Bright Before Sunrise (5 page)

If Silvia walked by right now, she’d be crushed. I’m not flirting. I don’t have a quarter of the energy required to flirt. I have less than zero interest in flirting with Adrian, but he thinks I am. Instead of helping Silvie, I’m making things worse. I pull my arm away from his hand.

“You know what would be awesome?” I don’t pause for
his answer. “If you could carpool on Sunday. Since you can drive and most sophomores can’t—and there’s not much parking there. Maybe you could drive …
Silvia
?”

“Silvia?” He steps back, message received. “Yeah, I could totally do that. I’ll go find her for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning down the hall. “You’re the best, Adrian! See you Sunday.”

Mr. Donnelly’s shuffling through stacks of student work, moving piles back and forth on his desk and looking through his bag. He’s so absorbed in this process, he doesn’t acknowledge my knock or notice when I cross the classroom to stand on the other side of his desk. I shift my weight a few times, check the clock on the wall above the projection screen, and finally fake a ridiculous-sounding cough.

He looks up and adjusts his glasses. “Oh, Brighton! Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I can’t seem to find the list of volunteers for Sunday.”

“I have it. Remember? You gave it to me yesterday.”

“Did I? Well, I’ve got a few more names for you to add. Where did I put that note?”

My heart picks up a beat, and for a moment it’s easy to ignore that the clock is ticking away my downtime while Mr. Donnelly rejects a variety of illegible notes on scraps of paper. Could Jonah have changed his mind? If so, I can just apologize in person at the event.

“Here it is: Mallory Freeman and Jake Murphy. How many volunteers does that put you at?”

I swallow and bite the inside of my lip. Not Jonah.

I need to sit. Now. Like disappointment has a weight to it. A weight heavy enough to make my knees refuse to hold
me up. I lower myself onto a table and steal an extra moment by pulling the sign-up sheet out of my bag and adding their names. Adrian’s too.

It’s not just Jonah I’m upset about. It’s my dad. Everything seems to be leading back to Dad right now.

I take a deep breath and count the names on the sheet. “Twenty-two. That’s plenty, even if a few of them are no-shows.”

Mr. Donnelly nods and pulls a coffee-stained catalog out of a drawer. It figures he knows exactly where
that
is, and he even has a sticky note marking the page. He flips it open, and I’m faced with a glossy photograph of the plaque I picked out back in October: green marble mounted on dark cherry wood. The words engraved in gold. A row of people holding hands across the bottom that look like the chains of paper dolls I used to cut out and decorate in elementary school.

It’s perfect—an exact duplicate of the plaque already hanging in the lobby outside the main office, the one inscribed with my father’s name—but that doesn’t matter anymore. Ninety-nine point whatever percent isn’t good enough.

“Brighton, the deadline for club purchases is next Thursday.”

I nod and tighten my fingers. The date is circled on my calendar at home.

I look at the wording I’d deliberated over this fall—it’s printed on the sticky note, just waiting for an order that won’t be placed:

Cross Pointe Key Club

100% Participation Award

2013–2014

Club President: Brighton Waterford

Club Advisor: Mr. Donnelly

Making the world better, one day at a time
.

“I’ve got a lot riding on this. Principal Jencks and I made a bet, you know.”

“You did?” I ask.

“If you pull this off, I win—and my schedule next year will have a coveted end-of-the-day prep period. If we don’t get a hundred percent student participation, I lose. And then I’m in charge of coordinating the halftime bake sales at all the football games. Please don’t make me lose. I can’t cook.”

“I’m trying.” I want to tell him I don’t need the added pressure. That I’ll make all the cookies, cupcakes, sugary whatevers he needs next fall, but I can’t do this.

“I know you are.” His face softens into affection; he’s never made it a secret that I’m one of his favorite students. It’s a blessing that often feels as heavy as a burden—especially now, when I want to make him happy but can’t. “You remind me so much of your dad—and if Ethan were still alive, he’d be so proud of you for doing this.”

I’m used to people comparing us, and I know Mr. Donnelly went to school with Dad, so it shouldn’t surprise me, but I’m unprepared, caught off-guard, and a soft “I hope so” escapes my lips.

“Of course he would. I’m sure I’ve already told you all this: how he was a couple grades above me, but he knew everyone, and everyone wanted to be his friend. He was such a leader—like you—I think if he’d wanted us to dye our
hair green instead of raising money for starving Ethiopians or Mexican earthquake survivors, we would’ve done it. You couldn’t listen to him and not get caught up in his enthusiasm. There’s so much of him in you.
You
are his legacy.”

I suck my bottom lip and refuse to let myself blink. If I don’t shut my lids, then my eyes are just glistening. It’s not the same as crying. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear that. Or how much it would hurt.

It’s not that I don’t want to answer, thank him. It’s that I can’t.

After several weighty seconds, Mr. Donnelly nudges a box of tissues in my direction and clears his throat. “So, have you had any luck with our little situation?”

I twist a tissue in my fingers while I take some steadying breaths. I doubt Jonah Prentiss would appreciate being referred to as a “little situation”—or maybe he wouldn’t care, just like he didn’t care about harbor seals, drinking water in Africa, litter along the highway, or any of the other causes I’ve invited him to help out with.

“He’s busy on Sunday. Sorry.”

