What's Broken Between Us (16 page)

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G
raham is mad, an emotion I’ve never seen on him before, not to this extent. He’s pulling books out of his locker before first period when I approach him. He stops briefly to sigh at me, in case it was unclear how he feels about a girlfriend who leaves in the middle of a date and doesn’t return any of his phone calls the rest of the weekend. He stares at me like he already knows what a horrible, cheating coward I am.

“I’m sorry—” That’s all I get out before he goes off.

“I don’t know how long you’ve been lying to me, but I’m not stupid.”

“Of course not, I—”

“You wouldn’t lie unless there was something going on.”

“Graham, listen—”

“If you’re going to sneak off with Henry,
fine
, but at least have the guts to tell me.”

“You’re right, I—”

“Instead you ditched me, left me there waiting for you,
worrying
about you, asking around about you like a moron, even after it became clear that you weren’t coming back.”

“It was something personal and . . . depressing.” I hate that I use the word I know will work to get me his sympathy, because he’ll jump to conclusions involving Jonathan and Sutton and Grace. I hate that it sounds like I’m making excuses for last night, when there are mountains of things he deserves an apology for.

Henry’s a few feet away down the hall; my eyes can’t help but find him. He’s looking over Imogen’s head as she talks to him, right at me. Graham notices that I’m looking past him and turns around. Henry’s eyes revert down to Imogen in the most obvious way.

Graham’s expression goes from angry to astonished. “If there’s something going on between you guys, just tell me.”

Graham has never lied to me, and the least I can do is return the favor. I wanted him on my side, and I still do. But I can’t ask that of him anymore. “Whatever you think happened—”

“I promise you, I’m assuming the worst.”

I have to look away when I nod.

“
Jesus
, Amanda.” He slams his locker shut. “Who
are
you, even?” Graham holds on to his head as though it’s about to fly
off his neck, his fingers digging into his hair.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Henry knew what I was going through, and—”

“That’s such bullshit!” he cries. “We’re all going through it! And I’ve tried so hard to understand you.”

“I know, you’re right.” I’m spotty with tears, and they feel like a cop-out. He saddled himself with my pain, my guilt, when he didn’t have to. I wish there was a way to repay him.

“Damn it, Amanda, I don’t deserve this.”

All I can say is: “It’s not your fault.”

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I
find Henry in the art supply room after fourth period, right before lunch. It’s the place we first started flirting, and the place he asked me to meet him when Jonathan was released from prison and he wanted to know whether Jonathan had contacted Sutton. It’s a large, musty room stacked with shelving, piled with supplies and unfinished projects. Henry stands in the corner, surrounded by blank canvases.

He’s not surprised to see me.

“So, are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“Are you?” His secrets are my secrets, and I’ve let some of them go.

Word around the halls is that Imogen slapped Henry, then
locked herself in the bathroom for an entire hour after she’d heard the reason Graham Sicily was back on the market. He looks to the ground, neither confirming nor denying that he’s all right.

“Sorry,” I say. “I got tired of lying.”

He shakes his head. “We went about this the wrong way, you and me.”

How could she do that to him?—
it’s what the bulk of the gossip floating around about me seems to ask. How does anyone go through with something knowing it’s the wrong thing, knowing full well it could hurt other people? They—we, I—just do it.

“We shouldn’t have gone about it in the first place.”

Henry sighs. “What do you want to fight about now, Amanda?” he asks. “Everyone knows, and we can handle them, no matter how catastrophically gloomy it is for them to see us together. I want to be with you, and now there’s no reason why we shouldn’t.”

“What about Jonathan?”

“What about him?”

“You hate him.”

“Me, and everyone else.”

“I know he’s awful, but he’s still—”

“What do you want me to do, Amanda? Make nice with him? Ask him out to a ball game? Bond with him over a six-pack? We can manage without that, don’t you think?”

“You’ll just never come over to my house, unless no one’s home, and I’ll never come over to your house, unless everyone’s
gone for the weekend. We’ll spend most of our alone time in the backseat of a car, or in dark corners at parties, or holed up in here with all the paint fumes.”

“I want to be with you!” he shouts. He moves in on me before I even have the chance to blink, holding my face in his hands and staring into my eyes. “Forget the rest.”

His hand goes shaky against my cheek, his expression turns sullen.
Forget the rest
means forgetting about Grace.

He steps away from me and leans back against the paint-stained cement wall and closes his eyes.

I join him, resting against the wall next to him. Our fingers find each other and clasp together.

