The Tension of Opposites (9 page)

“I don't understand all the reporters,” I said, stretching my legs out on the backseat of my father's car. The plastic bag next to me crinkled against my thigh. “It's like their brains aren't attached to their mouths.”

“Don't let them upset you, honey.” The flicker from the headlights of a passing car washed over my father's head and shoulders. The skin on the back of his neck reminded me of a smooth rock. “They're just doing their jobs.”

“Gossiping. Spreading rumors. Telling blatant lies.” I looked out the window at the final glow of the sunset, at the raindrops racing sideways on the outside of the car's windows, at the flat grassy pastures where horses and cows spent endless days. “Seems to me like they should've just stayed in high school.”

My mother twisted in the passenger seat, her plump lips and rounded cheeks forming a half smile. “They wouldn't get paid to be in high school.”

The tires beneath us jumped a division in the pavement, the sound rumbling through the car.

“Last night I watched this panel of total morons discuss Elle and the kidnapping. They started talking about that Stockholm syndrome thing, practically saying she'd wanted to be there with him.”

“I know it sounds odd,” my father said. “But the Stockholm syndrome is a very real response some victims have toward their captors.”

“I think it's a bunch of crap.” Outside my window, three fat raindrops merged into one and dashed toward the rear of the car.

“In a way, it helps make sense of the situation.” My mother turned and faced me again. Her silver earrings, the birthday gift she had chosen while we'd shopped through outlet stores earlier in the day, sparkled in the headlights of the car behind us. “Allowing herself to relate to him just might be the reason she's alive today.”

“Elle might be really pissed off, Mom. Even messed up from her two years away,” I said. “But she's not mental.”

My dad chuckled. “No one's saying she's mental, hon.”

“Just that she used the defenses she had available to her,” my mother said gently.

I closed my eyes, wanting to shut out the reality of our words. That we weren't simply discussing the story of a person we didn't know made me sick to my stomach. But after stuffing myself too full of filet mignon and garlic mashed potatoes at my mom's favorite restaurant, riding in the car with my eyes closed made me feel even worse, so I opened them again.

“I looked up Stockholm syndrome, you know,” I said. “And it does
not
describe Elle. She wasn't loyal. She didn't form some emotional bond with him. She's certainly not defending him.” My voice cracked, and I swallowed before continuing. “She even made sure he'd be caught.”

“Yet she stayed.” My mother was facing forward now, but her words were strong. They lifted above the sound of rain pelting the windshield, the steady swiping of the wipers, the thrum of the tires running on the highway.

“That's not because of some dumb syndrome.” I tugged at the seat belt crossing my chest and slid toward the front seat. “It's like he broke her or something.

“Here's my question,” I said, sliding back again and staring out at the darkness. “If he had her so brainwashed, or Stockholm syndromed or whatever, that she stayed with him for two years”—I paused, biting at my lip—“what made her leave?”

“Something big certainly pushed her to plan her own escape.” My mother looked back at me, her eyes tired and sad. “The truth is that we might never know her motivation. And we have to be okay with that.”

I ducked against the window again. The tires jumped the road, and my forehead bumped the hard glass. I wished that the hum of the car's engine could ease us back into the comfortable silence that had enveloped us when we'd first left the restaurant. That the shadowed world pressing against the car would make everything so sleepy our mouths wouldn't be able to form words.

“I like the shirt you picked out today,” my mother said, her voice soft.

“My favorite thing about your birthday,” I said, “is that we all get stuff.”

“It's not about stuff, Tessa,” my mother said.

“Right.” I nodded. “It's about bonding.”

“You'll learn,” my father said. “Family is the most important thing.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I reached into the bag on the leather seat, ran my hand along the small buttons strung like beads down the shirt's front, and imagined Max's fingers slipping each tiny circle through its own little opening. I closed my eyes and felt the silk of his hair brush against my cheek. And then I shoved him out of my mind. As much as I wanted him there, I couldn't allow him to stay.

My mother looked over her shoulder. “Remember that last time Elle's mom and I took you girls shopping?”

