Magnolia (26 page)

“Thank you,” I say, leaning in to her and resting my head on her shoulder. “I just . . . I don't know what I'm doing anymore.”

“Look, you do what you need to do about tonight. Don't worry about me. Ben is going
sans
date. I'll just hang with him. Or be Morgan and Clint's third wheel. I'm fine with that. Okay?”

“You're sure?”

She nods. “Totally. But, hey, if you change your mind, those pale pink strappy heels will look hot with that dress.”

She's right. They will. Not that it matters. I'm not going. It's time for a serious talk with Mama.

“I love you, Luce,” I say, feeling more confident now.

“ 'Course you do. I'm awesome. Now, can I get an ice pack for my head?”

*  *  *

The talk with Mama didn't go well. She actually tossed out phrases like “social suicide” and swore that I was going to
regret this decision for the “rest of my life.” Yes, she actually said that. Talk about melodramatic.

After Lucy left, I called Morgan and told her that I wasn't going. I feel terrible about it—what kind of person ditches her friend the night she's going to be crowned homecoming queen?

The horrible kind, that's who. I've let down my friends—actually, my entire class, if you think about it. They
did
vote me their class maid, for some crazy reason. And, of course, I've disappointed my mom. You know, with my social suicide and all.

So I decided, hey, I'm on a roll. Might as well dig the hole even deeper. So I'm trying to edit my NYU application film while everyone else is headed over to the school gym for the dance. I still haven't decided if I'm actually going to apply or not, but the deadline's just a week away. So . . . you know. Just in case.

As promised, Ryder e-mailed me the footage he'd shot on his phone—all the “after” shots. I've matched it up with the “before” shots, making a montage. I drum my nails against my laptop, trying to decide if I want to place it before the actual storm documentation or after. I also need to choose music, something that creates the perfect atmosphere. Hmm, what if—

Thunk.

Frowning, I glance over at the French doors that lead to my balcony.
What the heck was that?
It sounded like a rock hitting
the glass. I feel like I'm back in the storm, the house being pelted with debris.

Thunk.

I rise and hurry over to the glass, pulling back the sheer curtains to peer out at the setting sun. The sky is perfectly clear, not a cloud in sight. No hurricane. Just—

Thunk
. I jump back in alarm, my heart pounding against my ribs.

And then I hear, “Jemma!” A loud whisper, coming from below. I open up the doors and step outside. Moving quickly to the railing, I lean against it and peer down to find Ryder standing there, staring up at me. He's dressed in a suit and tie—the same charcoal suit he wore to the gala, with a narrow silver-blue tie.

“What are you doing?” I call down to him.

He drops a handful of pebbles, scattering them into the grass by his feet. “Shh! Can I come up?”

I lower my voice to match his. “What's wrong with the front door?”

He eyes me with raised brows. “Really?”

I picture my parents downstairs. Imagine what questions they'd ask, what gleeful conclusions they'd leap to at the sight of him here, asking to see me. I shake my head and reach a hand down toward him. “Here, can you climb?”

There's a vine-covered trellis against the house beside my
balcony. If he can just get a foothold, he's tall enough to swing himself up and over the railing.

Which he does in less than two minutes. Pretty impressive, actually. Once he's got both feet on the balcony, he casually brushes himself off. Somehow, he manages to look like he just stepped off the cover of
GQ
.

I tip my head toward the window. “You wanna come in?”

“You think it's safe?”

“Just let me go lock the door,” I say before hurrying back inside.

And don't think I'm not amused by the irony. Because unlike normal people, we're not sneaking around to avoid being caught and punished. Nope. On the contrary, our parents would
celebrate
if they caught us in my bedroom together. I'm talking music and streamers and champagne toasts.

As quietly as possible, I turn the key in the lock, listening for the
click
. Sorry, folks. No party tonight.

N
o sooner have I locked the door than Mama calls up to me. “Hey, Jemma?”

Crap. I motion for Ryder to stay out on the balcony, and then I unlock the door and stick my head out. “Yeah?”

“I'm going over to Laura Grace's for a little bit. Nan's sleeping on the porch, and Daddy's out in the garage.” His new, temporary workshop until we can rebuild the barn. “Call me when your sister wakes up, okay?”

I force a cheerful tone into my voice. “Okay. Tell Laura Grace I said hi.”

“Okeydoke. Bye, hon.”

I stand there, my head sticking out into the hall, until I hear the front door close. Then I slip back inside and relock the door, just in case. “Coast is clear,” I say.

Ryder has to bend in half to step through the open French doors. “Watch your head,” I warn, amazed by the sheer size of him. Somehow, my room looks smaller with him in it.

“Wow,” he says, looking around. “You've redecorated.”

“When was the last time you were in here?” I search my memory, browsing through images of a much smaller, shaggy-haired Ryder in my room. Eight, maybe nine?

“It's been a while, I guess.” He moves over to my mirror, framed with photos that I've tacked up haphazardly on the white wicker frame. Mostly me, Morgan, and Lucy in various posed and candid shots. One of Morgan, just after being crowned Miss Teen Lafayette Country. A couple of the entire cheerleading squad at cheer camp.

I see his gaze linger on one picture in the top right corner. Curious, I move closer, till I can see the photo in question. It was taken on vacation—Fort Walton Beach, at the Goofy Golf—several years ago. Nan and I are standing under the green T-Rex with our arms thrown around each other. Ryder is beside us, leaning on a golf club. He's clearly in the middle of a growth spurt, because he looks all skinny and stretched out. I'd guess we're about twelve.

