Magnolia (24 page)

So I stare at the speaker and listen with the rest of my classmates as the names are read off.

“Freshman maid: Jodie Abernathy. Sophomore maid: Shannon Luke. Junior maid: Carissa Oakley. Senior maid: Jemma Cafferty. And your Magnolia Branch High School Homecoming Queen is . . . Morgan Taylor. Congratulations, ladies!”

My mouth curves into a smile. She did it! This means so much to her—so much more than all the crowns she's earned in the past. Because this is more than just a pageant title, awarded by random, faceless judges who don't really know her. She was voted homecoming queen by her peers, by people who know that, in addition to being pretty, she's also smart and sweet and funny. And now Lucy and I will get to help her pick out the perfect gown, which will keep us all occupied for the next two weeks, thinking about something positive instead of continuing to wallow—

“Will the homecoming court please report to the media center for a quick meeting before the beginning of A-lunch period.”

And then people are saying my name, urging me to “go.” Go where? I glance beseechingly over at Francie Darlington, hoping she can enlighten me.

“They called your name,” she says with a smile. “You're senior maid!”

I am?
That's crazy. Maybe they got confused—mixed my name up with Jessica's, or even Lucy's. That must be it.

Mrs. Blakely tips her head toward the door. “Jemma, you're excused. Congratulations!”

“Who are you going to pick as your escort?” someone calls out from the back of the room. Someone else shushes them, and I hear Patrick's name whispered. Then the room falls eerily silent.

“Jemma?” Mrs. Blakely prods. “Go on, now.”

I nod and reach for my bag, feeling suddenly ill. This can't be happening. It must have been a sympathy-vote thing, I decide. But then I remember that we voted
before
the storm. More confused than ever, I rise on shaky legs and make my way toward the door, trying to ignore the curious glances cast my way. When I step out into the hall, I let out my breath in a rush.

Morgan comes barreling down the hall toward me, grinning madly. “Oh my God!” she calls out. “I can't believe it. Both of us! This is going to be
so
awesome.”

“Congratulations!” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic as she wraps me in a hug.

“You too. Seriously, Jemma, I was more excited when I heard your name than I was when I heard my own.”

I can't help but smile, because I know she means it. “So what's with this meeting?”

She waves one hand in dismissal. “Oh, just logistics about the presentation, that's all. Halftime at the football game and then the following night at the dance with your escort.”

I can't do this.

“I'm just going to ask Mason,” she continues as we make our way toward the media center, our arms linked. “Maybe you should ask one of the other guys—Ben, maybe.”

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. I don't want to ask anyone, though. People are going to say how it should be Patrick, how awful it is that he's not here to escort me. I can hear the murmurs now, the whispers and the “bless her hearts.”

“Hey!” a voice calls out behind us, and we turn to find Ryder standing beside the row of orange lockers outside Mr. Jepsen's classroom. I have no idea why he's out of class early, and I don't care. “I just heard the announcement—congrats.”

“Thanks,” Morgan chirps. “This is epic, right?
Both
of us.”

Ryder nods, his gaze shifting from Morgan to me.

I duck my head, averting my eyes. This is worse than when I hated him, I realize. At least then, it wasn't awkward. I could just ignore him and go about my business. Now I feel all queasy and mad and breathless and guilty. I need to get away from him. Fast.

Mercifully, Morgan glances down at her watch. “We gotta get going. There's a meeting in the media center.”

“Right,” Ryder says. “But, uh . . . Jemma, could I talk to you for a second after school today? Before practice, maybe?”

My gaze snaps up to meet his. “I . . . um, I don't think that's a good idea.”

“I'll be quick,” he says. “Actually, maybe I'll come over to your house after dinner. That way I can say hi to Nan.”

“She's . . . really not up to visitors.”

“Really?” He fixes me with a stare, one brow raised in disbelief. “ 'Cause your mom said just the opposite.”

Crap.
Now what? I'm out of excuses. Besides, the last thing I want to do is pique Morgan's curiosity. “Oh, fine. Whatever.”

“Great. See you then.” He turns and heads back into the classroom without a backward glance.

I have no clue what he wants to talk about. Things are already uncomfortable enough between us as it is. No use making it worse by discussing things that don't need to be discussed. We made out, even though I hadn't bothered to break up with Patrick first. It was a mistake—a
big
mistake. End of story.

The memory of that night hits me full force—his shirt was off; mine was close to it. My cheeks flare with sudden heat as I recall the feel of his fingertips skimming up my sides, moving beneath my bra as he kissed me like no one's kissed me before. Ho-ly crap.

Stop.

“What was that about?” Morgan asks as we continue on our way. “He was acting kinda weird, wasn't he?”

“I didn't notice,” I say with a shrug, going for nonchalance. “Anyway, we should hurry. We're probably late already.”

“Maybe he wants you to ask him to escort you,” she teases, hurrying her step.

I match my pace to hers, needing to take two steps for every one of hers. “Yeah, right,” I say breathlessly.

“Hey, you never know.” She looks at me and winks. “Weirder things have happened.”

Oh, man. She has
no
idea.

A
fter dinner, I decide to go for a walk. Yes, I'm a coward. No, I don't want to talk to Ryder. So I'll conveniently be gone when he gets here, that's all.

Glancing back over my shoulder to make sure no one's watching me, I skim down the porch steps and head away from the house. It's finally starting to feel like fall, the air slightly crisp. It's a welcome change, that's for sure. I zip up my hoodie and slip my earbuds into my ears as I follow the path down toward the creek, my feet slapping the earth in rhythm to the music. It's a slow pace, but I'm not in a rush.

