Ripple (18 page)

A knock at my car window surprises me. Cornish Drug Guy is standing there, smiling. He must have walked down from the gray house. Must have been waiting for me to show up.

I roll down the window. “Hey, pretty girl.” His voice is soft, low. Like he really means it. “You don't look happy. Big Q isn't home yet, and you won't get your money until he is. Want to take a quick drive to the corner store with me? I'll buy you a pop.”

He winks. Eyes me like I'm candy. And he may smell like cigarettes and sour weed, but he's hot in his own way, and I feel raw, and my real dad's voice echoes in my head, softer and softer, but I don't want it to fade, and I really don't want to be alone right now.

So I step out of my car, lock it. “You drive,” I tell him. He grabs up my loose fingers and leads me down the street to his navy-blue pickup.

•   •   •

He bought me a beer instead and drinks one next to me as we sit in his truck in the store parking lot. I don't have much to say, at least not to him, so we just sit, let the slight buzz soak in, watch a dozen people go into the store to buy chips and cigarettes.

Finally, he says, “Mind if I wash the truck before we go back?”

“That's fine,” I say.

He puts the truck in gear, takes it down the road, pulls into the car wash. The giant Suds and Shine sign greets us at the mouth of the automatic wash. An older black guy smiles behind it, holding a power hose, ready to spray the vehicle. Drug Guy hands him a
ten, puts the truck in neutral, takes his hands off the wheel, his feet off the pedals.

He turns to me. “All right, pretty girl. Enough silence. Want to tell me what's wrong?”

But I don't want to tell him. He's random. And I have a hard time understanding it all. So I shake my head.

He nods. “Okay. Then have you ever made out in a car wash?”

Instantly, the frayed nerves beg for relief. I shake my head again. The car jerks forward, glides into the shower of water jets. The old guy sprays the tires.

Drug Guy leans closer. “Do you want to?”

I close my eyes, wait for something inside me to tell me what I want. I mean,
really
want. But before I can decide, Drug Guy kisses me.

And it's flat. Meaningless. And he tastes sour. With my eyes closed, I feel barely touched. Even on the inside. Like he can't get close to that emptiness inside me.

His lips press into mine and I try to lift above it, to visualize it being an amazing moment, to believe he's with me because I'm more than any girl he's ever been with. But my mind keeps whispering how I'm already running, covering for my last indiscretion. Now I'll have to cover up this one, too. And the next one. And the next one.

A streak of exhaustion hits me. I'm so fucking tired of always ending up back in this place that's never enough. Of how dirty and still hollow I feel afterward.

The truck slips into the streams of soap pounding against its sides, its roof. Drug Guy's hand slips under my shirt, inside my bra. And I can smell the weed on his clothes. Can feel the grease in
his hair. And I have the hugest urge to get out of the truck, stand under the shower of soap, scrub away every finger that's ever been on me, every kiss that's meant nothing. I want to feel clean. I want to start over.

I open my eyes as Drug Guy's lips travel down my neck, as the truck moves through the bristled scrubbers, slides into the sprays of fresh water. The circle of light on the other end of the car wash comes into view. And when my eyes shift, the rearview mirror frames my reflection. The drug user on me like a dark stain. Dirt under his nails. The sheen of oil on his unwashed face. And I'm letting him be there. I don't look beautiful. I don't look like any model in a photo shoot. My makeup is smeared. My eyes are flat and lifeless, and my expression is confused and filled with disgust.

I think of my self-portrait on the floor of my closet. The shadowy hands groping me. How I couldn't create the angles and curves of my face, just kept covering it with more and more layers of paint until they mixed to gray and I was a giant blurred mess on canvas.

And I suddenly get why I didn't want to see myself precisely. I understand as the rearview mirror shows the sharp, detailed truth of exactly what I am. Me getting used by a guy. And me using him right back.

Seeing it—close, clear—something cracks inside my head. My stomach lurches, and I want it all to stop. I put my hand on Drug Guy's chest to push him away. But he leans in harder, his lips pressing along my jawline. The truck pushes through the roar of the blowers and slips into the sunlight. Drug Guy still clings to me. Behind him, outside his window, a face appears.

Jack.

Holding a towel.

