Bright Before Sunrise (10 page)

On the drive back to Carly’s house I plead with her to listen to me, but she’s stubborn. She’s always been stubborn. It’s a cute personality quirk when she’s arguing about which movie we should watch, or which MLB pitcher is best, or with her father about extending her curfew, or with my mother about making me move to Hamilton for the second half of senior year. Tonight it’s not cute—it’s damn infuriating.

There’s no convincing Carly the flyer is nothing more than a piece of paper—one Brighton had shoved in my hand a few weeks back as part of her never-ending campaign to save my soul through volunteer work, and that I, in turn, had tossed on my backseat.

No, Carly had found it, googled Brighton, and decided she was the kind of girl I’d go for and the reason behind my so-called change.

“She’s even got dark hair—I
know
that’s your type and why you were so weird about me dyeing mine.”

“I wasn’t weird about it; I was surprised.” I reach out to
touch her hair, but she leans away. “And Brighton’s definitely not my type. There’s not a girl in Cross Pointe who is
less
my type.”

“How many girls did you have to go through before you figured that out?”

“I’m not a cheater,” I say through gritted teeth. After two years together, how could she even
think
that?

“Funny, that’s just what Daniel Diggins said.”

“That’s really helpful, Carly. Bringing up your ex is
exactly
what we need right now. Too bad you didn’t warn me I’d be driving around all your baggage tonight. I would’ve asked Mom to borrow the SUV.” She hates when I get sarcastic, but I can’t stop myself. I’m almost shaking with furious helplessness. “You dated Digg
three years
ago. You’re really going to blame me for his screw ups?”

“Jonah …” Her eyes are on her hands as they pick at the crumbs collected in the seams of the seat. “I don’t want to end it like this. Let’s stop fighting. It’s just … over.”

I know how to argue back when she’s pissed off; I don’t know how to handle her sadness. I’ve never been able to handle her sadness. Not the time she accidentally ran over a squirrel and cried for hours. Not when she got a rejection letter from her top choice for college. Not when I had to look her in the eyes and tell her I was leaving Hamilton High. And none of the times lately when she’s seemed depressed and distant—like she’s still a zip code away even when I’m sitting right next to her.

And not now, when she’s blaming me for something I’ve never even considered and all I want to do is yell that I’m innocent and that she’s acting insane.

“How can I convince you I’m not lying?”

“You can’t.”

I turn the car off, and we stare out the windshield at her driveway. We’re so quiet the crickets start chirping again and lightning bugs flash right outside my window.

She’s curled in on herself, like those caterpillars we used to catch and poke when we were ten. She’s been in my life forever. First as the girl who wanted to be part of the neighborhood boys’ group. Then, because of her stubborn refusal to be excluded, as the girl who
was
part of the boys’ group. Finally, in what seemed like an overnight transformation, she turned into the girl who could no longer be part of the boys’ group because I couldn’t stop seeing how very
girl
she was. That was the summer before freshman year, but it wasn’t until May of tenth grade that she broke things off with Jeff’s sleaze of an older brother and agreed to date me.

Now what? Will she just not be part of my life anymore? The thought pushes all the air from my lungs, replacing my anger with chilling fear.

“But I love you. Why would you do this to us?”

Carly gives me a look: lowered eyebrows, mouth pressed in an angry slash, nostrils flared. “
I
didn’t do it.” She reaches for the door handle.

“Wait,” I ask, and she does—even though I don’t say anything else. I’ve apologized. I’ve begged. I haven’t cheated. I don’t know what else I can offer her.

Losing her will be losing her family too. It’s the second family I’ve lost this year—and it sucks just as much. I’ve known Marcos since before he was born. He was the first baby I’d held, my eleven-year-old’s bravado melting into
“Am I doing this right?” as soon as Carly placed him in the bend of my elbow.

I want to beg her again to reconsider. Instead I say, “Will you apologize to Marcos for me? I told him we’d play catch tomorrow.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything. Her angry face has disappeared. She’s breathing in quick, short breaths and blinking a lot—trying not to cry.

There’s a flicker of brightness when she opens the car door. A slam. A silhouette in my headlights. An absence.

How long has she been planning this? Have I missed some big warning signs? I know our relationship isn’t perfect, but
damn
! How can she believe ten numbers on a piece of paper and not believe me?

I scramble for my iPod, scrolling past the playlists of “Carly music” and choosing a band that growls more than sings. Turning it up until the floor vibrates with bass and the words distort into monster sounds, I put the car in reverse and leave her driveway so quickly my tires squeal. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, I need to get out of here as fast as possible—maybe then it won’t hurt so much.

I want to hit Jeff’s party. To drown myself in noise and beer and people I know. But do I know them anymore? What has Carly told them? If my own girlfriend assumed I was cheating, can I really expect any of them to believe me?

Did the guys know what Carly had planned? Jeff’s hooking up with her friend, Maya—he should’ve given me a heads-up. He’s been my friend since grade school—but now Carly knows more about him than I do. His house, this town, it had been my domain, then ours. Now is it just
hers
? I
clench my jaw and point my car back toward the suburban hell that others refer to as Cross Pointe.

It’s thirty minutes from Hamilton to Mom and Paul’s house. By the time I reach the highway the speakers aren’t the only things shaking in the car; I’m trembling with rage.
How dare she
?

