Chapter Six

 

It’s Brian’s trifecta. Life sucks—times three.

Suckage Number One: When I call Lorena and tell her about MHS Lucas, she says, “Oh, cool!” then immediately bubbles over about some twenty-two-year-old surfer guy she met on the beach, and how they are going to go on the Universal Studios Tour together, and he’s soooo smart (“He’s graduating from college”). What kind of freakazoid college graduate would be going out with a high school girl? I listen to her gush on ’til it’s time to go and tell her I’ll text her after art class.

Suckage Number Two: There is definitely no snap on the jacket collar. But there is a little hole where a pin might have been. It looks so much like Dad’s that even though I know it’s impossible, my stubborn heart hopes maybe it’s really his. I put it on a lot, and it just feels like him. I still can’t put it in the closet. He said he’d be back and we would dreamwalk again, but it’s been almost a week, and nothing. Was it really him or just a crazier-than-usual dream after all? Either way, it’s definitely better than the thunderstorm nightmare.

How to find out about the jacket, I’m not sure, other than to just ask Mom, but I don’t want to see that faraway look she gets when I mention Dad. Besides, we are crazy-busy at work. Apparently, word has gotten out, and Summer Hawk, Psychic Life Coach, is booked solid.

That helpful preppy-lizard, Jackson Connor, has been in three more times in the last two weeks. Once for another reading, and another to talk to Mom about the perils of doing renovations in an historic district. He buys something every time, including Una’s rug—but last time, he also brought Mom her favorite acai-pomegranate slushee. It just seemed too… personal. There’s something I don’t like about him, besides his chilly handshake. To be honest, though, would I like him better if he brought us some Macaroonies instead?

Whatever. I wouldn’t.

And now, here I am zooming down Valley Road again, heading for art class. I balance a big new sketchbook under one arm, which brings me to Suckage Number Three: I have no idea what to paint for the Déjà Vu mural, and I have no idea if Lucas will be there.

I spent way too much time getting ready this morning, digging for something to wear that makes me look awesome yet also shows I don’t care about superficial stuff like clothes. Looking casually perfect requires a lot of work. I finally settle on a purple hippie-looking smock with a V-neck and flutter sleeves that Mom gave me. Instead of my usual thick ponytail, I make a loose French braid, pulling out a few strategically messy strands. I tint my eyelids the lightest wash of lavender and flick on a coat of mascara. My green eyes look huge, and I make a face at the mirror, smooching my glossy lips. I like what I see, but I’m not good at this, and just for a second, I envy the loathsome Peppers, who are experts in all things glamour. When I come out of the bathroom, Brian takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s a college class, Brian,” I explain unnecessarily. “There are professionals there.”

“Professionals like Lucas.” Brian grins as he singsongs the name.

I narrow my eyes and shoot him my best withering look. “Well he is. He sells his work, and that makes him a professional.”

“Uh-huh.” Brian is not fazed in the least. “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

I punch him on the arm on my way out of the bathroom. He snorts with laughter.

“Hey, V!”

I turn. “What!”

“You look nice.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Get some Macaroonies, okay?” The mocking tone has disappeared.

“If I go there,” I reply grudgingly. Our stash is dangerously low.

“See ya, Vivipara.”

“Laters, Briarpatch.”

Sigh. My 620 on the SAT reading section is a respectable score. However, Brian made a perfect 800—at the age of nine. Now I have to go look up what a vivipara is before he has to explain it to me.

 

 

I swing my bike into Community College and scan the parking lot for Lucas’s red truck. A ball of uncertainty coils in my stomach when I don’t see it anywhere. Lucas has to be here. I want to know I didn’t waste a half-hour in the bathroom for nothing. I want to know if he really was looking at me the way I thought he was. Most of all, I want to see his smile again, the one that lit up the Piggly Wiggly and my back yard. The one that made my heart jump sideways.

That would totally make up for the “Life Sucks” trifecta.

Two hours later, I’m no better off than I was when I went in. There are fifteen people in my class, all of them way older than me. I have a list of supplies I need to buy, but still not even one idea for the mural, and no sign of Lucas. I peek into every one of the classrooms in the Fine Arts wing on my way out, and he isn’t in any of them. A helpful Community College employee calls down the hall, asking if I need help finding something. Ugh, only my dignity. I shake my head.

I unlock my bike, prop my sketchbook under my arm, and decide to circle around the parking lot, over to the back side of the building, and see if his truck is there. This is not stalking. Something has to be in your sight in order to stalk it. This is just, um, checking thoroughly.

