Almost (41 page)

Who hires a stupid, fake boyfriend to solve problems? Huh? Huh? A lame, pathetic person, like me.

I've been an actor just like them, all summer long. Stupid stories. None of them are real.

I peel my BBB,
Boys in Books are Better
bumper sticker off my wall and scrunch it into a ball. I've learned one thing from this summer: Boys in books are not better.

Not better than Gray Porter holding my hand, even when I was paying him.

Before I can register what I'm doing, I've reached up and pulled out the tacks on the Pride and Prejudice poster. I watch it slide down the wall onto the carpet. I pull down the next, and the next until all are down and rolled up in the closet. I do my calendar photos next. Then all of the torn out magazine pages of characters from films who've stolen my heart. Everything—until my walls are completely bare.

As I admire my work, I'm feeling better, like I can breathe. I'm well past the point where I should be counting. For the first time ever, I don't bother. That's when I realize I'm actually not
afraid
anymore.

I'm just pissed. Annoyed and tired. Minus my usual shake-and-quake crying party!

Finished with the walls, I head for the jellyfish lamp and unplug it. The LED back-light fades, out and the silicone jellyfish stop swimming blindly in circles. In seconds, they float to the top with their tentacles spread wide like they're dead. Even that, is freakishly realistic.

I grimace, wondering why—or how—I ever liked this stupid plastic lamp at all.

I walk the thing to my trashcan and pull my college essays back out. Gingerly, I place the lamp at the bottom of the basket so none of the water leaks out. But I don't put the essays back in. I close my laptop and push it to the side of the desk. It almost covers the long, scratched-in column of ‘nightmare numbers’.

Tomorrow, I'm going to sand them away. I can paint the top of my desk over, and rearrange this entire room. I'm done counting and I'm done with romance movies. And done with night lights. And I'm officially done being afraid I might have a bad dream.

Bring it on.

Hugging the college essays now, I walk over and stare at my bed. My heart pounds with a small anxiety surge as my bravado fades away.

Am I really done avoiding sleep?

I admire my beautiful, sage green comforter…the soft down pillows.

The clock reads 11:37PM.

Can I do this? Can I just crawl in?

I already had the nightmare while I was in the van. I've never had it twice in the same night. Besides, it's not like I will ever go through an episode bigger than the ordeal I survived after the van ride.

Vomiting aside, I think I handled it well.
Or not.

I shake my head.
Whatever.

I set my essays on the bedside table, and bravely clamber into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The warmth and softness of the blankets envelopes me.

I feel strong. Again, I acknowledge I'm not one bit afraid!

Not of myself and afraid of falling asleep! Not afraid of what might happen if I do. I pull in a deep breath.

The nightmare holds no power over me anymore. Now that I remember, I feel like I'll be able to handle it when, or if, the nightmare ever comes back. I flip off my light and stare at the empty walls, imagining how I'm going to place the furniture tomorrow.

I'll ask Kika to help me with the bed and ask Mom to help me patch the little holes my tacks left in the walls. After I apologize to them all over again.

And I'll tell them every second of my summer. ThunderLand. The contract. How I got my first and last kiss, and how bad it feels to have my heart broken.

I sigh and turn on my side.

And maybe, if I'm ever done being grounded, Mom will let me get a little goldfish or a couple of those tiny swimming frogs. They're cute…and real and alive...novel idea, that. Pets being alive...

###

I wake to the sound of Dad calling up the stairs, “Jess. Wake up. We need you down here.”

It takes me a second to recognize whose room this is—that I'm in my bed, under the covers with my head on the pillow. I've slept the whole night. And I feel pretty good, except the part where my heart hurts really bad.

My stomach rumbles as the smell of Dad's hot maple syrup hits me at about the same time the memories of last night sink in.

Here we go again, back to square one.

Same old, same old.

As I swing my legs out of the bed, my gaze lands on my college essays packet and my heart speeds up. I realize suddenly that I feel pretty good.

And that nothing feels the same. Nothing at all!

Yes, I can feel the weight of my broken heart; yes I'm about to get permanently grounded when I tell my parents what I've done.

But the sun is shining across the bare walls of my room. I slept in my bed all night long, and I've trashed my jellyfish nightlight!

More importantly, I don't feel one bit tired, not one but afraid of what I have to do today.

All this, and I've remembered. Everything.

I grin, and walk out of my room.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Jess

As I hit the bottom step, I hear a low rumble of voices along with my mom's higher pitched whisper. All coming from the formal dining room that adjoins our large front hall. I roll my eyes, figuring my parents must've invited people over for Sunday brunch. They always do that.

Figures. I've got tons to say and now I'll have to wait.

Worse, could they not have warned me? I'm still wearing jammies. How embarrassing. Turning quickly, I move to escape back up the stairs and change, but my Mom sees me first.

“Jess. Good.” Mom's face looks pinched. She also does not have the supportive, sympathy-filled look I'm expecting after our shared
moment
last night.

It only takes a few seconds to decipher the reason behind the attitude change: Mom's holding my iPhone. From the look of the currently lit monitor, it's now completely charged. And I can tell from here she's in my text messages.

So much for the fleeting minutes when I thought I wasn't afraid of anything anymore!

My mind reels with the possibilities of what she's read. I have no idea what's on there.

