A flicker of guilt pokes at me, like I’m somehow betraying her memory.
A hand knocks on the window, and I nearly jump out of my skin. A guy is standing there, his face in shadow under a dark hoodie. I can see the edge of a jaw and a slice of longish hair, but that’s it.
“Back off!” My hand finds my phone without my even thinking about it.
I have my finger over the nine, but his hands are up, and he takes a step back. I can’t see him much more clearly, but the frame of a pair of glasses catches the light. He’s tall with broad shoulders. The phrase “built like a brick outhouse” comes to mind. He could probably bench-press my Honda Civic.
He coughs again. “Sorry,” he says, speaking a little more loudly than necessary so I can hear him through the window. “I wanted to see if you needed any help.”
“I’m fine!” Didn’t one of those stupid girl-safety chain emails talk about a gang initiation where they disable your car to trap you? I turn the key again. Flicker-flicker-die.
“Aren’t you Juliet Young?”
I stop and look at him again. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that he knows my name?
He pushes back the hood of his sweatshirt. “I think we had English together last year.”
For a moment, I can’t place him at all. Then my brain decides to work. He’s that freak loner who sits in the back of every class and never talks to anyone. His name is Red or Razz or something. He always wears hoodies or long-sleeved shirts, even when it’s the dead heat of summer.
He looks like a serial killer.
“Do you need a jump?” he says.
I stare at him for a moment too long. “Do I need a what?”
“For your car,” he says. “Battery dead?”
“I don’t know. I’m fine.” I could go back to Rowan’s, but I’m not sure I want to get out of the car yet. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but it’s just me and him on this darkened street. This is the part of the movie where you’d scream at the girl to stay in the car.
Then I have an epiphany. “I’ll call my dad to come get me.”
“My friend’s got a set of cables. He lives right over there.” He points down the opposite street, then pulls a phone out of his pocket and starts texting. After a second, he glances back at me. “Pop your hood.”
I’m stuck in this in-between place where I’m not sure whether he’s being real or I’m being stupid. I glance at my own phone. I don’t really want to call my dad. That would invite conversation, and since the camera incident, I’m so not ready for conversation.
Instead, I jot off a quick text to Rowan.
JY: My car won’t start and some guy from school is offering to jump-start it. Can you come out here?
Then I shove the phone in my pocket and pull the lever to pop the hood.
He doesn’t wait for me to get out of the car. He steps to the front of the vehicle and lifts the hood, looking for the steel arm to hold it up. I hear him snap it into place.
The air inside the car is stifling, and I wish I had enough power to roll down a window. The sun set long ago, but the warmth in here is enough to make sweat bloom on my forehead.
Metal clicks on metal under the hood and I wonder what the guy is doing. I think of all the times my father offered to teach me basic car maintenance—and the equal number of times I told him “Later.”
Then again, it’s not like changing the oil and checking the tire pressure is going to fire up the engine.
Through the passenger-side window I see Rowan heading down the sidewalk toward us, her hair shining in the moonlight. Good. I won’t be alone.
I hit the unlock button and fling my door wide. It hits something. Hard.
“Whoa!” a guy’s voice exclaims.
I look up. Standing there outside my car door, a length of jumper cables in his hands, is the only classmate I’d find scarier than the wannabe Goth guy poking around under my hood: Declan Murphy.
He looks super excited to see me, in the way the school janitor is super excited to discover a clogged toilet. Declan’s hand has caught the frame, and he’s blocking my path out of the car.
I need to apologize, but it’s going to come out spiteful. I can feel the words on the back of my tongue. A smart-aleck sorry that’s more about protecting myself and nothing about him getting pummeled by my door.
My eyes fall on the jumper cables in his hand.
I should apologize and thank him.
As he’s staring down at me, his face loses some of the irritation, like in the school hallway last week. Light from somewhere crosses his face, forming a stripe over his eyes, leaving his remaining features in shadow. Like a superhero mask, but in reverse.
“Battery dead?” he says.
He looks huge standing over me. I swallow and think of the moment he made a quick move in the hallway—when I thought he was going to do something aggressive, but he was only picking up his backpack. “I don’t know.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Um.” I have to clear my throat. I glance at the dash. “Nothing. It won’t start.”
“I don’t think it’s the starter,” calls the guy from under the hood.
“Thanks, Rev.” Declan rolls his eyes skyward, then leans into the car. He’s muttering under his breath, something like, “I teach him three things and now he’s the expert.”
I barely catch the words because he’s leaning in front of me, reaching into the car. I suck back into the seat, but when he turns the key, I see he’s not making a move toward me. I expect him to smell disgusting, like cigarettes and sweat and unwashed jeans.
He doesn’t. He smells like cut grass and fresh laundry and some kind of sporty guy bodywash. The dash lights barely flicker when he turns the key, and then he’s out of my space.
“Everything okay here?”
Rowan is on the sidewalk behind him, her blond hair shining from the nearby streetlamp. Declan turns. He doesn’t seem surprised to see her. “She needs a jump. You have a car you can pull over here?”
