Handcuffs (17 page)

“In that case, I guess I’d better go work on this history paper if I want to keep my grades up.” I make my voice cheerful.

Dad laughs, even though what I said wasn’t funny. “I’m so proud of your grades, Parker. You’re so focused, like your mother.”

I go over to him and press my cheek against his. I should kiss him—a year ago, even a few months ago, I would have—but it feels weird now. I feel weird, almost afraid. I liked being his little girl, but I pretty much screwed that up, didn’t I?

I feel bad because Dad looks so out of place sitting at home on a weekday, wearing his khakis that don’t ever really fit him correctly. He’s just sitting on the couch, not even watching TV or anything.

I really do have this paper to write about the Byzantine Empire. It isn’t due until next week, but it isn’t like I have a happening social life these days. All I have is a Dell.

Just out of curiosity, I hit my bookmark for Marion’s blog. Okay, it isn’t just curiosity. I want to see that picture again. His face. I want to live in that moment for the rest of my life. I think I’ll print a hard copy for myself.

But the pictures aren’t on the front page anymore. There’s a new headline.
Allenville boy collects $1,000 prize along with frigid girl’s virginity.
I say a really bad word. I say more really, really filthy words. I try to convince myself as I scroll down, my hand shaking just a little, that Marion’s use of the word
frigid
is coincidence, that she isn’t talking about me. But I don’t convince myself of anything.

The Social Siren by Marion Henessy

What kind of a guy would date a girl only to collect a one-thousand-dollar prize for “de-flowering” her?

(I hope Marion knows
deflowering
does not need a hyphen and shouldn’t be in quotation marks.)

There were some Allenville students who wondered what anyone would see in Parker Prescott. Apparently, a payday. It seems a group of guys got together and put up a one-thousand-dollar prize for the winner, the first one to get into her pants. Prize money was collected today, mostly in one-dollar bills.

She obviously just posted this. There are only three replies.

Anonymous says:
I knew a hottie like him wouldn’t go for her! Think he’ll want Kandace back now?

UbErKyLe says:
Marion we need to talk.

Yeah, that’s cool, they send messages to one another on a blog when they live in the same freaking house.

Anonumoose says:
he has plenty of money why would he do something like that for money?

Marion says:
I doubt it was about the money. More a bragging thing. Poor, poor Parker. She thought he really liked her.

I want to punch the computer, to hurl it across the room, to smash it into a pile of twisted cords and black plastic and whatever wires and gizmos make up the insides of a computer.

I know it isn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be true. It’s crazy Marion bullshit. But I don’t feel alive anymore.

I lie down on my bed, stare up at the ceiling, and try to think of a way to get back at Marion Henessy. And I try to think of a way to figure out that it definitely, for sure, isn’t true without looking like an idiot. Like more of an idiot. There is just no way.

22

“P
eople are going to believe it,” Raye says.

It’s Tuesday morning, second period. I feel sick and totally dejected. No way, I keep thinking. No way no way no way no way. No one in their right mind will believe he went out with me because of some bet. No way. And yet this is just sick enough for Marion to have orchestrated it. I know it’s not true. That didn’t keep me from having a dream where Marion was handing him one of those enormous checks, the ones you see when someone wins the lottery or whatever, checks the size of a small school bus, while Kandace watched and clapped her hands.

We’re in the library in front of one of the nice computers that the school got through a grant. At least, that’s what it says on the little plaque above Raye’s head. She and I emailed back and forth about the situation all last night. I never heard from him, though I watched my in-box and checked four times to make sure my cell was on Ring and not Vibrate, that I hadn’t missed a call. Even if he didn’t want to call my house and he didn’t realize I had gotten my cell phone back, how hard would it be to send me a message?

After all that stress the only thing Raye and I came up with seems to be that some people are going to believe it.

“Some people always will. They believe all the ugly rumors. Do we really care about them?” I ask. She’s always saying we shouldn’t give a crap what anybody thinks, and yet right now she seems to care very much.

I want to tell her that I’ve been thinking about nervous breakdowns lately. Will that sound insanely melodramatic? It’s just too much, too many things at once. I want to drop out of the world and sit in a padded room and let life pass me by for a few days. Of course, that’s kind of what happened to me when I was grounded. And the bad things just kept coming.

1. The discussion on the blog about him and Kandace, like I needed to read any of that.

2. The melty ice in my locker.

3. Some weirdo took pictures of me and him.

4. And now this insane thing about a bet.

I know who my enemy is, but I don’t know what to do about her, and here Raye is telling me that all the idiots who read Marion’s blog have opinions that matter. I really don’t need this right now.

So I got an e-mail from Kyle Henessy last night, but it got overshadowed by the other crap that’s messing up my life. Plus, it was very disappointing, and I’m trying not to think about what a dumbass I am to even try something so pathetically lame. The short version is that Kyle isn’t biting. No selling pictures of Paige in a bikini. No convincing him to sabotage (or just stop maintaining) his sister’s evil Parker-destroying blog. I need to make an alternate plan, but I don’t have any great ideas.

