Project Paper Doll (13 page)

T
HE SCHOOL LOOKED DIFFERENT
at night. Softer, the edges of the buildings less severe in the setting sun. It might have been all the brightly colored balloons tied near the entrances to the gym, or maybe the presence of so many seemingly happy families—most of them with excited children in tow.

I pushed open the door to Zane’s SUV, taking care not to hit the truck parked next us, and slid down, right as Zane rounded the back corner in a hurry.

When he saw me, he let out a sigh and stopped. “I would have…” He gestured at the door.

Oh.
He’d meant to open it for me. Traditional custom, slightly old-fashioned, but still accepted practice on date-type outings.

I grimaced. “Sorry. I didn’t think about it.” Obviously I was not accustomed to going out.
Way to advertise your inexperience there, Ariane.

“It’s all right.” Zane looked around, his gaze following the groups of people heading toward the gym. Then he turned to face me and offered his hand, palm down, with a hint of challenge in his expression.

Ah. He’d picked up on my reluctance to be touched. My fault for reacting so badly when he’d come up to me yesterday. It’s just…he’d taken me by surprise.

That was why he’d made such a point about setting boundaries for our “date,” I realized, my face heating up. It was kind of considerate of him. And surprising. If he’d been more like what I’d expected, he wouldn’t have bothered.

And he was right: I wasn’t comfortable with people touching me, especially unexpectedly and without permission. But I wasn’t sure if that would hold true for the reverse—me making contact with someone. Honestly, I’d never tried it, spending most of my time and energy avoiding even casual grazes.

Zane raised his eyebrows, and hell no, I wasn’t going to let him win. I’d agreed to this, so I’d go through with it.

Sticking my chin out defiantly, I lifted my hand to his, and he closed his fingers around mine securely. His palm was warm and dry, and I could feel rough spots—calluses from lacrosse, probably—rubbing against my skin in a not-unpleasant friction.

He grinned and gently tugged me forward to follow him through the gap between his SUV and the truck, and into the parking lot. Knowing what I did about our arrangement, I expected to feel reluctance or distance in his grasp, but he held my hand as if he meant it.

Once, early in my learn-to-be-more-human stage, I read an article that said you could tell a lot about people by the way they held hands. Palm-to-palm with fingers interlaced indicates an intimate relationship, usually of a romantic variety. When only the hands are involved, the person whose palm is up is seeking guidance and reassurance. Children always have their palms up when being led by their parents. The person whose palm is down feels protective, responsible for the one they are leading.

I couldn’t help but notice that Zane’s hand was palm down over mine. He felt responsible for me, if only in some small way. I didn’t know what to think about that. I was, in the end, responsible for myself, thank you very much. But it was nice.

I shook my head. It was dumb to think that way. I couldn’t let myself get distracted.

I refocused my attention on the crowds around us, everyone heading to the gym, where I could hear music and the louder sounds of laughter and conversation pouring from the open doors. “There are so many people here,” I murmured.

“It’s Wingate,” Zane said.

I looked at him questioningly.

He shrugged. “Nothing else going on.”

I’d never thought about it. The extent or frequency of social events in town was not a top concern for me on a normal day, or, you know, ever. This would, however, make encountering Rachel interesting, which was to say dangerous. It was one thing to nearly lose control in front of a third of the school in the cafeteria, but something else entirely with what appeared to be a good portion of town in attendance. Some of whom worked for GTX, guaranteed.

My stomach knotted with anxiety.

“Will the game tomorrow night be the same or—” I began.

“Zane!” A loud female voice called from somewhere to my left. “Over here!”

I stiffened, and Zane stopped dead, his hand tightening on mine.

We both turned to look at the same time. It was not Rachel, thank God. It was…

I frowned. I didn’t know who it was.

An older woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties, dressed in a brightly flowered shirt and khaki pants that were a size too small, waved frantically at Zane, her smile decorated in a particularly obnoxious shade of pink lipstick. She hurried toward us as fast as she could, given the two sticky and sort of dirty-looking children she dragged in her wake.

