Bright Before Sunrise (17 page)

“What are you doing?” I squeak and cross my arms over my bra. “Ever hear of knocking?”

“I’m helping you. Don’t you dare put on something like Gramma Anna would wear.”

I grab a sweatshirt and zip it up over my bare stomach.
“I don’t need help getting dressed.” I’m curious what she’d choose—curious but also terrified. I’d probably end up looking ridiculous in an outfit that’s fabulous on her but I can’t pull off at all.

“Yeah, well, I also want some details. His bedroom? And don’t tell me he was kidding. You know you can’t lie to me.”

“It’s not what you think. It wasn’t anything romantic.” Evy’s eyebrows shoot up and I hurry to recover. “Not that it was
unromantic
, it just wasn’t, you know … It was nothing bedroom related.”

“Fine,” Evy huffs. “Don’t tell me. But I knew the second you walked in the door something was up and I knew the second
he
walked in our door what it was. I don’t get what the problem is. Is he not preppy-boy-boring enough for you?”

“No! That’s not it at all. It’s not like that with us. There’s not an
us
. I barely even know him. He hates everything about me.” I pause to take a breath and remember the only argument I actually need: “And, he has a girlfriend.”

“Then why is he taking
you
to this party?”

“It isn’t a date.” I want her to shut up, to stop asking questions that make me say these things out loud. “She’ll be there. Quit trying to create a scandal where there isn’t one.”

“There’s
always
a scandal if you know where to look.” She pauses by my closet door and fingers the black dress hanging on the back. “Is this what you’re wearing tomorrow?” Her face has softened, teasing dropping to tenderness.

Tomorrow. I forgot. How could I forget? I sink onto my bed, sitting on my hands so I won’t make fists. “I should cancel. I shouldn’t go out tonight.”

Evy sits next to me. “Yes, you should.”

“But what if Mom needs me?”

“She’s fine. She called while you were out—she and Aunt Joan are at some wine bar in East Lake.”

“But—”

Evy reaches over and takes one of my hands, smoothing out the fingers. “That’s the ring Dad gave you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it.”

“I don’t usually. It just seemed
right
today.” I slip it off and put it in my jewelry box. “I’m staying home.”

“No.” Evy yanks on my sweatshirt zipper. “Go. Have fun. And pick out something else for tomorrow. This is a memorial, not a funeral. It’s a celebration of Dad’s life. He’d want you in rainbow colors.”

She grabs my black dress and pauses before leaving: “You’re going to this party—so get dressed.”

I scowl at the back of my bedroom door—and then at my closet. Push hangers around and reject all my clothing. Figuring out what to wear to the memorial will have to wait for the morning. I can’t think about Dad right now.

I need to keep moving or I won’t be able to move at all. That paralyzing grief is right there, lurking in the corner, waiting for me to stand still long enough for it to pounce. But if Mom and Evy are still pulled together, then I can be fine too.

I have to make it through tonight before I can worry about tomorrow. Through this party. I don’t understand the rules of Jonah’s game or his expectations. Does he really want me to get to know him better? If I annoy him as much as it seems, then inviting me to the party makes no sense. If Evy’s right …

He said I was boring—like vanilla ice cream. I glance at the white eyelet top under my hand and shove it aside. I’ve got short things, sparkly things, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Effort that appears effortless is always twice as much work.

I tug a hand-me-down navy blue polo dress from a hanger. Amelia’s mom accidentally put it in the dryer and it’s too short and tight for her Kardashian curves. When Amelia made me try it on, she clapped and said, “You actually look more Victoria’s Secret Angel and less feathers-and-halo angel.” It walks the line between too-sexy-for-school and oh-I-just-threw-this-on. Perfect.

Jonah’s comment about Evy’s curves echoes loud enough for me to put on a better bra—but I refuse to reach for anything push-up or padded.

I limp down the hallway. Now that I have time to examine it, the bathroom is chaos. Evy has piled bags and bottles all over the counter. My brush is buried beneath a shower caddy and a tube of toothpaste. I wipe off a smear of something sticky and smooth my hair out of its ponytail.

My makeup case is not in its regular spot: the left side of the second drawer. I check the third drawer. Check the cabinet.

“Brighton!” Evy calls up the stairs.

“Two minutes,” I call back.

Since I can’t locate my makeup, I rummage through hers. Rejecting hot pink, then glitter gold, I settle on plain gray eyeliner. It has a wide, smudgy tip that leaves my eyes thickly outlined. Attempting to rub it off results in further smudging. I resign myself to looking raccoon-like and impatiently
swipe on mascara—again, too heavy and gloppy for my taste. Her shadows, blushes, and glosses are all too bright for my I’m-not-trying look, so I guess I’m finished. I fix a stray speck of mascara and frown. I shouldn’t care this much. It’s just a party, not prom, not anything that matters. And I look fine.

Except the two people standing downstairs are waiting to judge me. No matter what I wear, all they’ll see is how desperately I want their approval.

21
 
 
Jonah
 
 
10:10 P.M.

“Is this okay?”

I don’t answer. She knows she looks good. The dress probably costs more than I made in a month when Carly and I worked at Dairy Queen. And the girl all but treats the stairs as a runway, pausing at the top so we can admire her. I keep expecting someone to cue the soundtrack of one of Carly’s cheesy romantic comedies—except that would make me the date waiting in awestruck wonder, and I’m not impressed. If this were really a teen movie, it’d be Carly floating down the steps. She’d be wearing something a lot sexier.

