He sat up, rubbed his hands down his face, picked up his pen and started writing.
The room echoed with the sound of frantic scratching as students wrote. Rachel snuck glances across the room at Cort.
His face was twisted. Was he upset? Could she help that the sight bothered her? For al she knew, he was troubled because of her.
She tried to think herself out of it. He was mad at her, she figured that much, after being so harsh that night he’d come over to talk. Don’t flatter yourself, honey. It’s not like you two had anything.
She was stil trying to decide if she liked that. What she did like was that he went out of his way to impress her. Cort Davies tried to change her mind about jocks. For however long it lasted, was a very cool thing.
Concentrating on the assignment, she decided to push thoughts of Cort away—for her own good.
Sure, contention makes you have a tougher, thicker skin and every teenager needs that just to make it through. I don’t mind it either. With every situation I learn new ways to navigate. When I finally get out of school and into real life, I’ll have a compass and some skin that can’t be penetrated with insignificant darts from losers like those who give us grief in high school.
“Who wants to share?” Miss Tingey asked.
Cort raised his hand and she nodded at him. Rachel’s nerves ripened as she waited for him to speak.
“Contention sucks,” Cort started. The class agreed. “If it makes us stronger, I guess we need it. But how much is enough? Does the more we have mean we’l be that much stronger? If it does, I should say, bring it on. But I hate it at the same time. Am I the only one that feels this way?”
“Anybody else feel overwhelmed by contention?” Miss Tingey asked.
“I think it overwhelms when you can’t figure out what to do about it,” Rachel suggested.
Cort shot her a look. “You’d just shrug it off with a maybe.”
“Maybe,” Rachel said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Sometimes that’s what you need to do because some things aren’t worth it. But when something is worth it, you take it head on, no matter how bad it is or how bad you think it might get.”
“Even when somebody’s screwing you over?” Cort’s tone rose.
Rachel looked around. Did he think she was screwing him over? She was being careful, taking it slow. “Maybe you don’t know what’s real y happening,” she offered.
“Oh, I know what’s happening,” he said and didn’t look at her again. It took every bit of courage she had inside not to let his mood drive her in the opposite direction.
Rachel wasn’t sure what made her approach him at the end of class. Maybe it was the hope that whatever friendship had started to bud wouldn’t wither and die.
“You okay?” She stood by his desk as class filed out.
He looked up. Pleasure tried to break on his face but whatever was bugging him, smothered it. “Yeah.”
They walked down the hal together.
“Did I say something to make you mad the other night?”
she final y asked.
“I just got the impression you didn’t want me there anymore.”
“Because I didn’t sit with you on the hammock?”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
Rachel laughed and was glad when he did too. “Okay, so I messed up. Sorry about that.”
“Forgiven.” He stopped at the top of the stairs. Suddenly, he reached for her hand. His was warm, strong, as he lifted hers and looked at her nails.
“They look good,” he said.
“No air bubbles.”
“I was hoping you’d broken one or one was lifting.”
He ran his thumb across her knuckles and she almost lost her train of thought. “Uh. They’re stil perfect. I can come into the salon anyway.”
Gently he let her hand go. “I have some clients who come in for a hand massage.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded and started down the stairs. “But you could so easily do that yourself.” She stopped suddenly. “Hey, I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Would you consider coming with me to Countryside Manor and giving hand massages?”
“Sure.” She looked so genuinely pleased, pleasure seeped into him. He couldn’t wait to spend more time with her.
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. Wil you be able to get off work?”
“I didn’t think of that.” But he’d do whatever it took. “I’l be there.”
“Meet me at six.”
“I’l pick you up?” He offered as they parted in the hal .
“Okay.”
FIFTEEN
Rachel stood in front of her mirror with a frown working its way onto her face. She never thought much about what she wore to Countryside Manor.
With Cort picking her up, she mused over her jeans and long-sleeved black tee.
Maybe black is too goth. But then she looked great in the color. In fact, color was tel ing. Guys that liked her in black were often the ones she clicked with.
She slipped the black tee on.
She’d never worn perfume to Countryside and looked now at her assortment of bottles sitting on the dresser.
Nothing was more enticing than a guy who smel ed good.
She’d had guys tel her they liked her perfume but she had yet to hear the words from Cort. She would never give up a scent—even for a guy.
She sprayed some at her throat, her wrists.
Her hair hung straight after a painstaking hour with the flat iron. Some guys liked curls. Some liked hair up. She wouldn’t ruin a perfectly good straightening job by pul ing it up and leaving rubber band or claw marks in it.
She left her hair down.
On her dresser, the script she was going to read: Tennessee Wil iams’ Streetcar Named Desire, waited. She’d borrowed the play from Jennifer.
She’d get through half of it tonight, but that was okay. They could finish it next time.
She waited for Cort downstairs, pacing in front of the mirror her mother had in the entry, an antique they’d picked up in Paris one year. She liked the soft, fuzzy way the glass made her look.
Her heart started when the doorbel rang. Cort looked amazing in dark jeans and a bulky grey, crew-neck sweater.