Mr. Donnelly sighs and slides the catalog another inch or two closer to me. “It’s always hard when new students move into town; they don’t understand the Cross Pointe philosophy of giving back to the community. If Brighton Waterford can’t convince him to participate, that says it all. Some people are takers, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

For a moment I’m relieved. There is nothing I can do. Jonah is just a taker. There are no magic words I can use to persuade him to volunteer. The whole situation has gotten overhyped and out of hand.

Mr. Donnelly continues, “You know, maybe if I talked to him … It’s not too late: we could get him to commit to tutoring someone during finals or we could stretch the rules a little and get him to sign up for a summer service project after he graduates. Maybe if I tell him how much it means to you. We could even talk to him togeth—”

I shake my head so emphatically that Mr. Donnelly stops midword.

“No. Really. You don’t need to.”

The last thing that would work is Mr. Donnelly cornering Jonah and telling him to do it
for me
.

If I could just figure Jonah out: who he is, what he likes, why he refuses to play by the same social rules as everyone else.

“We’ve worked so hard on this all year—I’d just hate to see all that effort go unacknowledged if you fail.”

I flinch at the words “you fail.”

He smiles reassuringly. “And I’d really hate to have to figure out how to turn on my oven.”

“I’ll try, but …”

I look down at the catalog again. Mr. Donnelly spins the picture so it’s facing me.

“Don’t give up hope just yet. There are still a few days until that ordering deadline.” He taps the photo. “I have faith in you. I still think we’ll be ordering this, and the Waterford volunteerism legacy will continue. Your dad wouldn’t give up, and you won’t either.”

I stammer a thank-you and leave the room. I
want
to give up.

But I can’t.

My father’s the only one who’s ever done this: gotten the
whole school to volunteer. And Mr. Donnelly’s right: Dad never would’ve given up on 100 percent; he never would’ve given up on Jonah.

I spin the ring on my finger—I have no idea how I’ll change Jonah’s mind, but I won’t disappoint Mr. Donnelly. I won’t fail my dad.

The hallways are nearly deserted, and I’m grateful. I’m itchy in my skin, fidgety in ways I haven’t been since I was little and Mom lectured me about standing still. I need to keep moving, keep making progress toward home. Take a few minutes in my room, maybe even climb into bed and pull the covers over my head.

But Amelia’s Land Rover is still in the parking space next to my car: the Audi Roadster my sister, Evy, picked for her sixteenth birthday four years ago. I hate how conspicuous it is—like a bright red jelly bean. I open my door and climb in, lowering my window when Amelia opens her passenger door to talk. Peter’s behind the wheel. He calls his greeting across her and turns down the radio.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” I say, but I’m touched that she did. She shrugs this off and asks, “What time is the memorial tomorrow?”

“One.” It’s that squeaky voice from English class.

Twenty-one hours and fifty-six minutes from now. Not enough time to prepare.

“Want me to come over before?”

I wish I could get out of the car and hug her, but I can’t without crying. If Amelia sees a single tear, she’ll never let me leave. And my mom needs me. “Thanks, but that’s okay—I’ll see you at the church.”

She ducks under the shoulder strap of her seat belt to lay her head on Peter’s shoulder. “If you change your mind, call me. And call me later.”

“Sure. Have fun tonight.”

But her attention’s on Peter now.

I watch them for a minute before I raise my window and put the car in reverse. It only takes six minutes to drive home; I still might have fifteenish minutes to decompress if Mom’s running at all late.

After eight minutes of impatient stop signs and pausing to let joggers, dog walkers, and baby strollers cross at every corner, I pull into the driveway and hit my garage door remote. Mom is waiting at the top of the stairs. She’s still in a gray pencil skirt and white-collared blouse, but she looks rumpled. Her sleeves are rolled up, and wisps of dark hair have escaped from her bobby pins. So much for fifteen minutes. Or even five.

I want to turn around and retreat to my car, to make up an excuse and go get the mail—anything to create just a minute of me time. Instead I notice her nervous energy, the way she’s half reaching for me, as if she’s going to pull me up the last step and into the kitchen. I take a deep breath, close the space for a quick hug, and manage a calm voice: “You’re home early.”

She laces her fingers together and looks down at the toes of her pumps. “I took a half day. It was too hard to focus. I keep thinking about tomorrow. I need everything to be perfect for your father.”

I look beyond her shoes to the mess she’s already created in the foyer: her coat slung over the banister, a coffee mug
on the antique bureau, her purse on one stair, her briefcase on another, and her keys—for some reason—on the floor.

“How about we stay home? I’ll make tea and you can change out of your work clothes.”

Mom looks up. Almost-formed tears cling to her eyelashes as she blinks with surprise. “But it’s Friday, we’ve got manicures. And look at that chip on your nail.”

“I can just touch it up. We could reschedule. What if we go on Monday?”

“We always go on Friday. We’ve got appointments.”

I open my mouth to protest, but a smudge of mascara under her left eye stops me. She’s been crying. “Okay.”

Mom nods. “Go on, put away your bag, then we’ll leave.”

I obey, climbing the stairs to my bedroom, hanging my bag on its hook on the back of my door, swapping my wallet and phone into a purse, and grabbing that instead. I allow myself one forlorn glance at my bed, flipping over the pillowcase so I can’t see the mascara tear stains from last night. Then I head downstairs to where Mom is waiting, keys in hand.

7
 
 
Jonah
 
 
2:29 P.M.

Mom meets me at the door wearing my baby sister in a sling around her neck. She’s also wearing a burp cloth, a splatter of baby spit-up, and a frazzled expression. She looks like a walking advertisement for birth control, but she claims to love her new life as a stay-at-home mom.