Zane groaned quietly. “Just…hang in there. I’ll try to get us out of this as soon as I can, but if we run, she’ll tell my dad, and I’ll never hear the end of it,” he said under his breath. Then in a louder voice, he called, “Hi, Mrs. Vanderhoff.”

I watched her approach, the heat making her pant. She didn’t look particularly dangerous, but I could feel a low level of dread coming off Zane without even trying to sense it.
Huh.

“Where is your father this evening?” she asked when she was close enough, waving her hands in front of her reddened and sweaty face as if that would serve as some kind of air-conditioning. “Did he get the casserole I left for him? We haven’t seen you at church lately.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what Zane was supposed to respond to first.

He smiled stiffly. “He’s working tonight. You know, protect and serve. And yes, we did. It was delicious. Thank you.” He shifted his weight, his hand tight around mine, and I could tell he wanted to bolt.

The children collapsed at their mother’s—grandmother’s?—feet and promptly began punching each other. Mrs. Vanderhoff didn’t seem to notice. “And how is your brother? Doing well in Madison, I hope. Such an honor for him to win that football scholarship.”

Poor thing, this one’s never going to be what his father was. Such a disappointment. Black sheep. Just like his mother.

She was so loud. Some humans were just natural broadcasters, thinking in screams instead of whispers. Rachel was one, this woman was evidently another. I tried to focus on the music in the distance to block her thoughts out.

“I think my dad talked to Quinn last week. He’s busy, but I think he’s enjoying it,” Zane said with strained politeness.

“Such a good boy, Quinn.” With a fond but pitying smile, Mrs. Vanderhoff reached up and patted Zane’s shoulder. “It’s just too bad you didn’t inherit your father’s skills as well,” she said with a tsk and a sad shake of her head. “But God blesses us all in different ways.”

And yet she managed to make it sound as if God had not blessed Zane at all.
What a bitch.
I didn’t even like Zane, and I thought that was cruel.

What was worse, I could now feel shame rising up in Zane, taking the place of dread. He believed her.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he said with a tight smile. “But we should be going and—”

“Oh, you should have seen your father play, back in the day.” Mrs. Vanderhoff clasped her hands to her substantial chest. “The way he could throw a ball, and how fast he could run, so strong…”

I’D HAVE RIDDEN HIM LIKE A PRIZE STALLION UNTIL HE WAS BEGGING FOR MERCY.

Gross.
I made a sound of disgust. Normally I was better at hiding my response to what I heard, but that had been so unexpected. And boomingly loud. Like screaming into a megaphone.

“Who’s your friend here?” Mrs. Vanderhoff asked, turning her attention to me with a forced smile and heavy suspicion.

Zane hesitated, then said, “This is Ariane—”

“Just Ariane,” I said quickly. I didn’t want her tracking me to my father.

“And where do you go to church?” She looked me up and down carefully.

Strange little thing. Not at all a match for one of Jay’s boys, even if it is this one instead of the older one. Must be the sex. Boys will lie down with anything these days.

“I don’t.” I saw no point in lying about it when she’d already judged me and found me wanting, in more than one sense of the word.

She narrowed her eyes. “I see.”
Definitely the sex. Just like his daddy. If Jay Bradshaw had kept it in his pants a while longer, he could have married my Mindi, and…

“Mrs. Vanderhoff, we should get inside.” Zane sounded a little desperate. “We don’t want to miss out on the good booths.”

“Of course, dear, I understand,” she said. But her hand, with bright pink fingernails to match her lipstick, reached out. “A few more minutes, though, won’t—”

“And the sex,” I said brightly to Zane. “Don’t forget. We have to leave lots of time for sex.”

Mrs. Vanderhoff froze, her claws extended.

Zane let out a strangled sound and turned away quickly, pulling me with him. “Bye, Mrs. Vanderhoff!” he called.

