Ripple (8 page)

I blink rapidly, keeping the tears from swallowing me whole all over again. “Thank you.”

Cole sighs. The sound stretches out and lingers there. “All right. I’ll open the garage door and we can push it inside.”

I nod and look at him again, grateful he isn’t pushing for something I can’t give. “Thank you.”

He nods, his eyes still on mine. Then he pulls away and climbs out of the car, taking all of the air with him as he shuts the door.

I stop myself from calling out after him. Two years of not talking to anyone, and now everything wants to burst out at the first possible chance. But I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t be that person. I can’t invite him in.

I wipe the fog off the window and watch as Cole punches a series of numbers into a keypad. The door slides up, and he jogs back over to me, motions for me to unroll the window. “Put it in neutral and I’ll push you over there.”

I nod and do as he says. A moment later, I’m rolling into the garage. I should look ghastly in the bright lights, my eyes like sandpaper, my nose still sniffly. But I know the truth. I know I probably look just as pretty as ever. The curse of being a siren means I will always be beautiful. Even when I don’t feel it.

Cole shouts at me to pop the hood, so I reach down and hit the lever. It takes him only a second to unhook the latch and get it open. “Go ahead and turn the key,” he says.

I twist the key in the ignition, and just like before, I hear nothing but clicks.

I can’t see Cole, but he’s moving around, looking at things. “Okay, that’s good.”

I let go of the key and it’s silent once again.

He comes around to my side of the car, wiping his hands on a paper towel. I roll down the window but don’t get out. Somehow, having the door between us makes it feel safer. He looks at me with soft, concerned eyes, as if I’m fragile. “I think it might be the battery. Did you leave the lights on?”

I shake my head.

“Why don’t you leave it here, and I’ll drop you off at home? I can try and figure out what it is.”

The panic grows inside my chest. It’s instantaneous, like a dozen balloons trying to expand inside my lungs. “No, I can’t. I
need
my car. You don’t understand—”

“Hey. Calm down, okay?”

His voice, so soothing, makes me choke down the hysteria. He rests one hand on the windowsill and fishes a set of keys out of his jeans with the other. “Why don’t you take my car, and I’ll see if I can’t get yours fixed? We can swap them back tomorrow.”

I stare at the keys dangling in front of me. “I can’t take
your
car. It’s worth more than—”

“Take it,” he says, jingling them again.

I should say no. I should tell him that I’ll stay here and help him fix my car. But if I stay, we’ll talk, and talking can lead to me telling him things. Whatever happens, the important thing is to avoid being tempted by the nearby ocean.

If I take his car, I can at least swim tonight. That will buy me one more day before the agony sets in.

I reach out and take the keys, slipping my finger into the key ring. “Are you sure?”

He nods. “Not a big deal.”

I stare at the keys for a long moment. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I look up at him, and the fluorescent lights in the garage seem to be making a halo around his head.

“Because I know you didn’t . . .” He swallows. “I know you didn’t kill him.”

My heart twists in my chest, the hollowness growing. I have the overwhelming urge to tell him he’s wrong. I did kill Steven.

I get out of the car and follow him to the other end of the garage, until we’re standing in front of his shiny SUV. “Just be nice to her, okay?”

And then before I can stop him, he wraps his arms around me, and we’re hugging. I stiffen for a moment but then give in to the temptation and rest my cheek against his shoulder, letting him hold me as I breathe in the warm, masculine scent. He smells like the woods, like one of the big cedars or a Christmas tree. “Get some rest,” he whispers.

I climb into the car and back out into the darkness. He clicks the door shut. I’m frozen for a long moment, staring at him. Just before he disappears, he gives me a wave. By the time I finally wave back, the door is already shut.

I shift into gear and leave him behind, rolling down the smooth drive. When I get to the end of his street, I turn right, heading for the mountains.

B
y the time I’m standing in the student parking lot the next morning, it’s as if I’ve been turned inside out. My fingers ache from the icy water I used to hose off Cole’s Range Rover, and my stomach just can’t stop churning, despite the fact that I spent all night swimming.