When his eyes roamed her from head to toe, she tingled.
“You look great,” he said.
“Yeah? Thanks. You look nice yourself.”
She fol owed him to his car and he opened her door.
“Would you rather drive your car?” he asked.
“No.” The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was a snob. When he started the car, Click Five blasted from the speakers. Another point.
“I love this CD,” she said.
“Me too.”
“So what are you reading tonight?”
“Streetcar.”
“Tennessee Wil iams?”
“You know him?”
“Not personal y. He died a long time ago.”
“You know what I mean.”
He grinned at her. “Yeah, I do. What gave you the idea to do this? To go there and read to them?”
“I went there once for a service project with this girl’s group I belonged to. We hung out with them, pushed them around in their wheel chairs and stuff. I saw this lady reading to one of the older people and later, I remembered thinking that could be a nice thing.”
He glanced over as he drove. “You’re awesome.”
She shrugged.
“Like how you wear black al the time.”
“It’s just a color I like.”
“I like that you wear what you want even if everybody else is into something different.”
“Wait,” she said teasingly. “Are you trying to tel me something?”
“You look hot in it.”
She hoped she wasn’t blushing, but her cheeks felt like toasty mittens.
They pul ed up in front of the Manor and he s
urprised her by reaching over her body and holding her door in place.
His firm body pressed against her, his face inched near. She felt his breath, the black flecks of color in his eyes sparkled.
“Don’t move,” he said.
She couldn’t if she wanted to. She liked the feel of him pressing into her, even if it only lasted for a second. He hopped out and opened her door before she could smile.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve never had a guy do that before.
Except my dad.”
He locked the car with the press of a remote. He sent her that al -American grin and she wanted to melt. Or take a picture. At that moment she would never forget the way he looked.
“I come early most nights because my friends here go to bed around eight or eight-thirty,” she told him.
He pul ed open the front door of the Manor. “Man, I haven’t gone to bed that early since I was eight.”
“Me either,” she laughed. “What’s funny is when one or two of them fal asleep while I’m reading.”
“Must be that sexy voice of yours,” he said.
She glanced away, knowing she was red. They waved at Charity, sitting behind the front desk and Cort fol owed Rachel into the gathering room.
The group was the same, and they were al in a semi-circle, waiting for her.
She waved and smiled and she crossed the floor to them.
Cort was uncomfortable as a mouse in a room ful of traps. Unlike Rachel, he’d never had any experience with older people other than the very occasional visit with his out-of-state grandparents. His hands sweat, his armpits drenched.
Rachel kissed each of their cheeks like the gesture was nothing. Touched them as if they weren’t so old they looked like they might crack. That was it, he thought, they al looked so fragile. It was frightening.
Suddenly they al looked at him.
Rachel waved him over and he approached with feigned courage. Heck, he could fake this, right?
Rachel introduced each one. He’d never remember their names. He’d never heard of a woman named Mannie before.
But she examined him with eyes amazingly bright, even surrounded by wrinkles like walnut shel s.
“We’ve seen you before,” Mannie told him, her critical eye checking him out.
“Oh, yeah?”
“At Kippers Fish and Chips.” Lily smiled warmly at him.
“I remember. Such a handsome young man.”
Mannie appeared undecided. “That doesn’t mean anything, Lily. No one knows better than we do that beauty is only skin deep.”
“Leave the poor boy alone,” Martin scowled. “He’s here to give you gals hand massages. Stop your bickering or he’l leave, won’t you young sir?”
Total y blasted by what was happening around him, Cort rocked back on his heels with a shrug.
“Massages?” Lily nearly whispered. Her frail hand went to her mouth, covering a smile. “Oh, my.”
Rachel pul ed a chair over for Cort and placed it in front of Priscil a, a woman who only occasional y sat in on the readings. She had jet black hair and sharp features like a witch.
“Is it okay if he starts with you, Priscil a?”
Priscil a nodded. “I need it most.” She held out two hands that looked like they’d spent the last fifty years submerged in water.
Cort pul ed the smal tube of herbal scented oil he’d brought out of his pants pocket, sat down and tried to steady his hands. It felt like every eye in the room was on him. He looked up. Sure enough, heads strained from every corner to see. And those sitting in the semi-circle stared.
He didn’t know if he should touch the woman.
Something about it seemed wrong. But Rachel started reading and he was keenly aware that, even with the exciting story, he was the focus and would be until they saw what he was going to do.
He took one of Priscil a’s hands and, finding it amazingly warm, gently began a slow massage. “Tel me if I’m being too rough,” he told her.
The blackness of her eyes reminded him of a crow.
He was scared of her. Forget that she was under a hundred pounds, bony as a skeleton. She looked like the grim reaper’s wife.
“You do this for a living?” she asked, even though Rachel was in the middle of reading.
“Shhh!” Martin stuck his gnarled finger to his lips.
Cort nodded. Priscil a’s onyx eyes pinned him like thumbtacks to a wal .