“Sorry,” I said as he rushed us toward the gym. “But she was a hypocrite.” I hated people like that. They were akin to Dr. Jacobs and Rachel and all the others, only not as direct about it. “And so mean to you—” I clamped down on my words. When had it become my job to defend Zane Bradshaw? This little pretend game of ours was already going to my head.

“I can take care of myself,” he said, his tone sharp.

“Then why didn’t you?” I asked, exasperated.

He slowed, then stopped just outside the door, where a clown was handing out balloons to everyone waiting to go in. “Because sometimes it’s easier to let it go,” he said with a frustrated sigh.

“Not for me.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said dryly. “But you don’t have to deal with my dad.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong with your dad?”

He waved the words away. “Nothing. Never mind.”

He let go of my hand long enough to step forward and snag a balloon from the clown. A blue one. He returned and lifted my arm to tie the string around my wrist, taking care to leave the loop loose enough to be comfortable. The warmth of his breath on my skin and the feel of his attention made something shift inside my chest, like some delicate item—one of those expensive, paper-thin china teacups I’d once seen on
Antiques Roadshow
—on a precariously tilting shelf.

“There. Now you’re official. Your first activities fair.” He let go of my wrist.

“Thank you,” I said. The balloon bobbed near the top of my head, generating static I could hear and making loose strands of my hair stick to it. Of course.

I plucked at the string, trying to get used to the sensation of it around my wrist. “Will you get into trouble for what I said?” A thought that had not occurred to me until much too late.

His mouth tightened in a wry smile. “Probably.” He glanced over at me. “But it was kind of worth it.” He pushed the balloon away to free my hair and tucked the strands behind my ear.

The teacup in my chest gave another dangerous lurch. And it was only afterward that I realized: we were in public, in plain view of everyone. He was just acting. I needed to remember that.

The activities fair turned out to be four aisles of booths, from plain tables to sophisticated constructions that must have been brought in in pieces and assembled here. Every club and organization I’d ever heard of (and some I hadn’t) had a presence. A heavy canvas tarp had been put down to protect the polished gym floor from all the “street” shoes and the rough/sharp edges of booths, tables, and chairs. When I’d asked Zane why they didn’t hold this outside, he’d rolled his eyes. “They’re worried about damage to the football field.”

There were games, fake fortune-tellers, and food. So much food—cotton candy, popcorn, brownies, cookies, cakes—it was ridiculous.

And now Zane was trying to talk me into yet another example of activities fair ridiculousness.

“No, I do not want French kisses from the French Club,” I said firmly, laughter in my throat threatening to bubble free. French kisses from the French Club. Who approved that as a fund-raising idea? And worse yet, who would pay?

In the last thirty minutes, we’d wandered through two of the four aisles. Zane had insisted on buying me the suspiciously named Puppy Chow, which turned out to be peanut butter, chocolate, and some kind of cereal mixed together in a powdered-sugar-dusted bag; and I’d won some kind of small stuffed animal of indeterminate species—it might have been a dog or possibly a bear—at the ringtoss. Technically, Zane had gotten it for me after I’d protested, maybe a little too loudly, that the ringtoss was a scam. The rings were way too small to fit over the bottles. Zane had given the bored kid in the booth five dollars, and the kid had dropped a ring over the top of a bottle for Zane. Which was, in my opinion, completely against the spirit of the game. But then again, they were handing out dog-bears as prizes, so whatever.…

“Oh, come on, it’s fun.” Zane tugged at my hand in an effort to pull me along to a pink-tulle-draped table at the end of the aisle, where, surprisingly, a sizable crowd had gathered. “What do you have against French kisses? I think maybe it’s a phobia.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “Maybe we should visit the Psychology Club.”

“We don’t have a Psychology Club,” I pointed out, my feet sliding on spilled shaving cream, which had come from an enthusiastic throw at the football booth. (For a dollar, you could throw shaving cream pies at various players, but apparently everyone with a decent sense of aim was already on the team.)