Bright Before Sunrise (20 page)

“Where is she?” I ask. Carly should be front and center, leading the attack or at least reaping a victim’s share of sympathy.

“She’s upset. She stayed home.” Jeff’s answer is sharp, an accusation.

The party crowd thins on the other side of the kitchen—away from the food and the game of flip cup taking place on the table. We hover by the door to his mom’s home office, where Jeff used to be stuck reading for thirty minutes before he was allowed to join the rest of us playing catch in the park. He looks from Brighton to the room. I open the door.

“Bright. Sit here a minute, okay? I need to talk to Jeff. I’ll go get you a drink. Water?”

“No. I want to know what’s going on. Now.” She plants a fist on each hip and stares up at me expectantly.

“I just need a minute. Then I’ll introduce you to everyone.” I try again to herd her into the office.

She resists. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Suit yourself.”

Before she follows up with another question, Jeff says, “Please tell me you work fast. Tell me there was no overlap. Carly’s been obsessed with you cheating since your move. Now you show up with a new girl hours after you broke up?”

“Wait. What?” Her hands slip from her hips and she leans back, clutching the counter behind her.

I ask Jeff, “Have you talked to Carly? Has Maya?”

“Maya’s spent half the night on the phone with her. Sasha’s with Carly at her house.” The crowd has moved, followed us. They’re hoping for a scene and waiting for a chance to spit their questions and judgments. “God, Jonah, did you have do this tonight? My parents are only out of town for one night, and Maya’s going to spend the whole time dealing with Carly’s drama.”

“
She
broke up with
me
.” My answer’s defensive, but does he really think this is what I wanted or how I expected to be spending Friday night? “Did you know she was going to? Thanks for giving me a heads-up.”

“Time-out. My turn.” Bright pushes her way between the two of us. “You and Carly broke up? Today?
What?
”

I don’t get to answer because Eliza invites herself into the conversation, “Can you blame her?”

“Yes!” Brighton turns toward her. “He’s crazy about her!”

I groan. She may be well intentioned, but she’s not helpful.

Eliza chokes on her indignation, and more people press around us. “You’re going to stand here—the one he cheated with—and defend that? Bingley, it’s too bad you’ve got all that money and no way to buy yourself some
class
.”

I’m trapped in the corner between the door and a wall of gossip-hungry ex-classmates. And Brighton.

“What?” She sputters the word, her face as red as the rooster painting hanging on the wall behind her.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Felix adds. “She’s pretty smoking. I never would’ve thought Prentiss had it in him—juggling two of them? You’re a god.”

“So it’s true?” Maya joins the group, her cell clutched in one hand, her cheek still imprinted with its outline.

“Wait! Just wait a second,” I say. Everything’s going to hell. This is the lie I wanted to sell, yet now that people are saying it, now that Brighton’s face is crumpling under their accusations, it’s all so screwed up.

“We aren’t dating,” she protests.

Felix whistles. “A god. A god I tell you, if he can get that girl without having to date her.”

Maya’s pushing through the crowd to Jeff’s side. “Oh, Carly …,” she simpers into the phone, “No, she’s really not
that
pretty. Honest.”

“Is she looking at the same girl as me?” Felix asks the room.

Eliza snorts. “I bet she sleeps with anyone.”

“Shut the hell up!” I bellow. The group stands with their mouths open, fingers frozen above cell phones. “You don’t
know what the hell you’re talking about. I never cheated on Carly.”

There are tears in the corners of Brighton’s eyes, but she’s blinking them away. Her voice is soft. “Jonah? I don’t understand.”

“There isn’t sex ed in Cross Pointe? What’s to understand?” Eliza’s scorn makes me want to muzzle her.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Brighton protests.

When the murmurs and doubts continue, her voice goes higher. “The idea is ridiculous. I’ve barely even spoken to him before tonight. I was babysitting his little sister.”

I turn to face her, blocking her view of the crowd and its of her. She looks like a caged animal, her eyes flickering around the room. Her posture screams panic. I keep my voice quiet and try to calm her: “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain later.”

“No. Why would they even think that? What have you been telling people? Is this why you were so desperate to get me to come to the party?” She pushes past me. “Jonah’s not dating me. Or anyone in Cross Pointe. No one in CPHS even knows who he is.”

24
 
 
Brighton
 
 
11:11 P.M.

Jonah gapes. Someone in the crowd makes a taunting
ohhhh
sound. And I can’t stand to be in this crush of judgmental strangers for even another second.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me.” I have to ask every person individually before they move aside and let me pass. Someone steps on my bandaged toes, and I mash my hands into fists to keep from crying out.

“Bright. Wait!”

I’m done listening to Jonah. I say, “Excuse me,” to the last girl standing between me and the front door. I know I’m demonstrating just how very “flight” I am, but I also know it’s justified.

Jonah catches up with me about seven steps into the lawn. He puts a hand on my wrist and pulls me to a stop. “Will you just wait five seconds so I can explain?”

My eyes go from his frustrated face to the open front door where a crowd waits for more drama. They’re pushing one another to have front-row viewing and actually manage to knock a kid off the steps and into the bushes.

Jonah turns and yells “Back off!” and flips his middle finger before pulling me a few steps farther across the lawn and out of sight.

