Bright Before Sunrise (13 page)

In fact, I bet if I bothered to check the Facebook pages of any Cross Pointe students, the one thing they’d all have in common is her on their friends’ list.

And now she’s in my car too.

The car where—
dammit!
Like she didn’t do enough damage tonight.

I can’t think about Carly right now.

Brighton interrupts my brooding to say, “I’m sorry you got stuck driving me. I know it’s not how you wanted to spend your night.”

“It’s fine.” I do not want the drive to turn into a round of
socially acceptable small talk. I gesture to the stereo. “Put on whatever.”

“Whatever you were listening to is fine.” She presses the power button and flinches back from the loud barrage of screaming and thudding.

I doubt she can hear my laughter till I turn it off and spin the dial on my iPod to illuminate a list of bands. “Probably not your taste. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything’s fine.”

There is nothing more annoying than people with no opinion. “Rap?”

“Sure.”

“Country?”

“I guess.”

“Classical?” No one can like rap, country,
and
classical.

“If you want.”

“God, how can you stand to be around yourself?”

“Excuse me?” But her voice doesn’t go up in a question, it goes down in annoyance. “I don’t understand why you’re so determined to dislike me.”

Does she really want to go there? Because I will. “How do you think people describe you? They say, ‘Brighton Waterford, she’s so …’”

“I don’t know.” She stares at her nails. “I hope they’d say
nice
.”

“Nice?” I scoff. “Nice is the word you use when you can’t think of a real adjective. It’s what you say when something doesn’t make an impression. Socks are a ‘nice’ gift. That’s the word you want people to use about you?”

“What would people say about you?” she challenges.

It’s a fair question, but it doesn’t have just one answer. My old baseball team would go with
quitter
; apparently Carly would choose
cheater
; anyone at CP High would say
loser
; while my mother would say
maladjusted
. My dad wouldn’t sugarcoat it; he’d called me a
traitor
, a
disappointment
, and worse before he left.

I offer the words that seem truest: “Cynical? Jaded?”

“And
those
are better than nice?”

“Yes, because nice is for people we forget.” This answer finally silences her.

I’ve reached the edge of my neighborhood and have to turn onto Main Street. Each of the neighborhoods in Cross Pointe connects to Main Street, and each has its own pretentious name: an Estate, a Hunt, a Grove, or a Glen. “So, where do you live, Bright?”

She drops the iPod and her cell phone into the cup holder. “Don’t call me that!”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I know she’ll be Bright in my head from now on. This is what it takes to get an opinion out of her, a stupid shortening of her name? Nicknames probably aren’t snobby and proper enough for her. She’d probably prefer I call her by her full name, while genuflecting.

“Turn left on Main. I live in Ashby Estates.” She picks up my iPod again and scrolls. “Wait! You have ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch’? Really?”

The smile she sends my way is the first nonplastic one of the night; it’s a little lopsided and a hell of a lot sexier than when she poses. I turn away.

The song’s from a playlist I made for Marcos when Carly
and I took him to see Santa at the mall last Christmas. I reach over and place my hand on top of hers, ready to press the skip button.

Her skin is so soft.

Soft skin? Carly and I just—I jerk my hand back to the wheel before my thoughts veer down the revenge-screw path.

“I don’t get why you’d
choose
to be grinch-y,” she persists, a cheerleader tone creeping into her voice. “People would like you if you’d let them. You’re a great guy, I can tell.”

“You’re right! If I just listen to Brighton Waterford’s guide to popularity, my life will be perfect.”

She stares at me, shoulders pulled in and forehead creased. “So, you don’t want anyone to like you?”

“No, unlike you, I don’t want
everyone
to like me. There’s a difference.”

She abandons the iPod again, turning in her seat to face me. “Since you’re so brilliant, tell me, who should I want to like me?”

“People you respect. People
you
like. As long as you’re passing a class, why do you care if your teacher likes you? And why does it matter if the stoner kid whose locker is next to yours—”

“Phillip Walters is not a stoner!”

“It was an example. My point is, why waste energy sucking up to people who don’t matter? Why are you sucking up to me? I don’t matter in your life.”

I turn into Ashby Estates; more straight rows of matching houses in varying shades of dull. I wonder how often people try their keys at the wrong front door.

These McMansions alternate between models with a
cross gable and those with a wraparound porch—I’m disgusted I still remember those terms from Paul and Mom dragging me along on real estate trips, so they could pretend my opinion counted.

“Everyone matters.” She sounds like she’s quoting Scripture or a manual on how to be a good person. Perhaps it’s another quote from that book. Maybe that’s next week’s sticky-note mirror message.

“Yet everyone doesn’t matter to
you
,” I retort.

“But it’s important to be liked.”

“Why? Because it got you a ‘Works Well with Others’ in kindergarten and prom queen now?”

She squeezes her hands into fists, and I wonder if I can make her mad enough to hit me.

“No!” I hear her swallowing breaths as she fights to calm down. Her voice is still shaky when she says, “That’s my driveway, the third one on the left.”

“Then why?” I demand as I turn the wheel.

“Because … because it’s nice!”

“Ah, and we’re back to
nice
,” I answer triumphantly as I put the car in park. Her house is beige. It has a cross gable.

Brighton sputters, practically trembling with repressed rage and frustration. I want her to yell. I want someone to yell at me so I have an excuse to yell back. “C’mon, Bright, use your words.”

