Chaos (Kardia Chronicles) (Entangled Teen) (9 page)

Libby snorted. “What about Ally?”

“We haven’t even gone out on one date yet. It’s cool.”

It
was
cool. In fact, everything was just fine. Nothing had happened yet, and I was being a total psycho worrying about this stuff. Mac was a high school boy and this wasn’t some mob movie. Everything was going to be fine, and I had to get a grip.

I grabbed my still full and now flat soda and the empty popcorn box and exited the row, where I promptly walked straight into Mac’s date.

“Jesus, watch where you’re going!” she gasped, bending to rub at her injured toe. I mumbled an apology, but she didn’t seem to hear me. Mac stepped up to get the situation under control.

“You okay?” he asked, grasping her upper arm. “Can you walk?”

My hands clenched, and I scowled at him. Could she walk? I weighed a whopping hundred and fifteen pounds, so it wasn’t like I broke her toe or something. Jeez.

“I’m fine, thanks, babe.” She smiled, the pain magically vanishing while he fawned all over her.

Babe? Gag.
Not like I cared. Still, the popcorn in my stomach felt heavy and greasy and suddenly I needed to get out of there, pronto.

I turned, but a hand on my wrist stopped me.

“By the way, I think you dropped something.” Mac handed me my wax-paper-covered pickle, his lips twitching at the corners. Cocky prick. I stared at it for a second, debating on what to do, and then shrugged.

“How do you know that’s my pickle?”

He grinned full out now and winked. “Well, I know it’s not mine.”

My face flamed hotter, and I took it from him, yanked the paper aside, and jammed it in my mouth, closing my teeth over it with a crunch. “Mmmm.”

“Ew,” Ella muttered, her smile fading. “That was on the floor, like it wasn’t already the grossest thing in history.”

My whole body burned with mortification as I chewed, the warm, salty vinegar making my eyes water and the rubbery dimpled skin making my stomach lurch. Then, I swallowed hard, the hunk of pickle barely making it past my protesting throat.

Mac’s grin widened and a grudging respect lit his eyes, sending a jolt of joy through my whole body.

“So good.” I gave him and his frowning girlfriend a thumbs-up, turned on my heel, and walked away, adding a brazen little shake to my ass again, just in case he was watching.

His taunting laugh followed me out of the theater, and satisfaction paired with something like fizzy bubbles of happiness carried me to the car. Happiness, because for all the asshole things he’d done, there was something about him that grabbed me. Happiness because maybe he didn’t hate me as much as I thought he did. Happiness because, even if it was only for a second, Mac Finnegan thought I was funny.

I was pathetic.

My reaction haunted me from the second I stepped foot into the Firebird until two hours later when I lay in bed that night, Alex’s ring loose on my middle finger, wondering what Mac was doing at that moment. It didn’t make any sense at all. What did I care? He was my enemy.

If that’s the case, then why didn’t he tell on you about the ring?
So did that make him my ally now?

I sat up with a sigh and dragged out my laptop, in desperate need of distraction. Two new questions for “That’s What
She
Said.” Perfect. I clicked on the top one and read.

Dear She:

I cheated on my boyfriend of six months with another guy at a party. I regretted it immediately and don’t want to break up, but the guilt is KILLING me. If I know I’ll NEVER do it again, do you think I should still tell him? I’d hate to lose my boyfriend over a silly, drunken mistake that I don’t plan on repeating, but I also feel sick at the thought of moving forward with a big, fat lie between us.

Signed,

Broken-hearted Heartbreaker

I thought it over for a long time, and then tapped out a response. This one was a piece of cake.

Dear Heartbreaker,

Tell him. Secrets, especially bad ones, are like a cancer, and they will eat away at your relationship until there’s nothing left. No matter what the outcome, you need to tell him and let the chips fall wherever they may.

Forever yours,

She

I managed to waste another forty-five minutes looking up obscure song lyrics and reading captions under pictures of cats before my eyes started to drift shut. Finally, maybe I’d be able to sleep. But as soon as I closed my eyes, Mac’s face loomed in my mind. Mac laughing at me. Mac laughing
with
me. Mac and Ella.