I stared at her, the memory coming back in one brilliant flash. “Back-to-school clothes? It was right before … she went missing.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That was fun. Maybe we can invite them to do something like that again. A mother-daughter day might be just what they need.”

I pictured Noelle posing in front of a three-way mirror in the dressing room of J.Crew. Wearing a denim miniskirt and a black tank top that were barely within the limits of the school dress code, she twirled around so the skirt fanned out, showing off her long legs.

“Think this makes me look older?” she'd asked, fluffing her hair.

“How much older are you going for?” I stood behind her, pulling my wavy hair back with a thick headband I'd found near the register, wishing I'd opted for highlights a shade or two lighter the day before at the salon.

Noelle shrugged. “Dunno,” she said. “How old do you think the hot guy is who's out there folding jeans?” She turned and fluttered her eyelashes. It was a dangerous look.

“Gross, Noelle. He's probably in college. Or maybe older.” I tore the headband from my hair and let my hand fall to my side. My hair swooped into my face.

“Yeah, but he's hot.” Elle turned and shook her butt at me. “It's just a test,” she said. “If he asks for my number, I'll know I look at least eighteen.”

“And then what?” I asked. “Older guys expect things, Noelle. You don't—”

“Oh, please,” Noelle said. “Don't be such a prude. It's not like I'm going to have sex with him.” She tipped toward the mirror and pressed her lips together, making sure her gloss was evenly distributed. “I just want to see if he's interested. I swear he was checking me out when I was looking through those dresses.”

I laughed. “You were practically mooning him when you bent over in that skirt,” I said, flipping up the back of her mini. “
I
couldn't keep my eyes off you. And trust me, I'm totally not interested.”

Noelle turned around and shook a finger in my face. “You're wrong. And I'm going to prove it.”

As she sauntered from the dressing room, I peered around the corner, watching, my heart beating quick-quick-quick as the hot guy stopped folding jeans and ran a hand through his ruffled hair. My eyes darted from Noelle and the guy to the entrance of the store. Our mothers had gone to the food court for a drink, and I could just imagine their expressions if they saw the way Noelle had leaned herself against the clothing display.

Noelle turned in a slow circle, modeling herself more than the outfit. The guy nodded, answering some question she'd asked, and she struck the Confident-Girl Pose she'd refined by practicing in front of the full-length mirror in her room. When he walked around her, grazing her side, and moved toward the register, Noelle turned and smiled wide, giving me two thumbs-up.
Score
, she'd mouthed.

“So,” my father's voice boomed, bringing me back to the car, the rain, and the darkness. “What's up with the guy who came over the other night?”

“Way to be subtle,” I said with a laugh.

“Give him a break, honey,” my mother said.

“Hey, I did it your way, my dear.” My father tilted his head toward my mother. “If we keep waiting for Tessa to tell us on her own time, we might be a hundred and ten before we learn anything besides his first name and the fact that they're in photography class together.”

I leaned forward into the light created by the instrument panel. “His name is Max Kinsley, and he's a junior. His family moved here this past summer from Montana.” I plopped myself against the door, hating that Max's smile had wriggled back to the forefront of my mind.

“That's it?” My father rotated in his seat, looking back at me.

“Road,” my mother said, tapping the dashboard.

My father turned, facing forward again. “But that's all I get?”

“He's got brown hair, brown eyes, and an olive-toned complexion,” I said, trying to use an official reporter voice. “He's approximately six feet tall and probably weighs between one hundred sixty and one hundred seventy pounds.”

“Does he have any tattoos?” My father's voice was strained, his words pulled tight. “Piercings?”

“Dad.” I rolled my eyes at the rearview mirror.

“I'm serious.”

I started to chew on my thumbnail. “No tattoos or piercings that I'm aware of.”

“Your father's just nervous because that boy had his arm around you.” My mother didn't turn around, but I heard the amusement in her voice.

“Were you spying or something?” My words flung through the air, hitting my father in the back of the head.

“Tessa, it was Halloween. The doorbell rang every three minutes, and the two of you were sitting on the curb in front of the house.”

