Rolling Dice (26 page)

I can’t do this right now
, I want to tell him.
I don’t want to do this right now. Can you just not, please …

“Dice,” he says plaintively, leaning into my vision so that his eyes lock with mine. “Dice. Please, just speak to me.”

And I start to cry.

Last time I cried was at Great-Aunt Gina’s funeral. For some strange reason it feels kind of … 
good
to let it all out.

At least Dwight doesn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights, as I imagine most guys would when a girl bursts into tears. I can’t believe I’m breaking down like this, but I can’t help it. Something made the floodgates snap like a twig, and this is the aftermath—I’m sitting on the floor of the library, silently sobbing, and Dwight’s arms are around me. He rubs circles on my back and strokes my hair, lets me bawl into his chest.

All I can think is:
I’m glad it’s him
.

It’s a good thing I’m not a loud crier; if I were, we’d probably have been discovered by now. This is a library, after all—noise is simply not tolerated.

When the sobs start to recede, and my body stops shaking, and I’m just left with tears streaming silently down my cheeks, I say, “I got snot on your shirt.”

Dwight chuckles softly, and shifts around a bit, digging into his pocket. “Here. It’s clean, I swear.” He pushes a Kleenex into my hand and I dab my face and blow my nose—
quietly
.

“Thanks.” My voice is raw. My mouth feels gross.

He peels his arms away when I start to sit up, and then chuckles again, and pulls the tissue from my fingers, wiping at my face, under my eyes. “You look a mess.”

“Ike, you’re such a charmer.”

“I see your sarcasm remains ever intact.”

The corner of my mouth twitches in an attempt at a smile. I take the Kleenex again and wipe my nose, and dab at the last of the tears.

I open my mouth to apologize, but he must know what’s coming since he says, “Don’t.”

So I don’t.

We look at each other for a moment, and then he holds out an arm; without hesitation, I snuggle into him. I rest my head over the space where his heart is, and I can feel it thrumming, strong and steady. It’s soothing. His arm wraps around me, and it’s warm. I shiver, suddenly realizing how cold I feel in just my thin T-shirt.

It’s not a romantic embrace, though; it’s a friendly one. One of comfort. He’s just being nice. Being there for me. And that’s all I want right now.

“Dice,” he says softly, his breath tickling the top of my cheek. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’m here if you want to talk. Maybe it’d help if you told someone. I’m not going to judge you.”

Part of me doesn’t want to tell him; telling someone would make it more real. But a larger part of me wants to tell him, wants him to use that big brain of his to come up with a solution, like I’m an equation he might be able to solve if I can just define some of the unknowns for him. It seems silly, but when I think of it that way, I can fool myself into thinking it isn’t so bad, it can be fixed. And anyway, I’ve told him a whole bunch of stuff about myself already.

Words come spilling from my lips before I can think about them. “It’s just so hard because there’s the dance and I’m really excited but not like everyone else is because I’ve got different reasons and the girls almost caught me earlier and I came so close to messing everything up and I just can’t afford to do that. I can’t go back to how things were. Okay? I just can’t. And then there was that whole thing about Bryce wanting to have sex, but—”

I clamp my lips together. Tears have welled up in my eyes again, but this time I refuse to let them spill. I can’t tell him everything, speak my deepest thoughts aloud to him. Besides, he doesn’t really care, does he? He’s just being nice.

So I won’t bore him with the details.

Dwight’s hand stills in my hair. I barely even noticed he was stroking it before now.

“What whole thing about Bryce, Madison?” Dwight asks in a strangely cool voice. “He didn’t—Did he … do anything to you?”

“No!” I insist quickly, only just remembering to keep my voice low. “God, no. He just—I think he was a little … put out when I said no. But it’s fine. He said he’ll wait. It’s nothing.”

I don’t know why I say “it’s nothing” when we both know I don’t believe that.

Truth is, I don’t know how patient Bryce will be about this. I don’t know how long it’ll be before he asks again, and maybe he’ll get tired of waiting. I know he said he loves me, and I believe him, but I just don’t know. I’d like to think I’m wrong about it and I’m being stupid. But I can’t quite make myself believe that. It’s not like I’ve had much experience in the boy department. I haven’t got a clue whether what I’m thinking is legit or stupid.