When I finally reach the creek, I stop short at the sight that greets me. Of the four picnic tables that used to grace the sandy banks, only one is still standing. I'd known this was the case—Daddy had told me the day after he'd gotten back from
Houston, after he'd spent the day riding around our property on an ATV, assessing the damage. But seeing it for myself is something else entirely.

Those tables had been there forever—all my life and probably most of Daddy's, too. The wood was perfectly weathered, smoothed to perfection. But the storm had damaged three of them so badly that they'd had to be completely removed. Sure, we could replace them, but it wouldn't be the same. Kind of like the barn.

I know I should feel grateful that it wasn't worse than this, that our house is still standing, the damage minimal. Hundreds of families lost their homes in Hurricane Paloma and the tornadoes that ripped through the state in its wake. We were lucky, especially considering what a close call it'd been. The twister that leveled the barn had touched down not five hundred yards from the house. Had it decided to drop down from the sky just a little bit to the west, things would've been worse—so much so that I don't even want to think about it.

I sigh as I make my way over to the one remaining table and climb up onto the tabletop, lying down on my back so that I can watch the setting sun paint wide swaths of color—orange, pink, and lavender—across the sky. It, at least, hasn't changed. The sky, I mean. It remains just as it always was—the same as when I was five, ten, twelve, fifteen.

I close my eyes and turn up my music, wanting to lose
myself in it. And I do—so much so that I start to doze off. At least, I must have, because when I open my eyes again, the sun has fully set and the first stars are twinkling in the sky above me.

I'm vaguely aware of the sound of approaching footsteps, but it takes me a second to make the connection—to remember why I'd come out here in the first place.

“Jemma?”

Damn.
I sit up and pull the earbuds from my ears, swinging my legs over the side of the table.

“Figured I'd find you out here,” Ryder says, drawing up beside me.

I decide to act surprised. “What are you doing here?”

His brow creases. “I told you I was coming, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

“By the way, you might want to call your parents and tell 'em where you are.”

I shrug. “Did you see Nan?”

“Yeah. She looks okay, considering she just had brain surgery. She's awfully quiet, though.”

“It's better when she's quiet,” I mutter, remembering the way she yelled at me for not plumping her pillow
just
so after dinner. “Trust me.”

“Mind if I sit?” He tips his head toward the spot on the table beside me.

“Knock yourself out.” I slide down and make room for him.

He digs his cell phone out of his back pocket and climbs up onto the table beside me. “So, I was thinking about your project. You know, the movie? I know things have been rough for you lately, what with all that's happened. So . . . um, here.” He tilts the screen of his phone toward me. “I . . . uh, tried to get all the places you had in your original footage. You know, the square, the bridges, the Ames House and all that. Showing what it looks like now, after the storm.”

He hits play, and the first series of images roll across the screen. I watch in amazement as he clicks through several different video files, each a couple minutes in length.

“I know it's not much,” he says once the last video ends. “And the quality's probably not good enough. But maybe you can use some of it.”

“I can't believe you did this.” I shake my head, a little stunned. “Thank you. This is awesome, Ryder. Really.”

He smiles at me, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. And, okay . . . maybe my heart melts a little bit. Just a smidgen.

Heaven help me. . . .

“There's more,” he says, reaching into his pocket again. This time, he produces a folded slip of paper. “I Googled Faulkner quotes—you know, looking for things about strength or courage. I only found a few that fit, but I wrote them down for you.” He hands me the slip of paper. “They're all cited and everything.”

Our fingers brush as I take it from him, electricity seeming to skitter across my skin at the contact. He must have felt something, too, because he jerks his hand away like he's been burned.

Our eyes meet for a split second, and then I look away. I hope he doesn't see the tears gathering on my lashes. I have to swallow a lump in my throat before I can speak. “I can't thank you enough for this, Ryder. This means . . . so much. But . . .” I trail off, gathering courage for what I'm about to say.

“Uh-oh,” he says with a wince. “There's a ‘but'?”

“Yeah. I'm not applying to NYU.”

“What? You have to.”

I let out a sigh. “I can't, Ryder. Not now.”

“Why? I just saw Nan.” He gestures vaguely toward the house. “She seemed okay. Your mom said—”

“You don't understand,” I say, cutting him off. How can I explain? “It's just . . . everything's so messed up. There's too much . . . change . . . as it is. It doesn't feel right. Not now.”

“But you're the same, Jemma.
You
haven't changed. This is what you want, remember?”

“See, that's where you're wrong. I
have
changed. And”—I shake my head—“I don't even know what I want anymore.”

He opens his mouth as if he's about to say something, but closes it just as quickly. A muscle in his jaw flexes as he eyes me sharply, his brow furrowed. “I thought you were stronger than
this,” he says at last. “Braver.” I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “When I get home, I'm going to e-mail you these video files. I don't know anything about making films, but if you need any help, well . . .” He shrugs. “You know my number.”

With that, he turns and walks away.

I leap to the ground. “Ryder, wait!”

He stops and turns to face me. “Yeah?”

“I . . . about Patrick. And then . . . you and me. I feel awful about it. Things were so crazy during the storm, like it wasn't real life or something.” I take a deep, gulping breath, my cheeks burning now. “I don't want you think that I'm, you know, some kind of—”