I groaned and covered my face with my pillow, a thousand questions battering me. Why was I spending every free meg of brain space on this guy? How had he managed to entrench himself into my life so deeply in just a few days? And the most important question of all…

How was I going to un-entrench him by Sunday?

Chapter Five

The dress came to the middle of her trim calves, skimming across them when she moved. It was red and white polka-dotted and fit her like a dream. She looked just like one of those ladies in the black and white movies Gram watched on Sunday afternoons.

Dad leaned over the record player and set the needle down carefully. My skin tingled with anticipation as I looked down at them from between the white posts of the staircase. This was my favorite part.

“Mrs. Raynard?” he said in a playful voice, just loud enough to hear over the shake, rattle, and roll pouring from the speakers.

“Yes, Mr. Raynard?”

“May I have this dance?”

“This and every one after,” she whispered and slipped her hand into his. And then it was on. He jerked her to him, and she rolled in for a split second before he snapped his arm out and she went careening away, head tossed back as she laughed. A deep, full belly laugh that had me covering my mouth to stop from joining in.

They dipped and turned and shook and shimmied. By the end of the song, all three of us were breathless.

When the slow song came on, it was my cue to get up and scurry back to my bed. Things were about to get either boring or gross. But I hung back for one more minute, in case I was wrong.

“I love you to pieces, Mrs. Raynard.”

“Right back at you, Mr. Raynard.”

He slipped his hands into her hair and looked at her so hard, like he was taking a mental picture of her face, and who could blame him? She was beautiful. Golden hair in a loose knot, cheeks pink from all the dancing—

The alarm blared and sent me bolting upright. I karate chopped the clock, and it clattered to the ground.

Blearily, I rubbed my eyes, surprised to find them wet with tears. The dream. It was a catch-22. I loved that dream. I don’t think I’ve ever known a happier moment than when I was right smack in the middle of that memory. But the problem with that kind of dream was, eventually, I had to wake up.

I flopped back onto the bed and closed my eyes, willing the images to come back. Just for a few more minutes. My dad’s face flickered in my mind, and I floundered to remember his smile. How much fun he was.

On Sunday afternoons, after dinner, the record player would come out again, and he would teach me old dances. We’d do the twist and the jive. The mashed potato and the stroll. Chubby Checker and Fats Domino would shout out instructions, and I would dance my little ass off.

But not anymore.

My heart pinched the way it did whenever I thought of him… The way people told me would get better with time. It didn’t.

I heard a
thunk
and looked down to see Alex’s ring roll across the floor.

Nothing was ever easy anymore. I hopped out of bed and stood, stretching until my muscles protested, then I bent to grab the ring. It was Saturday and that meant a visit to the hospital. Maybe I’d just keep it with me a little longer.

I took a quick shower then grudgingly got dressed in the clothes I’d worn the day before, swearing under my breath. This was really getting to be an issue, and I had to stoop to putting my T-shirt on inside out. The second I got home, I’d get my laundry going
. So you’ll have something nice to wear for your meet-up with Mac?
a little voice inside my head mocked.

I combated my frenetic thoughts by jamming headphones onto my ears and cranking Fall Out Boy’s “My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark.” I logged onto my computer and checked my e-mail. Four new questions for “That’s What
She
Said” and one new message with the subject line,
That’s What
He
Said
. Apparently I’d made his mailing list and somehow, he was getting copies of mine as soon as I sent them. Fabulous.

I considered just deleting the message unread, but then realized that I was confusing myself with someone who had self-discipline and wasn’t a masochist. I double-clicked and read.

Dear Heartbreaker,

I know She is on the opposite side of the fence here, but I have a question for you: what’s your motivation for telling your boyfriend about him? Is it so he can make a choice whether he wants to be with you or not? Do you honestly think he’s going to dump you if you tell him? My concern here is that, reading your letter, I see a lot of “me me me” in there. If he’s happy right now, and you’re sure you’ll never do it again, how is it a mercy to tell him for anyone but you? Sure, you’ll feel less guilty for getting it off your chest, but how is HE going to feel? Like right shit, I imagine. He’ll think about it every night before he goes to sleep and picture this bastard with his hands on you. It’s going to make him miserable. If you think he’s going to stay with you despite your actions, then that just seems mean to put him through, yeah?