Dwight doesn’t push me on that issue, though, and I’m glad.

He looks me in the eye then, and his green eyes are filled with such pain, such
sorrow—but no pity, I don’t think. It’s more that he’s sad
for
me.

Then he cups my cheek before I can look away. It’s strange, but I think,
I don’t want to disappoint him. I need Dwight. I don’t want to ruin things with him
.

So I hold his eyes with mine, and his expression softens slowly, until there’s a hint of his lopsided smile.

The silence, which has been comforting up until now, suddenly feels different. Charged. Tense, even. No,
tense
is too strong;
uneasy
might be a better word for it. Yeah. It’s a thick, uneasy silence.

Yet the strangest part is that
I
don’t feel uneasy. And everything bad and numb that’s been consuming me ebbs away. It doesn’t leave me empty; like that time we were both sitting in silence in my backyard, I feel content. Not happy, exactly, but more than simply peaceful. It’s a nice feeling, even if my throat is sore and I’m still a little sniffly from the crying.

I’m not sure which of us initiates it, but suddenly we’re leaning toward each other, and the next second we’re kissing. It’s a tentative sort of kiss—a question. His lips are soft and hesitant against mine, and I know I am just the same. And then, slowly, I press my lips more firmly to his, and he kisses me back gently, one hand still holding my face and the other moving around my back. He holds me as though I’m so fragile, and in that moment I really am; but it’s not just me. This moment, which feels so perfect and so blissful, is really fragile, and I think we both know it’s going to shatter any second.

It does.

And it’s my fault.

I shatter it.

Because at some point when I’m kissing Dwight, I realize exactly what I’m doing. I’m kissing Dwight.
Dwight
. And I have a boyfriend who is most certainly not Dwight. And when that thought comes crashing down on me, I tear myself away, frantically swiping his arms from around me and snatching up my bag, trying not to look at him. I can’t. I’m a horrible, horrible, horrible person. I just kissed another guy even though I’m dating Bryce. My stomach is contorting itself into knots.

“Dice,” I hear him say, but it sounds so distant. There’s a roaring in my ears.

“I—I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I’m sorry for so much more than I can put into words. So I leave. I have to. I can’t stay, not after what’s just happened. I feel so awful. Vile.

I don’t cry now; I’m too disgusted with myself for that.

Should I tell Bryce?

No.

No, of course I won’t. It wasn’t as though the kiss meant anything. It was just a stupid little comforting kiss. It’s not like I’m about to start sneaking around with Dwight behind Bryce’s back. Gosh, no. It was just one meaningless kiss. That’s all it was.

Bryce doesn’t need to know. Nobody needs to know. It doesn’t make any difference. I’m with Bryce and he loves me and I’m happy with him, and that’s what matters. That thing with Dwight—it’s not going to happen again.

We don’t have much left to do on the project. I’m glad. It means I won’t have to see much of him anymore. I’ll see him in Physics class, but so what? I won’t have to talk to him.

Not that he’ll even want to talk to me after what’s just happened, I’m sure.

I touch a finger to my lips and then shake myself.

The bell rings, signaling the end of first period. How long were we in the library? How long was I a bawling mess?

Huh
, I think distractedly,
that’s the first time I’ve ever cut class. Guess the new Madison is a rebel
.

I detour to the girls’ bathroom near the art rooms. They don’t get used much because they haven’t been redone for a while and the mirror is tiny. I’m not disappointed: nobody’s in there right now.

I breathe a sigh of relief and dump my schoolbooks on the counter by the sink. I lean into the mirror: my eyes are a little bloodshot, but they’re not too bad—I can pass it off as a bad night’s sleep if anyone asks—and my eyeliner’s smudged. I clean that up and apply some fresh powder from the compact in my purse so that I don’t look so blotchy.

Now the girl in the mirror is composed and calm, without a hair out of place.

There. Perfect.

I stand up straight again and stare at my reflection.

My mind flashes back to when I was sitting in Langlois Café that first time I met Dwight, when he helped me with my new cell. And I’d been looking at my reflection in the spoon, thinking how weird it was seeing the new strange version of myself.