“Yes,” my mother said with a nod, “he was definitely spying.”

“Nan!”

“Well, you were.” My mother playfully smacked my father's shoulder.

“You didn't have to give me up so fast.” My father tipped his head toward my mother. “I'd never tell her that you called her photography teacher to check up on this young man.”

“Mom,” I said. “Please tell me you didn't.”

“Sorry, honey.” My mother shrugged and slid down in her seat. “You can never be too careful.”

“It's not like anything's going on with him.” My hand found its way back into the bag that held my new shirt. My fingers counted the buttons. How long would it take Max to undo them?

“Good,” my father said. “His hair was too long.”

“What's wrong with his hair?” I asked.

“Is it long?” My mother looked back at me.

“It's long
ish
.” My lips betrayed me and pulled back into a smile. “He's got these great curls.”

“He's cute?” My mother was smiling, too. It was the first time we'd ever talked about a boy like this.

“Cute?” My father's voice was way too loud for the car. “You're not supposed to encourage her.”

“Oh, Ted, stop. It's not like the kid's an ax murderer.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

My mother laughed, a high-pitched sound that threatened to shatter the windows and let the rain stream in.

“Look, he doesn't have to be a murderer or a drug dealer. He's a boy. And he seems to be interested in Tessa. That scares me enough right now.”

“Tessa's teacher was very impressed with him.” My mother looked back at me and reached between the two front seats, patting my knee. “I can't wait to meet him.”

“You're not going to meet him,” I said. “There's nothing going on.”

She just smiled and nodded. I could tell by the way her lips parted that she wanted to say more. But instead, she clicked on the radio, flipping it to her favorite light-rock station.

Sheryl Crow's voice purred through the car, asking someone to lie to her, and promising she'd believe. My mother hummed along with the slow strumming of the guitar.

I looked out the window and counted raindrops, wishing they could wash away everything that complicated my life.

“Don't think the ride means we're all BFF again,” Elle said without looking at me as we walked through the crowded hall.

I'd nearly exploded with excitement when she'd called me the night before, asking if I'd pick her up for her first day back to school. And watching her now, as she faced all the stares with her shoulders pulled back, her chin jutted forward, and her hair tucked behind her ears, I felt like making up some cheesy cheer routine.
Go, Elle!

“I know,” I said, narrowing my eyes at a girl pointing Elle's way. “You didn't want to ride the bus. And you'd rather die than have your mom drop you off. I get it.”

“No way,” Elle said, sounding for two seconds like my old friend.

Around us, people spun the dials on their lockers, tugged at the little metal doors, and shoved backpacks into the small openings.

“Was that Lisa Albers?” Elle leaned into me, half whispering.

I looked over my shoulder and saw the profile of a girl wearing a very tight sweater, the stretched cotton clinging to her sultry curves.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Those can't be real.” Elle pressed the three notebooks in her arms against her chest. Pulled the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. “What'd her parents do, give her D cups for her last birthday?”

I laughed, silently thanking Lisa for this moment of normalcy. “Actually, she had a pretty major growth spurt during eighth grade.”

“I guess,” Elle said, her voice softer as she studied the faces of people passing us.

It seemed like everyone was staring but in a way that showed they were trying not to. A few people smiled and nodded at Elle; others slowed a bit when they saw her, then stepped twice as fast to make up for the blunder. I was getting jostled in the traffic more than usual, too, like people wanted to brush up against Elle to make sure she was real.

“You have Mrs. Frazier for English,” I said as we neared Elle's first-period classroom. “She's all about the art of answering an essay question; you'll have, like, three a week. Couple of novels, a few papers, but nothing too difficult.”

“You had her last year?” Elle asked as we stopped at the open door.

I nodded.

“Score. Maybe you could hook me up with a paper or two?” She raised her eyebrows, and I looked into the classroom, where Mrs. Frazier stood behind her desk, tucking loose strands of dirt brown hair into the bun twisted on top of her head.

“Want me to introduce you?” I asked.

Elle rolled her eyes. “You really think that's necessary?”