I should feel refreshed and exhilarated and ready. But I feel like hell, like I haven’t swam in a week. I tell myself it’s because I’m worried Cole could show up and tell me that my car is dead forever, but I know that’s not it.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he looked at me when he saw me cry. About him believing in my innocence. Even though I don’t deserve it, there’s something comforting about it.

It felt so good, for once, to let someone else be the strong one.

What would he do if he knew the real truth? I have to come up with something. Some way to push him away so that he never finds out what really happened, so that he never gets hurt.

I’m staring at the still dripping SUV when a familiar sound reaches my ears: my car, with its rumbling, broken exhaust. I whirl around and see Cole driving up the street. My Toyota sounds good as new. Well, as good as it’s ever been, which isn’t saying much.

He pulls in and kills the engine, then throws the door open. It lets loose with its usual screech. Any effort to fire off something antagonistic is immediately silenced by the sight of him. I used to think he was arrogant, but when I look at him now, all I see is pure confidence.

“You fixed it,” I say.

I have my car back. My life—and the life of any guy close to the ocean—aren’t at risk. It’s hard not to sigh aloud.

He smiles and the dimple appears again. It still seems out of place—something lighthearted on such an intense face. “Your battery terminals had a bunch of corrosion. I just used some wire brushes to get it off. That, and baking soda. Worked like a charm.”

I hold my hand out, palm up, to give him the keys. When he grabs them, his fingers brush against my skin.

Then he turns and looks at his SUV. “You washed my car?”

Oh. I thought it would be dry by the time he got here. “Um, no, there was a sprinkler on in the neighbor’s yard this morning.”

He snorts. “What a waste.”

“Yeah, they’re automatic, or something.”

He shrugs and tosses me my keys. He seems . . . lighter today, like someone lifted the weight off his shoulders. I don’t know what that means. “Walk you to class?”

“Actually, I need to grab some stuff out of my car,” I say, turning toward it. “Thanks for helping me out. I’ll see you in sixth period.”

But he ignores my dismissal. “No problem. I’ll wait.”

Awesome. Because there’s nothing in my car that I need. I open the driver-side door and start digging around, looking for something, anything, worth grabbing, so he doesn’t see right through me. I find a pen and shove it in my backpack and then get out of my car and follow him to the sidewalk.

We walk beside each other for a long silent moment, and I hold on to my backpack straps as if they’ll keep everything from blowing away.

“Are you . . . okay?” he asks. He’s looking at me, but I don’t meet his gaze, I just stare straight ahead. The school doors are less than a hundred yards. A hundred yards, and I can ditch him and figure out a real plan for getting everything back under control.

I purse my lips and nod.

“You sure? Because last night . . .”

“I’m fine,” I snap. I knew he’d do this. I need to fix this somehow, rewind time, and put the wall back between us.

We reach the building, and Cole pulls the door open for me. I brush by him as if the gesture is meaningless. But the truth is, it isn’t; most people slam the door in my face.

Something swells inside me. A mix of somethings: hope, guilt, despair. For the first time in a long time, I am dreading pushing someone away, and I haven’t even done it yet. “Thanks for your help,” I say, retreating into the crowd before Cole can say anything else. I rush away, glancing back once to see if he’s watching me.

Just as I turn forward again, I smash right into something hard, and my backpack crashes to the floor.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking—”

I glance up to realize it’s Erik, the new guy from my English class. He reaches down to pick up my backpack and then hands it to me, meeting my gaze as he stands.

And just like that, he steals my breath away. His eyes are a shade of blue I’ve only ever seen in the mirror—my mirror. They’re a shimmery, Caribbean-sea sort of blue.

“I—” I pause. “You . . . uh, thank you.” What is it with me these days? I’m a total train wreck.

He smiles and it’s breathtaking. “Sure. See you in English?”

I bite my lip and nod. His voice is deep, seductive. I take my backpack from his hand, blinking a few more times to see if his eyes change, but of course they don’t.

How can his eyes look so much like mine?

