Fancy White Trash (23 page)

“What's going on?” Jenna asks again.

“Guy stuff,” I say, since Cody doesn't answer her. His eyes are glued to the DJ, his hand on the back of Brian's chair.

There's a loud shout at the entrance. The football players arrive as a group, pushing through the door. They are loud and happy, so I guess they won. Lots of people rush them, slapping backs and laughing. For the next twenty minutes, more and more people stream into the dance. Cody never takes his eyes off the DJ.

The DJ takes the mike and says, “This one's for Cody.”

Jenna screams and claps her hands as the DJ slows things down with Fergie's “Finally.” If this were a soap, Cody and Brian would rise and gallantly offer us their arms. The edges of the screen would go blurry as if we were in a dream. The song would play and we'd swirl in each other's arms. Brian would dip me. I'd laugh.

But instead, only Cody stands. He holds out his hand to Brian, who takes it. They walk to the middle of the dance floor. The DJ shines a light on them.

“What's going on?” Jenna asks, looking panicked.

“Guy stuff,” I say, smiling. “Wanna dance?” I hold out my hand. Because in the few seconds it's taken all this to happen, the dance floor has cleared. Only Cody and Brian are on the cheap wood floor, arms around each other, swaying to the music.

The edge of the dance floor is crowded with spectators. I hate the way Cody's shoulders are hunched, how he hides his face in Brian's shoulder.

“Come on,” I urge Jenna. “We can't leave them out there alone.”

She shakes her head, hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!” she says, and runs for the bathroom.

Someone whistles at Cody and Brian, that hot-girl-walking by-a-construction-site whistle, and some other guys join in.

“Fags, go home!” someone else yells, and I think I recognize Craig's voice. I tense, ready to pounce on the next person who says anything.

Instead, I feel a big hand land on my shoulder. “Can I have this dance?”

Angling my head up, I see it's Jackson. He's smiling at me but looks as tense as I feel. There's a leftover smudge of yellow face paint—one of the Coyote colors—under his left eye that matches the tiny yellow stripes in his button-down shirt.

“Thank you,” I say, and he leads me onto the dance floor. We pick a spot close to Cody and Brian. I loop my arms over Jackson's big shoulders, and he spans my waist with his hands.

I force my shoulders to relax, move my feet to the slow beat, and listen to the words of the song. Of course Cody would pick this one. He's always loved it.

“Did you know he was going to do this?” Jackson's breath is hot in my ear.

“He brought a girl.” I have to stretch my neck to look up at him. “He wants that car so much. I can't believe he's doing this now.”

“Me, either,” Jackson says. “Getting a car's all he's talked about since he was twelve.”

I swallow hard. “I know.”

Jackson sees my tears before I feel them. He pulls me up against him, and I burrow into his chest. The song is endless. We wait it out, rocking back and forth, Jackson's cheek resting on top of my head.

I turn so I can see Cody and Brian. They're not dancing anymore, not really, just kind of standing in place, swaying. A few other couples have joined the dancing but keep to the other side of the floor.

“I'm proud of him,” Jackson whispers into the top of my head. “Aren't you?”

I swallow down more tears. I don't know why I'm crying, only that the sight of Cody with Brian means everything is different. What if it gets worse for him at school now? Our New York Plan may have to be put into effect sooner rather than later.

“I love him,” is what I tell Jackson. “I want him to be happy.”

“Me, too.”

Finally, the song is over. Brian leads Cody back to our table. Jackson and I join them.

“That must've been some talk,” I say to Brian, loudly. The next song is faster, and the dance floor quickly fills up.

I'm ready to go. I am too heavy to dance to the light pop tunes the DJ's playing. But Brian and Cody are deep in conversation. Jenna's across the room at a new table with some other freshman girls. She's careful not to look our way.

Jackson scoots his chair until it bumps into me. “Thanks for that,” he says. “I didn't want him alone out there.”

I smile, still fighting back the something in my stomach that won't settle. The something that won't say this is a great thing for Cody. Jackson looks at me and I look back. He's so different since his trip. Quieter. Focused. Kind.

