Don't Touch (5 page)

She links her arm through mine, pulling me close. Her hand slides down close to mine, and I gasp, jerk away.

“Whoa,” says Mandy, like I'm a horse, “easy, girl.”

My heart wants a breath for every beat—so much air—but I won't let it trick me. I make my voice gentle, no stress. “I don't like anyone to touch me lately.” The best lies have a little truth in them. “It's weird, but I lay out in the sun the other day . . .”

Mandy knows my pasty skin never tans.

“It was dumb, but I thought with school starting . . .” I let her see me embarrassed. Making it part of the act takes its power away. “I got sun poisoning.” Her eyes dart to my super-pale hands. “I mean, I wasn't even out long enough to burn, but I got these red bumps. That's why the long sleeves. So gross. And it still hurts.”

“Yowch,” Mandy says, happy to keep her distance now that we're talking about skin bumps. “You've got to take care of yourself, girl.”

I nod. No kidding.

Mandy decides our next stop should be Ragamuffin, a consignment shop in Southside where we can get rehearsal clothes on the cheap. Drew speeds through the Red Mountain Expressway Cut, the rust-red corridor that was blasted from the mountain, and there's Vulcan, the Roman god of the forge. If a pagan can be a patron saint, he's Birmingham's. He's the largest cast iron statue in the world, and he towers over his anvil wearing only an apron so his naked butt moons Homewood.

As he drives, Drew shifts his hand back and forth between Mandy's thigh and the gearshift. They touch so easily.

“Peter says hi,” Mandy says.

“What?” My voice cracks.

Mandy's fiddling with her phone. “I texted that we were out shopping. He says hi.”

“He's the one who messed with your car, right?” I try to sound nonchalant.

“Ri-ight,” Mandy says, eyeing me with suspicion, and I immediately realize how stupidly fake I must sound. Mandy watched me meet Peter yesterday, and it's not like I met a billion other people.

“You heard about the Great Car Caper,” Drew says, laughing.

Mandy twists around to stare at me. “You like him,” she crows.
“You! Like! Peter!”

I shift my eyes toward Drew—
Hello, male in the car.
In the rearview, his eyes are amused.

“I don't like him. I mean, I don't
dis
like him. I don't even know—”

“Lies! You like him. Now talk. How can you be attracted to Peter?” asks Mandy.

“I never said I was.”

“But you
are
,” Mandy says. “That's clear.”

I sink deeper into my seat.

“He's tall,” she says. “I'll give you that. He's got a certain boyish charm.”

Drew clears his throat.

“I'm just trying to empathize,” Mandy says. “Please. I could never go for someone so—what's the word I'm looking for? Cocky?”

“Peter's not cocky. Peter's a nerd,” Drew says.

“I know! Where does he get off being nerdy
and
full of himself? It's like he thinks he lives in some kind of alterna-world where nerds are cool.”

“He does,” Drew says, smiling wide. “It's called arts school.” It strikes me for the first time—what's a guy like Drew doing in arts school anyway?

Mandy rolls her eyes, but she smiles, too. “Okay,
that's
not the problem. The
problem—
” Drew doesn't slow for the turn onto University Boulevard, and Mandy has to swing forward to absorb the curve. She rights herself and goes on. “The
problem
is that Peter's nutty.”

“I said I'm not interested, so it doesn't even matter.” But I would like to know what qualifies a person as “nutty” in Mandy's book.

“Don't be bitchy, Mandy,” Drew says, and he looks bummed by whatever he expects her to say.

“I hate that word,” Mandy says.

“That's why I used it.”

The what-happens-next? of the moment works like a vacuum, swallowing all sound, all breath.

Mandy zaps Drew with one of her lightning stares. He should be a sizzling pulp melting into the seat, but I guess he's immune. Mandy turns back to me, and the next moment floods in.

“You're talking about stuff that's private,” Drew says, but Mandy holds firm.

