For Ever (8 page)

“Wren! Hey! Hel-
lo
!” Ashley says,
tapping me.

Slowly I turn back to her.

“Sorry? What?”

She cranes her neck and looks across
campus.

“What were you staring at?”

“Nothing,” I mumble.

Her eyes narrow.

“Oh, sure.
That’s
nothing. ”

She lets out a low whistle, and I tap her on
the shoulder to distract her.

“What’s up?”

“Everyone’s going to the movies tomorrow
night. You’re coming with, right?”

“Sure, but,” I cringe guiltily, “my mom’s
working late. I’ll probably need a—”

“I can pick you up.”

I look up and smile feebly, unaware that Josh
had been listening to our conversation.

“Thanks.”

I turn back to Ashley.

“What are we seeing?”

I haven’t been to the movies since our move
to Oregon. I don’t even know what’s playing in theaters.

“
Hell’s Army
,” Ashley says.

I swallow and make a face. I like action
movies, but horror is not my genre. I was always the kid at the
sleepover who was afraid of the dark after a night of scary movies.
I still don’t watch them.

“Sounds like three weeks of insomnia to
me.”

She points to Josh. “Blame him. It was his
idea.”

Seeing Josh’s expectant expression, I hum
tunelessly in my head while trying to think of ways to give him a
shove in Taylor’s direction. At the end of French, I stay to ask
Mrs. Gilbert about a sentence I mistranslated on the last quiz, and
by the time I make it to Chemistry the late bell is about to ring.
Walking up the row, I pause and silently count the rows just to be
sure. Then I frown. Jeff Summers is reclined in the normally empty
seat beside mine. That’s when I remember we have a lab scheduled.
Lately, any time someone hasn’t shown up for class, Mr. Van Houten
has sent the missing person’s seatmate to my table. Today, it’s
Jeff.

“Hey,” he says as I set down my bag.

My face freezes awkwardly in a half smile
when it registers that he’s looking me up and down, debating where
I fall on his number scale.

“You’re that girl who freaked out,
right?”

It’s good to know that my reputation has
preceded me.

“Yep, that’s me. Exorcist girl.”

He laughs like I said something exceptionally
funny. At least I now know for sure that everyone in school heard
about my second day. When Mr. Van Houten starts his lecture, I face
forward and hope that my temporary seatmate will leave me alone.
I’m not that lucky.

“So what happened with you and that freak in
the cafeteria?” he whispers, leaning toward me.

I bristle. I’m all right calling myself a
freak—because I kind of am. I am
not
okay with this jerk
calling someone else that, just because the guy doesn’t fit into
his Barbie and Ken world. I’m starting to think that Ever Casey has
a good reason for avoiding everybody, especially people like Jeff
Summers.

“You mean
Ever
?” I respond
politely.

His expression turns sour at the mention of
Ever Casey. And it’s easy to see why Jeff wouldn’t like Ever, even
though it’s clear that Ever doesn’t care what anyone thinks, nor is
he trying to win anything, certainly not a popularity contest.

“Yeah,
Ever
,” he says with a sneer.
“The guy’s a psycho. I heard his family dumped him here and left
when he got out of the loony bin. You should stay away from him.
Unless you like hanging with freaks.”

Despite Ever’s detachment, I highly doubt
Jeff’s tale. But instead of arguing, I look down at my notebook,
feeling more defensive than I should. There were guys like Jeff
Summers at Pali—jerks who got away with it because they were
good-looking. Unfortunately they rarely got what they deserved
since most people were too scared of becoming their next
victim.

“Summers, would you mind sharing with the
class the definition of an ionic bond?” Mr. Van Houten asks.

“Say again?” Jeff says, cupping a hand to his
ear.

Mr. Van Houten sighs and moves on. Jeff turns
back to me, untroubled.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he
asks.

I look up from my notes, unable to disguise
the look of shock on my face. He can’t possibly be asking me out. I
stall.

“
Murder, revenge, total annihilation
,”
I say straight-faced.

For a few seconds he stares at me like I’ve
gone crazy. I had assumed he would recognize the tagline from the
horror movie, but maybe not.

