13 to Life (12 page)

OMG. Is Pietr as hot as I think he is?

I flipped the note over. Yeah. It was definitely from Sarah, but she never wrote—or thought—like that. I started again.

OMG. Is Pietr as hot as I think he is? He’s such a rebel. I told him he had to get to class on time and he completely blew me off, racing off to try to help your cause. Of course, if you’re reading this, it means he must have succeeded, so YAY! He did finally make it to class and
he’s pretty smart, too. I think I may be developing a serious crush! OMG—you have to meet me at Homecoming tonight. I think he’s going, too.

I groaned. Two votes telling me to go to Homecoming: Harnek and Sarah. But if I went, what would I find? Jenny in Derek’s arms? Ugh. Though I couldn’t imagine actually going, the idea Pietr might be there was oddly enticing.

The bus jerked to a stop again and I recognized the long lane of my driveway. Tossing my backpack over my shoulder, I slipped Sarah’s note into my pocket and sidled down the aisle and down the steep stairs, promising myself to call Sarah—immediately.

But evidently
immediately
wasn’t soon enough for Sarah, her mom’s car parked and running at the crest of our driveway. “Hey, Mrs. Luxom.” I waved at her through the driver-side window. She waved back, startled. I noticed the car was empty, but there were two bags in the backseat—Amy’s purse and Sarah’s backpack.

So it was an ambush. What was waiting for me in my house—a full-on intervention with my friends and father? Yeah, I’d gotten into a fight at school, but did I have to be ready to defend myself walking into my own home, too?

But if I was going to be inside with them for a while, talking out my troubles, would Sarah’s mom keep the car running?

I opened the door, stepped into the mudroom, and hung my backpack up on its appointed peg.

“Hey, Jessie,” my dad called from the kitchen.

“Hey.”

Sarah and Amy were seated at the tiny table near the windows. Mom had called it the breakfast nook. Dad always called
it the cheap seats. Sarah set down her copy of
Great Expectations
to focus on the conversation. She appeared to be just a few pages from the book’s end. Already.

“Sarah and Amy were just tellin’ me about how you all are goin’ to Homecoming tonight,” Dad explained. He pointed to the tin on the table. “Help yourselves, girls. Those are the factory’s newest chocolates—the Starlight line.”

Sarah made a comment about chocolate ruining her complexion while Amy dug in.

“You work for the best place, ever, Mr. G.,” Amy confided. “All my dad brings home are dented cans of mushrooms.”

Dad smiled at her. “Maybe we’ll need to work a trade, then, Ames. Jessie can’t stand chocolate anymore—”

“And I can’t cope with mushrooms.” Amy grinned. She nibbled a chocolate in the shape of a jaunty Jupiter. “I doubt it would seem like a fair trade, though—canned mushrooms for fancy chocolates.”

“Believe me, mushrooms would be welcomed,” I replied.

“Jessie always says you can’t top pizza with chocolate,” Dad added.

Sarah had fallen to temptation, too, and smiled around an elaborate white chocolate moon. “Oh, Jessica, you need to be more inventive, then. I can’t imagine anything that wouldn’t be improved by the addition of this chocolate.”

Dad stirred a cup of coffee.

“Night shift, Dad?”

“Yep. Nothin’ better to do on a Friday night.”

“Yeah.” Not like he could actually hang out with his kids. Maybe play some cards or watch a movie. Nope. Just work. Like always. “Yeah,” I said, looking at Sarah and Amy.

Dad sipped his coffee, turned back to the counter, and added more sugar. “Bonfire and game tonight?”

I looked at the girls, clueless. They nodded in unison. “Yep.”

“Who are you guys playin’?”

We all exchanged stupefied looks.

“The Madison Bulldogs.”

The three of us spun to see my little sister standing in the doorway, nose in a book. As always.

“Annabelle Lee,” I said in greeting.

She stuck her tongue out at me before Dad could smile in her direction. I swore I remembered being twelve, but I was never
that
type of twelve.

“So, Anna, who would you put your money on tonight?” Dad asked.

“Bulldogs are going to wipe up.”

“But we have Kurt Anderson, Derek Jamieson, Jack Jacobsen . . . ,” I protested.

“Four words for you,” Annabelle Lee said shrewdly, enunciating in emphasis, “Bryce-the-Breaker-Branson.”