Bright looks up at me from the bottom step and her dark brown hair slides back from her face. I suck in a breath—she wasn’t lying; there is some resemblance between her and Evy. I didn’t see it earlier when she’d looked about eight with the headband or when she had her hair in a ponytail, but now, with it hanging down around her face, there’s something older and arresting about her.

Her eyes are still too big, still remind me of a doll’s, but
they look pointed instead of round; sexy in a subtle way—though the look she projects is much too innocent.

But Brighton isn’t someone you easily look away from either. If I’m honest with myself, she’s beautiful. Beautiful. Not that Carly isn’t. Carly and Brighton side by side would be something to see. Carly’s head would barely reach Bright’s shoulder, yet Carly projects so much larger a presence, while Brighton blends in. Or tries to.

Right now, she doesn’t look vanilla at all. The guys will drool for her; the girls will hate on her. Carly will have a fit of jealousy.

God, what am I doing?

She carefully slides a flip-flop over her bandaged foot, wincing a little as she lets go of the strap. She’s left the ring off. Good. I want her to stand out, but not because she’s flaunting a daddy’s-girl status symbol.

“I just need to grab my purse and we can go.”

Evy holds it out with a smug smile. “I’ll fill Mom in when she gets home, but we won’t wait up. You two have fun … but not too much. And don’t get into trouble. Mom keeps a bail fund for me—for you, she only has college money.”

When
Mom
gets home. I don’t think
Dad
has been mentioned all night. Who would’ve thought Brighton’s parents would be divorced? I bet they have one of those still-best-friends divorces and Bright’s got a second car, a second fan club at her dad’s house. Perfection times two.

“Let’s go,” I say. Let’s get this over with.

She stays silent as we back out of her driveway, not even picking up the iPod. Her answer to “Which way back to Main Street?” is so quiet she has to repeat it. So quiet that I can hear her stomach when it growls.

“Hungry?”

“A little,” she admits.

“We can stop and get something on the way.” Of course, now that we’re on the highway, there’s nowhere to stop till we get to Hamilton. I have no clue why she’s gone incommunicado. Or what she likes to eat. She’s staring out the window and absently rolling the hem of her dress with green fingernails. My eyes keep shifting from the road to her legs to the back of her neck.

“Are you going to tell everyone in Cross Pointe I was in your room?” she asks quietly. She’s still facing away from me, but instead of fidgeting with her dress, her nails are hidden against the palms of her hands.

“I hadn’t planned on it. Why? Are you embarrassed to have people know you know me?”

“Hardly. If you remember, I’ve been trying to get to know you at school for months.” She takes a deep breath, then continues, “It’s just that you said that in front of Evy, just to embarrass me and make me come.”

“How else was I going to get you in this car?”

“You didn’t need to.” She turns away from the window and shoots a quick glance at me. “I was already going to say yes.”

“Oh.” I know I should apologize, but I can’t make myself do it.

“Just so you know, I’m holding you to showing up at the book event on Sunday.” That smile again. The slightly lopsided real one. It makes this whole idiotic idea seem more idiotic. Me, bringing Brighton
Cross Pointe
Waterford to a party. Her
wanting
to come with me.

Yeah, right.

“What’s Carly like?” she asks.

I don’t want to talk about Carly.

But she’s staring at me, rolling that hemline, exposing and re-covering the same inch of thigh.

“Carly—” I clear my throat, “she’s …”

Manipulative
.

“Charismatic. And she’s …”

Reckless
.

“Fearless, like this one time she talked a cop out of a ticket after she got caught waving to me from Maya’s sunroof. And she’s the one to watch out for every year during the neighborhood Thanksgiving football game—she’s short, but she’ll throw mud or trip anyone that gets between her and the end zone. She’s also …”

Judgmental, always right, an emotional seesaw
.

“Compassionate. She loves animals. Never would be crazy about her, all dogs are. She’s a vegetarian too. Throws a fit if I eat meat in front of her and won’t let me kiss her until I’ve brushed my teeth.”

I swallow twice, but I still can’t continue. My mind is stuck in a loop of
not anymore; never again
.

“And she’s
real
. Carly is who she is—she doesn’t care what other people think about her. She’s not defined by the clubs she belongs to. She says what she means and doesn’t hide behind what she thinks other people want to hear.”

Bright’s gaze is heavy on my face, like it’s weighted with her comprehension of my less-than-subtle insults. I need a break from that level of scrutiny. I know she can’t read my thoughts, but I can’t meet her eyes without feeling guilty.

“Pizza?” I ask. I’m already parking in front of the doesn’t-look-like-much, but-just-taste-their-sauce place the team used to stop at every Friday after practice. It’s open late and not much else is besides fast food. I bet Brighton doesn’t eat things that start with Mc.

“You didn’t say a single thing about what she looked like. Most guys would start with ‘she’s hot’ and then go on to list the ways.”

“I guess I’m not most guys.” I yank the keys out of the ignition. “Of course she’s hot.”

I’m out of the car and halfway to the restaurant before I wonder if Bright meant it as a compliment not a criticism.

“I figure we’ll get a pie. What do you want on it?” I ask when it’s our turn at the counter after a silent wait in line.

“Whatever you want is fine.”

“Seriously?” It’s the iPod all over again.

She nods. I roll my eyes and lean across the counter. “I’d like a medium pie with jalapeños, olives, pineapple, and mushrooms.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, but she presses her lips together and doesn’t say a word. I grin and snag a table in the back. She joins me, carrying a pitcher of water and two cups of ice. I’m so busy gloating, I forgot drinks. And napkins, which she has pinned under her arm.