I swerve around the speed bumps, scanning the parking lot, and I almost ride right past his truck. It’s parked, engine running, in front of a loading dock outside of Automotive and Welding. Well duh, Vivi, I scold myself. Welding. Where else would you be working on metal sculpture? I shade my eyes and peer into the deep shade of the platform.

“Hey, thanks man. See you later!”

He backs out of a double door, wrestling with a large twisted piece of steel. It looks like a truck fender that got caught in a wringer. But at least until Lucas turns around, I can look at him without having a heart attack. His navy-blue T-shirt, branded with “HEATHEN” in red letters, stretches across his muscled back, and his legs look just as long as they did in the Piggly Wiggly. The wreckage slips out of his grip, and he swears as one corner of it hits the deck.

“Need some help?” I call out, hopping off my bike. He looks up quickly and sets the rest of the steel down, balancing the heavy load with one hand and pushing dark shocks of hair out of his face with the other. And then there it is, that smile. Oh!

“Hey, Vivian. How was your class?”

The flush rises from the back of my knees. “Not terrible. How was Santa Fe?”

“It was great. Actually, I could use some help. Can you back the truck up a little closer to the edge here while I hold this?”

I hesitate, then decide honesty is the best policy. “Lucas, umm, I can’t drive…a stick shift.” Okay, I didn’t say total honesty.

He shakes his head. “It’s not a stick. Just back it up another foot, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s true I don’t have a license, but I have moved the Camry for Mom a few times. A truck can’t be all that different. I lean my bike and my sketchbook against the concrete loading dock and walk toward the truck. That familiar electricity slides up my spine, and I know he’s watching, but this time it’s nice and I’m glad I wore my best jeans. I hop into the truck and look in the rearview mirror to see Lucas gripping the hunk of metal again, twisting it to the edge of the loading dock.

“Okay, ready.”

You can do this, Vivi. I shift into reverse, but the truck doesn’t move. I tap the gas pedal, and the truck leaps back instantly. Crap! I slam on the brakes just as the tailgate bumps the loading dock, and Lucas yells, “Whoa!”

Oh my God, I am such an idiot. I slide against the back of the seat. My face is on fire and embarrassment wells up, threatening to submerge me. I peek in the rearview mirror, and he is standing there, straining to balance the hunk of metal with one hand, looking at the tailgate with his head tilted down so I can’t see his face.

“Sorry, sorry.” I groan loudly at the mirror, but as he looks up he smiles. Okay, not like grinning wildly or anything, but a smile just the same.

“Vivi! Put it in park,” he calls.

Duh. Is it possible to feel any dumber? I shift into park, and he rolls the metal into the bed of the truck, laying it down gently. I open the door and slide out, wishing I could just sink into the parking lot, when Lucas hops over the side of the bed and lands in front of me.

“Hey.” His eyes are kind. “Truck’s okay. Are you?”

“Sorry. Yeah,” I stammer. He is so close; the warmth of his body is like a force field as it touches my skin. “Lucas, I—”

I can’t finish. All I can do is stare at him.

“You haven’t driven very much, have you?” Now he is smiling again, though he’s trying not to. Total humiliation.

“No. Not really.” I look down. I can’t look in his eyes. I can’t think straight with him standing so close, much less talk like a normal person. Then I realize I’m looking at his belt buckle. I yank my gaze back up before he thinks… but where to look? That lean, wiry body or those strong shoulders? Jeez, even his collarbone is cute. I settle on his mouth, which is still smiling.

“Mom won’t let me until I’m eighteen,” I explain faintly.

His face turns mischievous. “Maybe you can’t get your license, but you can still get some practice, right? I could give you a few lessons. I mean, if you want to?”

I look back up into his eyes, take a breath, and before I can change my mind, I pop my head up out of my pool of embarrassment and firmly say, “Yes. That would be awesome.”

He holds my gaze for another fraction of a second. “Okay, then. How about now?”

Now? A driving lesson right now? I nod, shaking off the last drops of awkwardness. Lucas walks over to my bike and sketchbook, lifts them both into the truck, and then slams the tailgate closed. I hop back into the driver’s seat again. This is going to be amazing.

“Hold on, Vivian.” Lucas laughs as he comes back over. “I better drive ’til we get somewhere, umm, safe.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. You volunteered for this,” I remind him as I scoot over to the passenger seat. My cheeks burn, but I can’t stop smiling. As we roll through the parking lot and jolt over the speed bumps, I stealth-glance at his profile. Those angular cheekbones, the long straight nose over that curvy mouth, and those strong hands on the wheel all make my heart beat faster. But I’ll be okay—if I don’t look at him for too long.