Everneath (21 page)

“But—”

I held my hand up. “I can show you without kissing you. I think.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “Okay.”

I thought about how much time I’d been back. How much I had replenished my soul. It was nowhere near full, but there had to be enough that when I sampled Jack, I wouldn’t lose control. Jack made a move to close the distance between us.

“Don’t,” I said. He froze. “Just stay still.”

“Why are you so worried, Becks?”

“Because we need to be able to stop. It will feel good to you. It’ll feel like suddenly everything you’re worried about disappears.”

“What will it feel like to you?”

Like a starving person eating a feast.
But I didn’t tell him that. “Close your eyes and hold still.”

“Okay.”

I scooted toward him and leaned forward, moving as slowly as possible. Jack remained perfectly still. When my lips were a couple of inches away from his mouth, I breathed in. And focused on taking the energy that was in front of me and pulling it inside. It was as if warm, charged air were coating my throat, replacing the cold emptiness inside me.

His eyes popped open. We watched each other for a few long seconds as I continued to taste his emotions. Residual pain, mostly. Heartache at first. These were at the surface. The negative ones always were. That’s why Forfeits kept coming back for more. In the beginning, it felt like a release.

The well inside me received its first drops of moisture from someone else. Jack leaned in even closer, and I scrambled back until I was against the wall once more.

“Did you feel it?” I asked.

Jack pressed his lips together and nodded once.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know this can’t possibly make any sense to you.”

He looked at the floor. “What are you, Nikki?”

Nikki?
He hadn’t called me that for so long. “I don’t know.” I winced. Being truthful with Jack wasn’t working. I could feel it in the space between us. I was losing him.

Still looking down, he said, “I think you should go now.”

Jack was scared of me.

I walked over to the window and climbed out.

Home. Two months, one week left.

W
hen I got into my own bed, I dreamed I was standing in the aisle of the Shop-n-Go and my feet started to sink into the ground. I tried to step out, but the floor was like quicksand. I grabbed the stand with the chocolate doughnuts and it toppled onto me, pushing me even farther under. And when I opened my mouth to scream, several arms came out of the floor, covered my mouth, and dragged me the rest of the way under.

The ability to dream again was highly overrated.

Frantic knocking on my bedroom door woke me up after what seemed like only moments. “Nikki?” It was Tommy’s voice. “Nikki? Are you awake?”

“Yeah, bud. C’mon in.”

Tommy poked his head in, his brown hair scruffy with sleep. “You’re in the paper.”

“What?” I sat up in bed.

“Dad says you’re in the paper. He’s kinda mad.”

I threw the covers back and grabbed my robe on the way out of my room. How in the world was I in the paper?

My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, forking a breakfast ham. He didn’t look up.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

He pushed the paper over toward the empty chair across from him. I sat down and scanned the headlines. At the bottom of the front page, I found it.
MAYOR’S DAUGHTER AT CENTER OF CHRISTMAS DANCE BRAWL
. Beneath the headline was a fuzzy picture of me just after Jack and I had been knocked down. It looked like it’d been taken by a camera phone, and it looked ten times worse than it was.

I shoved the paper aside without reading further. “I didn’t start it, Dad.”

He took a long sip from his mug of coffee, his eyes still focused on the paper. “It doesn’t matter, Nikki. What matters is how it looks.”

“But it’s not the truth.”

“Haven’t you learned anything? It’s not necessarily about the truth. It’s about how people perceive a thing that makes it damaging. What does it really matter where you were for six months, when people are going to think what they want to think? In the absence of proof, all that matters is perception.” He picked up the paper, and I realized this was about more than just the photo. “I can’t fight this. The article says I have no comment, because the only choice you’ve given me is to hope that it goes away. And in an election, nothing goes away.”

“But what I do shouldn’t make a difference,” I mumbled.

“You know better than that. Tomorrow’s headlines will read something like, ‘How Can the Mayor Run the City When He Can’t Even Run His Household?’ What am I supposed to do with you? Do I have to hire a nanny for my seventeen-year-old daughter? Do I have to stay home from the office? Send you to a private school? Tell me.”

“No, Dad. It won’t happen again.” I got up to leave. “But it wasn’t my fault.”

“That may be true. But pictures”—he held up the paper— “drown out everything else. My denials will be like … a whisper at a rock concert. No one will hear it.”

“So you’re not mad about what really happened.” I smacked the paper on the table. “You’re just mad about the picture.”

He stared at me and breathed through his nose. “You may have cost me the election.” He cut off a large chunk of ham and shoved it in his mouth. “Maybe I should’ve sent you to live with Aunt Grace. Or even to a boarding school.”

I looked away.

“Mrs. Ellingson is on her way over.”

“Okay.” Time to pee in a cup. At least I knew I couldn’t mess that up.

The next week passed in the flap of a bird’s wing. Jack was avoiding me, I still hadn’t seen Mary, and I’d damaged my dad’s bid for reelection. All in all, not what I’d intended for my Return.

The chance to make things right with my dad came the last week of Christmas vacation, when his latest campaign flyers arrived. I promised him I would help distribute them. The volunteers were to meet at campaign headquarters on Apple Blossom Road.

Today the sun was reflecting off the latest layer of snow in the town, making it seem a lot warmer than it actually was. When I got to the office, my dad was at a desk near the back, talking to a tall man with thick dark hair. He motioned me back.

I walked toward them and stood awkwardly while my dad finished his conversation. The man was talking about labor unions. He had an accent. I hoped my dad wouldn’t include me in the conversation, because he had a tendency to provide English-to-English translation for me. As if I were too young to understand someone with an accent. It was always embarrassing.

