Bright Before Sunrise (2 page)

Except now I’m just being rude. I’m sure they’re already combining their guest lists and moving on to debating invitations, colors, and food—

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you—” Jordan is back, standing in front of me and trying so hard to fight a grin. I force myself to look engaged and interested in whatever the new gossip is. “Since you weren’t at lunch today, you also missed my big announcement: I got off the Brown waiting list! I’m in!”

“That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you. Congrats!” My last word gets buried in her shoulder as I pull her into a hug. For a few moments I can shake off my exhaustion and be happy for her. “Oh my gosh! How could you possibly not tell me that
first thing
? You’ve got to be so excited.”

“Next time come to lunch and you’ll be in the know!” She fake-pouts at me. “Seriously, I only have two weeks of school left—get underlings to do your yearbook tasks; I don’t want you missing any more lunches.”

“I promise.” And I can do that. It’s only today. Today and tomorrow. If I can just survive the next thirty-six hours, I’ll be able to breathe again. But just thinking about them deflates me, drains all the enthusiasm from my voice. “Brown! Wow. I hope Rhode Island is ready for you.”

She doesn’t even notice, just laughs and says, “Of course they’re not! Okay, gotta get to class, but I’m sure I’ll see you tonight. Later, gator.”

I call another weak “Congrats” after her and head toward my own class.

“Hey, Brighton!”

“Hi, B.”

“What’s up, Brighton?”

The hall seems so crowded. All the people passing by, throwing smiles and greetings at me—each one feels like a minor assault of friendliness. Each one makes me more aware of how many sets of eyes are watching—and how big an audience I’ll have if I let myself fall to pieces.

I twist the ring on my finger. I expected it to provide some comfort today, but mostly it just feels heavy, foreign—a constant reminder of what’s happening tomorrow.

I need to shake this off.

Dad had two favorite sayings:
Everything looks better when you’re wearing a smile
and
Eighty percent of any achievement is making the decision to achieve
.

So I’ll pull on a smile and be okay. If I can’t quite achieve
okay
, at least I’m 80 percent closer to it.

I can fake the rest.

3
 
 
Jonah
 
 
1:18 P.M.

I want to kick it open. Leave a big, ugly dent in the front of the metal door. Ruin the perfection of the bank of shiny green lockers. It would earn me a trip to the principal, who would be shocked and horrified at vandalism in her precious school. But maybe then I could get my books without wrestling the lock every damn time.

“Need some help?”

I shouldn’t be surprised she came over. I ignore her. Hope she’ll go away. Not likely, but a guy can dream. She was just talking to Jordan/Juliana from English—who probably told her that I’m the father of an illegitimate child. Or, if Jordan/Juliana
had
believed me, they were gossiping about how weird it is I’m seventeen years older than Sophia.

Up until the sock thing, the only people who’d acknowledged me today were teachers and the freshman who said “excuse me” when he bumped into me during lunch. Which is fine. More than fine, it’s my preferred way to pass a day in Cross Pointe. And with fifty-seven minutes standing
between me and dismissal, all I want is for my crappy locker to open so I can get my Spanish book.

“Sometimes they stick.” It’s the same voice, and it’s closer this time.

“Did I ask your opinion, Waterford?”

Most students in this school couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, but Brighton Waterford can. Which is why she’s standing in front of me with an expectant smile. And why I have a sudden urge to skip Spanish class, just so I can avoid having to get my book or interact with Cross Pointe Barbie.

“Here, Jonah, let me.”

She reaches for the lock. I’m still jamming the release lever up, but even though the combination is in, it refuses to give.

“I can do it,” I say through my teeth, but she nudges me out of her way, then hands me her books. I watch her wiggle the lever side to side.

The green door pops open. Of course it does. She’s Brighton Waterford. Even the lockers adore her.

“There’s a piece of paper in the mechanism.”

“I know. The idiot who had it before me kept it propped open.”

She slides a thin finger into the space and pries out the paper wad, presents it to me like a gift. It’s a math test from two years ago.

“Lots of people do that. It’s not like you need a lock in Cross Pointe.”

I scoff, then realize she’s serious. She’s not just spouting Cross Pointe dogma like the Homeowners’ Association or Welcoming Committee. Of course not. No need for locks and
no teenage pregnancy. The town’s like a freaking modern Stepford, except robots have more personality than most of the trophy wives here.

“Sure,” I say as I grab my Spanish book.

“Jonah, no one
here
is going to steal.”

