Ripple (11 page)

 

And now today, I am stuck sitting in Sienna’s driveway, replaying the same thing over and over, staring at my white knuckles. But I can’t sit here all day. I let go of my death grip on the wheel and wiggle my fingers a little bit to get the blood pumping again. Then I shove the door open. It gives its usual screech as I slam it and walk to the front stoop before I can change my mind.

Sienna swings the door open before I can even knock, which only makes me hope that she hasn’t watched me sitting in front of her house for the last five minutes.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey!” I’m surprised by how bright and airy her voice is. As though this is normal for us. “You’re just in time—I can’t decide between peanut butter and chocolate chip.” She holds up a recipe card in each hand, waving them both around. They’re bent up, smudged with flour and butter all over. A weird, melancholy wave courses through me as I look at the cute little daisy on each corner. I recognize them. The stain on the peanut-butter recipe is from the dirty mixing spoon I absentmindedly set on it three summers ago. It had been the fourth cookie recipe we’d tried, and by that point, it was all we could do to get off the couch and fetch the next dozen cookies out of the oven. We ended up watching a marathon of bad reality television
,
completely blissed out on sugar.

I’m overcome with the desire to reclaim everything, pretend the last two years never happened, if only for the afternoon. I want to be the girl in the kitchen, gossiping and making cookies and eating more dough than makes it into the oven.

“Both,” I say.

Sienna frowns. “I only have enough eggs for one batch, unless you want to go to the store with me.”

“No, I mean both together. Peanut butter chocolate chip.”

“Oh.” She brightens. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

I shrug. It feels weird to talk about cookie recipes when we have such weightier issues to deal with. There’s not just an elephant in the room; there’s a whole herd of them.

I kick my shoes off—I haven’t forgotten her mom’s no-shoes rule—and follow her through the great room and into the kitchen. It’s made to look like one of those kitchens out of a quaint farmhouse, all beautiful yellowed-buttermilk cabinets and an immense sink that resembles an antique washbasin. But, unlike a true farmhouse kitchen, this one is the size of a normal house.

Maple Falls Road really is an entirely different universe than the rest of Cedar Cove.

“Where’s your mom?”

“Bridge, I think. Or Squash. Something lame.”

I laugh, and the sound makes Sienna look at me abruptly. Her eye shadow is brighter than normal. Pink, set off by dark, kohllined eyelashes. Her surprised expression makes me realize I haven’t laughed in a long time.

“Melt the butter, will you? I’m going to go grab something.”

I nod and set to work. It only takes me seconds to remember where everything is stored. Spoons, bowls, measuring cups. It all comes back to me. A desperate urge to get it all back—to be friends with Sienna—overwhelms me.

I was happy in this house. I was happy as her friend.

By the time I’m whipping the warm butter in a bowl, Sienna strolls out, a tiny little bag with pink-ribbon handles dangling from her fingertips.

“What is that?” I ask, trying not to show the weird little panic that bubbles to the surface.

She sets it on the counter in front of me. “Your birthday present.”

I blink, staring at the cute little bag, then turn back to the bowl, whipping the butter faster and faster, even though it’s ready. “My birthday was two weeks ago.”

Sienna shoves the bag toward me. One of her usually perfect French-manicured nails is chipped. “This is from your sixteenth. I never got to give it to you.”

“Oh.” My mouth goes dry. I force my hand to stop whipping the butter, but my grip on the spoon tightens. “You kept this for two years?”

She nods.

“Why?”

She just shrugs and pushes the bag toward me again, until it’s right up against the bowl. Heart in my throat, I smile at her and grab the forgotten present. Delicate—albeit a little squished—white tissue pokes out of the shiny white-and-blue polka-dot bag. I dig my hand into it—the bag is so small my fist barely fits—and pull out the tissue.

As I unfold it, my heart twists. Inside is a bracelet, handmade out of glass seed beads. Little silver seashells and sea stars dangle from it. It’s held together by a tiny polished-silver clasp. It must have taken Sienna hours to make, alternating the tiny beads in blue, green, teal.... It’s meticulous. Perfect.