“How old are you?” Priscil a blurted.
Cort moved a little closer so he could speak softly and not interrupt Rachel’s reading. “Seventeen.”
“You’re a baby!”
“Would you keep it down?” Martin scowled.
Rachel cleared her throat. “Should we take a break?”
“Are you a masseuse?” Priscil a continued.
“Uh. I’m not.”
Priscil a yanked her hand free. “Then why are you giving me a massage?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Martin wheeled himself over. “He’s a friend of Rachel’s, ‘Cil a.”
“That doesn’t answer my question about why he’s massaging my hand.”
“I don’t have to—”Cort started.
“I wasn’t complaining.” Priscil a stuck her hand back out at him. “Just wondering.”
“Wel quit wondering so we can listen.” Martin turned himself to face Rachel and shook his head.
Rachel started reading again. Cort’s clothes dampened with perspiration. His hands were clammy and slick, mixing with the oil. He hoped Priscil a couldn’t tel he was ready to die right there on the spot he was so uncomfortable—thanks to her.
“Oh, I like this,” Lily gushed, her hands pressed at her chest as if in prayer. “Mr. Wil iams is a very good writer.”
“A famous one,” Martin told her. “Didn’t you ever see Marlon Brando in the film?”
“Oh, heavens yes,” Lily said. “He was beautiful.”
“A man if I ever saw one,” Priscil a piped out of nowhere, staring intently at Cort. He sent her a fast smile. “You’re a boy yet.”
“Oh.” Cort laughed. He hoped he wasn’t offending the older woman.
“Shal I continue?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, do lovey.” Mannie nodded. “Now everyone hush.”
Rachel started again, her deep voice taking on the character of tormented Stel a. Cort forgot he was doing something he had seriously doubted he could do when he’d first walked into the room.
He moved from Priscil a to Mannie and though Priscil a didn’t thank him, she stared at her hands and he thought she looked more relaxed and happy.
Mannie gave his hands a squeeze and smiled at him when he finished.
Something about Lily made Cort’s heart squeeze. Her wispy grey hair, pul ed back and knotted at the back of her fragile head accentuated her big blue eyes—eyes that looked on the verge of tears. She’d been pretty once, he guessed, then felt guilty thinking that. She was stil pretty, just aged.
When he took her hands, she lit up like an ivory candle, pul ing him close so she could whisper, “This is so lovely.” She patted the side of his face.
Careful y, he rubbed each of her fingers, feeling large knobs of arthritis. He watched her face for signs he was causing her any discomfort but she just smiled, her blue eyes twinkling like water under the sun.
When Rachel finished reading, Martin applauded.
“Wonderful. Now that’s what I cal a story.”
“Al stories are stories, Martin,” Mannie scoffed.
“But not al stories are equal.”
Rachel closed the script. “We’l finish next time. Did everyone enjoy the massages?”
Nods and murmurs of agreement fol owed.
“What a lovely boy,” Lily told Cort, watching him massage her hands.
Cort didn’t know what to say. He’d never been cal ed lovely before. “You and our lovey make such a beautiful couple.”
“We’re not a couple,” Rachel said quickly. They al looked at her as i
f she’d just profaned. Then they looked at Cort who started to sweat again.
“Only because she won’t let me be her man,” he joked.
Instantly, al faces looked to Rachel. She wanted to laugh, but she tried to figure out what to say. Cort was playing, that’s al . So she did too. “I’m stil deciding if I want a man.”
“Of course you want a man,” Priscil a snapped. “Look at him. He’s stil a boy. Find a man.”
Cort and Rachel looked at each other over amused grins.
“And she’s stil a girl,” Mannie pointed out.
“She’s twenty-seven!” Priscil a exclaimed.
“I’m seventeen,” Rachel corrected.
“You look twenty-seven.” With that Priscil a rose from her chair. “But you’l do what you want. That’s what al teenagers do.” She waved her hand dismissively at Rachel and the group before turning and starting across to the window.
SIXTEEN
Even with spring whispering at the door, the night air was cold. Trees danced, bushes shuffled in the wind, and Cort stuffed his hands in his pockets, wishing he’d thought to bring a coat.
Rachel clutched the script to her chest. Her hair scattered around her face from the breeze, giving Cort the urge to reach over and move a strand caught on her clear lip gloss.
“You cold?” he asked as they headed to his car.
“A little but—” She stopped the instant his arm wrapped around her shoulder.
“Is this okay?” He looked at her through tentative eyes.
She wouldn’t have shrugged his arm off for a thousand blankets. “Sure.”
“I don’t know.” He slowed their walk a little. “With you I want to ask permission.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” At the car, he didn’t take his arm away.
And he didn’t open the door. He slid her around so she faced him and rested his hands on her shoulders. “You’re not like anyone else I know.”
Neither are you, she thought but didn’t say. He’d probably heard that hundreds of times from hundreds of girls.
“That can’t be the first time you’ve said that.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t give me much of a chance, Rache.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked away. “It’s just that this is hard for me.”