He presses his lips together, nodding. “Mm-hmm. What’s happening here is coincidences and appearances adding up to look like something more. I . . . must’ve fed a need in Nell that I didn’t realize was there. A crush.” He looks at me with clear, startled eyes. “It’s my fault. She sent me a friend request last year. I accepted it. I wasn’t her teacher anymore. There was no ethical reason not to. I just . . . didn’t know.”
I’ve never seen lying like this. He’s almost got me believing, questioning everything Nell told me as she cried, how she’d fibbed to Mags that night about wanting to go to the summer theater production of Anne of Green Gables happening at Hampden High School, how she’d said she was meeting a couple girls from drama class so Mags would drop her off there before going over to Will’s house. How she’d walked to Irish Lane, up these steps, and rang the bell, because she’d decided she had to tell Brad that he couldn’t get married because she loved him and he loved her, bursting with her pure and wonderful decision.
She’d told me how she’d fibbed to Libby so she’d pick her up late from play practice sophomore year because Brad had begged her for alone time. How he’d kissed her that first afternoon, and it led to fooling around in the prop closet, backstage, in his car, and twice in this apartment, in his bed, before Elise asked to move in and he’d told Nell that she had to step back and get some perspective. He’d made a commitment to Elise. That was a serious thing.
“It’s really too bad.” He shoves his hair back and it wings out over his left ear, the waves separating, making him look young. “I’m not so much worried about myself. The administration knows me. It shouldn’t be difficult to explain the situation. But if people believe this story . . . well, you know how bad it will be for her. What people will say. It’s not fair and it isn’t right, but it’s always, always harder on the girl. Nell doesn’t need that kind of stigma hanging over her.”
I can’t decide if he’s way smarter than me, a really good actor, or both. My mouth’s open as I watch him slide sideways in his chair, hooking his arm over the back, frowning. “I’d hate to see it. There was this girl in the high school I went to. She made some . . . questionable decisions with a teacher, and . . .” A soft, bitter laugh. “Let’s just say there were far-reaching consequences.” He flicks his hand as if pushing the memory away, then says distractedly, “She ended up transferring. Drink your milk, Darcy.”
In another room, a clock chimes. The kitchen’s still, and we’re even more still in it. My nose and throat are choked with cinnamon-spice. I look down at the milk I didn’t want, off-white, in a dimpled glass.
I throw the glass. It slams against the cupboard doors under the sink, shattering, and milk sprays everywhere: cupboards, linoleum, a splash across the oven door. I look at it, breathing hard, then look at Brad, who’s staring at the spot where the glass had been a second ago.
I get to my feet. Milk’s still dripping. “If you mess with her again, I’ll tell everybody.” My voice is uneven, but it sounds like my own. “I swear I will.”
He lifts his gaze to me, eyes half-lidded, his expression perfectly flat. Footsteps thump, and the front door opens with a scrabble of claws on hardwood. I turn to see Elise come in with the yellow Lab on a leash, both breathless. She sees me and smiles, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, wearing shorts and running shoes. “Oh! Hi. I didn’t know anybody was here.” She glances at Brad, but he has a new face on now, one she’s used to seeing. Her gaze goes straight to the puddle of milk and the broken glass on the floor.
I leave. Go past her, feeling the dog grab a quick sniff at my jeans, out the door into the shock of fresh air, surprised to see it’s still daylight, it feels like I’ve been in there so long. I take the steps two at a time even though it sends sick jolts through my arm, and hit the sidewalk running. I’m Nell a year ago, running from him, from the words I care about you, but and I can’t hurt Elise this way, you have to understand and finally at least let me drive you, don’t just leave, Nell, how are you going to get home—
Hunt’s truck is parked at the curb. He followed me—if I’d looked back even once, I would’ve seen him. Weak with relief, I climb in, shut the door, hit the lock, and let my head fall back against the seat. Hunt’s asking me something over and over, but all I can do is breathe and wait for the darkness to stop spinning behind my eyelids.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I START SCHOOL on Tuesday with a cast on my arm. The ER doctor said I’d fractured my radius. From Irish Lane, Hunt took me straight up to Eastern Maine Medical Center and stayed with me through it all; he did real good, too, considering he doesn’t have any kids of his own. The nurse let me pick what color plaster I wanted. I went with hot pink.
So I’m back at SAHS, in the stink of dust and old books and horny kids and hot lunch. This place never changes. The freshmen still show up wearing stiff new jeans and hoodies and melt in the sweltering classrooms by ten a.m. The locker rooms are full of smoke, ditched butts unraveling in the toilet bowls. The hollow bounce of basketballs echoes down the hallway from the gym. And the flyers for the fall one-act play tryouts are everywhere I look. School sucks.
I’ve got study hall second period. I ask for a library pass so I won’t have to sit around playing what-I-did-on-my-summer-vacay. I pass some kids in the hallway. “Cliff divah!” one of them calls, fist-bumping me. “Badass mofu.”
I kind of smile, not remembering him being at the quarry, but whatever. Maddie’s wasting time at the water fountain, and she gapes at my cast as I go by. “You broke your arm?” Sounding thrilled.
I get more stares and a devil-horns sign in the library before I drag out a chair at one of the long tables and drop into it. I’m not stupid. For every person who fist-bumps me, there’s another two talking about what an ass I made of myself, how I had my tongue down Braden Mosier’s throat. I got this whole place figured out, and it’s a friggin’ bore. Never thought I’d say this, but I’d rather be raking berries.
There’s a stack of one-act play flyers on the table. They’re doing The Crucible this year, directed by Mr. Brassbridge, the freshman English teacher. Nell will try out, get a part with a couple lines. Our family will go to opening night, and I’ll sit there, trying not to picture Brad Ellis pressing Nell up against the backstage wall sophomore year, the two of them touching each other in the dark behind the scenery after everyone else had gone home. Wonder what he said to Elise about my visit. The milk on the floor would be easy enough, but the way I ran out—that would take some work. Not that I don’t think he’s up to it. Brad Ellis snows better than a January nor’easter. Scary-good.