Ready to wipe the last drops of moisture from the truck.

He takes in the scene—Drug Guy's hand under my shirt, his lips on me. Jack's chiseled face and thick-lashed eyes, usually filled with mischievous sparkle and smug confidence, are solid stone, raging fire.

Worse than when he saw me close to naked last Friday night.

More livid.

More disgusted.

Resigned to doing exactly what he's doing right now—stepping back, dropping the towel to the wet ground, walking away as fast as he can.

Seeing Tessa at the house party last weekend was one thing. With her wrapped in that sheet, her smooth shoulders and bare arms looking as pale and fragile as her expression, she looked like an angel that had just crashed to the ground, not knowing where the hell she was. She seemed damned lost and completely confused. It took everything to not bolt into that bedroom, wrap her up in my arms, and carry her away.

But her boyfriend got to her before me.

I lay in bed for hours last Friday night rationalizing that one. The quarterback
is
her boyfriend. I didn't think she was a virgin. But I can't rationalize what I saw an hour ago at the car wash. Some strange dude. On her. His hand on her chest.

Now I'm so wound up I want to punch something. I want to get in her face and tell her to get her shit together. I want to shake her hard and tell her she's too beautiful to let losers touch her and too talented to be fucking up her life. But mostly, I want to blow something up.

I have to be at the hospital for my shift in half an hour, so it will have to wait until tonight. But I am definitely in the mood to have some fun and games with Fogerty 2.

I grab my cell, dial Sam's number. “Yeah,” he answers, groggy.

“Are you sleeping?” I ask.

“It's Saturday afternoon. What else would I be doing?”

Working a ton of hours to help pay bills, or keeping your mother out of jail or an insane asylum,
I think.

“Well, tonight after my hospital shift ends, you'll be doing something with me. Call Carver. Tell him to meet us downtown at the parking lot off Main.”

“What're we doing?” Sam yawns.

“I don't know yet, but I'll make it worth your while.”

“No doubt.” Sam gives a laugh, hangs up.

I go to check on Mom and make sure she took her meds today. But when I push open her bedroom door, the room is empty. She's gone.

My heart stops. “Shit!” I yell.

The front door opens.

“Why are you yelling, Jackie?” Mom walks in, takes her coat off, and throws it over our old stuffed chair. I flood with relief. “And why are you cursing? You know I hate cursing.”

She walks over, pats my cheek, and looks at me with so much love. But the skin on her face sags with wrinkles. She looks older than I ever remember.

“Sorry.” I grip her arm lightly. “I was just worried about you. Where did you go?”

She pulls her shoulders back proudly, her face morphing to serious, like when she talks about her cases or the strategies of
the legal process. And I expect her to say she was visiting a client or researching a case.

“I was mailing a letter to State Representative James Binchy.”

I nod. “About a case?”

She glances at the window facing Tessa's house. “No. I warned him about the evil going on next door.”

“What?” I step close so she'll look me in the eye. “What did you write?”

She raises a confident eyebrow. “The truth. That the man next door and his family are getting messages from hell.”

I squeeze her shoulders. “Mom, you—”

She yanks away. “You know it, Jackie! I'm doing this for you! He's coming after us first, and I can't see him hurt you! I can't!”

I hold my hands up. “Okay. Okay.” I take a deep breath in. I should call her psychiatrist. But if I do that, Dr. Surrey's going to tell me it's time to send Mom to a group home, to commit her somewhere. I imagine her going into a home where she'll get mistreated by people who don't give a shit, who just want a paycheck from the state. It will kill her fighting spirit and whatever sanity she has left. There has to be another option.

Keeping my voice calm, I ask, “Where did you mail the letter?”

She walks toward the kitchen, her eyes on the window facing Tessa's house the entire time, as if any second Tessa's stepdad is going to bust headfirst through it, glass shattering, claws out, to attack her.

“Mom, where? Where is the letter?”

“In the mailbox on that small side street in town.”

I picture it, zooming in on the target. And know exactly what Sam, Carver, and I will be doing tonight.

•   •   •

Halfway through my shift at the hospital, I go to Emma's room to check on her, but dead-stop in the hallway when I hear Tessa's voice. I creep toward the doorway and peer in.

