I blink my eyes, not really sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. Peyton is texting me? Peyton has the nerve to be texting me? Is she crazy? Just wanted to reach out in case it was going to be awkward. Ha! Of course things are going to be awkward.
Why is she going to the stupid wedding, anyway? She lives in Connecticut for God’s sake. Only one of us should be allowed to go to the wedding, and it should be me because of geographic desirability. Who cares if she’s family and I’m just the son of the couple’s friends?
“Who texted you?” Evan asks, walking into the kitchen behind me.
“No one,” I say, shoving my phone back in my pocket. I’m not replying to that. If Peyton thinks she can just text me out of nowhere, and pretend like everything’s okay with us, then she has another thing coming.
Evan gives me a look.
“What?” I ask. I open the fridge and grab another soda. Although now that Peyton texted me, I feel like I want something harder. A beer, a shot, anything. I scan the shelves of the refrigerator, but there’s nothing. Either Whitney’s parents don’t drink, or they know enough to keep their booze out of their teenage daughter’s reach when they’re not at home.
“Come on, Jace,” Evan says. “Who texted you?”
I think about lying, but to do that would give Peyton more power. So I reach into the refrigerator and pull out a soda and uncap it. “Peyton.”
“Peyton?” Evan exclaims. “What the fuck?”
I give him a dirty look.
“Screw her,” he says.
I don’t say anything.
“Right, Jace?” he asks, not sounding so sure.
“Right.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He hoists himself up onto the counter and looks at me. “But maybe you will at some point, right? Maybe at some point you’ll tell me what happened between you guys?”
“Probably not.”
“How come?”
“Because nothing happened,” I say, starting to get really annoyed. I start opening cabinets in Whitney’s kitchen, looking for anything I can eat or drink to distract myself.
“Um, I don’t think you should be doing that,” Evan says. “It’s not your house; you shouldn’t just be going through the cabinets like that.”
“Oh, now you’re the morality police?” I say grumpily.
“You don’t have to freak out, dude.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say. I close the cupboard and run my fingers through my hair. “I just didn’t want to get that text, you know?” Why the fuck did she text me? I’d just stopped thinking about her, and now, in one day, I’ve had two reminders of her. First Courtney, and now Peyton herself.
Maybe I shouldn’t go to the wedding. I’m obviously emotionally fragile.
“You sure you don’t want to tell me what happened?” Evan asks. “It might help you to talk about it.”
I sigh. Maybe I should tell him. It would be good to get it off my chest. “Well,” I say. “We—”
“Hey!” Whitney says, appearing in the kitchen. “What are you guys doing in here? Because if you’re looking for alcohol, I keep it in my room.” She grins.
“We were just talking,” Evan says. “If you could give us—”
“We were just finishing up,” I say. “And I’d love a beer if you have one.”
“Sounds good.” She grins. “Let’s go up to my room.”
• • •
Thirty minutes later, we’re in Whitney’s room, and I have a good buzz going. There’s a movie playing on the big flat-screen TV she has in here, but I’m not really watching it.
None of us are really watching it. We’re just kind of hanging out and talking.
“Let’s tell secrets,” Kari says. She reaches over and grabs another drink off Whitney’s nightstand. I had no idea she was such a lush. Not that I’m judging, but she’s had two beers in half an hour and is now apparently going for a third. The weird thing is, it doesn’t even seem to be affecting her. Maybe it’s because she’s from New York. In movies, kids in New York are always getting into bars without getting ID’d.
“No way,” Whitney says. “I already know all your secrets.” She’s sitting in a beanbag chair in the corner of the room, and Evan has his head in her lap. A few minutes ago she started stroking his hair, which just kind of seemed wrong. Not that she’s stroking his hair, but just that she’s doing it in front of us. It’s like . . . I don’t know, weirdly intimate.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and read Peyton’s text for the millionth time. Maybe I should text her back. Maybe I should tell her it won’t be awkward, maybe I should tell her that I’m looking forward to seeing her, or at least ask her what she’s been up to.
But then I think about what happened, and I get filled with anger. Forget it, I tell myself. And this time, I delete the text. As soon as it disappears from the screen, I’m filled with regret. I shouldn’t have done that. Now how am I going to read it over and over?
God, I really shouldn’t have started drinking. I don’t drink all that often, and so when I do I start getting all emo and shit.
“I’ll go first,” Kari says. She grins. “When I was thirteen, I stole a lip gloss from Duane Reade, and I got caught and the police came.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “Lame.”
“That is not lame!” Kari picks a pillow up off Whitney’s bed and tosses it at her playfully.
“Yes, it is.”
“Fine, then you tell one.”
“I will,” Whitney says. She clears her throat like she’s getting ready to make some really big revelation. “You know how finals are coming up?”
We all nod. How could we forget? It’s all anyone’s talking about, even though they don’t really matter. In fact, I could technically bomb all my finals and still be valedictorian. It’s already been decided.
Whitney looks over at her desk, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Well, I have a copy of the math test in my top drawer.”
“You do not,” Kari says. She takes another pull of her beer.