“No,” she says, “
You
are. All
I
meant was he's a goof, like that crap that he pulled with my car. But now that you mention it . . .”

“Mention
what
?” I ask.

Drew eyes me sternly in the rearview mirror. “It's Peter's own business.”

“Not if my friend's thinking about dating him,” Mandy says.

“
Peter's
your friend,” Drew says.

“Nobody's thinking about dating anyone,” I say, but I can't help asking, “What ‘stuff' are you talking about?”

Drew says, “It's from a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” says Mandy. “He had to go for counseling.”

She doesn't know I had counseling for my panic attacks in middle school, back when Dad first threatened to split. What would she think of that?

“Mandy, Peter's my best friend,” Drew says. “He's a good guy. Can we drop it?”

He zooms into Ragamuffin's parking lot, completely ignoring their speed bump. It makes my teeth clack.

“I love Peter,” Mandy says, “but can we agree that he's nutty? You
saw
what he did to my car!”

“
My idea!
” Drew growls, shaking Mandy's thigh. It's playful, but he's frustrated. “You can't hold a grudge against him for that.”

“Fine, then I'll hold a grudge against you,” Mandy says sharply. She hops down from the truck but says, “Ah-ah-ah,” when Drew opens his door. “You, Mr. Idea Man, can wait outside. The ladies have shopping to do.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Consider this your punishment for calling me ‘bitchy,'
and
for telling me what I can talk about, AND for my CAR.”

“Mandy, play nice,” Drew says.

“Lady time,” Mandy says with a flourish and sashays toward the store.

Their fight came on so quickly, I feel like I caused it somehow. I turn to give Drew a sympathy smile, but he's in his own world, fuming.

Inside, Mandy seems oblivious to the tension we just left. “Peter's not a bad guy,” she says as we navigate the narrow aisles. “Drew's right about that.”

“It doesn't matter because I'm not interested.”

Mandy smiles knowingly. “You're not
that
good of an actress, Caddie.”

Then I'll have to get better. I already feel like I'm one touch away from having all my craziness exposed. The last thing I need is a public, puppy dog crush on a guy who shows affection through wrestling. I'd fall to pieces if he shook my hand.

And then I see the gloves.

It's not healthy,
something in me whispers, but it's better than being exposed.

“What do we think of these?” I ask, pulling on the evening-length lavender gloves. I push up my sleeves to make room.

“Ooh,
très chic
,” Mandy says. “What are you, going to the opera?”

“They're kind of fabulous, right?”

She reaches out and runs her fingers along them, down my forearm to the back of my hand. The gloves work like armor. Everything's covered up safe.

“What if I wore them at school? They could be my thing—a signature.”

Mandy laughs. “You afraid of not being weird enough to fit in with the artists?”

“Says the girl with pink hair.”

She fingers her pink streak and grins. “Oh, I'm
aware.
But I like it.”

“Maybe I like the gloves.”

“Then go for it,” she says. “You know, the pink hair was partly inspired by you.”

“What?”

“Remember that time you suggested we wear pink for a week, just to see if people would notice?”

“Which they did on the very first day.”

That hadn't been one of
my games
, just a game, in fifth grade. Mandy played along, and we weren't the least bit afraid of people making fun because together we were so cool.

“You were always good at that,” Mandy says, “coming up with the zany thing nobody else would dare do.”

That doesn't sound like me now at all, but I like that it's how she remembers me.

I hold up the gloves. “You won't tell anyone that I only started wearing these in time for school?”

“What? Caddie's always worn gloves! She's a real trendsetter. You watch. It's going to be all evening-gown gloves at New York Fashion Week this year.”

“Don't overdo it.”

“Who? Me? Never.”

Mandy takes my gloved hand and swings it between us like we're kids again. The gloves are more than protection. They're a secret, and secrets work like glue between friends.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“You're not wearing those to school, are you?” Jordan says, indicating my gloves.