If you look through our family photo albums, you'll probably find a million pictures that include Ryder. But this is the only one of him in my room. I'd kind of forgotten about it.

But now . . . I'm glad it's here.

“Look how skinny I was,” he says.

“Look how chubby
I
was,” I shoot back, noting my round face.

“You were not chubby. You were cute. In that, you know, awkward years kind of way.”

“Thanks. I think.” I scratch my head. “Anyway, how come you're not at the dance?”

“I ran into Lucy. She told me you weren't coming.”

“And?”

“And”—he glances down at his watch—“crowning doesn't start for another hour. If you—”

“Stop right there. What part of ‘not going' don't you get?”

He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us. “Look, Jemma, I messed this up in eighth grade. Let me make it right.”

I shake my head. “This doesn't have anything to do with eighth grade. I can't go.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Shut up and listen to me, Ryder.” I fold my arms across my chest, fixing him with a glare. “I said I can't go.”

He drops his gaze to the floor. When he raises it again to meet mine, warring emotions are playing across his features, as plain as day. “Look, I know my timing is for shit. I should just keep my mouth shut and walk out of here right now.”

He actually heads for the window. But then he stops and
turns back to face me. “Fuck it,” he says. “I was a coward then, but not this time. I'm crazy about you, Jemma.
Beyond
crazy. Shit, I think I'm in love with you. I want to take you to this dance. I know it's too soon—that everyone's going to talk. You know, because of Patrick . . .” He trails off, looking miserable. “Damn.” He rakes a hand through his hair and turns back to the window.

He's halfway out before I manage to rouse myself from the shock-induced stupor that has kept me frozen to one spot, unable to say a single word. I launch myself into action.

“Ryder, wait! Stop!” I grab him by the wrist and drag him back inside, pulling him up against my body. His eyes widen as I rise up on tiptoe and press my lips against his.

He loves me. Ryder Marsden
loves
me. I don't know what to say—what to think or feel or do. All I know is that I want to kiss him. Badly.

So I do. The kiss is soft, gentle. Tender. It steals my breath away and makes me want more—so much more.
Later
. There's no time, not now.

I force myself to drag my lips away from his. “I've got to get dressed. If we hurry, we can still make it in time.”

I send Ryder down while I change, tasking him with finding my dad in the garage and telling him where we're going. Thank God, Mama's not home. Daddy won't ask too many questions. He'll just assume I changed my mind and
that Ryder's giving me a ride. As simple as that.

Somehow, I get ready in record time. Vintage dress from the night of the gala. Pink strappy shoes. I smooth my hair into a low ponytail over one shoulder, glad I didn't straighten my hair today. For once, the messy waves work. A quick swipe of mascara, a little blush, pink gloss, and I'm good to go.

“Where's your car?” I ask as soon as I step out onto the porch and find Ryder there, waiting. His Durango's still in the shop, but he's been driving his dad's old Audi.

“I was in stealth mode,” he answers with a sly smile. “Left it at the top of the road so they wouldn't know I was here.” He glances down at my heels and winces. “I can see now that was a bad idea.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully for a second. “Wait, I know.” Before I even have a chance to react, he reaches down and scoops me up, literally sweeping me right off my feet and carrying me down the drive toward my awaiting chariot.

*  *  *

We make it
just
in the nick of time. They're already announcing the sophomore maid and her escort as we push our way through the crowd toward the stage. The rest of the court is lined up next to the stairs. The moment Morgan spots me, her face lights up. Frantically, she waves me over.

“Oh my God! You're here! I can't believe it. Go tell Mrs. Richmond. I told her you weren't coming.” She pushes me
toward the teacher standing at the edge of the stage, holding a clipboard. I guess she's in charge of arranging us in order and getting us where we're supposed to be at the right time or something.

“You're here,” Mrs. Richmond says, her voice laced with surprise. She gestures for me to take my place in line in front of Morgan and Clint and then hurries up the stairs to whisper something in the principal's ear.

No one misses a beat. The junior maid is announced, and the girl in front of me makes her way up onto the stage with her escort. It's my turn next, and I realize then that I never turned in the name of my escort—because I hadn't planned on being here. I glance around wildly for Ryder, but he's nowhere to be seen, swallowed up by the sea of people in cocktail dresses and suits.

Crap
. I thought he realized that escorting me on court was part of the deal, once I'd agreed to go. I guess he'd figured it'd be easier on me, what with the whole Patrick thing, if I was alone onstage. But I don't want to be alone. I want Ryder with me. By my side, supporting me.

Always.

I finally spot him in the crowd—it's not too hard, since he's a head taller than pretty much everyone else—and our eyes meet. My stomach drops to my feet—you know, that feeling you get on a roller coaster right after you crest that first hill and start plummeting toward the ground.

Oh my God, this can't be happening. I've fallen in love with Ryder Marsden, the boy I'm supposed to hate. And it has nothing to do with his confession, his declaration that
he
loves
me
. Sure, it might have forced me to examine my feelings faster than I would have on my own, but it was there all along, taking root, growing, blossoming.

Heck, it's a full-blown garden at this point.

“Our senior maid is Miss Jemma Cafferty!” comes the principal's voice. “Jemma is a varsity cheerleader, a member of the Wheelettes social sorority, the French Honor Club, the National Honor Society, and the Peer Mentors. She's escorted tonight by . . . ahem, sorry. I'm afraid there's no escort, so we'll just—”

“Ryder Marsden,” I call out as I make my way across the stage. “I'm escorted by Ryder Marsden.”