Was that
here
a dig at my old school? The teens in Cross Pointe may have more zeroes in their bank accounts and less on the odometers of their shiny cars than they do at Hamilton High, but it doesn’t make them better people.

This is the one bit of the school I can claim as mine.

I want it locked.

I slam the locker door.

“You’re welcome,” she chirps, tugging her books out of my hand.

I ball up the math test and toss it in the trash can across the hall. It’s a dismissal and she gets it, nodding once and flashing me a smile full of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth.

“Real quick, may I ask you a question?” Apparently she’s not really looking for permission because she rushes on, “I was wondering, are you busy Sunday?”

Any other guy in this school would be falling over himself right about now—I’ve watched them do it for the past five months. I could understand their attraction to her glossy perfection: long, dark hair and the type of milky skin that begs to be touched—if she wasn’t …
Brighton
.

“I can’t.”

“But I haven’t even told you the details yet.” She laughs like I’m trying to be funny instead of just trying to cut the conversation short. “You know the book drive we’ve been having at school?”

I shake my head.

“Really?” She reaches out and taps a fluorescent pink flyer hanging on the wall beside my locker. “Well, we’ve been collecting books to send to needy elementary schools. This Sunday we’re sorting and boxing them up.”

She pauses. Looks down at her hands. A flash of gold band, flash of green stone—she’s twisting a ring around her finger. It’s huge. And probably real. She looks back up at me.

“So, I was thinking …” She moves the ring from one finger to the next. “I’d really like it if … Will you come?”

“I can’t,” I say again. We’ve had this conversation before—she’s tried to recruit me to count pennies for Build a School in Some Other Country, to seal envelopes for Let’s Write Letters to Senators So They Can Ignore Us, and wrap presents for Care Packages to Last Year’s Seniors, Because Former Students Can’t Pass Finals without Cookies and Fancy Post-its.

In fact, that’s probably how she sees me, as yet another charity case: Integrate the New Student.

“I could pick you up.”

She’s sliding the ring off again. Clenching it in her fist, then trying it on her other hand.

“You’re going to drop that.” I don’t know why I care. If she wants to lose a ring worth more than my car, that’s her choice.

“What?”

I point to her hand.

“Oh.” She slides the ring back on her finger. “If I give you a ride, will you come? Is your address in the school directory?”

“What, you’re worried my crappy car will ghettoize the library parking lot?”

“No.” Her fingers fly back to the ring. Spinning. “That’s not—”

“I’m not interested.”

“Oh.” Her face flashes to
damn!
for an instant before she plasters on a yearbook-photo smile and straightens her headband. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in her I’ve-got-it-all-together image, and I kinda feel bad—but then she barrels on and my sympathy is gone. The girl looks like a dream, but she’s got the determination of a pit bull. I’m sick of being her prey. “Well, if Sundays are bad for you, is there another day you’re free? I’d really like to—”

“No, not another time. When are you going to get that I want you to leave me alone?” I almost add “please,” but catch myself.

Her face freezes in a shocked expression. A blush starts at her collarbones and spreads to her hairline.

I swallow my guilt. This is a
good
reaction. Maybe she’s finally listening to me. Hopefully it’s finally sinking in.

“I …” She shakes her head slightly. “I’m—”

“Brighton! I love that top. So cute!”

And she’s back to normal. Smiling. Done with me and turning toward her fan club: a preppy blond girl walking by with another preppy blond girl. She’s absorbed back into the flow of the hallway, surrounded by people who want those smiles and live and die by her advice.

I pull out my phone so I can text the girl whose smiles I want: Carly.

R we still on 4 tonite? Can’t wait.

4
 
 
Brighton
 
 
1:19 P.M.

“Leave me alone” is way worse than “No.” It’s more of an “I can’t stand you” than an “I’m not interested.” The raw annoyance in his brown eyes and deep voice add intensity to his rejection. I feel it from the curl of my toes to the fire in my cheeks. It hurts—as much as the places my new sandals have rubbed my feet raw, or the pulse point behind my ear that’s pinched by my headband. But I can’t let it show on my face.

I won’t.

Sarah’s interruption is a welcome distraction. I could hug her and Miranda for buying me a moment to pull myself together.

“Thanks. Your shirt is too. Both of yours. Really cute.”

They chime, “See you later,” and keep walking.

My gaze snags on the hallway clock, and I bite my lip. The clock is not my friend today. It keeps moving forward, carving minutes out of the day and cruelly pushing me toward tomorrow.