“Is this a Mandy-Caddie thing?” Mom asks.

We're eating dinner together on the night before school starts, “like a family.” We're doing our best impression. Mom's lit the candles in the dining room, poured a glass of wine for herself and sparkling grape juice for Jordan and me. The pork tenderloin rests in Dad's place at the head of the table.

I nod, yes, a Mandy-Caddie thing, like wearing pink for a week. It makes Mom happy to think that Mandy and I are getting closer again.

We are. If I can keep from messing it up.

Mom lifts her glass. “I'm so excited for you.”

I clink glasses with her—super classy in my gloves. “Me too.”

I make myself smile, but inside I'm a mess. What if Mandy's friends don't want me to sit with them at lunch? What if they don't care, but there's no room at the table? What if the only seat's next to Peter? What if I choke in acting class and Nadia says, “There's no hope for you”?

And on top of all that, there's the guilt. I wouldn't have this opportunity if Dad had stayed.

I've been so fixated on Mandy these last few days, as if being friends with her might bring me back to normal. As if it might be like before . . . before middle school, before stupid games in my head, before Dad even thought about leaving.

But here we are talking about Mandy and me over dinner, and Dad's still so gone.

There's a missed call and a text on my phone when I get back upstairs.

The text is from Mandy:

Can't wait for tomorrow! Happy first day!

I text back:

Thx! Can't wait.

The call . . . is from Dad.

I sense it before I check.

There's a voice mail, but I already know what it will say:
Have a great first day. Wish I could be there. I'm thinking of you.

Something from the “good dad” lexicon.

But it won't mean anything. He doesn't get to be Dad of the Year at a distance.

Mandy would delete it without listening, and she wouldn't think twice about it after.

But what if it
is
a real message?

What if he's in trouble, and my number was the last one he dialed? He went off the road, missed a curve on the highway, and drove into a wall. He's got night blindness—it could happen.

What if he's sick and needs help? He's too delirious to dial 911, but he managed to type in my name?

What if he's calling to say he was wrong, the move was a terrible mistake, and he needs my advice about how to convince Mom to take him back?

All my what-ifs steal my breath, compel me to check. I dial voice mail and tap in my password.

“Hi, sweet.” Dad's voice sounds garbled on the message, like he's calling from underwater. “I wanted to check in. Your mom reminded me it's your first day of school.”

Of course she did.

“I never missed a first day before. It feels strange, if I'm honest.”

Good. That's exactly how it should feel.

“I'd say call me back, but it's almost eleven. You'll probably be getting to bed soon—or maybe you already are.”

I check the time on my phone. He was an hour off. Dad keeps forgetting the time difference, like wherever he is, it must be that time everywhere.

“I just wanted to wish you luck and say I hope you'll be happy with your decision.”

Well, that's big of him, but it's so passive-aggressive, like he's saying, you probably won't be happy, and when you're not, let's remember who told you so.

He's trying,
a kinder part of me whispers.

He goes on, “When you decide to stop punishing me, Caddie, I
would
like to talk. Remember, Daddy loves you.”

End of message.

I feel a bit of guilt. We haven't spoken more than a couple of times since he left, and only when Mom forced the phone into my hand. But guilt's what he wants me to feel. Dad's good at that, making the whole world feel sorry for not being who Charles Finn wants them to be.

I take two deep breaths, slow ones like I've learned.

Dad didn't have to leave. Even if he and Mom did need a break, that's no reason to move so far away. How are they supposed to fix things when he's in a whole other state?

I think about the night of our big fight last March when he disappeared and immediately shove that thought down.
It's his nature,
something in me whispers,
to go far away and never come back.

Dad moved here for Mom's family, but we barely ever saw his—once a year, sometimes less. Dad and his father fight. He calls his mother weak-willed. His sister split the country maybe ten years ago. They chat online, but I don't think they've been in a room together since.

It always worried me that such distance could grow up between people who were supposed to love one another.