“Why didn’t we think to stop them?” I whisper. “We knew what they were like. We knew what they were doing. They were notorious party-hoppers, and my brother always had his car.”

I wait for him to tell me not to do this to myself, to assure me that it’s not our fault, to remind me that dwelling on regret is useless, and that moving forward is the only thing I can do.

“I don’t know,” is all he says.

I roll off the wall and press my forehead into his shoulder. He envelops me in a hug. There’s nothing else to say; this is what I need. There’s no more fighting it.

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T
hat night Jonathan steps tentatively into the living room, waving an ice cream sundae.

“I know it’s flowers that say I’m sorry, but I thought you might prefer this,” he says, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

“I suppose this will do.” This is the first time I’ve ever really fought with my brother. I have no idea how to take steps toward reconciliation. I don’t even think I really want an apology. I just want things to be different. “Thanks,” I say, taking a bite and smiling at him, so he knows I appreciate the gesture.

“I hate that I made you cry,” he says, looking down.

I’m trying to think of how to respond, when headlights from outside scatter light through the curtain openings. Jonathan
leans over the back of the couch and peers out. I notice now that he’s in his new, and fitted, clothes, but he also smells suspiciously like he’s spritzed himself with cologne.

“Is that Wren?” I ask.
And this sundae is actually a pacifier?
—I don’t say. Instead I point out, “It’s late to be leaving, Jonathan.” I touch the screen on my phone to see the time. It’s nine fifteen. “Mumsy’s rules, ten p.m. curfew.”

He chuckles at this—
Mumsy’s rules
.

“Gary’s rules,” I say.

“Oh, Gary’s fine. I think he’s actually sort of happy with me right now.” Jonathan stands as three loud honks of Wren’s horn outside summon him.

“Does that mean you’re doing the Chicago Cares stuff?” I ask.

“Maybe.” He shrugs on his coat.

“I won’t be gone long,” he says. “I just need to get out of here for a while, you know? This cage is wearing.”

He’s opening the door when Standard Dad makes an appearance, walking in from the den. “You’re going out now?” he asks, already shaking his head as he pushes back the cuff of his sleeve to check his watch.

“I’ll be right back,” Jonathan calls, slipping out the door. It closes just as my dad takes a step toward it—like maybe he was going to go after Jonathan. He doesn’t, of course. He gives me a small smile, says, “Aw, well,” from chapter 12: “You Win Some, You Lose Some,” and heads upstairs.

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A
t three in the morning I wake up in a cold sweat. My heart is racing. I listen for signs of Jonathan. The microwave beeping in the kitchen. A toilet flushing. Shoes careless and loud on the stairs. There must be a reason I’m suddenly awake. But there’s nothing. I went to sleep at eleven. There’s no denying the possibility he’s already home. He probably
is
already home. I tell myself to be logical and go back to sleep.

It’s laughable—waking up with a start because you weren’t woken up with a start. It feels like forever that I lie in the dark, listening to every creak of the house, waiting for one that tells me my brother is home safe, before I finally fall back asleep.

The next time I wake up, it’s in a cold sweat again. I’m
turned sideways in my bed and my alarm is blaring. The clock reads seven a.m., so I’ve slept right through the noise. I’m late. I kick off the covers, throw the purple fuzzy robe I’ve probably worn only twice in my life on over my sweaty pajamas, and walk across the hall to Jonathan’s room. The door is wide open, the bed’s made. My brother’s not here.

I hear the front door opening and walk to the other side of the hall. From the top of the stairs, I can see down into the foyer, where my brother is entering, wearing his running clothes, drenched in sweat, and out of breath.

“What time did you get in last night?” My dad comes charging in from the living room.

“Late. I don’t know.” Panting this hard, Jonathan sounds annoyed. I wonder if anyone’s ever asked him this who wasn’t going to laugh with him about the answer. Standard Dad’s definitely never asked him before.

“You said you would be right back. You were out way past your curfew.”

Jonathan shrugs.

“Hey.” My dad grabs him by the arm. “I stayed up until one waiting for you to get home. You could’ve answered your phone, at least.”

Jonathan steps to the side, and my father’s hand drops.

“You have to start taking this more seriously,” he says. “I got a call from Gary. He said your urine test was too watered down to obtain results. Usually that’s an automatic fail, but he’s willing to let you off with a warning.”

Jonathan shrugs. He bends forward with his hands on his knees, like he’s struggling to catch his breath.

“I mean it,” my dad says. “You’re still on a slippery slope.”

Jonathans starts shaking. I look closer and realize he’s laughing. He walks toward the stairs, so I rush into the bathroom.