Dad whistled. “I’ve heard of that boy. Smashed up a bunch of Tompson’s kids earlier in the season.” He shook his head. “Gonna be a good game. If I knew that, I wouldn’t have signed up—”

I winked at him. “Yes you would have, Dad.”

“Anna, you gonna be all right all by yourself tonight?”

“I’ll call all my crack clients and host a rave,” Annabelle Lee said without skipping a beat. She was busy reading again.

Dad twitched a moment and then smiled, dismissing what he often called her “quirky sense of humor.” “So tomorrow night’s the parade and dance?”

“Yeah.” It only made sense, I guessed. I obviously needed to start listening to the afternoon announcements.

Sarah stood. “So, Mr. Gillmansen, can we get Jessica early to run into town and pick up some stuff?”

“What stuff do you girls still need?”

Amy blushed, Sarah pursed her lips, and I stared at the floor. It was a well-rehearsed routine. And it worked every time.

“Oh. Girl stuff.” Dad dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. I wondered when he’d start asking me just how much “girl stuff” one girl could possibly need—or even what “girl stuff” really was. He handed me a few bills, and I kissed him on the cheek.

“Thanks, Dad. Come on,” I said. We got to the door, and Dad stopped me, a hand on my arm.

“Go on, girls,” he said, waving them on. They ducked out and I stood there, heart in my throat. Maybe he had gotten a call from the office after all. “You know,” he began, looking down at the patterned linoleum floor that pretended to be brick, “I’m really kind of flyin’ blind about all this”—he waved a hand in the air—“
stuff
that comes with you growin’ up. I mean—” he stalled out, and I touched his arm.

“I know you’re trying the best way you know how, Dad.”

He looked relieved. “Take your jacket. ’Sposed to get chilly tonight.”

“Thanks,” I said, slipping it off the hook.

The door was closing behind me when I heard him say, “I just wish your mama was here to help ya better. . . .”

I sprinted to the car and jumped into the death seat, slamming the door to close out his last words. “Ready,” I choked, my eyes straight ahead as I buckled my seat belt.

The drive to the mall was short. Once you were in Junction’s limits it was never far to go to get to anything within Junction. We were the definition of “small town.” Junction had gotten its start as a railroad hub. In the late 1800s it blossomed from a few farmsteads into a busy railway town. Main Street filled out, and people started to really settle into the area.

Professionals came to treat the population. And they demanded better things. More land was cleared, more farms established, more people moved in. A few factories popped up, mainly for milling or making animal feed. Folks who didn’t want to be “simple farmers” moved into the center of town and worked the same backbreaking hours but with less light and more noise in the factories.

Then the trains stopped coming with such frequency. People could afford cars and trucks. The main railway station got bought out and became the local DMV. The farmers didn’t come into town as much once the mill closed. They still came for livestock feed, but they didn’t need to come so far in.

The social lines that had been blurred by mutual respect and need sharpened again. The farmers were one group, the townies the other. And so it continued, the townies buying up property that in a stronger economy had
been
farms—all the while complaining about the smells and sights of the nearby livestock and fields. Complaining about the farms that predated them by decades.

The railroad station that became a DMV switched hands several more times before it settled into its current incarnation as a cozy Italian restaurant. My parents’ first date was there. My mom, a dissatisfied townie; my dad, a fourth-generation, firmly rooted farmer. They shouldn’t have lasted. And Fate guaranteed they couldn’t.

The mall was one of the most recent additions to the community, only seeming aged compared to the gleaming and gluttonous Supercenter with its parking lot so large it rivaled the county airport’s tarmac. I would always prefer the mall. Things there didn’t have the same gloss and mass-produced glare as in the mind-numbing Supercenter.

Inside, Southside Mall was dressed in its Halloween best.

“Ugh,” Amy said, looking at the fake cobwebs. “Already? I think it gets earlier every frikkin’ year.”

But Sarah was watching me try on masks. “So what’s appropriate for Homecoming?” I chuckled. “Zombies, since we’d have to be brainless to fall for this blatant jock worship, or”—I yanked off the zombie head and tugged on another rubber mask—“Dracula, because Homecoming’s bound to suck?”

Sarah lost control, snorting. Even Amy laughed before leading me away.