I thought I’d gotten used to it.

I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore.

The door opens and in walks a girl from my Art class.

“Oh. Hey,” she says quietly, avoiding my eyes, but probably thinking she can’t
not
say hello, because it’s only polite.

“Hi,” I reply quietly.

I have Art now. I wonder what my excuse should be. Maybe it’d just be better to skip the second period too, to avoid questions. Yeah. That’s probably best.

The girl comes out of her stall and washes her hands in the sink beside mine. “Are you …?” Then she shakes her head.

“What?”

“You just don’t look like you’re doing too great,” she offers, and then ducks her head and looks at the sink, scrubbing at a bit of blue paint on her thumb so she doesn’t have to look at me.

I realize then that I must be sort of intimidating to her. I’m dating one of the most popular guys in school; I’m friends with all the popular kids, so am myself popular by association. And I know from seeing kids back in Pineford around the popular clique that they never really spoke to them—they always looked a little too daunted by them.

I have no idea why I tell her, but I hear myself say, “I messed up.”

Her mouth twists into a grim smile. “Don’t we all?”

I look at her scrubbing the stubborn blue paint stain on her thumb for a split second more, then I say, “See you in class,” and leave to go to the second half of Art class.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, putting on a smile that says that nothing is wrong. “Really.”

Bryce’s brow furrows dubiously. “You sure? Tiff and Melissa said you were acting kind of weird in homeroom. They said you just ran out for no reason.”

“I had to go speak to Coach. Track team stuff.”

He still doesn’t quite believe me—I can see it in his face. But I’m determined that he will believe me. I’m already blocking out everything that happened this morning. I figure that if I can pretend it didn’t happen enough, I’ll start to forget it myself. I know that’s a pointless hope, but it’s some kind of hope, at least.

“Really.”

“You know you can tell me if there’s something wrong, right?” He touches my elbow with his fingertips, and then draws me into his arms, cradling me close as he leans against his locker. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat. Slow, steady, strong.

“I know,” I say, and I wrap my arms around him.

“So you’re sure there’s nothing wrong? Even just a little bit?”

I nod against his chest. “Everything is fine, Bryce.”

“Okay.”

I don’t reply; I just hug him a little tighter instead, and he kisses the top of my head.

“So I heard you’re going shopping for dresses for the dance tomorrow,” he says, changing the topic. “You guys have to be back in time for the soccer match, though.”

I nod again. “Yeah.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re not going to tell me about your perfect dress—describe it to me in excruciating detail?”

“Should I?”

He laughs again. “I don’t know. In all honesty, I’d rather you didn’t. I wouldn’t have much clue what you’re talking about.”

I laugh too. “I’m just going to wait and see what dresses they have and which I like best. No point in going out with high expectations and being disappointed.”

He kisses my head once more, and I hear a chuckle rumble in his chest. “You’re very
surprising, Mainstream.”

“Good surprising?”

“Perfect surprising,” he tells me, and even though I can’t see it, I know he’s smiling. And that’s when I realize I’m smiling as well.

“I love you.”

“Love you too,” I say, and I move my head away from his shirt so that I can meet his lips for a kiss.

“Jeez, get a room!” a familiar voice shouts close by, and we both pull apart to see Adam and Ricky laughing as they walk past us. I blush a little, shaking my head at them while Bryce tells them where to go.

Friday morning Dad gives me his credit card, telling me not to go overboard, and not to get anything too short.

“Don’t worry,” I assure him, “the girls said we’re all going for long dresses.”

“Good.” He nods briskly, then breaks into a smile. “Your mom and I are really happy for you, Dice, you know that? All these new friends, going to dances and shopping trips, and that Bryce seems like a real good guy.”

“He is,” I agree, and I smile—not because of what he said, but how he said it. There used to be times when I was sure that my parents wanted me to be just like Jenna; but I know that’s not true, not really. Especially when they say things like my dad just did. He didn’t say, “You’re just like Jenna was,” or, “You’re getting to be just like Jenna.” He was just happy that I was happy here, that I was fitting in. That I had a life that was entirely my own. So that’s why I’m smiling so much the whole drive to school.