Kiss Crush Collide (15 page)

I am not cheating,[] I think. Can I cheat on someone that I am not, technically, even going out with?[] I watch an old couple in red bicycle helmets chugging up the park hill like candy apples.

“I am not cheating,” I say clearly. I am certain of that. But with a long, raggedy breath I search for what I actually am doing.

“I am undecided,” I conclude.

“What’s the difference?” he asks sarcastically, looking up so that I can finally see his eyes.

“Intent.”

Duffy rakes his hair back, shaking his head, taking this in.

Finally he clears his throat and asks, “How come you never talk about him?”

Why would I talk about Shane? What is there to say? He is a block of cheese. Thick and square, carved from the same slab as Roger and Evan.

“Well, we never really talk about anything, do we?” I ask. “We just . . . go,” I say, swallowing hard, trying to explain, and my heart starts to pull apart, tearing at the edges, and my hands fly toward the horizon, demonstrating our exodus, shaky and nervous with the realization that this might be it.

I can’t breathe properly. And I feel like I can’t see. The sun breaks through the branches above me, shining between the leaves in pieces and parts, a golden puzzle on my arm, but it doesn’t warm my skin. I am numb.

I drop my hands. Tears roll down my face, and I quietly ask, “Can’t we just go?”

He nods, yielding.

A trail of cinnamon and sugar shimmers on the dash. Duffy drives, staring straight ahead, taking his time, chewing slowly, a six-pack of doughnuts between us on the front seat, until the words finally rush out of him in a flood.

Turns out that he is going to be a senior this coming fall. At my school. Even though he is already eighteen. He missed a year.

“An[] entire[_ year_]?” I ask, and he nods, turning left onto an unmarked road and grabbing another doughnut from the open box.

Not because of stupidity or slacking off, but because his mom was sick. He spent all of last year with her, and that is why he is behind. And why he lives with Big Duff, his dad, now, because his mom died.

“Cancer,”
he says, tight and short, stopping my breath and answering all my questions with a word.

He puts the station wagon into park. Sitting up straight and still, he stares out the windshield, the muscle in his jaw working silently under his skin.

He turns to me with the smile I know so well and says, “So, what’s your story?”

But I am unwilling to dive in. Nothing I have can compare with what he’s just said. Besides, everyone already knows my story by heart.

The blond ambition, the list of ample goods, the expected test scores, the perfect boys and form-fitting outfits, the high kicks and the constant smile (don’t forget about that one), they’ve all been achieved, first by Yorke and then by Freddie. I am an also-ran.

Duffy reaches over, and his fingers tingle onto my kneecap, wiggling my leg back and forth, prompting me.

I shake my head and say, “It’s already been told.”

He raises his eyebrows, disbelieving.

“At least twice,” I say. “Just look at my sisters.”

“That can’t be true,” he says to me. Softly. Gently.

“Feels that way,” I say as I shift in my seat.

“Somehow you seem different.”

“Really?” I ask, wrapping my arms tightly around my body.

What does he know? And what does he see? Because I don’t see that. I just see me, exactly right now as I am. This. Not what I could be or what I might be capable of or that crappy thing that teachers always call potential.

“Well,” he says, turning toward me, “you’re here, aren’t you?”

He leans in, warm and sweet, like a bakery at 5:00 A.M. His hair tickles its way across my forehead as he plants a light kiss there. I close my eyes with a sigh and a smile.

“You need to choose, Leah,” Duffy breathes into my ear as he drags his lips lightly across my cheekbone. He rests his forehead against mine. “I won’t be your second choice.”

God, I didn’t mean to cheat. Because this whole thing with Duffy, well, it just kind of happened. He just kind of happens. He shows up, and my blood runs hot, and like that, I am off course, spinning. He has never been part of the plan.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I murmur as I make my way across the pool deck. It’s been four full days since I skipped out of work and saw her last, but Valerie’s fashion sense has not improved in the interim. Like some sunbather from the 1940s, she is sprawled out on an old blanket in a white halter suit and dark cat-eye sunglasses. I bet they are on loan from her grandmother, or the Smithsonian.

