Bright Before Sunrise (32 page)

“Yeah. I know.” It’s far too soon for me to attend the service for her father whom I never met. If I went with her, she’d spend the whole day answering questions about me. She doesn’t need that. Not on top of everything else. “Will you call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes?”

She nods and traces a circle on the seat with her finger. The same circle, over and over. “Will … will you … On Sunday, will you have lunch with me—”

“Yeah,” I agree quickly, scared the question is so hard for her to form but relieved she asked it.

“—and Amelia and Peter after the library thing?” she continues.

“Oh.” I know we’ll have to see them—see other people—but I don’t want to relive the parking lot scene over and over. We won’t work in anyone else’s eyes. Hell, we don’t even
work in my eyes. Yet, I’m crushing her hand to my arm with my reluctance to let her go.

“They’re really ni—They’re good friends.”

Her eyes are pleading with me to agree, but if they snub me, how will she react?

“Couldn’t we—” Couldn’t we what? Have a secret relationship that no one knows about? If I reject her friends so they can’t reject me, where will that leave us? Am I really this lame?

Brighton leans her forehead against my shoulder. She sighs against my skin. “You don’t have to come to the library. And you don’t have to meet us for lunch. I’m not going to force you or be a brat about it, but I really think you could like them. If you wanted to.”

“Like
them
?”

“Yeah, I know we’re only juniors, and I’m not going to make you meet everyone at once … But I would love if you’d give Amelia and Peter a chance. I think you’ll like them … I hope you will.”

Like
them
?

“Okay.” After all, stranger things have happened: like me making out with Brighton Waterford.

“Really?” She picks her head up off my shoulder and beams at me.

“Does this mean I’m no longer uninvited to box books?” I tease.

“Really?” she repeats and kisses my cheek. I want to turn for a better kiss, but she’s narrating her relief: “I was scared you were going to say no. And I don’t want to force you. And if you don’t like them—well, then you tried and
that’s okay. Jonah, I—I don’t want to change you. And I’d rather you never talked to me again than make yourself unhappy trying to fit into a me-shaped box.”

If she knew the thoughts her last words inspired, she’d be blushing darker than she already is.

“We’re going to shake up Cross Pointe,” I say with a laugh.

“No, Jonah, we’re not.” She stretches a hand out to cup my cheek, and I wonder if she can feel me tense beneath her palm. “No one’s going to care. This is the time of year where people are worried about finals and GPAs. Summer jobs and getting off wait lists and going on swimsuit diets. Maybe for a minute they’ll be surprised that either of us is dating
anyone
, but that’s about it. And if that’s why you want me—so you can prove a point or something—then you’re going to be disappointed.”

I release the breath I was holding. Can she really think that? “Of course it’s not.”

“Jonah.” She bites her lip and looks down for a few seconds before peeking up at me. “I’m not excusing anyone’s behavior, and don’t get mad, but maybe the reason you never became part of Cross Pointe is you never gave anyone a chance to include you.”

I want to pull away, but she reaches up with her other hand, holds my face between her palms and forces me to look at her when she says, “Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not.” My voice is everything but happy. I want to lose myself in her lips, not think about this. But earlier in the night she never would have said
anything
she thought might upset me.

“Liar,” she challenges.

I reach up and take her hands from my face. I’m tempted to push them back at her, but instead I flip them palm up and trace the welts on one and the Band-Aids on the other. Her scars from tonight are visible; mine are all internal. “I’m not mad at
you
, Bright. I’m mad at me, because I know you’re right. It still sucks.”

“Yeah, it does. Or did. But in this case, it’s not a bad thing anymore. It’s a reason
not
to worry about us—don’t you get it? People are so self-absorbed. Except for the people who care about you and me, no one is going to give
us
a second thought. I bet Adrian and Silvia are distracted by each other and already forgot us. And my friends will love you. You make me smile; you’re important to me. That will be enough.”

I let myself reach for her, one hand on either side of her face, sliding up her jawline to stroke her cheeks with my thumbs. She stops talking, closes her eyes, and inhales—holds the breath for a beat—then exhales in a content sigh.

I study the curve of her eyelids, the wave of her eyebrow, the skin of her forehead as it relaxes and releases its lines. I lean in and brush my lips against the last furrow, a small indentation above her left eye, then watch the spread of pink across her cheeks and down to her collarbone.

