Bright Before Sunrise (18 page)

“They don’t have chocolate milk. I checked.” Her mischievous grin is a hell of a lot more appealing than Evy’s, and probably much rarer. As she pours water into the scratched red plastic cups, her smile fades to seriousness. “I don’t really drink. Alcohol, that is. I mean, I do sometimes, but only if I’m with Amelia or people I know really well.”

“That’s fine. No one’s going to force you to do keg stands or anything.” Because I’m clearly the type of guy who’d bring her to a party where she’d be roofied. Is that what she thinks? Or is she worried I’ll get tanked and she’ll need to babysit me and drive me home? Maybe I’ll let her. It might be nice to lose some of tonight in the bottom of a Solo cup.

“What do I need to know about this party?” she asks.

“What do you mean? It’s a party.” She’s winding a straw wrapper over her fingers, and I can’t look away from the contrast of white paper, green glitter, and tan skin.

“Who will be there? Is it, like, for a club or something?” Her words are slow, like she’s choosing them individually. It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s trying
not
to imply.

“A lot of people will be there. It’s a regular party—not some antisocial group like you’re imagining.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were. You don’t know everything, Bright, and Cross Pointe isn’t the whole world. Maybe I haven’t been Mr. Social there because I don’t need more friends than I already have.” She flinches at my angry words, and I’m glad. Happy to see her hands curl in her lap and her eyes hidden by her hair when she lowers her head.

A guy brings us pizza and paper plates. Normally they just call your name from the counter when it’s done and ring you up when you go get it.

“What about the check?” I ask.

From halfway across the restaurant the guy calls, “She already paid. Enjoy.”

I pull out my wallet without looking at her. I won’t be her charity case.

Soft fingers on mine, freezing my hand. God, what does she do to have skin like that? It’s probably from never having worked a day in her life.

“Jonah, it’s fine,” she says. “Your stepdad way overpaid me and—”

“I’m paying next time,” I say. Then realize there won’t be a next time. After this party, Bright’s never going to talk to me again. My throat is suddenly tight—I pull my hand away from hers and take a sip of water. This was my goal—to get her to leave me alone. If she’d listened when I told her that at school, it would’ve saved us both a lot of time.

“Sure.” She smiles at me, all toothpaste-ad perfection. “So, let’s try this creative combination of yours. Is it a favorite?”

Of course she’d rub that in. Of course she’d make a point of paying for pizza I ordered to piss her off. She’s probably trying to make me feel like a jerk. Or like
more
of a jerk. Well, mission accomplished, Bright. The piece I sling on a plate and thrust toward her is the one with the most toppings. Not that I’m petty or anything.

I help myself to a slice and watch with satisfaction as she nibbles around the pineapple, takes a cautious bite of jalapeño, then spits it out in a napkin. I swallow a mouthful and my laughter.

She tosses the napkin—and her plate—in the trash can as she walks back up to the counter. “You said whatever toppings I wanted,” I call after her, smugly taking a large bite of mushroom and pineapple.

She doesn’t turn around, but I do, because someone’s calling my name.

“Prentiss! See, told you it’s Jonah.”

It’s Mike Balaski and Zeke Manzano, two guys I know from Hamilton. They’re standing in the doorway, letting in bugs and letting out the AC.

“Hey, man, what’s up?”

“How’ve you been?”

They ask about Carly—so clearly the news hasn’t spread that far. I dodge the question and ask if they’re going to Jeff’s party.

“Maybe later. We’re picking up the girls from work and hitting the last show of
Shriek 3
.” Mike’s grinning like a fool, but I can’t remember whom Carly said he was dating.

“Tell them I say hi,” I bluff.

I don’t hear Brighton approach but notice when their eyes drift past me and widen in approval. She announces her arrival with: “You’ll want to bring a drink—it’s long.”

“They’re talking about
Shriek 3
.” At the last second I manage to strip the scoff and sarcasm from my statement.

“Yeah, I know. I heard you at the counter.” She smiles and gives her head a silly-boy shake that Mike and Zeke eat up. “It’s more than two hours, and it’s set in the desert—you’ll need drinks, trust me.”

Their thanks and intros take precedence over my “
You’ve
seen it?”

But after introducing herself with, “I go to school with Jonah,” she answers me, “I saw it last Friday.”

Carly won’t even watch previews for movies like that. I’m annoyed Mike and Zeke are looking at Bright with respect and interest. Why does she fall into conversation with them so easily when she and I are magnetic opposites?

“So, who’d you send to fetch your drink?” I want to
expose her for the princess she is, but preferably without looking like a complete jerkwad.

“Jeremy North,” she answers nonchalantly, and both Mike and Zeke sigh—like they’ve forgotten all about the “girls.” I’m not much better, going through my mental Cross Pointe roster and identifying the center of the basketball team.
That’s
whose party she was talking about? “But only because Amelia wouldn’t let go of my or Peter’s hands. I don’t know why she goes to scary movies; she never sleeps afterward.”

“And you do?” I challenge, as Mike says, “Not so easy to scare, Brighton?”

“It’s just a movie—they don’t bother me.”

“So, what’d you think?” Zeke asks.

Ha! This is where she’ll expose herself: Bright doesn’t have opinions and they haven’t seen it, so she can’t just agree. I lean back and wet my lips.

“It’s hard to go wrong with a Lewis Marsh movie,” she says. A nice, vague, Brighton-type response. “But I hope he wraps up the Shriek films sooner than later. He dragged out the Gore series far too long. There’s only so many times a character can not be dead.”

