Bright Before Sunrise (25 page)

31
 
 
Jonah
 
 
12:08 A.M.

If she knew what she looks like dancing and turning in the water, she’d never leave. Or maybe she would. In fact, if she knew what I’m thinking as I watch her spin around in that dress stuck to her like a second skin, she’d probably step out immediately and ask for a robe to cover her head to toe. She stretches her arms up farther, oblivious to the fact that she’s now revealing a sliver of white. What is it about white cotton panties that’s so hot? Carly has a collection of thongs, lace, and things I accidentally tore, but it was when she had on white cotton that I—I groan involuntarily.

She’s laughing. Like a kid laughs—a full-abandon belly laugh—and it’s contagious. Finally she emerges from the water, breathless and dripping, wringing out and finger combing her hair. “I must look a mess.”

I watch her cross the lawn. The wet dress is glued to her from collar to hem. She tugs at it self-consciously, but when her hands move, it re-sticks to her skin. Good dress. God,
why would she ever straighten hair like that? It looks like sex, like she’s just had it or wants to.

I almost forget to answer her … “No. You don’t.”

She flicks some water at me, pairing the action with a smile that makes looking away crucial.

This girl.

I can’t pin her down. Every time I want to dismiss her: with the dog, with the pizza, with Digg, she surprises me.

Tonight’s been insane. And this side of midnight doesn’t seem any more logical. Any minute now things will fall back into their crap patterns. I mean, things haven’t
actually
changed. Paul’s still a pretentious snot, I’m still stuck in Snob Town till I leave for college, and Brighton … she’s still
Brighton
.

So we shared a night and a sprinkler and a few conversations? It hardly qualifies me as her friend. I bet there’s a sign-up sheet to be her sidekick that stretches three months into the future.

Behind her, the timer on the sprinkler moves to
off
with a click; the streams of water fade to a dribble. Somewhere else in the park, another sprinkler will be turning on. If we chase down that sprinkler, spend the whole night going from one to the next until we’ve exhausted all options, can I stretch out this moment?

She’s still rubbing the makeup under her eyes—completely unaware that its smudges are hot. Completely unaware that she looks like a guy’s dream right now. It’s all I can do not to touch her—just to put a finger on her damp cheek or bury my face in those curls, slide a hand along the back of her dress, and pull her to me.

God, I’m as bad as Digg.

A cheesy pop song ringtone cuts the air and both our heads swivel toward her purse sitting on the ground at the base of a tree. “It’s got to be Amelia.”

She’s not in a hurry to get to the phone before it goes to voice mail, so I’m not either.

“Don’t answer it,” I say. Then, realizing it came out as an order, elaborate: “We’ve had a few minutes where neither of us is annoying the other—I don’t want you to answer that phone, talk to someone from Cross Pointe, and have it ruin everything.”

“How would that ruin—” She’s cut off when the phone starts to ring again. And I’m glad to be spared this explanation. I was already far too honest.

The pop song cuts out, and there’s a brief silence where we stare at each other. Her head is tilted like she’s puzzled, and I just want to know how I get to keep
this
version of her. Not the please-like-me plastic girl from earlier, but this one with mysteries and layers and—

We each take a step closer at the same time.

We’re interrupted by a third repetition of the ringtone. It cracks the moment and our eye contact.

“I have to get it. She’s not going to stop calling until I answer.” Brighton shakes off her hands and then looks at them. “My phone’s in the outer left pocket, can you grab it? You’re less drippy.”

Girls’ purses are like holy ground. Carly freaked if I looked in hers, even to do something simple like grab her cell phone or take out her lip gloss. And I remember vividly a Mom lecture from when I was eight. “‘Go
get
my purse’ does
not give you permission to go
in
my purse,” when all I’d wanted was a piece of gum for my baseball game.

I stick a tentative hand in the pocket, waiting for the objection. There isn’t one, and I pull out her cell. It’s no longer ringing. I hold the New Voice Mail screen out to her.

She tries wiping her hands on her dress, but they just come away wetter.

“I’ll hold it for you,” I offer.

She laughs and nods. “Seven, five, three, one.”

Her password? She’s sharing it without a moment’s hesitation. I punch the numbers on the screen, then hit the button to retrieve the voice mail. She twists her dripping hair over her other shoulder and steps closer. As I extend the phone toward her, my hand grazes her cheek. She smiles at me.

As the message begins, she moves still closer. Another two inches and her head would be against my chest. I’m leaning in, my semi-wet shirt touching her dripping sleeve.

“Brighton? Baby?”

The voice that comes out of the phone is definitely not Amelia’s and I’m standing too close to pretend not to hear it.

It’s mom-aged, sentimental, and thick with alcohol. Brighton’s eyes go wide and she stiffens, her arm drawing away from mine.

“Auntie Joan just left. We were talking at dinner, and remember that Thanksgiving when you and your daddy decided to get up early and surprise everyone by putting the turkey in?”

I should give her privacy. I take a step back, so I’m holding the phone as close to her and as far from me as possible, but I can still hear the message. Bright’s eyes are closed now; her expression looks hurt, nervous.

“Only you put it in the pan upside down and forgot to take the giblets out before you put the stuffing in?” Her mother gives this sniffly laugh and blows her nose near the phone. “I miss him …”

Finally Brighton snaps out of her embarrassment trance and grabs the phone from my hand, but it slips through her wet fingers and falls to the ground. I back away to go wait by a bench. She reaches for it and fumbles, hitting speakerphone instead.