 

In English, it’s time for our debate. Sienna has typed up all of her notes from last night, and she’s leading us up to the front, where a table and three chairs await.

I’m just glad this ends today. We can do the debate and move on. I can go back to life as it was. Maybe I can even get Mrs. Jensen to move my desk. But something needs to change. I can’t spend a whole year next to Sienna and Cole. A few weeks, and Cole is already getting closer. I can’t let him do that.

Sienna takes the seat in the middle, and Cole and I sit at opposite ends, staring right at each other. He smiles at me, and I turn away. The gesture leaves me looking out at my classmates, and their hostile faces aren’t much better.

So instead, I look at Sienna, who is, at the moment, all business, down to the erect way she’s sitting. She holds her shoulders back and lifts her chin, as if she’s the First Lady or something. She’s even replaced her usual cardigan with a deep maroon blazer and a lace-embellished tank top. She could pass for a news anchor, with her platinum hair falling in perfect, blow-dried waves around her shoulders. Her pink-glossed lips part, and she begins her
Manhattan Prep
monologue, and the irony of her shiny hair and perfect manicured nails is almost enough to make me smile. I’m so distracted I miss my cue.

Sienna coughs and I realize what I’ve done. “Oh! Um,
Manhattan Prep
was created by a New Yorker
about
New Yorkers. . . .” I drone on and on for what seems like forever, flipping the pink note cards one after another. Finally, I reach the fifth card. “Which is why we must look beyond the surface and understand the motives of the author in order to truly understand the message.”

Sienna beams as I draw to a close. Like a good little puppet, I did everything I was supposed to do.

“Very good. Rebuttal?”

Cole nods. “Sometimes, whether in literature, television, or real life, what is seen on the outside
should
be taken literally.”

Wait,
what?!?
That’s not what Sienna wrote. I look over at her without moving, and I see her fighting the urge to squirm. Sienna does not like surprises.

“Sometimes, what you see really is what you get. If the characters are portrayed as elitist snobs, bent only on popularity, is it not possible that’s who they really are—and that trying to read between the lines is a waste of time?”

What the hell? I try to mirror Sienna’s perfect posture and frozen expression, to avoid letting on that Cole’s monologue isn’t rehearsed.

He pauses, purses his lips, and stares right at me, as if we were the only two people in the room. Is he talking about me? What is this? I give up on copying Sienna and shift in my chair, my eyes darting to her. She’s still a frozen picture of perfection.

“Sometimes, people simply want to believe things because it’s easier that way. But it doesn’t make it the truth.”

I chew on my lip, glancing down at my next card. Should I jump in here? I turn away and stare out at the audience, my eyes sweeping over the faces of my classmates. I relax a little when I realize no one seems confused. They have no idea he’s deviating from Sienna’s precious script.

I pause when I see Erik, watching me intensely. Our eyes meet for a long second, and I take in that same brilliant blue hue before I turn away.

Cole clears his throat and then finally gets back on track, looking down to read the note cards. I zone out as the familiar speech gets rolling.

Why did he do that?

B
y the time I enter Seaside Cemetery that Friday, I’m more confused than ever.

I thought I had everything under control this year. My entire plan rested solely on one thing: solitude. If no one is close to me, no one gets hurt, not even me. If I don’t get wrapped up in other people’s lives, no one is in danger.

And, yeah, maybe part of it is about punishing myself. I killed a boy who didn’t deserve it, and I will pay for it. Forever. I just have to make it through high school. Then I can move on to college, leave this town, and go somewhere where people don’t know me, don’t look at me with accusation in their eyes. I won’t make friends with anyone. I’ll forever be alone, but that’s what I deserve.

I sigh as reality hits me. There are so many holes in my plan—it’s as if I wrote it all down on Swiss cheese. I can’t leave my grandmother, not with her health failing. I can’t afford to pay for classes. I can’t move away from my hidden lake. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. But the mirage in the distance—the idea of a world where my troubles disappear—is all that I cling to these days, because reality is getting harder and harder to handle.