Tessa is sitting next to Emma. She brought chocolates and looks overly worried. I didn't know they knew each other, but Tessa acted so oddly when I brought up the hit-and-run that it would make sense they're friends.

Seeing Tessa brings back the sick knot inside me from seeing her at the car wash earlier. She's caught up with drug dealers. She cheats on her boyfriend. But what really gets me is that she cheated on him with someone other than me. Which means that when she almost tried to kiss me at the cemetery, maybe I was just some dude she screws around with behind her boyfriend's back.

Still, instead of walking away and going to attach a new television wall unit in a room on Floor 6, I stay close to the door and eavesdrop.

“I'm really sorry, Emma.” Tessa's voice is strained.

“Thanks. And thanks for coming.” The hospital bed frame creaks as Emma moves to get more comfortable. Her legs are still in casts, but she can get around on crutches a little now. I'm proud of the progress Em's made.

“But you and I don't exactly talk anymore,” Emma says to Tessa. “I'm surprised to see you here.”

WTF?

Tessa lets out a sigh. “I—I don't know. I guess I just feel so bad about what happened to you. It's not right.”

“It's totally not right. And at first, I wanted to scream all the time because it was so unfair. But now, I'm just focused on getting
better. I just want to get through physical therapy and get back to normal.”

“I get it.” Tessa's feet click against the floor. I peek around the door to see her walk to a table and set down her purse and the box of chocolates she brought. She glances at the doorway. I jerk back and press hard against the wall to keep out of sight.

“Do you remember, like, anything about that night?” Tessa's tone is guarded.

“I remember waving at some passing cars. I know that was dangerous. I mean, any of them could have been serial killers, but I figured I could use another driver's cell since mine was out of power and I'd left my car charger at home. After that, I really don't remember anything. I was hit and dragged, I guess.”

Tessa's shoes click against the floor, back over to Emma. I look in to see her touch Emma's hand. “I'm so sorry, Emma.” She shakes her head. “I'm just really glad you're all right. I'll get going and let you rest.”

I feel my muscles tense and move before I realize what I'm doing. Then, I'm standing in the doorway, my phone out, Topic Buddy queued up.

With a giant smile, I step into Emma's room, press “Ask” on the app, hear Topic Buddy randomly say, “Using whale blubber for fuel. Go!”

Both girls stare at me.

I let my smile partially fade. “Hey, Em. Thought you might want to have a stimulating conversation about mammal fat, but it looks like you have company.”

Tessa looks confused. But Emma beams. And I let loose a giant smile just looking at her. Emma's been in the hospital for three
weeks, and this is her last weekend before she goes home and starts her physical therapy. Her cuts and bruises have faded. She looks pixie-like and impish while she sits up against her stack of pillows. And without all the drugs bogging her down, this girl's got some serious inner spirit that bursts out of her. I really dig Emma. I'm going to miss visiting her room during my shifts.

“Come in, Jack.” Emma waves me in. “This is Tessa Leighton. But she was just leaving. So you can sit with me and discuss blubber. I need a good laugh.”

“Don't we all.” Tessa is still frozen and confused as I take a seat on Emma's hospital bed. “Hey!” I say. “Someone brought you chocolates! Can I have one?”

“Absolutely.” Emma motions to Tessa. “Can you hand them to me?”

Like a robot, Tessa grips the box of chocolates and brings them to Emma.

“Thanks!” I take them from Emma and rip open the box. “So, Tessa, have any opinions on the subcutaneous fat of whales?”

Tessa's confusion turns to annoyance. “I don't.”

I stuff a chocolate-covered cherry into my mouth, lick my lips. “That's a shame.”

“I like whales.” Emma nods, her tiny nose and lips squishing together for emphasis. “I think they're really smart animals.”

I hold the box out to Emma. “Chocolate?”

“Sure.” She digs out a caramel nut one.

“Sometimes”—I fish into the box for another chocolate—“intelligence doesn't help you stay out of trouble.” I look directly at Tessa. She scowls, and I feel bad for jerking her around like this. Really. I mean, hanging and talking is all we ever promised each
other. And it's not like she was cheating on
me
. But after seeing her in the car wash, her looking straight at me with that loser guy like a barnacle on her, I admit, I was bugged. And now she's jumped straight to number one on my list of people to eff with.

