The View from the Top (3 page)

“Funny,” Jonah said, “Anabelle and I were just talking about how
she's
leaving us, too.”

“Don't remind me,” Lexi said, sinking her chin into her hands.

He smirked. “I was just telling her how she's gonna be a dude magnet.”

Lexi tightened her ponytail. “Oh, totally,” she said. “But how disappointed will they be when they find out she's basically married?”

“We had actually moved past that onto another topic,” Anabelle jumped in, not liking where they were going. “Jonah had a dream about me. He says it's disturbing.”

Lexi slapped her knees excitedly. “Yeah? What happened in it?”

Jonah shot Anabelle a you-are-going-to-regret-this look. “Nothing,” he snapped.

“Something
must've happened if it was so disturbing,” Lexi said. “What'd she do? Try to kill you? Bore you to death with jazz theory?”

“Shut up,” Anabelle said. “If I were going to kill him, I'd do something more effective. Drop a piano on his head maybe.”

“Is that what she did, Jonah?” Lexi teased. “Or was it more of an S-and-M type of thing? C'mon, you know Anabelle would make a hot dominatrix.”

This was Lexi's latest obsession. Trying to convince Anabelle she should be more of a bad girl. Last week she'd talked Anabelle into trying on her
Cabaret
costume. Anabelle had stood around in it for five never-ending minutes while Lexi giggled—gleefully? mockingly?—and then finally agreed to undo all the little hook-and-eye closures in the back. Very, very slowly.

“She was dripping hot wax on your nipples, wasn't she?” Lexi prodded.

Jonah glared at her, exhaling loudly through his nostrils.

Lexi shot up. “Well, sorry it had come to this, but you've really left us no choice,” she said in that singsong tone she used when she was about to do something that was fun for her but not for the person she was about to do it to.

Anabelle knew what was coming. It was a well-known fact that Jonah was crazy ticklish. Really, you just had to wiggle your fingers by his neck to get him going.

Lexi charged Jonah and dug into his stomach. “Help me!” she called to Anabelle as Jonah thrashed around.

Anabelle reluctantly got up and joined in. She tickled Jonah along his ribs, his sides, his gut. She realized she'd never touched another grown guy in these places aside from Matt. Jonah felt different—stronger and more squishy all at the same time. Under his armpit was really warm. A little damp. When she tickled him there, he dropped to the floor, laughing uncontrollably. It was the kind of laugh that sounded like it hurt.

He rolled around, struggling, then forcefully grabbed hold of Anabelle's wrists. “Stop!” he screamed, his face red and tear-streaked. “Seriously, stop!”

Anabelle choked on her breath. Lexi jumped back and let go of him as if he were a pot of boiling water she'd just grabbed without oven mitts.

Jonah stood up, lifting Anabelle by her wrists, and slammed her against the wall. “You want to know what it was about?”

She nodded, not sure if she really did anymore.

“Jesus, Jonah, let go of her,” Lexi said. “We were just messing with you.”

Jonah loosened his grip. But he leaned down and put his nose right up against Anabelle's. “I dreamed I was lying in my bed,” he said. “On my back. And you came flying into my room. Gliding through the air. And you stopped right above me. Just hung there, floating.” His breath was hot on her upper lip. “And then you kissed me. And kissed me and kissed me. And it just wouldn't stop.”

“Wow,” Lexi said. “That is disturbing.”

That night, as Anabelle lay awake in her bed, she felt as if her insides might erupt right out of her skin like molten lava. She wanted to scream; she wanted to break something.

But she had to keep quiet. Her little twin sisters were asleep in the bunk bed on the other side of the room.

She got up, thinking maybe she'd call Matt. She'd left his house without saying goodbye. The plan had been for her to sleep over, like she did most Saturday nights, but somehow tonight she felt like she'd rather be woken up by her sisters at dawn than get to sleep in in Lexi's room. Plus, she had thought the walk home would clear her head. It didn't.

She crept downstairs, knowing exactly where to place her foot on each step to avoid creaking. In the kitchen she picked up the phone. She started to dial, then hung up. Matt would probably be unintelligible by now and talking to him would just make her feel worse.