Her eyes go from him, to the guy under the hood—Rev?—to me. “Yeah.” She drags the word out. “Want to walk back with me, Jules?”
It’s only the other end of the block, but it feels weird to leave them with my car, especially when Declan says, “Leave the keys.”
Then again, the alternative is staying here with the two of them.
I grab my purse and fall into step with Rowan.
“They seem legit,” she says quietly. “I thought Declan Murphy was trying something when I walked up.”
I feel flushed and chilled at the same time. “He didn’t even touch me.”
“Good.” Her voice is firm. “I’m glad you texted me.”
I am, too. Sort of. There’s this little part of me that wishes she hadn’t walked up right then.
I glance back over my shoulder. Rev is still bent over the front end of my car. Declan is a few feet behind him. He’s patting something against his opposite palm, then lifts his hand to his face. A red glow suddenly lights his features.
A cigarette. I hate smokers.
“Do you know that other guy?” I say.
“Rev Fletcher,” she says. “He lives on the corner. Mom calls him the vampire. We hardly ever see him out during the day.”
“He scared the crap out of me.”
“I bet. Only you would have the two most socially awkward guys in the world show up to jump-start your car.” Now she glances over her shoulder. “Maybe I should have Mom come back with us.”
I think about what she said earlier about her mother wanting to call my father for “support,” and I bristle. “We’re not six years old, Ro.”
We’re back in her driveway now, and she pulls her keys out of her pocket and clicks the button to unlock her doors. “I don’t want to end up on the evening news.”
I don’t, either. It’s probably a lucky thing that my car battery is dead, or Declan Murphy could be five miles away by now, adding grand theft auto to his rap sheet. I’m
glad I grabbed my purse before getting out of the car.
Rowan has to turn around in a driveway to make her car face mine. Her headlights illuminate Declan and Rev. It would make a great photograph, all overexposed and full of harsh contrast.
She kills the engine and the lights, and we start to get out of the car.
Declan waves a hand and takes a drag on his cigarette. “Leave the car on,” he calls. “Headlights, too.”
She does, and ten seconds later, we’re on the sidewalk, looking at cables connecting our vehicles. He slides into my car’s driver’s seat and starts the engine. It fires right up.
“Is that it?” I say.
“That’s it.” I expect him to get out of the car, but he takes a drag on his cigarette and starts flicking dials.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t glance at me, and he doesn’t answer my question. “Where do you live?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
That gets his attention. He shoves himself out of the car and looms over me. Everything about his posture screams, Don’t mess with me. I take a quick step back before I can stop myself.
“Declan!”
I jump. The male voice is loud and to my left. A middle-aged man with a receding hairline is striding across the road, fury in his voice. “What are you doing? Leave those girls alone.”
His tone implies that I might have been right to be cautious.
Declan hasn’t moved away from me. “Her car wouldn’t start.” His voice grates with irritation. “I was helping.”
“Yeah, it looks like you’re helping.”
Declan whirls and unclips the jumper cables from my car battery. They click together and sparks fly. “What the hell do you think these are, Alan?”
Rev moves close to him. His voice is low. “Easy, Dec.”
Alan is braver than I am. He doesn’t back away. “You’re not allowed to walk out of the house whenever you want. You have a curfew. Do you understand what that means?”
A curfew? Declan Murphy has a curfew?
He jerks the cables free from Rowan’s car and slams her hood. “I’m not breaking curfew. I was helping—”
“Get back in the house. I can’t believe you keep putting your mother through this.”
Declan’s entire expression darkens. He drops the cables on the asphalt and starts forward.
Rev is quick. He’s in front of Declan, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Hey. Think it through.”
Declan stops. He’s glaring at Alan, and his jaw is set. Both hands form fists.
Alan is glaring right back at him. His expression says, Bring it, punk.
Rowan is by my side now, and her breathing is loud in the night air. Her sudden anxiety wants to pull me into its grasp. She doesn’t like conflict, and this is worse than the confrontation in the hallway. There’s no teacher to come play referee.
Part of me wants to hide. Part of me wishes we had called Rowan’s mom.
One of them is going to move, and it’s going to spark a fight. The promise of violence weighs heavy in the air. Neither looks ready to back down. The tension is coiled so tightly that I don’t think either of them will be able to unravel it.
My mother once wrote to me about a close call in West Africa. She’d been shooting the effects of an extremist group that had been leveling small towns. According to her letter, she’d been following her guides through the jungle, and they literally stumbled right into an extremist camp. She’d thought they’d be killed. I could feel her fear between the words. They grabbed her equipment and began destroying her cameras—until she told them that she was documenting their military victories. Not only did they let her live, but they also allowed her to travel with them for a day. Her photos had made their way into the New York Times, but her letter, the words meant for me, had been more powerful. She had painted a picture of sweat and guns and terror, but then she’d made me laugh.
Men can be like toddlers, Juliet. Sometimes all they need is something shiny to distract them.
I stoop to snatch the jumper cables from the pavement. I hold them out to Declan and do my best to lace my voice with sugar. “Thanks so much for coming out. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” I give an apologetic glance at Alan, though inside I’m shaking like a leaf. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know he had a curfew. My car wouldn’t start, and I was so worried about getting home . . .”
