Lock and Key (39 page)

“It’s not,” I said flatly. “It’s a gift card, and it sucks.”

He sat back slightly, studying my face. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So maybe we shouldn’t talk.”

With this, I could feel him moving closer, and then his lips were on my ear, moving down my neck. Normally, this was enough to push everything away, at least temporarily, the sudden and indisputable closeness that made all other distance irrelevant. Tonight, though, was different. “Stop,” I said, pulling back and raising my hands between us. “Okay? Just stop.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” I repeated. “Look, you can’t just come here and tell me everything’s fine and kiss me and just expect me to go along with it.”

“So,” he said slowly, “you’re saying you don’t want me to kiss you.”

“I’m saying you can’t have it both ways,” I told him. “You can’t act like you care about someone but not let them care about you.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“You are, though,” I said. He looked away, shaking his head. “Look, when we first met, you practically made a practice of saving my ass. That night at the fence, coming to pick me up at Jackson—”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because it was me, not you?” I asked. “What, you think just because you help people and make their lives easier that you’re somehow better and don’t need help yourself? ”

“I don’t.”

“So it’s just fine that your dad yells at you and pushes you around.”

“What happens between me and my dad is private,” he said. “It’s a family thing.”

“So was my living alone in that place you called a slum,” I told him. “Are you saying you would have left me there if I had told you to? Or in the clearing that day?”

Nate immediately started to say something in response to this, then let out a breath instead.

Finally,
I thought.
I’m getting through.

“I don’t understand,” he said, “why these two things always have to be connected.”

“What two things?” I said.

“Me and my dad, and me and everyone else.” He shook his head. “They’re not the same thing. Not even close.”

It was that word—
always
—that did it, nudging a memory loose in my brain. Me and Heather, that day over the fish.
You never know,
she’d said, when I’d told her one more friend would hardly make a difference. The sad way he looked at her, all those mornings walking to the green, so many rumors, and maybe none of them true. “So that’s why you and Heather broke up,” I said slowly. “It wasn’t that she couldn’t take what was happening. It was not being able to help you.”

Nate looked down at his hands, not saying anything. Here I’d thought Heather and I were so different. But we, too, had something in common, all along.

“Just tell someone what’s going on,” I said. “Your mom, or—”

“I can’t,” he said. “There’s no point. Don’t you understand that?”

This was the same thing he’d asked me, all those weeks ago, and I’d told him yes. But now, here, we differed. Nate might not have thought that whatever was happening with his dad affected anything else, but I knew, deep in my heart, that this wasn’t true. My mother, wherever she was, still lingered with me: in the way I carried myself, the things that scared me, and the way I’d reacted the last time I’d been faced with this question. Which was why this time, my answer had to be no.

But first, I lifted my hand, putting it on his chest, right over where I’d noticed his skin was flushed earlier. He closed his eyes, leaning into my palm, and I could feel him, warm, as I slowly pushed his shirt aside. Again, call it a bad feeling, a hunch, or whatever—but there, on his shoulder, the skin was not just pink but red and discolored, a broad bruise just beginning to rise. “Oh, Jesus,” I said, my voice catching. “Nate.”

He moved closer, covering my hand with his, squeezing it, and then he was kissing me again, sudden and intense, as if trying to push down these words and everything that had prompted them. It was so hungry and so good that I was almost able to forget all that had led up to it. But not quite.

“No,” I said, pulling back. He stayed where he was, his mouth inches from mine, but I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“Ruby,” he said. Even as I heard this, though, breaking my heart, I could see his shirt, still pushed aside, the reason undeniable.

“Only if you let me help you,” I said. “You have to let me in.”

He pulled back, shaking his head. Over his shoulder, I could see the lights of the pool flickering—otherworldy, alien. “And if I don’t?” he said.

I swallowed, hard. “Then no,” I told him. “Then go.”