These demand exploration, and it’s against the hollow above them that I give my answer, “I know.”

There are more words to say, and more questions I should be asking, but I’m transfixed by the play of pink across her skin and how it responds to my mouth, my tongue, and even my breath. Her breath’s faster too, falling into a gasp, as she
leans back to expose more of her neck. I slide one hand behind her head and pull on the collar of her dress with the other. Two buttons: even unfastened they barely expose any skin. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

But I can wait. There is tomorrow—today—where I’m already factored into her life.

Where I’m factoring myself back into my own life too.

I could stay like this for hours, melting under kisses and the touch of his hands. I avoid looking at his dashboard clock or the faint, faint line of pink that may be a distant sunrise … or someone’s outdoor lights.

“Will you be in trouble?”

He’s blinking at me in confusion. I rephrase the question: “I mean, will you be in trouble for getting home so late?”

“No. They’ll think I stayed over at Jeff’s. I can tell them I got up early and came home for whatever reason. They won’t care. Will you?”

“No. My mom waits up for Evy every time
she
goes out but hasn’t waited up for me since middle school—it’s a perk of being the good child.” He murmurs something about
good
against my neck, and I laugh and add, “Hmm, so neither of us has a curfew.
In-ter-rest-ting
. File that fact under Things That Are Convenient and Fabulous!”

I lean toward him but then he speaks, a laughing statement tinged with some of the cynicism I doubt he’ll ever
lose, and I’m not sure I want him to: “Or under: Parental Oversights I Plan to Exploit.”

“Maybe it’s time for me to stop being the good one.” The words slip past my lips in a flush of embarrassment and did-I-really-say-that?

I wonder how he’ll respond—and true to his unpredictable form, he doesn’t give me a visible reaction at all. At least not beyond eyes opened wider, a quick intake of breath. So I give him one. I kiss him. Once. Just once in a breath-shattering, pulse-revving touch of lips and tongue.

I stare at his smile—I caused that. It’s a crazy, powerful, intoxicating thought.

Before either of us can say something to ruin the moment or uncover a new conflict—begin a new round of Truth or Dare—I scoop up my bag and slip out the car door. “Soon.”

He echoes it back, his eyes earnest. “Soon.”

I dance up the walkway to the door, not wanting to go to bed, but knowing Never will bark if I linger outside. Everything seems possible tonight. People can change; I can matter. I can kiss a boy. He can see me so clearly that it forces me to take a second look at myself.

Once I get through today, tomorrow and the entire summer stretch before me with so much possibility.

I shut the door and stare at myself in the foyer mirror. Never wanders over and leans his head against my stomach. I absently stroke his ears and continue to examine my reflection. My curls are wild. My eyeliner and mascara have melted and melded until I have smoky, smudgy eyes typically reserved for nightclubs or Goths. The collar of my dress
has dried warped, and the left side points up while the right curls under.

I look like a disaster. No wonder Silvie wasn’t sure it was me.

And yet he kissed me.

Or,
I
kissed him and he kissed me back.

I give Never one last pat and pull away. His drool marks drip from hip height down to the hem of my dress. I bend and plant an impulsive kiss on his nose before heading up to the bathroom.

While I brush my teeth, I pull out the nail polish remover. Sometime around our arrival at the party, the green glitter stopped seeming rebellious or attractive. It might be someone else’s form of rebellion or someone else’s preferred color, but it isn’t mine. I erase the traces of sparkles from my fingers and drop them in the trashcan. I consider losing the Band-Aids too—my palm isn’t bleeding anymore, but they were sealed with a kiss and I’m not ready to let that go quite yet.

I blush at the cheesy romance of the thought, but my fingers still curl protectively over the bandages.

I reach for the bottle of Pointe-Shoe Pink Mom bought for between visit touch-ups. Shake it, uncap it. Then replace the lid and put it back in the drawer. I may not want green glitter, but I don’t want that either. Tomorrow I can decide on my new color, or color-for-this-week, or even if I want to be a girl who wears nail polish at all.

Though I know I’ll wake with a mess of snarls, I don’t braid my hair either. Or wash off my makeup.