Alan blinks, almost as if he forgot I was there. He glances at Declan, then at the cars, and finally back to me. “No harm done, I suppose.” His eyes flick back to Declan. “Next time you want to help someone, you say something before leaving the house. Sneak out again, and I’m calling the cops. Then you can try sneaking out of Cheltenham. You hear me?”
A muscle twitches in Declan’s jaw, and I can tell he’s going to fire back. I thrust the jumper cables at him. “Do you think I need a new battery? Or should I be okay?”
It takes him a second, but he breaks the lethal eye contact and takes the cables from my hand. “It looks pretty old.” His voice is rough, but under the aggression, there are notes of something else I can’t identify. “You never answered my question about how far you have to go.”
His question? I don’t remember him asking a question.
Is that why he asked where I live?
Shame heats my face. “Oh. Just a few miles.”
He nods. “Let it run for a bit before you turn it off. I’d get a new battery when you can.”
I nod.
Declan turns and heads down the street.
Alan doesn’t move. He’s looking at Rev, who’s shifted to lean against Rowan’s car. “You need to let him fight his own battles, Rev.”
Rev’s expression is even. He coughs, then pulls his hood up. It throws his whole face in shadow. “Maybe I think his stepfather shouldn’t be starting battles with him.”
Alan draws himself up, but he must figure it’s not worth it. He gives a humorless laugh and shakes his head, then turns away. “You kids always think you know everything.”
The street is dead silent once he’s gone.
“Wow,” whispers Rowan. Her eyes are like saucers.
Rev looks at her. “That’s nothing.”
“Thanks for stopping Declan from—” She breaks off. “From . . . whatever he was going to do.”
“I didn’t stop him. He stopped himself.”
That’s not quite what it looked like, but I don’t say anything. I like Rev’s quiet voice, and the way he stood up to Declan’s stepfather. It makes me feel bad for thinking he looked like a serial killer.
Especially when he glances at me and says, “Thanks for what you did, too. Do you think you’ll be okay to get home?”
My heart is still thudding in my chest, but I nod. I have to clear my throat. “What’s Cheltenham?”
Rev frowns. “What?”
“That Alan guy. He said Declan could try sneaking out of Cheltenham.”
Rev’s expression darkens, closing off. He coughs again, and his shoulders hunch a little. “It’s a juvenile detention facility.” He pushes away from Rowan’s car. “Make sure you get a new battery. If he says you need it, you need it.”
Then he slides into the darkness, leaving us alone.
CHAPTER NINE
I’ve started 35 notes to you, and they all start with, “I’m 17,” but then I can’t write any more. I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to lose it.
I sound like an idiot. I might as well be sitting here writing letters to the dark, waiting for a response.
I don’t even know you, but I feel like I understand you.
I feel like you understand me.
And that’s what I like so much about it.
She’s my age.
I had suspected she was close, but this is confirmation. I don’t know why it matters, but it does.
She likes this.
She likes this.
I’ve read the note at least sixty-seven times, and it s
till gives me a secret thrill. I glance around the classroom, checking to see if it’s contagious, as if the rest of the class should be able to feel the jolt this one little note gives me.
I don’t need to worry. We’re studying poetry in English, and an espresso bar couldn’t wake this room up. A girl in the front row is reading a Dylan Thomas poem out loud, but she doesn’t give a crap about raging against the dying of the light, because she sounds like she’s reading a shopping list. She twirls her hair around her finger and slumps back in her chair when she reads the final line.
I smooth my fingers along the lines of the note and read it again. I have it tucked under the edge of my textbook.
I feel like I understand you. I feel like you understand me.
A crazy, wild part of me wants to find her. To say, yes, yes, I understand.
Bored silence has overtaken the classroom. I swear you can hear three people texting. Our teacher, Mrs. Hillard, is hoping we’re all absorbing the power of the poetry. She leans back against her desk, clutching the textbook to her chest. “Who can tell me what the poem is about?”
This will probably come as a shock, but no one answers.
Mrs. Hillard straightens and walks down the rows of desks, touching her fingers lightly to each one. Her long skirt swishes with each step, and she’s wearing one of those patterned cardigans you only ever see on middle-aged high school teachers.
I slide the note farther under the book before she can get to me.
“What is Dylan Thomas raging against?” she says. “What is ‘the dying of the light’?”
“Darkness,” calls out Drew Kenney.
Mrs. Hillard nods but says, “On the surface, maybe.” Her heels click down the aisle between the desks. “What else could he be talking about?”
“Nighttime?” calls another girl, her voice lilting at the end. It’s a guess.
She sounds so dull, so uninspired. I think of my photography analysis with the cemetery girl and wonder if she’d be so bored with this class.
Wait. I wonder if she’s in this class. I look around.
I have no idea. I don’t think so, but I have no idea. It’s not like you can look at a girl and know her mother is dead. There’s no neon sign over my head flashing DEAD SISTER, either.