“Oh, baby girl—I wish you were home. Some of your tea and a chat would be so perfect right now … but Evy says you’re out—”

Finally she presses the right key and shuts the damn thing off.

I’m bracing for an awkward exchange, watching her take deep breaths and smooth her dress down with white-knuckled fists. Her face, when she finally lifts her chin, is blank. Even if she doesn’t look as giddy as she did three minutes ago, she looks serene. It’s got to be an act, but I’m not going to call her on it.

“Where should we go now?” she asks.

“What?” I’m still amazed she looks so calm. Maybe because she knows my parents are divorced too, it doesn’t bother her that I heard her mom blubber. “Didn’t you want to go home?”

“We can’t get in your car like this.” She wrings a handful of water out of her dress and squelches her good foot against her flip-flop. “We’ve got to dry off at least a little. And I doubt we’re really supposed to be in the park after sunset. Is there anywhere good to go for a walk or sit and get some coffee?”

My own sneakers spray water through the toes as I shift
my weight from one foot to the other. “But what about—” I point to her phone, feeling like a jerk for bringing it up.

“Oh, good point, I should text Amelia and tell her I’m all set. You’ll take me home, right? Eventually?”

“Eventually,” I echo with a grin. If she can ignore the voice mail, then I’m sure as hell not going to worry about it. “Hamilton doesn’t do froufrou coffee houses—and even if they did, it’s after twelve. Nothing much is open. But no one is going to bother us about a park curfew. Jeff and I used to come here all the time when we were younger. That’s how I knew about the sprinklers.”

Her people-pleaser smile melds into her real one as she looks up from her text and asks, “Did you really just refer to Bean Haven as
froufrou
?”

“Maybe I did— Are you going to argue with me? I only went there once. It was so
pink
. I tried to order a small coffee and the worker said, ‘You mean a
teensy
.’”

She’s laughing as I lead her to the path toward the playground. The playground Felix and Jeff had graffitied at twelve. I’d been too scared to even be their lookout. Their favorite curse words are still painted in runny letters on the bottom of the slide for all to see. It’s so rundown and beat-up compared to the eco-friendly, native-plant-landscaped parks of Cross Pointe. I wonder if Brighton’s noticing the cracks in the concrete, the weeds, or the broken swing.

I’ve never noticed them before.

Yet it was Cross Pointe that brought out my own graffiti artist—the first week after the move I’d gone so far as to buy the paint and everything. But when I’d stood outside the perfect shops on perfect Main Street with the can in my
hand, I’d become as chicken as I’d been at twelve. Maybe if I could’ve painted something with social commentary, like Banksy does, but to just scrawl sloppy letters across the storefronts? I couldn’t even think of what to write. A swear, like an eleven-year-old showing off his cool factor? “I hate this town”?

In the end I dropped the spray paint into one of the trash cans spread out in even intervals.

“What are you thinking?” she asks. “You look so serious. Does this park have bad memories? Want to go somewhere else?”

“No, the opposite. See that field over there? That’s where my Little League team played. I practically lived there. I learned to ride my bike on these paths—my blood’s probably still on some of these tree trunks. I wasn’t very good at turning or braking.”

She laughs and follows my finger as I point out the landmarks of my childhood. “I’m sure you crashed just for the Band-Aids. I bet you were a tough guy even back then.”

Suddenly, it’s easy talking to her. I want to tell her more, show her more of my town. Redeem Hamilton from the first impression it made. I lead the way to the swings and hold one for her as she sits before lowering myself onto the next one.

“Before the divorce I used to live less than a block from here on Arroyo Court. Jeff, Sean, and I used to meet here to play catch. I kissed my first girlfriend—way before Carly—on the slide over there.”

“So you were a stud? You dated a lot?” She leans her cheek against the chain and looks over at me.

“Some. I don’t know about a lot. I had a few girlfriends
before Carly.” She’s got this half-amused, half-preoccupied smile on her face, and it’s driving me crazy. I grip the chains tightly before asking, “What about you? Not that I’m keeping up with Cross Pointe’s gossip, but I haven’t heard about you and any boyfriends.”

The half smile locks in place, frozen in a look that’s supposed to be lighthearted and natural. I can read her better now; I know it’s not. She examines her hands, seems startled to find her nails green, then hides them in her palms and pushes off with her good foot. Her words get carried away with her swinging motion. “Sorry to disappoint, but there’s not much to hear.”

I stand up and grab the chains on both sides of her swing. Hold her hostage. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that.” She has to know how guys look at her. Has to know she could have her pick of almost any guy in school. I refuse to believe she hasn’t played with that power.

When she shakes the hair out of her eyes, I can see she’s not flirting, she’s serious. “I keep waiting for the day when I wake up and realize one of the boys I’ve known since kindergarten is suddenly breathtaking and makes my pulse race or something cliché like that.”

“So there’s no guy at Cross Pointe who’s good looking enough for you?” I give her a gentle push and watch her arc away from me. Her hair trails like a live thing.

“No! That’s not what I mean at all! There are plenty of guys who are hot, but I’ve known them so long. They’re the same boys who used to show off their burping and farting skills. Thinking about dating any of them feels … weird and slightly incestuous.”

“Incestuous would be weird.”