If Mom has read any of the conversations between me and Gray, then she's probably seen awkward
love
messages he'd sent after the hospital. Messages that I haven't even seen yet!

Those aren't a big deal because they'll seem legit. They'll back up my too-fast too-soon break up story.
But Holy.
Who knows what madness that guy might have tried to text me last night? I'm sure he couldn't resist sending something.

Which means…if they saw those messages, then I've been scooped.

I
need
to read what's on that phone to get my story sorted out.

I go for a
calm
expression combined with a steady voice. “Oh, you found my phone. Great. Can I have it?”

“Not so fast. Your sister plugged this in for you this morning. It went so crazy with incoming messages, your dad and I thought it had been taken over by one of those virus-things.”

Kika is coming down the stairs behind me, but stops on the third step from the bottom as though she's too afraid to approach. I dart her a glance. Has she told? If she has, then that changes my story even more! But if she hasn't…if she's just standing there to listen to me confess like I promised then…

My eyes are drawn to a movement by the dining room door.

Holy. What THE F-oh-no! No. No. No.

A stressed looking Coach Williams steps out of the dining room trailed by my father.

“This is just perfect,” I say. “Perfect.”

I push past my mom and turn to face them all in the front hallway. “Couldn't you guys at least have talked about
me
in front of my own face?”

Coach Williams clears his throat. “We'd only just begun. That's why we called you down.”

“Does this mean we aren't having pancakes?” I ask, shaking my head at Coach Williams and working to cover the extreme anger that's threatening to blow to the surface.

Not counting Kika, these
people
—people I trusted—have been lying to me for years.

I speak to Kika first, deciding to play this straight. “What have you told them? What do they know?”

“I didn't tell them anything. It was your phone that started it all.” Kika shrugs, her face a mask of tiredness and stress.

“Your sister refused to say anything until we woke you up,” Mom says. “Coach Williams just got here. We called him because he is very well acquainted with Corey Nash.” She holds up my phone. “This morning—because you were so upset last night, I read your text messages. All of them. I'm concerned, honey. From what I read, things were getting too serious. Is that why you ended things with Corey last night? Did he pressure you to do something you didn't want to do?”

“You broke up?” Kika asks, her tone hopeful.

I almost laugh. My parents still don't even
know!

I risk a glance at Coach Williams. I can tell from his darting eyes, and his uncomfortable throat clearing that the guy could easily be prepared to spill it.

I'm going to need to divert him and talk first. I decide to use the typical teen tantrum to buy myself time: “My messages are private.
Private!
How could you have read my texts?”

Mom responds right on cue. “We've always told you girls that we'd check your texts and emails if we felt as though you'd been lying to us. And Jess, we think you're doing just that. The way Kika's been protecting you makes me sure of it.”

I flick my eyes to Coach Williams. “And what about
my favorite teacher
?” I know he's heard the sneer in my tone. “Does
he
think I'm lying? What has
he
told you, exactly?”

“Nothing. Yet,” Coach answers, confirming what I'd thought.

My dad is next. “Honey, this kid seems to be pressuring you.” I roll my eyes because Dad's using the ‘good guy’ voice. “It's obvious that this Corey's fallen for you. Which is not a bad thing. But from what your mom and I can tell, you seem to also have feelings for him. We don't think it's a good idea. For someone like you—with the past you've lived through—you're—”

“Don't say it, Dad. I know I'm a lost cause and I can't have a boyfriend but I don't need to hear it from you!”

Dad shakes his head. “No. That's not what I mean. Let me finish.”

I meet his gaze and shrug.

Dad continues, “For someone who's been through what you've been through, you've got to really be careful and honest with your boyfriend
as you go along
. Maybe you haven't actually lied to us, but you've kept some information from us. And Mom and I hope you haven't done the same with your boyfriend. I called Coach last week and asked him a few questions about this Corey Nash and he told me Corey was a nice kid, so that's good.”

“You did what!? You were trying to get the scoop without just asking me?
Dad!
”

Dad shrugs. “You've been pretty evasive. I only called Coach to ask his opinion on the guy. I was curious.”

“About
Corey Nash
?” I say, almost laughing. I risk some guarded eye contact with Coach Williams. “They called you, about
Corey
? And you knew what you knew—but you didn't tell the whole story? Why not?”

Coach speaks to me as though the others aren't in the room. “He wanted the chance to tell you first. Told me he loves you. Said he wanted to tell you so he'd be there to catch you if you freaked out and fell off the deep end. He didn't want you to find out alone or from anyone else. And most importantly, without him there to help you.”

“Oh I freaked out. And then I fell, Coach. Major. And nobody caught me or helped me. Not my boyfriend, and not my parents—that's for sure.”

I dart an accusing look at Dad. “I fell hard. Crashed and burned, if you want the report straight from the lips of your
crazy
daughter.”

I feel tears welling into my eyes as I remember Gray's hands dropping to his sides as I screamed for him not to touch me. Is that what he'd been doing? Trying to
catch
me? I push all thoughts of him being anything but my enemy away. I can't think of him. Not now.

Dad's turning all purple and he's shouting at the top of his lungs. “What does that mean? Coach, what is there to tell? Someone say something that makes sense. What in the hell is going on here? Jess, start talking—your mother and I have already assumed the worst.”