Clayton called that evening to check up on me. The mere sound of my brother's voice lifted me up, and I tried to sound sincere as I lied and said I had a handle on everything.
“Your coach doesn't know who she's tangling with,” he said, and chuckled.
I made noises of agreement, thinking how glad I was to have him (and Luke) on my side.
We hung up, and I tried to copy a charcoal- eyeshadow look from a fashion magazine; then I went downstairs to borrow my mom's SUV for the next lesson.
Minutes later, Tristan and I were speeding off, his jaw clenched over “words” he'd just had with his dad.
“It was nothing,” he said, and exhaled.
When I'd walked over to get him, he and his father had been arguing in the open garage.
“Is it because I'm older and therefore automatically a bad influence? Or because I'm my father's daughter?” I asked playfully.
He shot me an ice- cold glare, real electric blue, like wild- berry Gatorade.
“Wait—it was about me?” Unbelievable. Like I was social outcast number one.
“So what if it was?” He turned on the radio, but my mother kept the volume set so low that we didn't have to raise our voices. “Besides, he's got his own issues. Like why he won't get out of the car when he drops me at my mom's. Or the fact that he's involved in this nonsense with your dad.”
“Well, that second part is easy,” I said, braking for a traffic light. “He made that first call, after all.”
“But he didn't. When he finally did decide to report something, it took him forever to even figure out how. I was there.”
I found it hard to believe that Mr. Murphy wasn't the instigator. Who else would it be? We only had a neighbor on one side, and Mrs. Logan was almost too old to be alive, and practically blind. The rest of the people on Millard Circle kept to themselves and/or had lives.
“Well, however it got started,” I said, “our dads have certainly gone bonkers. They think they hate each other, but they seem like twins separated at birth.”
“Which would make us cousins, you know. And make our deal illegal in quite a few states.”
I made a face. “Don't even go there.” I reached out and changed the radio station, turned up the volume and headed on to the scenic drive north.
After a time, the houses became farther and farther apart, until they all but disappeared. Finally, I pulled onto a dusty old road that led to a rocky bluff overlooking Lake Superior. I liked to think of it as my place, a little- known spot I'd discovered as a kid for picnicking and skipping rocks. My parents and Clayton had forgotten all about it, but after I'd gotten my driver's license, I'd brought Chrissandra, Elaine and Mandy out a few times. And after the varsity names were posted, this was where I'd come to cry.
Somehow it just seemed fitting to bring Tristan here, since he was—I prayed—the key to turning my life back around.
I killed the engine, and we got out. The night was dark and cool, the only light coming from the full moon, the only heat from, well, us.
Tristan moved to the lone wooden picnic table, then hopped up and sat, resting his feet on the bench. That's when I realized he was sans his trusty notebook.
“What? No notes tonight?”
He tapped his forehead. “It's all up here. And,” he said, and lifted his hands, “right here.”
But this was no time for self- analysis, so I climbed up and scooted close, until my thigh practically touched his. Crickets chirped everywhere—the bushes, the brush, the trees, more like a movie sound track than real life— and heightened my senses and anticipation.
He reached for my face with both hands, settling in with a palm on the side of my chin, his fingers splayed on my cheeks.
“The face hold,” he said, “helps the kisser establish both interest and control, signaling his intentions to the kissee. The kissee then has the choice of backing away or holding still and waiting for the next move.” His voice dropped, as did his hands. “Now your turn.”
Dutiful student, I raised my hands and molded them to his face, much as he'd done. His skin felt warm, and smooth in some places, rough and stubbly in others.
“Now make your advance,” he said, “until our lips touch.”
I did, expecting the brush of our lips to take us someplace fabulous, or at least to deepen into, well, something. But as soon as we made contact, he pulled away.
“That was good. Now start again.” My frown must have been evident in the moonlight, because he made a noise in the back of his throat. “Hey, you want to get this right or not? This could be a critical part of your performance at the sports fair.”
He was right. Again. Still, I arched a brow to remind him to be respectful to his elders. But just as I was about to put him in his place, my words and thoughts were stolen by the sound of an approaching engine.
Leaping up, I spotted headlights out on the road. I hopped off the table, half figuring I'd creep through the brush to get a better look and half planning to stay there to keep from getting caught with Tristan.
The car lights were definitely getting brighter and bigger and seemed to slow, then to beam straight on me as the car braked on the bluff.
I tensed, panicky. I mean, I knew we hadn't done anything wrong, anything illegal. And anyone could be behind those lights: tourists, park patrol, grown- ups I'd never met. It didn't have to be a fate worse than death, right?
But the thing was, this was no hot spot. Especially at night. You almost had to know how to find it.
“Parker?” a male voice called out of the driver's- side window. “Is that you?”
Struggling to shield my eyes from the headlights, I scrambled to place the voice. “Uh,” I managed, “yeah. Who's there?”
The driver's- side door popped open, and a lanky figure climbed out. After he'd taken a couple of steps, I recognized the strutting gait as Kyle Fenske's.
Chrissandra's Kyle.
Omigod. Did that mean she was behind those interrogation lights, too? Could this get any worse? I would probably have preferred my chances with an ax murderer.
“Hey,” Kyle said, coming out in front of the lights. “What are you doing out here? All alone at night and everything?”
Alone? My gaze swept from his to the picnic table.
Empty.
If it was possible to love someone two grades behind you, I suddenly did.
I zapped my focus back to Kyle. “I—I came out here after dinner to sort of clear my head. Things have been,” I said, and swallowed hard, “sort of exhausting lately.”
He nodded. He knew. Of course he knew. Chrissandra liked to talk.
“You have a car here, right? I mean, I'd give you a ride home and everything, but …”
“No, I'm good.” Kyle always had been nice to me— even before he was dating Chrissandra, he'd offered me rides. I smiled at him and did my best to be casual. “I was just leaving, anyway,” I said, and forced out a laugh. Before he could stop me, I scurried in the direction of the parked SUV. “See ya,” I called back.
As I walked by, I peered into the dark interior of his car.
The passenger seat was empty, so either Kyle was here alone—or he was meeting someone. (Or someone was hiding from me?)
I jumped into the driver's seat of my mom's SUV, hoping to find Tristan hunkered down in the back, but no such luck. I started the engine, backed up and did a U-turn to head back to the road, driving little- old- lady slow, looking at every bush and tree. Finally, close to the main road, Tristan jumped out of some brush. Every thing sort of warmed inside me, like when you first saw your cat that hadn't come home the night before.
I braked, and he climbed in beside me. I didn't even wait for him to put on his seat belt. I gunned it.
“You were great,” I said. “Kyle never saw you.”
“Who was that guy?”
“Chrissandra's boyfriend. Oh, Chrissandra is—”
“I know her name. I don't even go to DHS yet, but I've heard of her.”
“So, yeah, you understand why it was critical that she didn't see us together. Or hear about it.”
Gravel crunched under the tires as I slowed to a stop at the lip of the main highway. Another set of headlights appeared from the direction of DeGroot, turned toward us and cruised on in.
The car's headlights highlighted our faces before moving on, giving us one good look at the person behind the wheel.
One very familiar, very popular and very shocked Chrissandra Hickey.
I was screwed.