She’s really seen them. And knows her stuff.

“I know, right? Six movies, and the plot ran out after four.” Mike nods and leans in toward her. “You know, you’re not half-bad for a Cross Pointer.”

“Gee, thanks?” Bright laughs and they join her. I’m analyzing her posture, her voice, her body language. She’s not flirting. She’s just … charming. And they’re thoroughly charmed.

“You want to come with us?” Zeke asks. At least he has the decency to aim the question at both of us.

I don’t realize how I’m standing until Bright puts a hand on my arm while answering. My muscles are tense, my posture’s rigid. “Thanks for asking, but we’ve got plans and Jonah’s pizza’s getting cold.”

My muscles unlock under her brief touch, melting whatever the hell’s wrong with me so I can say, “If you make it to Jeff’s, catch up with us, ’kay?” and wait for her to murmur, “Nice to meet you,” before returning to the table where my pizza is indeed cold and unappetizing.

She clears her throat and I brace myself for I-don’t-even-know-what she’s going to say about Mike and Zeke. Or the fact that I stopped being a functional person after she joined our group.

“It’s too bad you don’t have OnStar,” she mutters.

Only a spoiled brat would think OnStar is standard. Paul and Mom got me a car to erase their guilt about the move—or rather, they gave me her old car after spending days pouring over
Consumer Reports
and buying Mom the one with the highest crash-test ratings so Sophia would be safe. I only have AAA because of the time my battery died. Paul hadn’t appreciated driving out to the State Park in Hamilton at one a.m. to give me a jump. After that night Mom got me AAA, and I insisted Carly and I leave the dome light and music off when the car is parked.

I glare at the table. “Yeah. Too bad.”

“Because then you could’ve had it unlocked with a phone call and you wouldn’t be stuck here. With me.”

I choke on an ice cube and she hands me a napkin.

“This was a mistake, Jonah. I’m not sure why you invited me, but you don’t want me here—and I’m not saying that so you’ll disagree. Not that I think
you
will. Just take me home. You don’t even have to show up at the library on Sunday.”

“What makes you think I don’t want you to come to the party with me?” I’m asking purely to be difficult and because I’m pissed that she has the guts to admit it’s a mistake when I don’t.

She stares at me. Raises her eyebrows in a look that dares me to contradict her.

“We’re already here. Just come.” We’re so close. Even if we just stay for five minutes, it’ll be enough to replace whatever Carly’s saying with my own story.

“Two slices of cheese?” The guy who brings the plate winks at Brighton. He’s totally checking her out. I recognize him from Hamilton High—I want to say he’s on the wrestling team, but who knows—Hamilton’s three times the size of Cross Pointe. Ironically, it would be easier to be anonymous at the school where I was anything but.

The possible-wrestler is still hovering. “Let me know if you need anything else.
Anything
.”

He drops a napkin beside her plate, his name and number bleeding in black ink. I’m bothered and that bothers me. Why do I care? She’s not my girlfriend—we’re not on a date. Except—
we could be
—this punk doesn’t know we’re not. Neither did Zeke and Mike. No one has questioned my place across the table from her. What, they don’t think I’m competition? And this loser thinks Brighton’s in
his
league?

She smiles politely but turns away in dismissal. Turns
to me. I take the napkin and use it to wipe the condensation off my cup. The digits blur to black-green starbursts. I’m an idiot. Next I’ll be tearing my shirt and beating my chest.

“Did you want this?” I ask, holding out the sodden, ink-stained mess.

She waves it away and gives me her perfectly imperfect grin. “Not even a little. You can keep it.”

22
 
 
Brighton
 
 
10:51 P.M.

Jonah does a decent job on the toxic pizza, stopping when only one slice remains on the tray. Does he actually like that flavor combination, or did he chose it to prove a point? I decide not to ask since we’re finally having a normal conversation. It’s like seeing his friends reminded him that kindness isn’t fatal.

Granted we’re only talking about college, how we both have no clue what we’ll pick as majors.

“One time, this guy my mom was seeing asked what I wanted to be after high school,” I say as we get back in his car. “I answered, ‘A college student,’ and he thought I was being rude or making fun of him because my answer was so vague. It was a mess; he was insulted and I felt awful.”

Jonah laughs and turns down another side street—a baseball rolls around in his backseat, pinging off something metal each time he turns. This street curves too, more roads and driveways branching off in all directions like a spider’s legs. There’s no logic to these streets, or to the houses either.
Duplexes, capes, saltboxes, and a condo complex all share the same street. One house has a sign advertising a beauty salon out front. Two streets later there’s a house with a yard crammed full of bright plastic slides and toys. Maybe it’s actually a day care center? Some yards are landscaped and tidy, others have peeling paint and out-of-control weeds. We pass a building with plywood on the front windows. The houses are placed at random—some close to the street, others down long driveways. It’s like a giant opened his fist and sprinkled buildings—new, old, large, small—all over the landscape. It makes me uncomfortable—and the fact that I’m uncomfortable makes me
more
uncomfortable.

Jonah makes a sharp left turn.

“I don’t know how you can think Cross Pointe is hard to navigate. This is like a maze.”

He shrugs. “But in Cross Pointe everything looks the same. Here, we’ve got landmarks. There’s the park where I had Little League. Back there was the house we all thought was haunted. That stop sign is bent from when I hit it while Carly was trying to teach me to drive stick shift. And that’s the Digginses’ house.”