“I don’t know. It could just be rumors. But I think he could be into some heavy shit. Like his brother.”
“What do you mean? Like drugs?” Ethan’s brother must be older and out of the house. He’s never mentioned him. Funny how having no brothers or sisters myself, and no aunts and uncles (both of my parents were only children), I always forget about other people’s. It just seems so unnatural to me, the idea of a family being more than three, shaped in a way that is not a triangle, though come to think of it, mine is now 2-D: a line.
“Yep.”
“I don’t think Ethan’s on drugs.” Of course, I have no basis for defending him. I don’t know what he does or even where he goes. Three times this week alone, I’ve seen him leaving campus before lunch, coming back just in time for English. He arrives dazed and withdrawn, but then again, he always seems dazed and withdrawn. And onstage, he looked altogether unfamiliar, like someone who could easily spend his days and nights shooting up.
“I hope you’re right. He always looks pretty rough, though, and his family is just so screwed up. You have no idea.”
“I’m so tired of the Wood Valley learning curve,” I say, wondering how different it would be—how different I would be—if I’d grown up here with these people, had known their families and histories and awkward phases as well as I know my own. It’s so inefficient playing catch-up.
“I’m just saying be careful, that’s all,” Theo says.
I think of Ethan’s eyes—the pockets of shiny purple underneath, the swelling of his lids, the bright blue center—and I wonder if I’m capable of being careful. Because I think of those eyes, open and looking at me, closed and asleep at Gem’s party; I think of his hands fixing me a plate, almost touching my banged-up face, and all I can think about is how much I want to kiss them: his eyes, his hands too.
All of him.
His damaged parts.
All of him.
CHAPTER 25
Me: French fries or potato chips?
SN: easy. ff any day of the week. ketchup or salsa?
Me: Ketchup. Harry Potter: the movies or the books?
SN: you’re not gonna like my answer…but honestly? the movies.
Me: Seriously?
SN: I know, I know. you’re never supposed to admit to liking the movie better than the book, but come on. two words: Emma Watson. Starbucks or Coffee Bean?
Me: Starbucks.
SN: me too.
Me: Star Wars or Star Trek?
SN: NEITHER.
Me: me too.
When I come home to find Rachel in my room, I remember that this is not my room at all. This is Rachel’s guest room, and my sleeping here confirms what I already know: I am merely an interloper. I glance around, wondering if I left my laptop open. I don’t need her to see my IMs with SN, or, God forbid, my Google history, which has way too many questions that begin with “Is it normal to…” Phew, my cover is closed, tattoos visible even from the door. No, nothing for her to see here. Bras and thongs away in the drawers, the dirty ones in the wicker box Gloria has considerately provided. My tampons too are hidden. Even my toothbrush is tucked into the bathroom cabinet, banished, along with all of my makeup, so that Rachel’s counters remain empty except for her self-congratulatory soaps.
“Oh, hey,” she says, pretending she wasn’t just looking at the only thing I have on display: the photo of my mom and me. “I was waiting for you.”
“Okay,” I say, cool but not impolite. I am mad at my dad, which by extension may now include Rachel, but I don’t know how these stepparent things work. My parents were usually a single unit, had very little patience for me playing one off the other. Usually, if I was mad at one, I was mad at both. But Rachel is still a stranger. Her vows to my father have done little to change that.
“Your dad says you’re not talking to him,” she says, and sits down on my bed, or her bed, or whatever. She is sitting where I sleep, and I would prefer she didn’t.
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” I say, and then instantly regret it. Recent circumstances with my dad notwithstanding, I don’t do confrontation. When someone bumps into me in the hallway, my reflex is to say sorry.
But maybe I’m not sorry. Who is she to get involved in this? I didn’t marry her.
“You’re right. That’s between your dad and you. I just wanted to give you this. Well, we wanted to give it to you, but your dad thought since it was my idea, I should be the one…Just here.” Rachel hands me a folded piece of paper.
“What is it?” I ask, wondering if it’s an eviction letter or something. A quick glance makes clear it’s not a check. Damn. That could have been useful.
“Open it,” she says, and so I do. A flight itinerary: LAX to ORD for next weekend. Round trip.