Bright Before Sunrise (3 page)

And I’m not ready.

Each click of the second hand feels like a catch in my breath, each bell that announces another class is over heaps more pounds of pressure on my shoulders.

There’s only a fragile strip of time between me and Mom.

I don’t know if I can do it.

Eighty percent of any achievement is making the decision to achieve
.

I take a deep breath and spin back around. Because I should say something, right? Apologize, or let Jonah know that I got his message. Something.

The space in front of his locker is empty. Craning my neck and standing on tiptoe, I catch sight of the top of his head, his disheveled light brown hair passing the entrance to the courtyard. He’s too far away for me to catch up and I doubt he’d appreciate me chasing him. What would I even say?

“Brighton!”

“Hey! Brighton!”

The two voices each call out again. Louder. From opposite ends of the hall. I feel like I’m being tugged in both directions, like I should fracture myself into pieces. Whoever I pick, I’m letting the other person down.

“B!”

Amelia’s nearly at my elbow. Maggie’s farther away, but louder, and much less patient. She’s waving her hand to get my attention. I smile in Amelia’s direction and call “Hi” toward Maggie.

Amelia reaches me first. “Is it the weekend yet?”

“Not quite.” I want to lean my head on her shoulder and
confess—if not the harder stuff, at least I could tell her how I just made a fool of myself with Jonah.

She does a little dance. “I’m so impatient! And you should see Peter! He said the cutest thing—”

“Hey, Brighton! Hi, Amelia.” Maggie skids to a stop on my other side. “Sorry to butt in, but this is
important
!”

Amelia responds with an unenthusiastic, “Hey.”

I focus on the word “important” and rally some enthusiasm. “What’s up?”

Maggie waves her phone in my face. “I just got the proofs for my senior pictures! I’ve been looking for you all day, Brighton. Why weren’t you at lunch? So tell me, which one do you like?”

Important? We must have different definitions of the word. But then again, on any other day I would see this as important too. It’s not
her
fault.

“Let me see.”

“I’ve just got to pull up the link.” Maggie’s fingers fly over the screen of her phone, then she pauses. “Oh, since you’re here, you can help too, Amelia. My mom likes the one where I’m leaning against the tree—is she crazy or what? My nose looks deformed, and I practically have a double chin.”

She holds her phone toward us: scrolling through photos with the words “Emerick Studios” watermarked across them. I try to concentrate on the screen, on pictures of her cute round face and brown hair, but she gestures as she speaks; the freckles on her photographed nose blur with the motion.

“You’re so prepared. I can’t believe you’ve taken senior photos already—I can’t believe we’re almost seniors.” I tip my head to match the angle she’s holding the screen.

“I wanted time in case I needed retakes. And I didn’t want to—”

“Here, give me that.” Amelia snatches the phone and holds it steady between us. A moment’s scrutiny later, she taps a picture. “Not the tree. This one.” She hands it to me.

“That one? Really? How can you like that one? It’s awful. My ears look totally crooked. Don’t they, Brighton?”

She steps in front of Amelia to look over my shoulder. Amelia scowls and feigns claws behind Maggie’s back. I fight a smile and sidestep to make room for her. “I think your ears look fine. Amelia’s got a great eye for this sort of stuff. I’d go with her pick.”

“But which do
you
like?” she insists, pushing my hand away when I try to return her phone. “I’ve got a favorite, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s really the best one, or if I’m fooling myself into thinking it’s good.”

No pressure there. I wish Maggie had given me a hint; not only which pictures she doesn’t like, but some clue about which one she does. I
like
the tree picture. I
like
the one Amelia chose. I scroll through them again, but they’re starting to blend into indistinguishable smiles and poses.

“Really, any of these would work.” I force the phone into her hand.

Maggie frowns. “So you think I should get retakes? Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“What? No, that’s not what I mean!” I don’t know how to speak more carefully than I already am, yet I still managed to say the wrong thing. “They
all
look good. You’re really photogenic.”

“But none of them have that standout, wow factor? And
my senior photo should, since it’s going to be hanging on my parents’ wall forever.” Maggie sighs. “Okay, retakes it is.” She gives Amelia a look; I get a hug. “Thank
you
for being honest with me. You’re so right. I can get a better photo than these.”

There’s no way to contradict that without insulting her, but my stomach sinks as she types a response into her phone.

The bell rings. Maggie doesn’t stop typing. I clear my throat and Amelia laughs. “B, you know Ms. Porter’s not going to care if we’re late.”

Maggie finally pockets her phone and starts walking. “So, what are you doing this weekend?”

What are you doing this weekend?
It’s a normal question. One I’ve answered every Friday since I reached the age of plan making. Today it glues my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I fidget with my ring, turning the emerald side in and squeezing my hand shut so it hits my palm. I don’t want to think about this weekend.

“—anniversary with Peter,” finishes Amelia. I should remember what her plans are. And which month anniversary it is. We spent last weekend picking out cologne for him. I can’t remember which one she bought. I should know this. Why can’t I remember? Six months? Eight?

Maggie nudges me with an elbow. “What about you? Do you want to come to the movies with us? We’re seeing
Shriek 3
.”

“Oh, I can’t.” I really hope she lets it go. Doesn’t pressure me or ask a lot of questions. “Thanks, though.”

“Come on! You should totally come.”

“I’ve already seen it.”

“So, what are you doing?” Maggie demands. “Are you going to Jeremy’s party?”