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t. That this, finally, more than all the words, would be what changed his mind. But then he was pushing himself to his feet, his shirt sliding back, space now between us, everything reverting to how it had been before.
You don’t have to make it so hard,
I wanted to say, but there was a time I hadn’t believed this, either. Who was I to tell anyone how to be saved? Only the girl who had tried every way not to be.

“Nate,” I called out, but he was already walking away, his head ducked, back toward the trees. I sat there, watching him as he folded into them, disappearing.

A lump rose in my throat as I stood up. The gift he’d brought was still on the bench, and I picked it up, examining the rose-colored paper, the neatly tied bow. So pretty on the surface, it almost didn’t matter what was inside.

When I went back in the house, I tried to keep my face composed, thinking only of getting up to my room, where I could be alone. But just as I started up the stairs, Cora came out of the living room, where her CD was still playing— Janis Joplin now—the chocolate box in her hands. “Hey, do you want—?” she said, then stopped suddenly. “Are you all right? ”

I started to say yes, of course, but before I could, my eyes filled with tears. As I turned to the wall and sucked down a breath, trying to steady myself, I felt her come closer. “Hey,” she said, smoothing my hair gently off my shoulder. “What’s wrong? ”

I swallowed, reaching up to wipe my eyes. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Two words, said so easily. But even as I thought this, I heard myself doing it. “I just don’t know,” I said, my voice sounding bumpy, not like mine, “how you help someone who doesn’t want your help. What do you do when you can’t do anything?”

She was quiet for a moment, and in that silence I was bracing myself, knowing the next question would be harder, pulling me deeper. “Oh, Ruby,” she said instead, “I know. I know it’s hard.”

More tears were coming now, my vision blurring. “I—”

“I should have known this CD would remind you of all that,” she said. “Of course it would—that was stupid of me. But Mom’s not your responsibility anymore, okay? We can’t do anything for her. So we have to take care of each other, all right?”

My mother. Of course she would think that was what I was talking about. What else could there be? What other loss would I ever face comparable to it? None. None at all.

Cora was behind me, still talking. Through my tears, I could hear her saying it was all going to be okay, and I knew she believed this. But I was sure of something, too: it’s a lot easier to be lost than found. It’s the reason we’re always searching, and rarely discovered—so many locks, not enough keys.

Chapter Fifteen

“So as you can see,” Harriet said, moving down the kiosk with a wave of her hand, “I work mostly in silver, using gemstones as accents. Occasionally I’ve done things with gold, but I find it’s less inspiring to me.”

“Right,” the reporter replied, scribbling this down as her photographer, a tall guy with a mustache, repositioned one of the key necklaces on the rack before taking another shot. “And how long have you been in business at this location?”

“Six years.” As the woman wrote this down, Harriet, a nervous expression on her face, glanced over at Vitamin Me, where I was standing with Reggie. I flashed her a thumbs-up, and she nodded, then turned back to the reporter.

“She’s doing great,” Reggie said, continuing work on his pyramid of omega-3 bottles, the centerpiece of his GET FISH, GET FIT display. “I don’t know why she was so nervous.”

“Because she’s Harriet,” I told him. “She always nervous. ”

He sighed, adding another bottle to the stack. “It’s the caffeine. If she’d give it up, her whole life would change. I’m convinced of it.”

The truth was, Harriet’s life
was
changing, though coffee had nothing to do with it. Instead, it was the KeyChains—as she’d taken to calling them since Christmas—which were now outselling everything else we carried, sparking somewhat of a local phenomenon. Suddenly we had shoppers coming from several towns over, seeking them out, not to mention multiple phone calls from people in other states, asking if we did mail order (yes) or had a Web site (in the works, up any day). When she wasn’t fielding calls or requests, Harriet was busy making more keys, adding shapes and sizes and different gems, as well as experimenting with expanding the line to bracelets and rings. The more she made, the more she sold. These days, it seemed like every girl at my school was wearing one, which was kind of weird, to say the least.