“I just thought that maybe—”

“I can handle this,” Elle said, her chest puffing up with a deep breath. “I really can.”

I wasn't sure if she was trying to convince me or herself.

As she stepped through the door, I called after her, “I'll be here when the bell rings,” and held the pass the counselor had given me in the air. I was Elle's official welcome committee, her tour guide through her first day of high school.

She turned and nodded once, then walked right up to Mrs. Frazier with a smile on her face. It was fake, I knew, because the deep dimple in her left cheek was missing.

Later that morning, I rushed down the hall trying to make it to my locker before the bell rang. I was permitted to be late, since I was taking Elle to all her classes, but I'd forgotten my homework for history. Besides, my teacher was kind of scary, and even if I was allowed to be late, I really didn't want to stand out in his classroom for any reason.

My brain was in overdrive, so I almost didn't see him.

But obviously that radar you get when you like someone had already kicked in, because I caught something familiar from the corner of my eye and swung my gaze in his direction.

It might have been the comfortable posture that caused him to stoop forward like he didn't care what people thought about him. Or the deep green of his fleece jacket. I guess it even could have been pheromones, drifting toward me on a current of air kicked up by the bodies churning through the hall.

None of that really matters.

What matters is what I witnessed. And how it made me feel.

I glanced so quickly the scene was reduced to three snapshots in my brain.

First: Max leaning into a bank of lockers, smiling and reaching toward a girl with long blonde hair and a short little skirt. She was pulling something out of his reach in a very flirty way, her giggles vibrating my heart.

Second: A close-up. Her French-manicured hand batting at his chest, gripping the zippered edge of his jacket and pulling him closer.

Third: Shoes. Mine. Other people's. And the alternating black-and-white tiles of the floor.

I ducked into the nearest restroom and rushed into the corner, tucking myself against the wall and sliding down, wishing, wishing, wishing I could jump into the large trash can beside me and ride down into some rabbit's hole that would take me far away from my life.

“How's your day been, Elle?” Max asked.

I stuffed a french fry in my mouth, glad to have Elle at our lunch table for more than the obvious reason. After seeing Max and that girl flirting in the hallway, I needed Elle for a distraction.

“Okay, I guess,” Elle said, glancing around at the people sitting nearby. “Except all my teachers are totally annoying. Acting like I'm some move-in and not the kidnapped girl with a nationally known background.”

Max asked, “What do you want them to do? Ask about it?”

“You sound like my shrinkette.” Elle lowered her gaze and narrowed her eyes. “But you make a good point.”

After three more french fries, I realized my stomach was too agitated to deal with food. Thinking about that girl's hand on Max's chest made me feel like I was going to throw up. So I sat there without eating and avoided his eyes.

Coop stopped by our table a few minutes before the bell and punched Elle on her arm. She punched him back—hard, I think, because he winced.

“Give us the scoop, Poop,” Elle said as she pulled her hair back into a barrette. “When was Teddy Brown hit with the ugly stick? He used to be so cute.”

“You're awful, Elle.” Coop crossed his arms over his chest. “He's on some meds for the acne. It's actually getting better.”

“Wow.” Elle looked toward the table where Coop had eaten lunch, glancing again at the topic of their discussion, and waved. A red-faced boy whose chin was tucked against his chest waved back, a thin smile parting his lips. “If that's better, I'd hate to have seen him before.”

As they spoke, Max caught me looking at him.
What's wrong?
he mouthed, reaching for my hand. I yanked my arm from the table, slapping it down in my lap, and shook my head.

Coop propped a foot on the seat next to Elle as she pulled a compact mirror out of her purse and started glossing her lips with a tube of pink-tinted stuff that smelled like cotton candy.

Coop grinned and patted Elle on the head. “Who're you trying to impress?”

“Get offa me, Pooper!” Elle swatted at his arm, then checked to make sure her barrette was still in place and that the perfect number of wisps framed her face.

“Seriously,” Coop said, “you look different. It's nice.”

Elle threw the compact and lip gloss into her purse and turned her face up to her brother. “Thanks,” she said.