In my room, my black dress is back on my closet door.
A note from Evy pinned to its collar with a rhinestone hairclip.

B—

I shouldn’t have taken this. Wear what ever you want tomorrow. And tell me to butt out sometimes
.

I hope you had fun to night … But not too much. I want details!

Xo,
E
.

But she was right the first time. The dress
is
wrong. I shove the hanger in the back of my closet.

Grabbing a pen from my desk, I circle the last line of her note and add:
Maybe … If you let me sleep in
. And slide it under her bedroom door. If I’m still in bed, she’ll have to deal with Mom, questions from the caterers, any early-arriving guests. Evy won’t be happy about it, but she’s a big girl and I’m tired.

There’s only one thing I have left to do before I change into pajamas and climb into bed, but I stand in front of my closet and reject my outfits one at a time: too beige, too black, too khaki, too bland. Finally I choose a navy-and-white-polka-dot blouse. Normally, I pair it with white capris, but tomorrow I’ll wear it with a red skirt. And a green-and-navy-striped belt. And red shoes. And my ring. I lay it all on the back of my desk chair. Dad used to call me his Rainbow Brite—how could I celebrate him dressed in anything drab?

Even after I turn off the lights and get into bed, I’m still smiling in the direction of my chair. It feels right.

I roll onto my back and whisper up at the ceiling, “Dad, I
don’t have an answer for you tonight, don’t have my ‘one thing I did to make the world better.’ I don’t even know where to begin … I did lots of things today—some of them good, but I made a lot of mistakes too … and some of my mistakes turned out to be good things …”

I blow him a kiss and roll onto my side. I wish he was here, I wish I could hear his voice. I think he’d say he’s proud of me. I’m proud of me too. But I don’t feel like
me
. Curls tickle my cheeks and my toes sting when I brush them against my blanket.

One night with Jonah and I’ve morphed from
Teflon
to something that reacts when scratched … a record or a match. No, not something that’s damaged by use. Something better.

My brain’s too tired to spin ideas and pick a new analogy. And why bother? Amelia will come up with something soon enough.

I shift and shake a piece of hair off my cheek—I don’t feel settled in my skin. In the skin of this girl with chaos in her brain and curling around her shoulders. A girl with a rumpled dress on the floor at the foot of her bed, smeared eye makeup, flushed cheeks, and lips swollen from kisses.

Who is
this
girl?

I owe it to myself to find out.

I wish I could give a cookie and a hug to each of the readers, teachers, bloggers, librarians, and booksellers who have supported me along this journey … Since that’s creepy, I’ll just offer sugar-coated gratitude instead.

Without the following people, Brighton and Jonah’s story would never have made it into your hands. I am so thankful that they’re in my life:

Joe Monti, Agent Extraordinaire, thank you for understanding what this book meant to me. I hope you understand what
you
mean to me too. Barry, Tricia, and the rest of the Goldblatt team—I raise a glass of jelly beans in your honor.

The talented group at Walker Books for Young Readers: Emily Easton, who pushed me with fabulous editorial notes; Laura Whitaker, who knew just when I needed to hear “I’m proud of you”; Rachel Stark, Emily Ritter, Patricia McHugh, Bridget Hartzler, Katy Hershberger, Jenna Pocius, and Erica Barmash, who did a zillion lovely, supportive, behind-the-scenes things to make my books better.

The artificially colored pieces of heaven I call Revision Skittles, whose sugar highs kept me going during many, many late-night writing sessions.

The best critique partners an author could dream of: Emily Hainsworth (Team Jonah) and Courtney Summers (Team Brighton)—whose amazing and insightful advice is ALWAYS contradictory. I would be saner without them both, but the story would be weaker. And sanity is overrated.

Team Sparkle—Scott Tracey and Victoria Schwab, without whom I’d never believe I could “write boy,” and Linda Grimes and Susan Adrian, who patiently brainstormed bucketfuls of titles.

My local writing support group: Jonathan Maberry, who wins the gold in author mentorship; Nancy Keim Comley, Elisa Ludwig, Eugene Myers, Kate Walton, Gail Yates, Eve Marie Mont, Tiff Emerick, Jen Zelesko, and Heather Hebert—they will always have a place in my heart, house, and in-box.