“I do,” Whitney nods. “Hannah Hewitt gave me a copy.”
Evan sits up and looks at her seriously. “How much do you want for it?”
“No way.” Whitney shakes her head, her short blond curls bobbing up and down. “I’m not selling it.”
“Are you crazy?” Evan says. “You have to sell that shit. You’ll get rich!” I can already see him working the math out in his head—how much they could charge for each copy of the test times how many people will actually buy it.
“I’m not going to sell it,” Whitney says. “I don’t want tons of people using it. I need it. I’m not doing so well in math.”
Evan looks disappointed.
“But you can look at it if you want,” she says. “It’s in my top drawer.”
“Can I make a copy of it?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You have to come over here if you want to use it.” She licks her lips and smiles.
Kari and I look at each other, raising our eyebrows, and I can tell that we’re both thinking the same thing. Whitney and Evan are going to hook up.
“Okay,” Evan says agreeably. Then he gets up and goes over to her desk. “Where is it?” he asks.
“In the top drawer.” She watches as he opens it and then starts rummaging around in there. “It’s all folded up.”
He pulls out a paper. “This is it?”
“Yup.”
We all watch as he unfolds a picture of David Beckham, shirtless and in some kind of tighty-whitey looking underwear. Evan looks at it, shocked. Whitney collapses back on the beanbag chair in giggles.
Kari rolls her eyes. “That was so stupid,” she says. “I knew you were lying the whole time.”
“You did not!”
“I totally did,” Kari says. “Your math average is an eighty-eight.”
“So?” Whitney says. “You know I want an A.”
Kari rolls her eyes again. “Ridiculous.”
“Whatever, Kari,” Whitney says, still giggling. “Why don’t you tell a real secret then if you think fake secrets are so dumb?”
“I did.” Kari props herself up on Whitney’s bed. “I told you about the time I stole something from Duane Reade.”
“That was lame.”
This conversation is kind of lame, if you ask me. I’m in a bad mood about the whole Peyton thing, and the beer I drank is definitely not helping.
“It wasn’t lame,” Kari says. God. I hope these two aren’t going to start fighting or anything. The last thing I need is girl drama. I can’t stand girl drama. It’s just so unnecessary. Which is why I’m not going to text Peyton back. She’s obviously just trying to get drama going. Well! I am not going to be privy to that. I don’t do drama. And if she thinks she’s going to suck me, in, well, then she’s got another thing coming.
“It was lame,” Whitney says.
“At least it was true,” Kari shoots back.
“So what? Stealing something when you were thirteen? Who cares?” She stares right at Kari, a smile playing on her lips. “Why don’t you try telling us a real secret? One that actually means something?”
“I don’t have any real secrets.” But Kari’s sitting up now, giving Whitney a death glare, which makes me think that she does have a real secret. A real secret that she doesn’t want to tell.
“Why don’t you tell Jace your secret?” Whitney giggles.
“Shut up, Whitney,” Kari says.
“What secret?” Evan asks. “What, do you want to bang him or something?”
He laughs, but Kari flushes.
“Oh, shit,” Whitney says. But you can tell she likes it.
“Whatever,” Kari says. “So what? I had a crush on Jace for, like, a week when I first moved here. Big fucking deal.” She looks at me. “I was over it in like, a day.”
“How come you never said anything?” I ask, racking my brain for clues that she might have liked me. But I can’t come up with any.
“I did,” she says. “Remember? I sent you that—”
She cuts off as the sound of a door opening and closing downstairs echoes through the house. “Whitney?” a man’s voice calls.
“Shit!” Whitney says, her eyes widening and her skin turning pale. “It’s my dad.”
“I thought he wasn’t going to be home until late!” Kari starts gathering up all the beer bottles and dumping them in the closet.
“He wasn’t supposed to be,” Whitney says.
“Is he going to flip out?” Evan asks. “Because if he calls my mom, I’m never going to be able to—”
“Yes, he’s going to flip out!” Whitney says. “I’m not supposed to have people over, much less boys drinking in my room.”
“Whitney?” her dad calls, the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs. “Are you home?”
“Jesus,” Evan whispers.
“Quick!” Whitney says. “Everyone hide.”
Evan dashes under the bed, and Kari grabs my hand and pulls me into the closet. She shuts the door behind us just as Whitney’s dad opens the door to Whitney’s room.
“Ah,” he says, “there are you are. I was calling your name.”
The closet is kind of cramped, but I’m afraid to move because I don’t want to make any noise. My parents probably wouldn’t really care if they find out I was over here, but I don’t want to get Evan in trouble if it can be avoided. The last time something even remotely like this happened, he got grounded for two months, and it was horrible. He got super depressed. He’s like a puppy. He needs socialization.
“Sorry,” Whitney says. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“With the lights on?” her dad asks.
“Yeah, I just . . . I fell asleep studying for my math final.”
Kari starts to laugh, and I put my finger to my lips, signaling her to be quiet. She buries her head against my shoulder to muffle her laughter, and before I know it, I’m also trying not to laugh.
We get ahold of ourselves a couple of seconds later, and when we do, she pulls away and looks at me.