“I …” I stare at the groove Jonah’s locker left across the polish on my index finger. The tip of my thumbnail fits in it perfectly, and I scrape at the edge, making a scratch into a chip. “This weekend?”

We’re too far from the classroom door for me to avoid answering.

“Um, I’m …” I swallow.

My face doesn’t give anything away, but Amelia knows me well enough that she doesn’t need a signal. “Who’s going to the movies? It’s freakin’ scary. I’m surprised Peter and Brighton can still feel their fingers—I gripped their hands tight enough to cut off circulation.”

“I’ve heard it’s the scariest so far. I know I’m going to be terrified!” Maggie starts listing parts of the movie trailer, interrupting herself to name the group of people she’s going with.

Amelia bumps her shoulder against mine and gives me a small smile. It’s nice to know I don’t have to return it, because she knows what I’m thinking, but I force my lips upward and bump her shoulder back. If she could, she’d gladly share some of my dread about tomorrow. She’d pass me tissues and rub my back if I let her see me cry.

I can’t, though. I never could cry in front of other people. Not even when it first happened. Grief always feels too personal to be made public.

Five years tomorrow.

Five years. And it’s still so raw.

Ms. Porter starts class as soon as we slip into our seats. While my fingers dutifully copy her notes off the board and
I nod as if I’m fascinated by her insights on Thomas Hardy, my other hand is clenched into a fist in my lap.

I take a deep breath and uncurl my fingers, straighten my ring, smooth out my capris. It’s two weeks till the end of school and the last period on a Friday, so no one’s paying much attention. Ms. Porter even breaks off her lecture early and tells us to start reading the next few chapters aloud. I try to focus—turning pages when I notice the others doing so and staring at the book like the words make sense, but my mind is miles from
Tess
and her misfortunes.

Evy’s coming home from Glenn Mary University tonight. The relatives descend tomorrow.

“Brighton, next page.”

I blink at my book, blood rushing to my cheeks. Someone coughs. Someone shifts in a chair.

“I’m sorry, I lost my place. What page?” I squeak.

“Three seventeen.” There’s a week’s worth of exasperation in the number, and I cringe under the weight of it.

I stumble over a word, one I know. Then, like an avalanche gathering snow, my mistakes double and triple—collecting and muting me so my last paragraph is read at a whisper.

I finish to silence and stares. Even Ms. Porter has lowered her book to study me.

Amelia clears her throat. “Can I go next?” Without waiting for an answer, she starts reading.

Slowly all the eyes turn back to their books, the blood drains from my cheeks, and the clock ticks its way to dismissal.

Five years.

5
 
 
Jonah
 
 
1:24 P.M.

Group work. Like we’re eight.

As soon as Señora Miller gets to the word “partner” in the English repetition of her directions—“
estudiantes
, I’m going to let you work with partners—” eyes go wide, darting around the room looking for others whose eyes are darting too. Then faces flush with relief. I wonder if they miss the rest of her directions: “—on this assignment. It’s a review for the final. Come get one worksheet per group. Pass it in at the end of the period.”

I watch their reactions but look away whenever anyone glances in my direction. I don’t want a partner, and if I make eye contact some idiot might feel obligated to ask me out of pity. The threesome on my right is looking at me and having a whispered conference. Before they can decide they’ll do me a favor and subdivide to include me, I grab a worksheet off the stack on Miller’s desk and return to my seat.

Writing “Jonah Prentiss” large enough to fill the whole
name line, I scan the worksheet. It won’t be hard. Despite the boasts that “Cross Pointe is a top-tier school—our grads go to such prestigious colleges”—it’s no harder than Hamilton. The difference is the teachers here are younger, dress in labels, drive nicer cars, and spend more time coddling my classmates. I glance at the threesome, relieved to see they’ve gotten to work. The other pairs are scattered around the classroom, gossiping and occasionally jotting down answers.

Thirty-four filled-in blanks later, I stand to hand in the worksheet. I’ve checked my phone under my desk after nearly every question; it’s only five minutes to the bell and Carly still hasn’t responded to my text. Which could mean I’ve done who-knows-what to annoy her, or her phone battery’s dead, or—

“Señor Prentiss,
uno momento por favor
?”

I pause halfway to my desk and turn back toward the teacher.

“This looks
muy bueno
, but you forgot your partner’s name. You don’t want to steal all the glory, do you?” She’s smiling an overly cheerful teacher smile, expecting a chuckle and an “oops.”

I meet her eyes. “I did it by myself.”

Her smile dims a bit. “By yourself?”

“
Si
, Señora.”

“You know our school emphasizes the importance of collaborative work.”

I think:
Our
school? Not so much.

I say: “I know.”

She leans forward. “In the real world, people don’t work in isolation.”

I resist the urge to point out a dozen jobs where people DO, in fact, work pretty much alone: artists, plumbers, postal workers, forest rangers …

Señora Miller isn’t ready to let this go. She’s counting the students in the class. “There are
dieciocho estudiantes
in here. Even.”

The threesome is shooting dagger glances at me, daring me to rat them out for being exclusionary. About half the class watches with passive curiosity.

There’s a copy of the Cross Pointe High Educational Philosophy hanging in every classroom. I’ve spent way too many hours using it as a hypocrisy checklist for my classmates’ actions; I have the damn thing memorized, which is an advantage right now. “I thought I’d find it
more personally meaningful
if I worked by myself.”