She brushed his bangs from his eyes, regretting the tenderness of it, the way he might be misled. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Okay. Good.” He pulled up his shorts and turned to her, kissed her with every bit as much passion as if he hadn’t already come, as if his feelings for her fell into some wider, more potent place. He kept petting her hair like she was a dog. Ordinarily she’d hate that, but there was no ownership in it, just an intensity of feeling that confused her. He stopped and began working the knot on the bracelet. When he got it loose, he said, “Give me your wrist.”
“Really?”
“Like I said, Nells threw hers away a long time ago. I like thinking of it touching you . . .” He tried to say more but couldn’t manage it. “Sorry,” he muttered.
She held out her arm. “It’s perfect. It really is.”
He had to tie it in the thick part of the bracelet because her wrist was tiny compared to his. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a little dirty. You could wash it.”
“I wouldn’t want to wash you out of it.”
“Don’t worry. You couldn’t if you tried.”
* * *
—
THERE WAS ONE IMAGE THAT STAYED WITH HER AFTER: the astonishment on his face when she swung a naked thigh over his lap and lowered herself onto him. She had seen men overcome with lust, caught in the ferocious grip of arousal, but she had never witnessed this kind of shocked rapture, this level of submission, and she found its naked vulnerability ghastly. If she were a flood, a rush of water swirling higher and higher, he would have happily lain down in her, let her be the last of him.
And there was the ghastliness of her own feelings, her sense of fragile happiness. She couldn’t have it. Just couldn’t. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been truly happy, but she could tell with this small glimpse that happiness would be addicting, that you’d forever be seeking that first perfect high.
No, whatever this feeling was, it needed to be snuffed out before it rooted and began to spread, before it needed feeding in order not to ache.
* * *
—
AND SHE’D BEEN RIGHT, HADN’T SHE? That happiness had been an illusion. Here she was, pregnant and alone. If she hadn’t had sex with Jonah, neither boy would be dead. That had to be true. Somehow Jonah had found out about her night with Daniel and hated him as a result.
She opened her chemistry book, tried to focus on the elements of scientific notation, but she kept seeing Daniel the night she first met the boys. He was talking away, some story about himself. For no apparent reason, he reached over and ruffled Jonah’s hair. Jonah’s eyes shot to the ground. When he looked up, his smile was tense and ashamed.
She’d taken Daniel’s act as one of affection and Jonah’s response as part of his general unease. But now she understood: Daniel believed that Jonah’s hair—and no doubt everything Jonah thought of as his own—was Daniel’s to do with as he pleased.
* * *
—
Maybe, she thought, Jonah had hated Daniel all along.
31
Day of My Death
Did I hate Daniel? No. I loved the guy. He’d been my best friend since I was three.
But already I’m lying. Lying about Daniel is a bad habit of mine. I stop, pose the question again. Everything rides on it. Did I hate Daniel? I want the truth this time.
I construct arguments one way and another, not getting very far. Then I remember. My mind, with all its hidden agendas, doesn’t know the truth, and I move to my heart instead. I’m hardly there a second when I’m watching myself the year before, leaving school the first day back after burying my dad.
It had been rough. Everyone avoided me. At least I think they did. Truth was, I refused to look anyone’s way. I figured I was doing them a favor. If I caught someone’s eye, they’d see what was in mine, the hell burning away in there, and that burning was so bad their eyeballs might just melt out of their heads.
I know this old scene well. I’ve cued it up more than once to prove Daniel loved me and that I loved him in return. But I have a feeling there’s something I’ve missed, so I decide to replay it, watch more closely this time.
As I come out the front doors, Daniel is at the entrance with his buddies Jackson and Wyatt. I spin around like I’ve forgotten something, but Daniel yells, “Dumbshit, where’re you going? I’ve been searching for you all day.”
I shout over my shoulder, “Left something in my locker.”
“No you didn’t. Get your ass over here.”
The guys are shooting him desperate looks, like what in the hell does he think he’s doing? Usually they pretty much ignore me or treat me like a highly scorned mascot. They’re probably thinking they can’t get away with that now.
Daniel and Wyatt are sitting on a low retaining wall, and as I come up, he shoves Wyatt over a place, tells me to set myself down. I do, dropping my backpack at my feet. I don’t want to be there and definitely don’t want to talk, but once Daniel decides something’s going to happen, it’s going to happen, and any energy spent resisting is energy pissed away.
Daniel, he tugs on my flannel shirt, an old one I’ve had for years, says, “Where’d you get this piece of shit anyway? I want to make sure to stay clear of the place.”
Jackson and Wyatt shoot more glances over my head, like I don’t see them doing it, but Daniel keeps it up. “Where do you get your fashion advice, dumbshit? Old Man Weekly?”
Then Jackson, getting into it, says, “Cut it out, Balch. You know his little sister dresses him, and if you can’t trust a middle-school girl for manly cutting-edge style, who can you trust?”
It went on like that awhile. They joked around like this with everyone. It meant you were one of the guys. A week back, Jackson was claiming Wyatt’s grandma dressed him.
Wyatt ended up rubbing my head like I was his lucky charm, knuckle-burning my scalp, asking if I’d learned to cut my own hair on YouTube. Finally Daniel shot his own look at Jackson and stood. Then the other two got up, and Daniel said, “Gotta run, bud. See you later, okay?”
I was alone then, watching them striding off toward Wyatt’s Jeep. A few stragglers pushed through the school’s front doors, walked by me as if there wasn’t anybody sitting on that low wall.
When the scene stops, my mind starts right in explaining. Daniel knew I wanted him to be his usual assholey self, wanted things to be normal. He knew I’d hate him getting all serious on me, didn’t want to risk me losing my shit in front of them.
And the thing is, he didn’t have to call me over, he could have ignored me like everyone else. Anyone could see how he was taking a risk with the other guys. But he did call me like he always had, and he got them acting like they always did. And for a second there, I almost did feel normal. Like I said, just one of the guys.
But my heart’s calling bullshit. It keeps taking me back to the look Daniel flashed Jackson at the end, the one he made when he thought I was distracted by Wyatt’s assault on my skull. I give Daniel this, he tried to hide it from me, tried to spare my feelings. He caught Jackson’s eye and shrugged, raised his eyebrows with a smirk, like he was saying, Okay, okay, yeah, you’re right, he’s a pathetic loser. We’ve done our duty here, so let’s get the hell out.