This reporter was from the style section of the local paper, and Harriet had been getting ready all week, making new pieces and working both of us overtime to make sure the kiosk looked perfect. Now, Reggie and I watched as—at the reporter’s prompting—she posed beside it, a KeyChain studded with rhinestones around her neck, smiling for the camera.

“Look at her,” I said. “She’s a superstar.”

“That she is,” Reggie replied, adding another bottle to his stack. “But it’s not because she’s suddenly famous. Harriet’s always been special.”

He said this so easily, so matter-of-factly, that it kind of broke my heart. “You know,” I said to him as he opened another box, “you could tell her that. How you feel, I mean.”

“Oh, I have,” he replied.

“You have? When?”

“Over Christmas.” He picked up a bottle of shark-cartilage capsules, examining it, then set it aside. “We went down to Garfield’s one night after closing, for drinks. I had a couple of margaritas, and the next thing I knew . . . it was all out.”

“And? ”

“Total bust,” he said, sighing. “She said she’s not in a relationship place right now.”

“A relationship place?” I repeated.

“That’s what she said.” He emptied the box, folding it. “The KeyChains are selling so well, she’s got to focus on her career, maybe expanding to her own store someday. Eye on the ball, and all that.”

“Reggie,” I said softly. “That sucks.”

“It’s okay,” he replied. “I’ve known Harriet a long time. She’s not much for attachments.”

I looked over at Harriet again. She was laughing, her face flushed, as the photographer took another picture. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

“That’s very nice of you to say,” Reggie replied, as if I’d complimented his shirt. “But sometimes, we just have to be happy with what people can offer us. Even if it’s not what we want, at least it’s something. You know?”

I nodded, even though it was exactly what I didn’t believe, at least not since Nate and I had argued on Valentine’s Day. The space I’d once claimed to want between us was now not just present, but vast. Whatever it was we’d had— something, nothing, anything—it was over.

As a result, so was my involvement in the carpool, which I’d decided to opt out of after a couple of very silent and very awkward rides. In the end, I’d dug out my old bus schedules, set my alarm, and decided to take advantage of the fact that my calculus teacher, Ms. Gooden, was an early bird who offered hands-on help before first bell. Then I asked Gervais to pass this information along to Nate, which he did. If Nate was surprised, he didn’t show it. But then again, he wasn’t letting on much these days, to me or anyone.

I still had the gift he’d given me, if only because I couldn’t figure out a way to return it that wasn’t totally awkward. So it sat, wrapped and bow intact, on my dresser, until I finally stuffed it into a drawer. You would think it would bother me, not knowing what was inside, but it didn’t, really. Maybe I’d just figured out there were some things you were better off not knowing.

As for Nate himself, from what I could tell, he was always working. Like most seniors in spring semester—i.e., those who hadn’t transferred from other schools with not-so -great grades they desperately needed to keep up in order to have any chance at college acceptance—he had a pretty light schedule, as well as a lot of leeway for activities. While most people spent this time lolling on the green between classes or taking long coffee runs to Jump Java, whenever I saw Nate, either in the neighborhood or at school, he seemed to be in constant motion, often loaded down with boxes, his phone pressed to his ear as he moved to and from his car. I figured Rest Assured had to be picking up, business-wise, although his work seemed even more ironic to me than ever. All that helping, saving, taking care. As if these were the only two options, when you had that kind of home life: either caring about yourself and no one else, like I had, or only about the rest of the world, as he did now.

I’d been thinking about this lately every time I passed the HELP table, where Heather Wainwright was set up as usual, accepting donations or petition signatures. Ever since Thanksgiving, I’d sort of held it against her that she’d broken up with Nate, thinking she’d abandoned him, but now, for obvious reasons, I was seeing things differently. So much so that more than once, I’d found myself pausing and taking a moment to look over whatever cause she was lobbying for. Usually, she was busy talking to other people and just smiled at me, telling me to let her know if I had any questions. One day, though, as I perused some literature about saving the coastline, it was just the two of us.

“It’s a good cause,” she said as I flipped past some pages illustrating various stages of sand erosion. “We can’t just take our beaches for granted.”