My advice? Keep your mouth shut. Some things are better left unsaid.

Hope it helps,

He

Hope it helps
? I stared at the screen, anger flowing quick and hot. How would that help anyone? It figured that he would take the betrayer’s side, though. That just went to show, despite his looks and the weird physical attraction I was feeling, we couldn’t have been more different. I was a lot of things—a lot of them maybe not so great—but if my life had taught me anything it was how much a secret could corrode a relationship.

This guy was exactly the kind of person I needed to steer clear of. A sexy asshole with a hidden agenda who rationalized lying and keeping secrets from loved ones. I couldn’t think of anyone I needed less in my life. I closed my laptop with a snap, with things a lot clearer in my head than they had been in days.

By the time I got downstairs, Mom and Gram had left for the senior center as I’d planned. I was still raw from our discussion the day before, and every time I saw Gram’s face, I felt like a shit. Today would be even worse because now I was the hypocrite I hated.

At least I didn’t try to justify it. I knew that every word I spoke to her was a lie, intended to hide the reality. We were dumping her like a bad boyfriend.
It’s not you, it’s us. We can’t handle taking care of you, so we’re just going to…not.

I turned the volume on the music higher and grabbed a foil packet of cherry Pop-Tart from the pantry. I fed them into the toaster and waited until the kitchen started to smell delicious before I forced the lever up and shot them into the air like pastry missiles. I had to take the little wins where I could. Once they were wrapped in a paper towel, I shouldered myself into a puffy North Face, grabbed my knapsack, and headed out.

It was only about a ten-minute walk to Saint Sebastian’s hospital, but November in New Hampshire was a bitch and we were hovering just above freezing that morning. By the time I remembered to scarf down my Pop-Tarts, they were barely lukewarm, and I wished I’d thought to pack a thermos of hot coffee. My hands were like two blocks of ice in my pockets and I decided right then that I’d leave the hospital a little early that evening to see if I could catch Mom on her way home and beg a ride. By dinnertime, the temperature would drop below thirty, and I’d be a human glacier if I tried to walk.

Teeth chattering, I pushed open the double doors to the visitor’s entrance and whimpered in relief as a blast of hot air hit my cheeks. I tugged off my Beats and smiled.

“Hey, Claude,” I called.

“Hello there, Miss Raynard. Cold enough for you?” Claude, the day-shift security guard, grinned at me from his post at the desk. His white mustache was a stark contrast to his chestnut skin and it covered his whole top lip. It moved animatedly whenever he talked, reminding me of Dr. Seuss’s Lorax. Every time I saw him, I had to fight the urge to ask if he spoke for the trees. He was working on a crossword puzzle as usual and waved me over.

“Let me pick that young brain of yours.”

Blowing into my hands, I crossed the room to stand behind him. “What have we got?”

I peered over his shoulder at the almost empty grid and bit back a smile. He was terrible at crossword puzzles. Maybe that was why he liked them so much. It took him the better part of his eight-hour shift to finish the one from the
Gazette
, so it was probably a good distraction from the snoozeville of sitting there, validating parking and checking in visitors.

“Nine across. A Christmas tradition; Judy. Seven letters,” he said, poking the newspaper with a thick forefinger.

“Garland.” That was an easy one. I was a
Wizard of Oz
fanatic.

“Well, well, young lady, look at you.” He chuckled, filling in the spaces with wide, blocky letters. “You’re a genius, I swear.”

If only everyone else was so easily impressed. I briefly entertained the fantasy of using him as a reference on my college applications but realized that “Crack-shot word guesser” probably wasn’t something recruiters weighed heavily when considering candidates. Besides, with the way things were going in my
Jekyll and Hyde
body, I was too much of a menace to be let loose on unsuspecting co-eds. Mom had already started talking local college and commuting. Yay me.