I pop the chocolate into my mouth. “I mean, sometimes even the most intelligent whales still get speared and caught.”

Emma nods, her cropped auburn-brown hair mussing against the pillow behind her. “Those whalers are nasty people.”

“Mm-hmm. So, the lesson is”—I raise a finger—“stay in safe waters.”

Tessa's mouth is open, like she's on the verge of saying a thousand things but can't with Emma there.

I lick the chocolate off my finger, then point it straight at Tessa. “Oh, and if you do decide to hang in dangerous waters, and you're all alone and naked and vulnerable, don't get caught on the pointy end of the harpoon or you'll . . . Absolutely. Get. Poked.”

Tessa sucks in a mortified breath. “I have to go.”

She turns and races out the door.

“Bye, Tessa!” Emma calls. “Thanks again for coming.” But Tessa is halfway down the hall, trying to get away from me and everything I know about her.

I get Emma a glass of water, check her newly fixed blinds, and let Topic Buddy throw out the convo of “mustard or mayonnaise.” As I'm becoming fully aware that Emma's a mayonnaise lover, my phone buzzes with a text. Oddly, it's Tessa. But I've never given her my cell number. Her text is quick and curt.

We need to talk. Can you meet me in the hospital lobby after your shift?

I shove the phone into my pocket. Ignore the text. Ignore her.
But all I can think for the rest of my time on the clock is how I'm super-curious about what she wants to say.

•   •   •

When my work night ends, Corinne Norbrett meets me at the time clock to slap me a little too hard on the back and tell me in her loud, raspy voice, “Another great job, Jack. You might take my job one day.” She winks. “But then I may have to shoot you.”

“Since I don't want to trouble you with having to hide my body, I'll set my sights on a different job.”

“You're funny, kid.” She smacks my back again. I stumble forward with the force, then head to the front exit.

When I come around the corner into the lobby, Tessa's there. Alone and lounging in a lobby chair. She actually waited till midnight on a Saturday to talk to me. She's watching the passing cars out the window and biting at the skin around her nails. I can't control how my heart speeds up from seeing her. Dammit to hell.

I saunter up. “You shouldn't chew your nails.”

She stands, looking nervous and tired. She has very little makeup on, but her cheeks and lips have just enough natural flush to make her look perfect. My gut clenches. My jeans suddenly tighten, too.

I try to ignore what she's doing to my physiology. “I saw this documentary once where some guy got a huge parasite by chewing on his nails.”

She gives me a worried look. “Really?”

I shake my head. “No.”

She rolls her eyes.

“How did you get my number, Tessa?” I say flatly.

Her cheeks turn from pink to red. “I called Juliette and had her call Sam to get it.”

I look at her, confused. “They hate each other.”

She shrugs. “I think it's a love/hate thing. They're going to homecoming together.”

I watch the massive lights of a semi pass. “I'm sure you and the quarterback will have a downright riot with them at the homecoming dance.”

Tessa keeps quiet, so I say, “Well, great to see you,” and head toward the exit.

She lunges after me, gripping my arm. “Wait! I need to talk to you. I mean, I want to talk to you.” Her blond hair is wild around her face.

“Okay. Go ahead. Talk.”

She scans the empty lobby, all anxious. “I can't here.”

I sigh. “Where, then?”

She shrugs. “Maybe the cemetery?”

What?
My
private place? Where I'll probably have to tell her I don't ever want to talk to her again? But at least it's my turf, not hers. I'll have the upper hand.

“Fine.” I move toward the front doors. “But I'll drive.”

We make our way out into the brisk air, and in my head, I keep telling myself I'm in control.
I've got this.

But every time I glimpse at her walking next to me, I have to stop myself from closing the gap between us. It's like a magnetic pull I can't keep in check.

•   •   •

When we get to my mother's silver Volkswagen Jetta, Tessa asks, “Where's your car?”

I keep my eyes off her and unlock the doors with the key fob.
I can't tell her I left my bright orange car in the driveway to cover my ass for whatever goes down later tonight. And I can't tell her I took Mom's car so she wouldn't leave the house and go all crazy on the general public. So I say, “I told my mom I'd fill it up with gas.”