When I’m done showering, drying my hair, curling its ends so people don’t think I’m a slob, and adding makeup to the whole package so they know I really care, Jonathan is in his room with the door shut. I hear the shouting downstairs before I’m even out of my room. Once I’m at the top of the steps, it seems to have tripled in volume. It’s Mumsy and Standard Dad.

“You can’t badger him like that.
Honestly
, who would respond well to being approached and hounded like that?” my mom yells.

“
Hounded
?” There’s a banging noise, like maybe my dad slammed his hand against the table or threw his briefcase into the wall. “He’s not supposed to be staying out late, doing God knows what, with God knows who—”

“He has to feel free here; it’s his home!” she yells. “You can’t be pushing and pushing him, shutting him in, telling him what to do like he’s a child.”

“He’s living here for now, he can cool it with going out at night, not coming home—”

“He always comes home!” My mother shouts this so loudly I imagine the chandelier above them in the dining room shaking, its crystal balls rubbing up against one another.

He always comes home.

Except for the night when he didn’t.

I hurry out the door, forgetting about breakfast.

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I
’ve become the kind of girl who lies to her best and only real friend about cheating on her boyfriend, who spills all her secrets except the important one: she’s in a new relationship sustaining itself mostly in the confines of an art supply room, because as it turns out, several of the things Henry and I like to do together involve us being alone anyway.

Henry told me that Graham glares at him at the beginning of soccer practice, but then spends the rest of the time fielding the ball, which doesn’t involve Henry, since he’s still not cleared to play at full capacity and is stuck with water refill and ball retrieval duty. Imogen gave me the finger Tuesday morning as I
walked past Imogen’s huddle of friends. I don’t blame her.

Only 131 more days to go.

The riveting game of phone tag Dawn and I had been playing since last week ends on Wednesday afternoon, and I still don’t tell her the truth about Graham, or what’s going on with Henry. Lately, all of our conversations are like headlines.

Hot news: Becky sang a duet with a freakishly hot guy at the karaoke bar and ended up making sweet-sweet music with him in the back of the cab, too!

So true or so false: Jonathan’s walking a thin line with his probation and could be headed back to prison anytime? So true!

Latest fashion trend: Dawn was last seen sporting a green jersey dress, studded gladiator sandals, a gunmetal watch, a drink in one hand, and a Delta Sig on each arm!

I don’t like how she’s turned our real-talk into punch lines. It feels less like confiding in each other and more like a competition for whose life is more shocking—even though I don’t want my life to be
shocking
, especially not to the one person who’s supposed to know everything about me. But lately, it’s like my ability to shock and awe is what makes me worth speaking to—now that her life is all about the beach and frat parties and fake IDs and strawberry daiquiris and trips to Los Angeles and surfing and tanning at the rooftop pool of the Canary Inn. With her ocean-breeze weather and her new friends and new freedom.

I can just hear it.
Breaking scandal: Amanda’s hooking up with Henry in the art supply room; if those paint canisters could talk, indeed!

So I don’t say anything as she rattles on about the gargantuan frat houses at USC or the models doing coke in the bathroom of Club Whatever, or the two-story beer bong the guys on the fourth floor made that they’re gearing up to test out this weekend. I console her about another definitely-probably failed quiz, and then we hang up.

In truth, it makes me jealous that she can collect the pieces of her life so easily, while I have to hold mine together with all its cracks as it trembles beneath my fingers, threatening to break apart.

T
HURSDAY, 8:38 P.M.

The conversation I want:

Me: Dawn? Remember how I told you about Jonathan’s drug test? Well, instead of sending him back to jail, Gary’s making Jonathan get started on his community service right away. He’s speaking at my school on Monday—as in, in four days—when Chicago Cares comes back
again
, staking claim on the month of November as Drunk Driving Awareness Month, even though
everyone
knows November is for lung cancer and April is for alcohol. They’re kicking off their tour of twenty-five high schools in Illinois (marking the only time this year my brother will be permitted to leave the zip code). It’s like, they booked Jonathan Tart, so they can make up whatever holiday they want and funding for travel is suddenly approved. I know I can skip the event, that’s fine. But no one else will. And then I’ll have to spend my remaining 127 days dealing with the aftermath of
whatever he decides to say.

Dawn: [Lots of invaluable advice topped off with a funny story about dorm life that will make me laugh as well as highlight how much I’m going to love it there.]

The conversation I get:

Me: Dawn? What? It’s too loud, I can’t hear you. Call me back later, okay? Okay? Bye—

Dawn: [muffled]