He looks at me and sighs. I refuse to let myself feel sympathy. Feel anything but anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the breakup?” I demand. “Why exactly did you bring me to this party? To embarrass me?”

“Yeah, because you didn’t embarrass
me
? Thanks for calling me a loser in front of all of my friends.”

“At least I told the truth! You don’t get to play story time with my reputation.”

“It was a misunderstanding. I’ll explain.”

“Like they’ll listen! They’ve already decided I’m a horrible person! Is everyone in Hamilton so rude? Do they always assume the worst and attack before they know the facts? How can you possibly be friends with people like that?”

“Spoken like a true, judgmental Cross Pointe snob,” he retorts.

I flinch, taking a step backward and holding up a hand so he doesn’t come any closer. “
I’m
judgmental? They even attacked my name!”

“Um, guys? Sorry to interrupt.”

I hadn’t heard them approaching, but there’s a guy and a girl standing a step behind Jonah. It was the girl who’d spoken, and she doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Hi, I’m Maya. This is Jeff. I need to borrow Jonah for a minute.”

“Take him for as long as you’d like. I’m done with him.”

“Brighton, just—” He holds his hands up in a helpless shrug.

“Go. Your friends want to talk to you—I don’t. I’ll call Amelia for a ride.”

“Bright, please …”

I huff as he gets my name wrong—again.

“Good-bye, Jonah.” I turn my back to him and don’t exhale until their voices are shut behind the slamming of the front door. Then I bend over, hands braced against my knees, and try to breathe. I can’t. I can’t believe. He just—

I won’t let myself cry. He’s not worth crying over. I thought I was making progress. I thought we were almost friends. I thought he was cute.

But then again, I also thought he needed me. Needed a friend in Cross Pointe and someone to be nice to him. After seeing how he swaggered through that door and the way everyone here flocked to see him, it’s clear the last thing he needs is another friend. He’s got a houseful of people who care about him, and
they
don’t want me anywhere near him.

I fish my cell out of my bag. There’s a text from Silvia on the screen:
OMG! You’ll NEVER guess—

I close it without reading the rest. I don’t want to guess right now. Or gush. Or smile. Or stress about whether every word I say is what someone wants to hear.

I just want to go home.

I can’t be crying when I call Amelia. She’d call the police and have them come wait with me. Or yell at Peter to break every traffic law and get here faster.

I gulp a deep breath. Hold it a beat. Take myself to the same mental place as before a complicated dive. Exhale.

Dial.

Voice mail.

“Dammit!” I stamp my foot. Gasp. The pain rocketing from my toes is excruciating. I can’t breathe or swear or cry.

“Hey, it’s Amelia—but you already know that since
you
called
me
—” begins to play in my ear, but I hang up before the beep. I don’t even have the address for her to plug into her GPS.

I head down the driveway to get the street name and number off the mailbox and then call Peter. If he doesn’t answer, I guess it’s Evy, though the thought makes me cringe. She won’t let me live this down, even though it’s her fault I’m here to begin with. If she hadn’t been home, I would never have said yes. I wouldn’t be stuck in some sketchy town at a party full of people who think I’m one step up from an expensive pole dancer.

Black plastic numbers on the wooden pole read “3845.”

But 3845 what? I don’t even know the street name. I lean against the mailbox and look down the cracked stretch of asphalt, trying to figure out which way to walk to find a street sign.

There’s a group of fireflies in the bushes at the far edge of the yard. They show up as little more than pinpricks of light in the darkness. Blinking yellow, then disappearing, and one strange one that glows the color of solid flame. A mystery that’s solved when a shadow detaches from a tree trunk and taints the muggy air with the smell of cigarette smoke. He steps closer, passing through the flickering light of a streetlamp and revealing a guy who is taller and bigger than Jonah. He crosses to me with a confident swagger, then leans across the mailbox.

“No, you don’t. I caught you.”

“What?”

“Every time Jeff throws a party, the mailbox gets destroyed. Smashed with a baseball bat. Or egged. Last time someone used a cherry bomb, and we had to pick up mailbox shards from all over the yard. It was not fun to do while hungover. Please don’t make me do that again.”

He’s smiling.

“I’m not going to. I just needed the address. Is this your house? Are you related to Jeff?”

“Jeff’s my little bro.” The guy grins wider. “I’m Digg.”

“
Digg
?” I ask, then realize how rude I sound. “I’m Brighton.”

“
Brighton
?” he repeats in parody of my question, but he smiles again. “Digg’s short for Diggins, my last name. And, you know, I think I’m going to believe your address story. You look too sweet to be involved with mailbox sabotage. I’m glad I found you. It’s like you were an angel just waiting to be discovered.”

I blush and laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

Digg laughs too. “That was even cheesier out loud than it was in my head, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Can we make a pact to forget I ever said that?”

He’s got these amazing blue eyes, so bright I can see them in the streetlight, and the type of eye contact that makes it possible to admire them without staring. “I’ll think about it,” I tease.

He stubs out a cigarette butt on the post. “C’mon, now that you’ve seen the driveway, I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.”

“Actually, I was leaving. I just need to call a friend with the address. Speaking of which, 3845
what?
”

“Oakmont. But at least let me wait with you until your ride comes.”

Digg is handsome and seems harmless; best of all, he wasn’t there to see everything that went down. I nod.