I barrel into him, throwing my arms around his neck and burying my face in his shoulder. His arms are slack at his sides at first and then slowly they wrap around me. I fold my arms as tightly as I can around him, desperate to escape what I remembered; what Taylor’s lips felt like on my skin; what his hands felt like on my waist; the insulting things he said to me. Sam doesn’t even grope me when I’m practically naked hugging him.

“Are you okay?” His breath tickles my ear, and I lift my head so I’m looking up at him. I don’t want to untangle the rest of my body, though. Not yet.

“I remembered more of that day.” I hiccup and bury my face again. “I think I had too much to drink.” Sam tenses; his arms go rigid around me, and I know he’s about to pull away. “Please, just hold me,” I say, my voice muffled by his T-shirt. He stands perfectly still for another minute. It’s like embracing a tree trunk. I can’t stand it and shove him away. “Whatever, Sam, you’d think I was asking you to jab a fork in your eye or something.”

I allow more room between us, hyperaware of my relative nakedness. At first I fold my arms over my chest to cover myself, but Sam’s eyes trained only on my face infuriate me. He’s such an effing gentleman. Always so grown-up. Just once I’d like to see him lose it. I drop my arms to my sides. “What is your problem?” I snap.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and blinks at his sneakers. His T-shirt is in Greek, so I have no idea what it says. Probably Greek for King of Loserdom, Zoey would say. “I don’t drink,” he mutters.

“So?”

“My dad has a drinking problem. That’s why I don’t drink.” He shuffles his feet, eyes glued to the rising dust cloud he’s creating.

“But I’ve seen you at a bazillion parties. Why go if you don’t drink?”

He lifts his head slowly. A wash of satisfaction soothes my temper as he tries to avert his eyes from me but can’t. The tips of his ears redden. “I like hanging out with the guys, and they like hanging out with the kind of people who get invited to parties.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Also . . . you’re usually there.”

My breath hitches. Of all the insane things he could have said, nothing could be crazier or sweeter. “I didn’t know about your dad. I’m sorry.” I take a step nearer. “Do you really look for me at parties?”

He scratches his head and grins slowly. “Yeah, about ten percent of my brain is permanently programmed to keep a lookout for Hella Stella.” He laughs like he isn’t embarrassed at all. “Bonfires, parties, school dances, football games, lacrosse matches. I’d get a lobotomy, but you know, side effects, complications.”

“The unglamorous reality of being a drooling vegetable,” I say, mock gravely.