When the bell rang, we made our way through the tight crowd, past the rows of senior lockers, and stopped under the circular glass ceiling of the atrium.

“I'll be a few minutes late to photography,” I said to Max, kind of waving him away. He didn't get the hint, though, and kept standing there. I felt like shoving him. But I just took a deep breath and glanced at Elle, who was looking over my shoulder. She was seeing many old faces, reacting differently to each one, so I didn't even wonder who was behind me.

Until I saw that dimple.

And the way she ran her fingers through her thick blue-black hair, tilting her head down slightly so she was looking up through her eyelashes.

She was giving someone her Flirty-Girl Look, which she had perfected during the spring of seventh grade, posing for hours in front of the mirror to make sure she had it just right. This was back when she was obsessed with Jack Dorsey. It took one week of using the Flirty-Girl Look during science class, and finally Jack started to get all tripped up when he spoke to her. Soon after, over a starfish they were dissecting, he asked her if she wanted to hang out. Later that day, when I asked if it had worked, she tossed her head back and laughed.
Of course it worked
, she'd said.
And he's bringing Trevor Ryan, so you're coming, too. Our park. Midnight Saturday.

“Tess, did you hear me?” Max asked, placing a hand on my arm.

I shook him off. “No, I—”

“Hey,
you
,” Elle said in a voice I hadn't heard since before she'd gone missing. She was still looking over my shoulder. Part of me was dying to turn, but the rest of me hardened to stone to keep my body in place. Especially when I saw the look of shock that washed over Max's face.

“S'up?” a deep voice asked.

Max nodded and then stepped forward to give the owner of the deep voice space to walk around us until he was standing beside Elle.

I almost laughed. But there really wasn't anything funny about watching Chip Knowles fling an arm around Elle's shoulders. Or about how Elle looked up at him and batted her lashes (not in the bitchy way, but in the I'm-so-into-you way).

“You guys know Chip?” Elle asked, reaching up to brush something off his lips. “Crumb,” she said to him.

What. The. Hell?

“Um, yeah,” Max said, pinching my arm. “You guys had a great season.”

Chip shrugged and tipped his head forward, as if he were even a slight bit modest.

“Thanks, man.” His skin was puffy below his brown eyes, like he hadn't had enough sleep. There were little pricks of stubble on his chin and lower cheeks, and his golden hair was mussed all over. I wondered if he'd showered that morning and carefully constructed the look, or if he had just rolled out of bed and swiped some product along the top of his head. My eyes moved from his face (devoid of expression) to Elle's (dangerously excited) and back again.

“How do you two …” I didn't even know how to form the question that was screaming inside my brain.

“It was kinda funny,” Elle said with a giggle. “We ran into each other one night at the park in our neighborhood. You know the fountain?”

I nodded. I knew the fountain all right.

“He was fishing at like three in the morning. Fishing!” Elle tipped her head back and laughed.

“And this one came up and scared me half to death.” Chip goosed Elle from behind, and she jumped forward a step, swatting at his arm while a squeal erupted from her mouth.

As all of this played out, I realized that the girl standing before me was much more like my old friend than I'd realized. She'd always craved the attention of guys and was used to getting exactly what she wanted. The thing was, I'd expected her to be different. More guarded and aware. But the only change I noticed was that her actions seemed to be fueled by a deeper level of recklessness. And that freaked me out.

“I didn't even know there were fish in that dirty old pond,” Elle said. “Did you?” She looked at me, her eyes wide.

I nodded. “Aren't there no fishing signs all around the edge of the water?”

“Puh-lease tell me you're not still a total goody-goody.” Elle's eyes pulled into narrow slits as she looked at me, daring me to say more. Then she held two hands up and spread them wide. “I swear he caught one this big! Don't go all PETA on him, though. He threw the slimy thing back in the water.”

About this time, I noticed Chip's eyes roaming off to my left. His lips curled up slightly in this wicked smirk. It didn't last more than a second or two, but I was certain of what I'd seen. I also knew exactly what I would find when I turned. I didn't want to, but this time, my body just took over.