She went to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and sat on the cold tiles, wishing she could make the queasiness in her stomach go away.
Maybe you can,
she thought. She raised the toilet seat and leaned over the bowl, sticking her finger down her throat. This was how you did it, right? She'd seen kids at parties make themselves throw up this way when they'd had too much to drink.

Nothing would come out, though, no matter how hard she strained. All it did was gag her.

She stood up and looked in the mirror. Her skin was all gray. Tiny purple blood vessels circled her eyes. She stared at her zombie-esque face for a minute or two, then went digging through her mother's makeup bag looking for some concealer. Just in case she wasn't herself by morning.

W
hen Tobin pulled his dad's Woodworks Plumbing van onto the Fletchers' car-packed lawn, he saw something truly horrible in his headlights: the profile of a girl sitting on the trampoline, banging her brains out with her fist. The worst part about it was, it was Anabelle Seulliere, the only reason he'd come to Matt's graduation party to begin with. Each time she pounded her head, her corkscrew curls shook violently—those curls that were a girl version of his. Those curls that made him wonder during concerts if people noticed they looked alike and thought they belonged together.

You've gotta do something,
Tobin thought. But what? Maybe she didn't want to see anyone right now. And shouldn't the person comforting her be her spoiled brat of a boyfriend? Or was he the one who'd made her this upset?

Tobin was having trouble thinking because of the racket coming from the house. Sounded like some band was “rocking out,” as wannabe musicians called it. All he could hear was a blast of unsteady bass and drums.
How is it possible to rock out,
he wondered,
if you can't keep a beat?

Suddenly Anabelle started hitting herself with both fists at the same time. She was doing it so hard, Tobin was afraid she might crack her skull.

He slammed on the gas, heading across the lawn toward the trampoline. Anabelle squinted into the headlights, then dove down into the net as if hiding from him.
Great,
he thought.
Am I supposed to pretend I didn't see her?
But there was no turning back now. He'd probably have to circle around the trampoline just to turn back, anyway; despite all of his dad's training, Tobin still wasn't any good at reversing in the van with no rearview mirror.

He stopped alongside the trampoline and rolled down his window. Anabelle was sprawled out, facedown. She didn't sit up. Maybe it
wasn't
too late to sneak off unnoticed. No, he couldn't do that. What if she was really in trouble? But what if she didn't want him to be the one to help her?
Jesus, stop being such a wimp,
he told himself.
Just talk to her.

“Anabelle?” he said finally.

No answer. Maybe he didn't say it loudly enough for her to hear him over the rock stars? Or maybe she wanted him to leave. Yeah, probably.

Just as he was about to drive away, he heard a faint
Mmhmm
and Is
that you, Tobin?

“Yeah, it's me,” he said, thrilled that she recognized his voice.

“Did you, um, see me just now?” It was a little hard to make out what she was saying—she seemed to have her face pressed into the trampoline net. Tobin wondered if he could just pretend he hadn't heard her and let the question go.

But she asked again: “Did you see all those mosquitoes flying around my head? I was swatting and swatting at them.”

He had this feeling that she knew that he knew she was lying. It was too early for mosquito season. And those punches she was giving herself were not little bug-killing smacks. But he went along with it anyway, relieved she'd cleared the air with an excuse. “They're gone now?” he asked. “The mosquitoes, I mean.” Duh, what else would he mean?

“Yeah, they're gone.”

“Um, do you want me to go away?” he asked. “I mean, you can be alone if you want. I just, y'know, you asked me to come to the party.” He looked over at the house. Through the living-room windows he could see college pennants hanging from the ceiling in a row of colorful pointy triangles. Matt's little sister was standing on the couch directing a game or something—she always seemed to figure out how to be in charge even when it wasn't her party. Kids mingled around her in pre-hookup mode, the room dotted with red plastic beer cups. In a smaller window below that one he saw Matt Fletcher's bearded face bouncing around, a guitar in his hands. So that's where he was. “There isn't really anyone else in there I want to see,” he told Anabelle. “But I don't mind if you don't want me to—”

“No, stay,” she said, cutting him off. “I don't want to see anyone in there either.” Wow, did that mean she and Matt were fighting? Did that mean he had a shot with her?

Who was he kidding? She'd never split up with Matt.

The drums gave one last shimmery bash and then, thank God, the so-called music was over. Matt's head disappeared from the basement window and Tobin hoped he wasn't coming outside.