“Homecoming’s not going to suck,” she assured. She looped her arm around mine. “Just because things aren’t quite as we expected . . .”

“Yeah, like Derek getting back with Jenny—”

Sarah nudged me. “You’re better off without him.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s what best friends are
supposed
to say,” I protested.

“Hmph.” Amy paused, hands out before her as if she were flipping through the pages of a book. She seemed to examine something on one imaginary page. “My official BFF manual says to add: You’re too good for that jerk, anyway.” Amy smiled and guided us into a colorful boutique.

Sarah stated, “The 2.0 version also suggests: It’s
his
loss.”

I couldn’t help it. I grinned despite the loss of my crush.

A pair of earrings and matching necklace later and I wasn’t so concerned about Derek and his renewed relationship with a somewhat pulverized cheerleader. I looked good. Sarah and Amy chose a few things to accent what they’d be wearing to the dance, the whole time telling me I simply had to go, too.

By the time we were back in the car and headed to the big game, they had mentally gone through my wardrobe, verbally inventoried it (finding it severely lacking), and had chosen an appropriate outfit for me to wear to the dance. I knew I was
being railroaded into attending, but I just hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as I imagined.

Mrs. Luxom dropped us off by the school’s main entrance, reminding us she’d wait for a call before picking us up—but no later than ten. We agreed, too happy being in each other’s company and not in school to care about a curfew. Besides, we had cell phones, so we had options.

The bonfire burned brilliantly: carmine, copper, and cardinal in the vacated baseball field before us, searing our vision as it flickered and flared, contrasting sharply with the gathering darkness. Arm in arm we headed toward it, scanning the growing crowd for anyone we recognized. But the hungry flames drew our attention again and again until, mesmerized, we simply stared at the ever-changing boundaries of the flames.

It was utterly primal, the fascination we felt. Had we ever evolved beyond those generations in the caves battling each other as much as the elements? I wondered what it might have been like, huddling around a fire and hearing the menacing wails of wolves lurking somewhere in night’s dark heart, hungry as they hunted with glowing eyes. The heat of the fire prickled our faces, flushing our cheeks. It suddenly sputtered and popped, pushing us back to a respectful distance.

Amy grunted and proclaimed, “Fire. Bad. Much danger!”

I giggled. Sometimes it was like she could read my mind.

A shout rose up from behind the crowd massed on the opposing side of the bonfire. More people joined in the shouting, and I could see a bulbous shape rise above the crowd, suspended from a thick pole. The cry of “Burn the Bulldogs” became more distinct and I could see the shape was—

“Look, it’s a Bulldog in
effigy
!” Leave it to Sarah to get the right word out.

“Burn the Bulldogs! Burn the Bulldogs! Burn the Bulldogs!” And the effigy was tossed into the bonfire, sparking before crumpling in on itself with a sickly green flame.

“They must have salted it,” Amy whispered, awed. “Makes the flames colored,” she explained.

I just nodded, enjoying the buzz of excitement that seemed to emanate from the crowd.

He stood on the other side of the hungry blaze. Watching me with eyes so bright they mirrored the flames and yet glowed with some strange inner light. Pietr stared at me, his slight smile lighting his features even more than the fire. The glaring orange firelight ran across the chain around his neck, bouncing between it and his gleaming eyes.

I was determined to avoid him. My resolve was strengthened by the memory of Sarah’s note. She was crushing on him. I needed to reserve my teenage angst for other unattainable targets. Mainly Derek. “Come on,” I urged Sarah and Amy. “Let’s get some decent seats for the game.”

We climbed into the soaring bleachers, going up and up until I was satisfied we’d outdistanced Pietr.

“God, Jessie,” Amy complained. “Are we trying to outrun the law or something?”

“No. Just my luck.” I looked around. “This is perfect.”

“If you brought binoculars,” Amy muttered.

“Oh.” Sarah sat beside me, a smile twisting her freshly glossed lips. “This
is
perfect.”
Great Expectations
got tucked away, but it seemed certain she’d finish it tonight.

I followed her gaze and saw Pietr finding a seat five rows below us. “Oh. Yeah.”

Amy looked lost as she took a seat on my other side.

“Sarah has discovered she has an interest in Pietr Rusakova,” I explained.