And how dare my
mom
! Moms aren’t supposed to change. They’re not supposed to be one person for seventeen years and then sit you down one day and tell you they’re divorcing your father. Oh, and they’re pregnant with your physical therapist’s baby and they’re getting married. That was all bad enough, but how dare she make me move for the second half of senior year? And expect me to be okay with walking away from
my life
and think that a bigger house or expensive things with remote controls made up for leaving behind everything that made me happy?

I’m just supposed to accept it all—and swallow the fact that my father’s definition of divorce involves walking away from me too.

Playgroups and pediatricians and everything Sophia—these are Mom’s priorities now. Me, her leftover kid, the doggy bag of her first marriage, I’m supposed to adapt.
It’s only one semester and then you’re off to college. You’re never home anyway. Hamilton isn’t that far. We’ll buy you a car
…

And now Carly’s gone.

I stare at the highway barriers blurring outside my automotive bribe. I could jerk the steering wheel just a little to the left, turn my Accord into a scrap-metal smear. But I don’t really want that; I want
others
to hurt. I’ve been hurt enough.

If mercy exists in Cross Pointe, Paul will be out with his
bowling team and Mom will be home watching TLC. She’ll let me escape upstairs without an inquisition about how my date went and why I’m home so early.

But I don’t expect mercy—I expect them to be brooding because they missed their dinner reservation. Mom will be nursing some imagined slight by one of the neighborhood ladies: not being invited to join a walking group or insufficient praise of her flower beds. Paul will be brainstorming ways to solve her drama. And when I walk in, all that fix-it energy will be focused on me.
Why don’t you still play baseball? Have you joined any clubs? I heard about this great charity project the high school is doing—that pretty Waterford girl is running it—why don’t you sign up? Do you know the average CP teen spends three hours a week volunteering? When was the last time you spent three minutes thinking of anyone but yourself? How about we all go to the art fair on the town commons tomorrow? Mrs. Glenn’s son, Patrick, will be there—you boys could do something afterward
.

Why can’t the town leave me alone? Why can’t Paul and Mom leave me alone? Why can’t Brighton? Haven’t they all taken enough from me—my address, the second half of my senior year, my identity—did they really need my girlfriend too?

I just want to make it to graduation. Fourteen days, that’s it. A few more months beyond that and I’m gone. I’ll be in a dorm on the other side of the state. I don’t think anyone has ever looked forward to going away to college as much as I am.

When I reach the exit for Cross Pointe, I accelerate. I blow by the exit for Green Lake too. I’d keep driving all night, except in East Lake the highway becomes something
with traffic lights, and my rage and red lights aren’t a good mix. Since the forty dollars from Mom is the only cash in my wallet, I need to park before I impatiently rear-end the SUV in front of me. I end up sitting in a diner with a forced-retro decor, picking at a half-decent burger and plate of salty fries.

It’s fine. I can direct my anger at the pink stars on the tabletop and the obnoxious jukebox music while the grease congeals on my plate. At least I can until a teen mob comes in and crams themselves into the booths on either side of mine. They aim conversations over my head and annoyed glances in my direction.

This makes
three
towns where I’m unwanted. I signal for my waitress.

The teens overflow into my booth before I’m out the door.

In the car, I call Carly. An hour later the breakup doesn’t make any more sense, doesn’t make me any less angry. It’s probably a good thing I get her voice mail. And that I hang up instead of leaving a message I’ll regret.

A horn honks, then a car flies past me. I glance at my odometer—I’m driving ten miles under the speed limit. When I reach my exit I can’t think of a good excuse not to take it. I can’t think of anywhere else to go.

The looming cul de sac makes my muscles tense. I hate this town: a “planned community” constructed at the intersections of Hamilton, West Lawn, Green Lake, and Summerset. Everything about Cross Pointe is artificial and obnoxious.

Mom and Paul still love exclaiming that they’re “so lucky to have found a house here! No one ever moves from Cross
Pointe!” as if that justifies the insane cost of one of the super-sized matching colonials laid out in straight lines with sidewalks that are too perfect to meander and meet at right angles under streetlamps with hanging flower baskets.

Hate. This. Town.

I take the left into our neighborhood too fast, and my overcorrection tears a tire stripe through the lawn. I hope I took out some of the sprinkler heads on Paul’s automatic watering system.

I try to psych myself up to turn into the driveway. Maybe after this song. Or maybe after the next one. I drop my chin and take a deep breath. My head fills with chemical cherries, the smell so strong I half believe I’ll find Carly beside me. But when I turn, the seat is still empty and her lip-gloss residue is smeared on the collar of my shirt.

12
 
 
Brighton
 
 
7:53 P.M.

The grandfather clock is chiming 7:53 p.m. when I finally give in to my urge to climb the stairs. The monitor is telling the truth: Sophia’s fast asleep, lying on her back with her arms and legs spread out in starfish formation. Her pacifier has fallen out of her mouth but her lips still twitch in a sucking motion.

Her nursery is decorated in pink and white—matching polka-dot crib sheet, dust ruffle, rug, curtains, and overstuffed glider. Board books fill a carved white bookshelf, and I’m sure the dresser is full of sweet, ruffled outfits.

In this room, the pictures are of her parents. They’re everywhere—it’s like the Sheas are afraid their daughter will forget what they look like overnight. Jonah’s in one. A small frame decorated with pink grosgrain ribbon on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. It’s a candid shot of him holding Sophia. He’s half-turned from the camera, but in profile it looks like he might be smiling down at the baby gripping his finger.