And then, before I know what’s happening, she kisses me.
Saturday, June 26, 12:34 p.m.
Bradenton, Florida
“So I’ll be in charge of the GPS,” I say, pulling it out of the box and plugging it into the cigarette lighter. I hope I can get a really good look at the map before Jace notices what I’m doing. Otherwise I have no idea how the hell I’m going to be able to get Jace to drop me off in North Carolina. North Carolina is a big state. I need to get dropped off in Raleigh, and if he drops me off in, like, Wilmington or something, that’s not going to be good.
Actually, I don’t even know if Wilmington is close to Raleigh. Not even a little bit. This is why I need to look at the map. Why didn’t I try to figure these things out before I left? I should at least have a little working knowledge of geography if I’m planning on uprooting my life to a new state. I mean, that’s so irresponsible.
“Okay,” Jace says.
I tap through the GPS screen, accepting the agreement that basically says if we crash the car and die because we’re looking at the GPS, then it’s our own fault. Then it asks me the address of where we’re going. What to do, what to do . . .
And then I have a brilliant idea.
“I think we should probably stay in North Carolina for the night,” I say. “That will be a good place to stop, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” He shrugs.
“Good.” I enter us to Main Street in Raleigh. Now we’ll be in the middle of the town, and how hard can it really be to get from there to Creve Coeur? Even if I have to take a taxi, that won’t be too bad. Things are looking up!
I slide the GPS into the holder and affix it to the windshield, then reach into the backseat and rummage around in my bag until I find my pink fleece blanket. I push my seat back and cuddle up under the blanket, getting ready to sleep. Hector assumes his normal position, with his head on the seat right next to mine. How cozy!
“What are you doing?” Jace asks.
“Having a nap.”
“Having a nap? Nuh-uh, no way.” He shakes his head.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re supposed to be sharing the driving. I’m not just going to sit here and drive the whole time while you get a free ride.”
I feel like telling him that there’s no way this is a free ride, that I am definitely paying for this ride, if not with money then with my pride. But I don’t say that. Instead I just say, “Of course I’m going to share the driving with you. I’m not a freeloader.”
“Good,” he says.
“You do the first couple of hours, though. While I take a nap.”
“Why do you need a nap?” he asks. “You just woke up not that long ago.”
“It’s noon.”
“So?”
“So the brunch started at nine.”
“So?”
“So! Some people wake up early before things like that. You know, to shower, get ready, that kind of thing?”
Jace is one of those lucky people who looks amazing even if he hasn’t showered, shaved, whatever. I used to think it was so sexy—that he could just roll out of bed and still look perfect. But now I just find it annoying.
“Whatever.” Jace shakes his head, and I lean back and close my eyes. He turns the radio on and starts flipping through the channels.
“Can you turn that down?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head and stares straight out the front windshield. “Whoever’s driving is in charge of the music.”
“Fine,” I grumble, deciding not to argue with him. I’ll torture him with Taylor Swift later. Jace hates Taylor Swift, which makes no sense. How can you hate Taylor Swift? She’s so innocent and cute. Not to mention talented. Everyone loves her. Look at the way America totally rallied around her that time Kanye West was mean to her. Jace thinks Taylor Swift is too modest, tha
t it’s all some big act. Like how every time she wins an award she acts all surprised.
“Welcome to the Dr. Laura show,” comes through the speakers, and Jace goes, “Oh, perfect, I love this show!”
“Dr. Laura?” I moan. “Please, please do not make us listen to this.”
“Why not? She gives good advice.”
“Sure,” I say, “if you believe all women should stay home with their children and that no one should have sex before marriage.”
“I didn’t say I agree with her on everything, but she does give good advice. She cuts through people’s bullshit.”
I snort.
“What was that for?”
“What was what for?”
“You snorted.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Jace,” I say, sighing. “I don’t snort.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever,” I say. “Can we please just not talk? In a few minutes, I will be asleep, and then in a couple of hours, we can stop to go to the bathroom and then we’ll change places. Okay?”
“Fine.”
But I don’t fall asleep. No matter what I try, I can’t. I just lie there with my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. And I hate to say it, but Jace is kind of right. Dr. Laura gives okay advice.
Like when she tells the woman whose daughter watched another girl getting bullied that her daughter was just as much to blame as the bullies.
And when she tells a man that he should stop supporting his deadbeat father who doesn’t have a job and has been married four times.
Or when she tells a mother that it’s okay to not let her son hang out with his cousin because the cousin is a terror and slammed the son into a bookshelf and made him start bleeding all over.
And then, right after she reads a commercial for some kind of at-home business that sounds like it’s definitely a scam, she takes another call.
“Sarah, welcome to the program,” Dr. Laura says.
“Hi, Dr. Laura, thanks for taking my call,” Sarah says. She sounds nervous, like a lot of people do when they call Dr. Laura, probably because they know they’re about to get yelled at. “My question is about my boyfriend. Um, he lives in Colorado, and I live in Washington. And I’m just wondering at what time does it become ridiculous for us to stay together?”