Her mouth drops open. She clenches her fists so tightly her hands shake and she blurts out, “But you
have
to like me,” before bolting from the car.

16
 
 
Brighton
 
 
8:41 P.M.

Stupid! Of all the idiotic things I could’ve said,
why
had I said that? What happened to “Thanks for the ride,” “See you at school,” or simply “Bye”?

I refuse to let myself run up the walk to my front door. “You have to like me”? No, he doesn’t—have to or like me.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t.

Teflon
.

I don’t care.

I’m shrugging it off as I fit my key in the door. Every light in the house is on, a clear sign that Evy’s home and wandering around like a lost soul. I need to pull it together.

“Brighton!” Evy pounces, ripping the door handle from my hand.

“Hey! Welcome home.” I offer a hug, and she flits in and out of my grasp. She’s effortlessly stylish in black linen shorts and a printed red shirt. It’s the type of shirt I wouldn’t look at twice—too busy and bright—but it hugs her skin, drawing attention to her waist and making the most of her
chest. Her dark curls are twisted into a careless knot and anchored with a swizzle stick. The outfit probably took her ten seconds to throw together and makes me self-conscious about the hour and a half it took me to get ready for school—and the fact that I don’t, and never have, measured up to Evy in interest factor.

“Yeah, thanks and all that. Want to help me unpack?” she asks.

This will translate into me unpacking and organizing while she sits on her bed and tells me stories about all her college friends and college adventures. It’s our typical routine, and I’m about to agree when her eyes light up. “Or maybe you have other plans. Who’s the guy? Hey, handsome.”

I look to see what she’s grinning at: Jonah’s standing in the still-open doorway.

“Hi,” I say. It takes all of my effort to keep my feet planted on the foyer’s Oriental carpet instead of fleeing up the stairs. Looking directly at him is out of the question; I aim my gaze over his left shoulder at his car parked halfway down the driveway.

“You forgot your cell.”

Jonah hands it over and is gone before I even manage, “Oh, thanks.”

I stare at the back of our front door until Evy puts a hand on my shoulder and spins me around to face her amused grin. “Wait. Wait.
Wait!
I thought you were babysitting—who was the guy? Did my little sister finally learn to lie to Mom? I’m so proud. And, nice choice: he sizzles!”

“What? No. That’s the couple’s son.”

“And did you tuck him into bed and read him a story?”
She raises her eyebrows and pulls her lips into a scandalized smirk.

“The
older
brother of the baby I was watching.” Why did I inherit all of the insta-blush genes in our family? “It’s nothing like that. He doesn’t like me at all. Wasn’t that obvious?”

She winks and nudges me with an elbow. “Sounds like grade-school flirting. Next he’ll be pulling your hair and calling you dorkhead and cootie-face.”

“Ha. Not likely.” I grab one of her suitcases from the foyer floor and trudge toward the stairs. “What do you have in here? It weighs a ton.”

“Shoes.” There’s another knock on the door. “See, this is when the hair pulling begins,” Evy says as she reaches around me for the knob. “I knew he couldn’t resist my little sister.”

She pulls the door open with a flourish so I’m face-to-face with a scowl. I drop the suitcase, flinching at its thud. “Did I forget something else?”

“I locked my keys in the car.” His scowl deepens.

“Accidentally?” Evy asks, laughing.

His eyes drift past me and land on my sister. She’s assumed an audience position, leaning against the green wall of the hallway. I’m sure all he sees are her chest and long, tanned legs crossed at the ankles.

“I wouldn’t have spent the past two minutes cursing at the car door if it was on purpose.” But he says this with a smile.
She
gets a smile. “I’m Jonah.”

“Evy. Smart idea not to curse in front of The Innocent. It makes her so damn huffy.”

“It does not!”

They share a look like they’re on some exclusive team. I hate feeling like an outsider.

“I’ll drive you home to get a spare key,” I offer.

“I’m blocking you in. My phone’s in the car; can I use yours? I’ll call AAA and be out of here.”

“Sure,” I answer.

Evy points to the cell in my hand. “Genius, if you’d figured it out sooner, you could’ve saved yourself a trip to return hers.”

I hand it over with an apologetic look. “Don’t be mean. He was probably busy worr—”

“Busy being a moron and locking my keys in the car.” He fishes a AAA card out of his wallet and turns to face the door while he dials.

I stand watching until Evy hooks her fingers in the back of my collar and drags me backward into the kitchen.

“Let go of me!” She does, and I stumble until my hip hits the counter. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Wrong with
me
? What’s up with the Miss America act, B?” She assumes a pose that’s straight up and down, feet at a forty-five-degree angle, fluttering lashes, and head tilt.

“I did not stand like that!”

“You did! And you’re broadcasting puppy-dog affection on every channel. Back off a bit, B, make him work for it.”

“I do
not
like Jonah Prentiss,” I hiss in a whisper. “And I do not need guy advice.”

“Just listen,” she orders, and as usual I shut up. “Whether or not you like this guy—someday there’s going to be a guy or girl you do. The smile-and-nod routine you were doing back there? That’s not going to get you anywhere with anyone
who’s worth your time. And for the record, I approve of
this
guy—he doesn’t treat you like you’re made of porcelain like your usual fan club. So drop the act, okay?”