“
Hell’s Army
. The movie,” I
clarify.

“What time do you want me to pick you up?” he
grins without hesitation.

Clearly this guy isn’t used to getting turned
down. But then, I’m not used to getting asked out. I look down at
my notebook and try to think of a diplomatic escape route, which
I’ve never had to do before. It’s not like guys—any guys—at Pali
even noticed I was alive.

Meeting his eyes, I see the image of a tall
and fashionably dressed girl with shoulder-length amber hair and
ice-cold blue eyes.

Can’t wait to see Emily’s face
.

Emily Michaels, the girl who broke up with
him. Ashley mentioned her. Now I get it. Jeff Summers has probably
asked out half the school by now, his idea of revenge for getting
dumped. Very original.

“Actually, I’m going with friends,” I say
quickly.

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

I nod curtly and turn back to my notes.

When I get home from school, it feels like
I’ve been dodging landmines for the socially challenged all day.
Even worse, there’s a note from my mom on the refrigerator.

Your dad called –
again
. Call him!

I sigh and yank the refrigerator door so hard
that the condiments rattle on the shelves. I’ve had a message on my
phone for a week, which I still haven’t picked up, mainly because I
know it’s from my father. The problem is I can’t think of anything
to say—nothing nice, at least—if I do call him. With a glass of
milk and an apple, I go to my room and dial my mom’s work
extension.

“Caroline Sullivan.”

“You sound so professional,” I tease.

“Did you call your father yet?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

I take a bite of apple and begin to tear up
the piece of paper with the message on it.

“Wren, you can’t be mad at him forever. He
left me, not you.”

I scowl at the phone. Seriously? It makes me
wonder: do parents receive a handbook with divorce-related
platitudes to tell their children? Part of me wants to correct her,
because as far as I’m concerned, he
did
leave us both.
Actually, he had checked out long before moving out of the house.
But I don’t say this. It wouldn’t help anything.

“I’ll call when I’ve worked up a suitable
amount of teenage ire to inflict on him.”

“Honey,” she frowns.

“Kidding, Mom. I’ll call him.”

Eventually
, I add to myself.

“How was school?”

“Weird.”

She laughs.

“Weird? Good weird or bad weird?” I hear
muffled voices in the background. “Honey, you’ll have to tell me
about it later.”

“Hey, Mom. Before you go … I was going to see
a movie with friends tomorrow night, if that’s all right?”

I figure she needs some advance notice since
I haven’t really been out since we moved.

“Of course, sweetie.”

She says it a little too quickly, the relief
in her voice apparent.

“You’ll be all right by yourself?” I ask.

She laughs again.

“Since when has your mother ever run out of
stuff to do?”

“Good point.”

Hanging up, I head back downstairs and turn
on the CD player in the living room. It clicks to the same Leonard
Cohen album from the first week we got here. Depressing, but it’s
one of my favorites, so I don’t bother changing it. Leaning into
the refrigerator, I start pulling out ingredients for lasagna, a
culinary feat I’ve never mastered. But chopping vegetables will
give me a chance to think things through.

There’s Josh, the guy I like as a friend. He,
I think, likes me—or, more accurately, some fantasy version of me—a
little too much. Then there’s Jeff, the guy I want to avoid
altogether, who has decided that hitting on every girl in school,
including me, is a good way of getting back at his ex-girlfriend.
The thing that cracks me up is that last year I wouldn’t have even
made his list. Maybe I should write a thank-you note to the
dermatologist who prescribed the meds that cleared up my face over
the summer.

Last on the list is the guy I can’t get out
of my head. The one who, despite having quick reflexes, has ignored
me as aggressively as he avoids every other living, breathing
entity. He’s also the guy ninety-nine percent of the female
population in school has had some kind of fantasy about. Which
means that I’ve got a better chance of winning the lottery than him
suddenly waking up from his social coma and sweeping me off my feet
before we ride off into the sunset on a white horse like the Disney
version of
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
. The image makes
me smirk.