Before my dad could speak to me, however, the front door rattled, and Jack and Jules walked in. Jack shoved his hands deep in his jacket pockets, as if to warm them. He kept his eyes down. My breath stopped in my chest. We hadn’t spoken since that night in his room.

What are you, Nikki?

I shook my head, trying to clear the memory. Jules spotted me and waved.

I’d started to walk toward them when Percy Jones, my dad’s campaign manager, called everyone to attention near the front door to organize the distribution of flyers and maps.

Jack grabbed a stack and Jules picked a route map, and then they came to me in the back.

“Hey,” Jules said.

Jack kept his gaze on the wall with the posters and didn’t look up when I said hi. “Percy called me,” Jules said. “I guess I signed the volunteer list … a while ago.”

“Oh. That’s nice of you.”

We stood silent for a moment before Jules held up the map she had gotten from Percy. “We have the block north of Maplehurst. It’s big. You want to come with us?”

I glanced at my dad, who was still talking to the man with the accent. He caught my eye and waved me away.

“Sure,” I said, turning back to them.

Jules tilted her head toward the exit. “Great. Let’s go. Jack, give us a few of those.”

Jack divvied up the pile. His fingers brushed mine as he handed me several flyers, and then he handed Jules the rest and shoved his hands in his pockets again.

We walked out into the cold, and I remembered something in my bag. I reached inside and pulled out a pair of gloves I had knitted—with Jack’s hands in mind—days ago, and held them out to him without a word.

Jack stopped. He looked at the gloves in my hand, then at my face, and his lips twitched a little bit before he reached out to take them. He put them on. They were a little big. The fingertips of the one on his left hand flopped around a bit. He looked like he was wearing two doilies.

I shrugged.

Jules turned away and pretended to study the map. She pointed up a hill. “We’re supposed to start this way.”

The three of us started walking the map, Jules in the middle. After a few failed attempts at conversation, we stopped trying to talk altogether. Our route took us near the soup kitchen, and as we went by, the side door opened and Christopher appeared. He spotted me and waved, and I stopped.

“Hey, Nikki. How’s it going?” He turned a key in the door to lock it, and then walked toward us.

Jules and Jack stopped too.

“Hi,” I said. “We’re just delivering stuff. For my dad.”

Christopher glanced at Jules and Jack and stuck his hand out toward Jack. “I’m Christopher. I work with Nikki at the kitchen.”

Jack took his hand. Christopher stared at the homemade glove.

“I’m Jack. I didn’t know she worked there.”

Christopher shook Jules’s hand next. “Yeah. Every Saturday. You know, we’re always looking for more help if either of you would like to do some good.”

I smiled. “Always recruiting.”

“Always,” Christopher said. “I have openings Saturdays—”

I interrupted Christopher before he could go on. “Oh, these guys have…” I stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence or why I’d interrupted in the first place.

Jules broke the silence. “Thanks, Christopher, but I work at the mall Saturdays.”

“I’d be happy to help,” Jack blurted out.

We all turned to look at Jack.

“Wonderful,” Christopher said. “Jack…?” He waited for Jack to fill in the blank.

“Caputo. Jack Caputo.”

“Caputo? The quarterback?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. When can you start?”

Jack’s eyes flicked to me for a moment. “I’ll have to work out my schedule.”

After we said good-bye to Christopher, we walked for a long time in silence.

Being together used to be as easy as breathing, but of course, everything changed when I got back, and it was never more evident than when all three of us were together.

For a moment, I mourned the loss of our simple friendship, and in that moment of grieving, I realized that Jules and Jack would be okay if I were gone for good. They would probably be better than they were now.

Mrs. Stone’s class. Less than two months left.

T
he day with the flyers was excruciating, and I had no idea where it left me with Jack.

When we returned to school after the holiday break, we were in a strange limbo. He wasn’t avoiding me, but he wasn’t really talking to me, either. Finally, on Friday I thought I could feel Jack watching me from the adjacent seat, but I never turned to look. Mrs. Stone lectured on Euripides’s use of the Greek chorus, and I let my mind wander until a small piece of paper landed on the corner of my desk. It could only be from Jack. I grabbed it and brought it near my lap to unfold it.

Becks—I’m ready to know more. Meet you for lunch.

I kept my eyes on my paper and nodded. Maybe Jack wasn’t ready to give up on me just yet.

When the hour finally came, I jogged down the hall toward my nook. I turned the corner with a smile on my face, but it wasn’t Jack waiting for me. It was Cole in his black-haired disguise. When he saw me, he smiled.

“Hey, Nik. Can we talk?”

I stood, frozen in place, staring at him. My lunch sack fell to the floor, the yogurt inside making a
splat.

“Here, let me get that.” He stooped and gathered up the mess, then lazily threw it across the hallway, where it arced perfectly into the garbage can.

“No.” I answered finally. “We can’t talk.” I looked behind me, wondering how soon Jack would show up. “What are you doing here?”

“Today’s my first day.” Cole smiled at my confused expression. “I told you I was starting school here. Everyone has a right to a public education.”

A couple of sophomore girls walked past our nook, and as they caught sight of “Neal,” they smiled and waved. He winked in return, and the girls giggled as they walked off. One of them looked at me over her shoulder and flipped her hair.

I rolled my eyes. It didn’t matter what form Cole took; he was still a magnet for girls. He gave me a playful shrug. “Sophomores. They can’t help it.”