He leans in, all that new quiet focus directed at my lips. Chills break out on my arms just thinking about his kiss. I inch forward in my seat and lift my face toward his.

“Jackson, there you are!” a familiar female voice screeches above the music. “I've been looking everywhere! I stop for one second to adjust my straps, and the next second you're gone!”

I don't want to turn around and see her. I can tell by the stricken look on Jackson's face that I won't like what I see. Cody bought two tickets . . . one for Jackson. And one for Kait.

“Hey,” I say, like I wasn't thinking about kissing Jackson five seconds ago. The straps of her blue dress are clearly not up to the task of hefting her nursing-Stephanie breasts. I think there must be some double-stick tape involved.

“What're you doing here?” I knew she wasn't totally in love with Gustavo, that moving in with him was a convenient way to escape our house, our family. But dating Jackson while Gustavo pays her electricity bill? A new low, even for her.

“Abby, it's not what you think,” Jackson quickly tries to explain, but I hold up my hand.

“Don't bother,” Kait says, no longer looking happy. “Abby's not reasonable.”

“
I'm
not—” I'm speechless. “You are a total—” I stand up and fling back the flimsy plastic chair.

“Wait, let me explain.” Jackson grabs my arm, but I wrench it away from him.

“Abby!” Jackson yells as I storm off. But I don't turn around, because Rule #4 is blaring in my head. Don't Need Him. Don't Count on Him. Don't think for one second that he needs you.

Chapter
22

“Abby, wait up ! ”

It's been less than five minutes since I came outside. The night air is warm and dry, and I'm worried that the sweat I feel building up under my arms will stain my dress. Not that I have anywhere else to wear it, but just in case I find out I'm really the daughter of deposed European royalty, it'd be nice to have the right outfit ready to go.

“Come on, Abby. Let me explain.”

I'm such a wimp, I'm actually glad to hear Jackson's voice. But I pretend like I'm not and keep walking.

“Where are you going?” His footsteps are heavy on the ground. He's catching up.

I pick up the hem of my dress and walk faster. I don't know where I'm going. I just know I have to get away from Jackson. Jackson and Kait. Kait and Jackson.

“Abby, it's not what you think!” He's right behind me. His large hand lands on my shoulder and spins me. “Just give me a second here.”

“No.” I stare at the top button of his shirt, the one directly below the hollow of his collarbone. “No, you don't give me that stupid Rumi poem and then bring my
sister
to the dance and then almost kiss me right in front of her. That's not how it's going to work. That's not who I am.”

His hand glides down my arm and circles my wrist. “It's not like that.” He tugs a little, but I refuse to look up. “Please, Abby, give me a chance.”

I haven't seen Stephanie since Kait took her and moved out almost three weeks ago. I imagine her growing up like Shelby said, looking more and more like Jackson every day. His eyes, his nose, his blond-blond hair.

I force my lips into a smile. “Jackson, it's okay. I get it. You and Kait aren't together now but you've got this, like, lifelong connection through Stephanie. Actually, it's probably better this way. I'm sure you'll be a way better dad than the Guitar Player. But it doesn't matter if you're sleeping with Kait now or not—I won't get tangled up in this. I can't.”

Jackson's chin firms up in what I always thought was a Cody-expression of intractability. “I'm not Stephanie's father!” He doesn't shout, but the force behind his words probably carries all the way back to the dance. “Why do you keep saying that? Has Kait said something?”

I shake my head and try to free my wrist from his grasp, but he clamps on. I don't know why I'm so sure he's Stephanie's dad except for the hints Shelby drops every chance she gets. The kicker, though, always comes back to the time line.

“November plus nine months equals Stephanie's birthday in August,” I tell him. “There's no getting away from the facts.”

“Stephanie was
premature
,” Jackson growls. He reaches out and manacles my other wrist. “Abby, be reasonable.”