I watch her with a scornful smile as she closes her book, lifts her glasses with a raised pinkie, and looks over at me, trying to catch my eye as I pass by.

“Your friend Val,” Troy says, stopping in front of me and lifting his stubbly golden chin toward Valerie, “she said you were sick last Friday.”

He stretches his arms up, sticks his elbows out, and rests a battered-looking clipboard on the top of his head. He rocks back on his heels, essentially blocking my path with his excessive armpit hair. Gross.

“We covered for you,” he says, mellow and a little too sweet, nodding at the gang of blond dudes staring down at us from the metal chairs ringing the perimeter of the pool, “no problem.”

With a tight turn of my head I catch sight of Valerie, a couple of steps behind, books skipping along on her blanket, her chicken little legs straining under the effort, following me to my first chair.

“She’s not my friend,” I say to Troy. “She’s just annoying.”

I pull myself up into the chair next to the slide and turn around, feeling the baked metal rungs burning into my back as I slide down into my seat. I wish it weren’t so hot. I exhale and watch a line of third graders jostle one another, climb the curved steps, then shoot down the slide, landing with sloppy splashes eight feet from my feet.

“Did you finish
The Tempest
?” Valerie asks later that afternoon, book under her arm, blanket in tow.

Her shadow, growing longer and longer as the day wears on, has been appearing next to mine about two minutes after I settle into each new chair.

She started out packing up her stuff each and every time, and then setting it all out again at her new location, but the last couple of times Troy blew a sharp blast on his whistle, she just dragged the whole shebang—books, blanket, and all—along the pool deck with me.

“I did.”

I bubble up with excitement. I love
The Tempest
. I love anything with a good storm these days. Obviously.

I smile at her over my shoulder. “Did you?”

“Not quite.” She holds up her book. Her bookmark is dangling, only about a quarter of the way deep.

“What do you think so far?” I ask, slowing for her answer.

“Leah!” a voice calls from outside the fence, and my heart races, caught, as I look past the XS board shorts and round grade-school bellies in tankinis to find Dani, fresh coppery streaks highlighting her auburn hair, her skin as brown as a dark Vuitton bag, walking toward the fence, waving at me. Len, our tiny blond pyramid topper, bounces along two steps behind her. Damn. I wave back, feeling defeated. I was hoping for Duffy.

“Tan enough?” I ask, stepping up my pace.

Dani rolls her eyes.

They have been gone practically all summer, staying with Dani’s dad in Phoenix. My mother would never let me do something like that, even if she did get a divorce, which she would never do in a million years.

Dani laughs as I climb up onto my lifeguard chair. “It was
so
hot.”

“Like an
oven
,” Len confirms.

Her voice drifts away, her attention grabbed by Valerie, pulling up next to me with her towel loaded, a little late to the party, as usual.

She parks herself in the corner between the fence and me, rolling out her blanket at the base of Len’s and Dani’s pedicured feet.

We all watch as she straightens her stack of books, angling them just so, and unfolds her body, leaning back against the fence. She stretches out her long, skinny legs, crosses her arms over her chest, and gives us a nod, letting us know that we now have her undivided attention. As if we even wanted it. God, she’s not even picking up a book, or pretending to tan, or trying in any way to hide the fact that she is totally and completely earwigging on our conversation.

Tearing her eyes away from the spectacle that is Valerie, Dani says, “We saw Shane last night at the Keltie.”

“Where were you?” Len asks teasingly. “He looked
so
lonely.”

Right, like Shane could be lonely at the drive-in, surrounded by carhops in short skirts and unlimited hamburgers. Not possible.

“So we went over,” Dani says.

“Just to say hi,” Len says quickly as if I would be worried about their sliding into his backseat or something. I know Shane’s not a cheater. That’s my department.

“I’ve been so busy,” I say, watching the water.

“Yeah? What have you been up to?” Dani asks.

Counting cars, I think.

“You know, not much,” I say, making the understatement of the century or at least of my lifetime.

Valerie snickers.

“Wedding stuff?” Dani asks.

“Ooh, right,” Len squeals. “Yorke is sooo lucky.”

Valerie coughs and twitches against her blanket as she makes herself comfortable.