When the tomato sauce starts bubbling in the
saucepot, I begin laying down strips of raw lasagna noodles into a
glass dish before spreading the ricotta and sprinkling mozzarella
over them. I ladle sauce and vegetables over each layer, putting a
great deal of faith in an article on the Internet that said the
uncooked noodles will soften in the oven. That, or it’s going to
sound like we’re eating tortilla chips.

With the timer on the oven set, I return to
my room and send Ashley a text to see if she can pick me up
tomorrow night before the movie. This way I’ll be able to avoid
having to get a ride—alone—with Josh. When my homework is mostly
done, I search the entire Internet for cheap used vehicles. Not
having much luck, I head back downstairs to take out the
lasagna.

The music ended a long time ago. Now it’s so
quiet that I can hear the clock on the mantle in the living room
ticking off the seconds. Instead of sitting alone at the kitchen
table to eat, I go to my room and finish dinner at my desk.
Checking e-mail and listening to music makes dinner alone seem less
unbearable, at least until I see the two messages in my inbox. Both
are from my father. One is from a week ago, which I never opened.
Another was sent just a few hours ago. I open the one sent a couple
of days ago.

Wren - Give me a call. I’ve got something I want to
ask you.

Dad

--

Thomas Sullivan

Senior Vice President, Client Retention

Southwest Region

Dystel and Scott Advertising

The one he sent today makes me grind my teeth
together.

Wren, you’re not being fair. Call me.

--

Thomas Sullivan

Senior Vice President, Client Retention

Southwest Region

Dystel and Scott Advertising

My blood begins to boil.
I’m
the one
not being fair? I start typing an angry response before stopping
mid-sentence. There’s no point. With a deep breath, I start
again.

Dad,

Sorry. Busy with school stuff. What did you want to
ask me? The picture you sent of Benjamin is very cute. Say hi to
Jessica.

Wren

I shut down my e-mail and walk to the window.
The sky is pitch black. No stars. All that’s visible on the
darkened street is a yellowish pool of light from the single
streetlamp. When I get downstairs, I finish washing the dishes.
After rushing through my nighttime routine, I climb into bed
feeling exhausted and annoyed that I can’t seem to focus on the
good stuff. Then, as soon as my eyes close, an image of Ever Casey
pops into my head.

So I guess the movies got it right: the guy
you can’t stop thinking about is inevitably the one who couldn’t
care less that you exist.

The blood and guts flashing on the movie
screen, combined with the smell of buttered popcorn and black
licorice, are making me sick. But the state of my stomach is the
least of my problems.

Taylor’s on one side of me; Josh is on the
other. When we filed into the row, I had
tried
to maneuver
so that Josh would be forced to sit next to Taylor, but he
stubbornly waited until I ducked in after her. He offers me the
giant tub of popcorn that’s being passed back and forth. I shake my
head, relieved when the smell of artificial butter fades.

Some demonic creature leaps out, and the 3-D
reinforces my sensation of motion sickness. I cringe when the main
character, an archangel—or whatever he’s supposed to be—lobs off
one of the creature’s appendages. The theater erupts in screams,
and I close my eyes, briefly visualizing doing the same thing to
Josh’s arm when it comes down on the back of my seat.

The gore only gets worse. But it’s only when
I find myself comparing the actor playing the main character to
Ever Casey—Ever Casey wins by a landslide—that I finally get up and
squeeze my way past Josh to the aisle. In the lobby, I check the
time on my phone and try to calculate how much longer the
apocalypse can possibly take.

I have the lobby to myself, with the
exception of a few bored concession workers. Settling on a sticky,
vinyl-covered bench, I’m staring blankly at the glass doors to the
parking lot when the sight of a figure standing in the rain makes
me straighten up. By the time my eyes focus, the form is gone. It
was a man—I think—but I couldn’t make out any features with the
lights inside reflecting back on the glass. The tiny hairs on the
back of my neck prickle as I get up and walk toward the doors.
Standing in front of the glass, I watch a couple hurrying toward
the ticket window. Otherwise the parking lot is a still sea of
cars.