Reasonable? My breath speeds up like I've been running across the parking lot instead of standing here trying to get Jackson to admit that we are 100 percent over.

“Kait wanted to get the Guitar Player back. That's why she said he's the dad.” It's even understandable. Who wants to sit back and watch your ex-boyfriend date everyone in your family except you?

Jackson lets go of my wrists and takes a step back. “I can't believe you. This is all Shelby's doing, isn't it? Tell me, if Stephanie's not premature, why did they give Kait special instructions for her care? You think the doctor, the nurses, the hospital—none of them can tell a preemie from a regular newborn? Really?”

“Don't try to wiggle out of this! My family is screwed up enough, and I'm not going to make it worse!” Now that he's released me, I turn and run, high heels and all.

I don't know how long I stumble through the parking lot, Jackson behind me, before I hear Cody calling me. “Abby!” I blink in the sudden impact of his headlights in my eyes. He pulls up beside me. “I'll take you home.”

I hop in. Jackson gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Not that I'm looking.

“Weird night, right?” Cody asks. He's not smiling, but he's not unhappy, either. He's becoming a Cody I don't completely understand. Out. He's really, really out. At least at school, anyway. Jackson, Stephanie, and the whole mess has to take a backseat to what Cody went through tonight.

“What took you so long?” I ask, instead of what I want to know. Which is, why that dance with Brian? Why set himself up for the very thing he's most afraid of?

“As soon as you took off, I came after you. But I got side-tracked. ”

It must've been something big. He would never leave me stumbling around a dark parking lot, even if the only thing chasing me was his brother. “By who?”

“First Jenna. I had to apologize, right?”

“How'd that go?”

He shakes his head and sighs. “Then Becca stopped me.”

“Becca Waters?”

“Yeah, she asked me to dance.”

Maybe that dress was a bit tight and cut off the oxygen to her brain. “Not too bright, huh? Didn't she see you with Brian? And what about poor Kent?”

Cody slants a look my way. “I think she just wanted to talk. She asked what I thought about the decorations.”

Obsessed much? “That girl is strange.”

“She was very insistent.”

“I can imagine. What'd you tell her?”

He smiles, big. “Hideous, I told her. What are we, a clown college?”

I laugh, even though five minutes ago I would've said I didn't have it in me. “Did she cry?”

Cody drums his fingers on the steering wheel, fast and erratic. “She asked me to work on the Winter Formal. Said she could really use my input.”

Somehow, we're talking about something else, but I'm not sure what. “You don't care about school dances.” That's the Cody I know.

But this Cody says, “I told her I'd be glad to do whatever I could.”

There's a long silence. Cody turns onto our street, and my house closes in on us.

“You'll help, too?” he asks as we idle in my driveway. “I kind of already told her you would.”

Decorating committees? School dances? What is the world coming to? “Of course I will. You know how I love balloons.”

What he really knows is that I'd do anything for him. Even if it means hanging out with Becca-Kent, discussing punch recipes and exactly how long you have to leave sugar cookies out to get the right amount of staleness.

Dad snores. Loudly. I can hear him in the kitchen, where I am sipping a glass of water and wishing it was vodka. The house is dark. I'm still in my princess dress, but I don't feel like a princess. I feel like a rock-'em-sock-'em robot, down for the count.

I wander into the living room and lie down on the couch. The snores bother me from here. Tonight, it seems like too much. I set aside my glass of water and throw an arm over my eyes. Sleep comes quickly.

I wake up with a hand on my breast. Not my hand. Not my bed. A heavy weight anchors me to the couch. The Guitar Player's couch. The Guitar Player's hand.

“Get off!” I wiggle and try to shove him. Not easy with arms pinned.

“Shhh.” He presses a kiss to my face. I turn at the last moment, and he misses my lips. Thank God. “Girl, I missed you.”

The Guitar Player has been playing a lot of out-of-town gigs. His breath is stale—old beer and cigarettes with just a touch of halitosis. I gag.

“Oh, baby,” he croons, and squeezes my breast. “I'm so glad you waited for me.”