“Well,” Dani says, drawing out the word, leaning back from the fence, scowling at Valerie.

Welcome to my summer, I think.

“We should go,” she finally says, jabbing Len with a finger. “Tell Yorke I said congrats!”

“I will.” Valerie chimes in, surprising Len and Dani even more than a pop quiz in algebra.

Their eyes say it all—they can’t believe Valerie is invited to the social event of the season and they are not.

I lobbied hard to get my friends on the short list, but I was vetoed by Yorke, who wants no one too cute and tiny too close to her on her big day, and by my mother, who dislikes vegetarians and the difficulty they present to a caterer. Len is both.

“Me, too,” Len says, unsure, waving at me as they both step back in unison, more than eager to get away.

Valerie waves at them distractedly, already reaching for the book at her side.

Dani and Len look at Valerie curiously and then at me, as if I had joined her secret club while they were gone for the summer. So not true.

“I’ll call you,” I say to them with a weak smile.

Dani nods, and then they turn their backs and walk away with their tan arms straight and stiff at their sides. I am so embarrassed.

“So . . .
The Tempest
?” Valerie asks, suddenly standing next to me.

I adjust my visor and get as comfortable as I can in my tall, sun-cooked chair. That ship has sunk.

“Really, Valerie,” I say, my eyes scanning the crowded water, “don’t bother.”

I guess she doesn’t know how this works, I think. She studies and studies and studies, and I don’t even have to try. If I didn’t dislike her so much at this moment, I would almost feel bad for her.

She adjusts the thing in her hair. Presses her lips together. Pulls at the thing in her hair. I can practically see the high-powered hamster on the wheel inside her head running faster and faster, trying to decide if I am referring to her incessant studying or her surprising poolside appearance as an old-time starlet.

“Don’t do this,” I say, my eyes on the water the whole time.

“What?”

“This.” I point quickly from her to me, then back at her. “Talking.” I sigh heavily and say, “Trying to pretend we’re friends or whatever.”

“Why?” she asks with an air of confusion.

“Why?” I huff in disbelief. Great. Now she is going to try to act as if she doesn’t know what I am talking about. I know she is smarter than that, smarter than I am. She looks up at me, her eyebrows arching above the top of her curved glasses, curious.

“Seriously?” I ask incredulously.

“It’s clear now why you never joined the debate team,” she replies condescendingly. “Your proposition is definitely lacking.”

Is it possible she isn’t picking up on my evil vibes? I can feel them rolling off me in waves.

“The debate team is for myopics,” I say, watching some kids dunk each other in the shallow end.

“I’m on the debate team,” she says in a dry voice.

I know that.

She just continues to stand there at my feet, all teased hair and bewilderment, and I break down. Anger and frustration bubble over, and I smooth the tight ponytail on the top of my head, feeling my scalp prickle under the scorching sun. It’s late summer. It’s humid. I feel like I haven’t drawn a deep breath since my mother laid down the law, restricting my movements and my life.

I haven’t seen Duffy in days and days. Not since his ultimatum. No drive-bys, nothing. I feel as if somebody pulled the plug on the brightest thing in my life and I am fading fast.

There are boutonnieres, barrettes, and an endless stream of sandals to try on. Cap that off with a series of completely unnecessary ballroom dance lessons, and I am worn thin. Doesn’t my family know I have bigger things to worry about? Like my cheating heart? I know it’s down there somewhere, dragging along near the bottom of the simmering pool, below the kicking feet and the occasional swamped bug.

Throwing my hands toward her in frustration, I let it rip. “What do you want from me, Valerie? Other than to horn in on all my conversations and scare my friends away and stick your nose in my business at every opportunity and generally be as annoying as humanly possible?”

She takes a deep breath, adjusts her sliding halter top around her pencil-thin neck, and looks over at her well-tended camp of books and lists and completed assignments.

“Well, maybe for once I’d like you to have to try,” she says matter-of-factly.

My nose wrinkles up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Across the length of the pool Troy is checking his watch, making sure that we are on schedule. He looks over, giving me and Valerie and our extended conversation a stern once-over.

“It has to do with
everything
,” Valerie says, her head down as she fans the curled pages of Shakespeare back and forth in her hands.