“You have to look at them for the next year and a half.” Raye is talking. I try to focus. She’s talking about our fellow students and their vile thoughts and opinions that I have to consider all of a sudden. Because they matter or something. “And most everybody in school thinks they’ve seen you next to naked now.” I told her about the bra. I mean, you could see the straps if you looked close enough. “At least you looked good.” She gives me a look that’s almost dirty. “What’s with the sculpted abs, Parker?”

“I’ve been getting ready.”

“For?”

This is embarrassing, especially now.

“Him.”

Raye maximizes the picture. “Looks like you’re ready. Seriously, Park, what are you waiting for?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

This is the part where I expect Raye to laugh at me, where I will respond by laughing at myself. But no one laughs. I do not want to talk with her about this. It’s the thing that’s been bouncing around in my mind since our very first date. The hope that I don’t want to jeopardize by saying it out loud.

“Look, I know you two are totally back together, I know you are going to do this with him eventually. I just want to know what the holdup is.”

I study my hands. Wish we could still afford to go every week and get our nails done. I mean, I wish
I
could still afford to get my nails done. I love having unbelievably smooth nails in any color I want. I love tapping my nails against things with that neat little
click, click, click.

“I’m waiting for him to say he loves me,” I say more quietly than I expect.

Raye just looks at me levelly, over the can of Diet Mountain Dew that she isn’t supposed to have open in the library.

“He hasn’t said it yet?”

“No. . . .” It comes out as a whisper. Does she think that he would have, is she surprised? Am I a loser for hanging around this long waiting for some declaration from him?

“Damn. Ian told me he loved me on our third date. Right before we, well . . .” The bell rings. Not having a social life outside of school royally sucks. Of course, we didn’t talk about this stuff that much before I got grounded either. Because Raye is smart enough to know that on the third date, right before whatever, he couldn’t have meant it. But then, she was with Ian a long time. There must’ve been something there. At least she didn’t feel she had to push him away. At least she was absolutely sure of what she wanted.

Here’s a question for your secret diary. You know, the one with the flimsy little key. Is it better for him to lie or to not say it at all?

I want to see him and I don’t want to see him. I hate school. I hate the hallway, and the lights and the noise.

He catches me between third and fourth periods.
Catches
is the exact right word, because once I see him it’s like invisible ropes are holding me in place and invisible butterflies are devouring my guts. For some reason that’s what I thought when I was little; I didn’t understand that the fluttering of nerves was what people referred to as butterflies. I always pictured them feasting on my insides.

“Parker!” Does his voice sound weird? A little higher-pitched than usual? “Parker, why didn’t you call me last night?”

“I’m grounded, remember?” He can’t put this on me. He should’ve called. He should’ve sent me a message. He didn’t. I’m mad and really uncomfortable. We’re standing right in front of the double doors to the gym, and people are watching us as they walk past. I hold my books against my chest. Even while the anger courses through me, more than anything, I want him to make it all better.

He reaches toward me, like I’m really far away instead of right here. He pushes my hair back from my face. It’s a small gesture, but intimate. I hear someone laugh behind us.

“Parker, there’s no way you can believe, there’s no way you could possibly think that I would . . .” The look on his face is tragic, and a little bit of my anger melts away, but not enough. There’s hurt and anger and some sort of stupid shame that I don’t think should be there inside me but won’t go away.

“You were pretty clear from the beginning that you were planning on thawing the Ice Princess.” My stomach sinks. Did I really say that out loud? When I was trying to go to sleep last night I imagined this conversation at least thirty-seven times. I never, ever thought I would confront him like this.

“And I haven’t, have I?” He’s standing too close to me, and his voice is a growl. I shiver at the sound of it. More of the anger dissolves. I need him. There’s no way that I’m going to lose the possibility of us, lose whatever we have together, over some bullshit Marion thought up, probably just to keep us apart. I remind myself that I never really thought it was true anyway. I can’t stay mad at him over suspicions that bubbled up after some stupid nightmare, not when he’s standing right in front of me. I look up at him. He’s only a little bit taller than me. I wish I had big brown puppy dog eyes that could tell him how vulnerable I am right now and make him forget that I sounded totally bitchy a few seconds ago.

I guess my Siberian husky eyes do the trick, because he puts his hand on my waist and pulls me just a little bit closer. His voice is still that low sexy growl, right in my ear.

“I’m gonna stick by you and hold your hand and break every school PDA rule every time I can so that everyone sees what bullshit that story is.”

“I want to go back to being invisible,” I say in a tiny sad voice that I immediately despise.

He puts his arm around me. “Do you see any teachers?” I look over his shoulder.

“No.” He kisses me. There is no kissing allowed at Allenville, no fondling, no making out, no hand holding, even. The touch of his lips makes my toes curl in my black lace-up Doc Martens. I hate public displays of affection, or I used to. But with him here, I just don’t care about little things like privacy anymore.

“So is there a bet?” I ask when I can breathe again. I can’t help myself. The bell rings.

“Shit, I’m late. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He squeezes my arm and heads off. I sigh and watch him go. Why didn’t he answer the question? Because he was late to class, or because there really is some kind of bet about me?