I look up at Sienna, take in the bright, expectant look in her pretty blue eyes. Sparkling like this, they look just like Steven’s.

This isn’t just a lost birthday gift, returned to its rightful owner. This is an offer. To pick up where we left off. And even though I know it’s probably the wrong decision—the last thing I should do—I smile at Sienna and murmur a thank-you. Then I slip it on to my wrist and let her fasten it.

A
t school the next day, I feel apprehensive. Everything is changing so fast. My nightly swims at the lake are the only constant. As I step through the double doors, I don’t know what to expect. Three steps in, someone shoulder checks me, just a light bump, enough to startle me. Before I can glare at whoever it is, someone else glances my way—a dark-haired guy Sienna is friends with. His eyes dart down the hall, as if he doesn’t want to acknowledge me. But, instead of knocking into me as he did last week, he steps away. A tingling starts at the base of my spine, rippling upward. What was with that look?

I narrow my eyes and look around. Kristi Eckly, a girl who used to take pleasure in shunning me as a show of loyalty to Sienna, smiles slightly before rushing away.

Is it possible to feel your heart beat in your stomach? Because that’s how it feels right now. As if my heart is actually pulsating in my stomach, reverberating through my limbs.

But I swam last night, so I shouldn’t be nauseous. No, it’s not nausea, it’s nervousness. Something isn’t right here.

I see Nikki up ahead, and I nearly do my usual—veer out a side door. But then she nods her head at me, as if she’s totally okay with my being there. I almost stumble to a stop, but somehow I manage to keep my feet shuffling along the ugly brown carpet.

I blink, several times, waiting to see if a whole new picture swims into focus. A normal one, with people glaring at me or avoiding me altogether, but blinking doesn’t change things.

It’s as if I’m . . . normal again. As if I’m one of my old clique, and they’re okay with me. As if they don’t all hate me.

I’m torn between grinning like an idiot and hiding in the bathroom. Because I want to just ... slip it all back on like a perfect pair of jeans and go right back to the way it once was, back when I was happy. Back when I knew what it felt like to laugh so hard my sides hurt. It would be so easy to smile at the people who are looking at me right now.

But the other half of me knows I can’t possibly have all that back, that I can’t step one foot on a path that could lead to more death. Sienna is one thing, but the whole group? They’ll invite me to parties. Ask me to hang out with them during football games. I’m scared of that. Of how much I want it.

They’ll have expectations. And questions.

I shove my hands into my fleece jacket as I see Sienna approach. She’s smiling at me, a wide natural smile. She saunters over in kneehigh black-leather boots with a khaki skirt and maroon turtleneck, looking every inch the A-lister she is. “Hey.”

I nod. “Hey.”

I still haven’t figured out how to treat her, if I should act like the two years of insults and anger never existed. I’m starting to remember how it feels to have her around again.

She makes a better ally than enemy.

“Did you tell people? . . .” My voice trails off because I don’t know what I planned to say next. Tell people what? That she and I hung out for almost two hours without scratching each other’s eyes out? That the whole reason I’ve been such a bitch was because I was secretly in love with her brother? That I mourned him every day, so when he died I went off the deep end?

She chews on the inside of her cheek. “I just told them . . . that we’re . . . talking. And that maybe I needed a little bit of time to figure out what I think of everything.”

I nod, not because I understand what the situation is, but because there’s nothing else I can do. I have no idea what she’s supposed to tell people or what I’m supposed to think. It’s not like they cover this in some kind of class.

Too bad they don’t have siren school. I’m sure if they did, Killing Your Best Friend’s Brother 101 would be required.

“Oh. Uh, thanks,” I say.

She smiles. “Sure. Are we still doing movie night tonight?”

I blink. My face must betray me because she leans against the lockers next to us, lowering her voice. “I know this is weird.... It’s just . . .” She leans in closer. “It’s just . . . I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about all this. I’m so angry at you sometimes, and then I think about what I’ve done to you for the last two years, and I think maybe you’ve paid enough. I don’t know what I really want. But if you want to figure it out with me . . .”