Pointe (9 page)

“I was messed up, too,” he says with a shrug, like,
hey, everyone was messed up back then.

You still are.

“I guess we just weren't right for each other,” I say, hoping he'll drop it.

I don't know how to answer his question any more than I know why there is something between Hosea and me. Klein was good for a while and then he wasn't. And it was pathetic to tell someone that you were still hurting from a breakup that had happened two years before.

Klein swallows hard, looks at me harder. “What about now?”

I shake my head a little as I play with the clasp on my wallet, sitting snug against the can of soda. “Dude, you're with
Trisha.
”

“What if I wasn't?” His gaze is so intense, I have to turn away.

“I don't know, Klein.”

What I do know is that I never felt an ounce for him of what I feel for Hosea, and the most physical contact Hosea and I have shared is accidental finger brushes. I knew everything about Klein before I ever spoke to him, but with Hosea, there's something new to learn each time we talk. A look or a laugh that surprises me. A story I never would have expected from him.

“Well, when I give Trisha the boot, you'll be the first person I call, Legs,” he says, his eyes flickering over me from top to bottom and back again.

Luckily our second rush of the evening starts up just then. A gaggle of freshmen are making their way across the field and form a line in front of the window. Total lifesaver.

Klein doesn't get another word in until Mrs. McCarty is back to refill the popcorn maker and the two sophomores taking over for us have arrived. I walk out first and Klein follows as I trek across the field to rescue Phil. The earthy, pungent scent of wood smoke drifts over from the other side of the field; Principal Detz is manning a portable fire pit so people can roast marshmallows for s'mores.

“I wasn't kidding back there,” he says, his army-green coat hanging from his hand. I get a glimpse of the label. Burberry.

We're standing a few feet from the caramel-apple booth where Mr. Jacobsen whistles as he dips Granny Smiths into a slow cooker. He looks up and catches my eye, waves me over as if the allure of caramel apples is too strong to resist. I like Mr. Jacobsen—he's the undisputed favorite among the teachers at school—so I smile at him as I shake my head.

“Okay,” I say to Klein.

I feel around in the pocket of my black peacoat until I find a loose thread, roll it into a teeny ball between my thumb and forefinger. The more he talks about us being together, the more I think about Chris. About which version of him to believe. He was a liar. Of course he was a liar, but how far would he go? How far
did
he go? And did I ever mean anything to him?

“
Okay?
” Klein looks more than a little hurt but only for a second. He shakes it off as fast as I can blink.

“Klein, you have Trisha. And I'm busy with ballet and . . . we already tried once. Maybe it wasn't meant to be.”

And I like your best friend, anyway.

He shakes his head but he's smirking and patting the pocket where he stored his flask.

“Never say never, Legs,” he says as he starts walking away, backward so he can watch me as he retreats. “Never. Say. Never.”

CHAPTER TEN

THE MINUTE I STOP EXPECTING TO SEE DONOVAN IS EXACTLY
when
I get my first glimpse of him.

Mom and Dad are watching the news, listening to reports about the economy and gas prices and cheating politicians. I'm pretending to give a shit about the English essay that's due tomorrow, but the news anchor's voice breaks into my thoughts about Miss Havisham, and when I look up, Donovan's face is on the television.

He's there so quickly, I almost miss it: a still shot from a grainy video, blown up so large that if I stare at it too long without looking away, Donovan appears to be made of brown and black squares and rectangles.

The news anchor says they've made contact with a woman who used to live in the same apartment complex as Chris and Donovan. Some crap town in Nevada.

The woman's name is Candy DeGregorio. She's wearing a postal worker's uniform and the lines around her mouth are deep, like she's been pulling on cigarettes for the better part of her forty-five years.

“He was a real sweet kid,” she says, licking her thin, dry lips. “Around the same age as my boys, so they ran around together all the time, walked to school, stuff like that.”

The apartment building behind her is in bad need of a paint job and all the windows have lopsided or missing shutters. The earth around the building looks dry and dead, but not in the way that means winter is on the horizon. The camera zooms in on the part of the complex where Donovan lived with Chris. The curtains are drawn and police tape is stretched over the scarred front door.

Then, without warning, the camera switches to the video Candy provided. It's shaky and a little fuzzy, filmed on a cheap camera. Maybe a cell phone. But there's Donovan, at a skating party. I watch him race from one end of the rink to the other, neck and neck with a blond kid who must be one of Candy's sons. They do it again, flying back to the other side, where they skid to a stop at the end and high-five each other.

There's another clip after that, but it's just a few seconds long. This one is of Donovan at the snack bar, cramming cake into his mouth with the same blond kid and generally looking like he's having the fucking time of his life.

I am certain none of us breathe while the videos play. They were taken two years ago, but he was already tall. Long legs with arms to match. Hair separated into small twists, the start of dreadlocks. Who did his hair? Did Donovan say he wanted dreads? Did Chris pay someone to do it?

“We thought his name was Jamie,” says Candy DeGregorio's voice in the background. “Look, we live in a small town but we don't get a lot of bad folks around here and I thought that man was doing a good thing, being a good person and taking in someone who needed help.”

I hate Candy DeGregorio.

I dig my fingernails into my palm as hard as I can because they just keep playing the first video and the more I watch it, the more I wonder if I have any reason to think he didn't leave on his own.
Skating parties?
As those few seconds play over and over, I start to reimagine the life he lived. As Jamie Fenner.

Jamie, trekking to school with Candy's sons, when he could have snuck off to call home and tell us where he was. Jamie,
in
school, sitting in a classroom with a kind-faced teacher who would have listened to him say his name was really Donovan Pratt. And Jamie with Chris. At home. Eating dinner together and watching TV together and—what? Sleeping in the same bed? Doing the same things Chris and I used to do? Together.

The news plays the video from the skating rink over and over, those few seconds that show us the life he led, that his existence wasn't only behind closed doors.

Mom's hand is on my arm. I feel her looking at Dad over the top of my head. I wonder what their eyes are saying, what private conversation they've started that will be finished when they're safe behind their bedroom door.

I shake off my mother's hand and stand. My copy of
Great Expectations
falls to the floor and I don't bother to pick it up. I step over it—
on
it, cracking the spine for the billionth time—because I have to get out of here right fucking now. I can't look at Donovan, can't think about how many more videos and pictures like this exist in shitty towns between here and Nevada.

“Theodora?”

I'm already walking. Out of the den and down the hall, toward the front room. I need my coat. I need my car. I need to get the fuck out of here before I explode.

“I need to go out for a while.” I don't turn around as I say this. My parents are close behind, their footsteps moving as fast as they can without actually stepping on my heels.

“Theo, sweetheart.” Mom this time, as we round the corner into the living room. “Why don't you hold on and we can talk about this. I know it was a shock seeing him in that . . . environment, and—”

I shake my head. Tunnel vision. Coat closet. Door. Car. “I don't want to talk. I want to be alone right now.”

“Theodora.” Dad's voice is still gentle, but stern enough for me to turn and look at him. “This is confusing and that was hard to watch, but things aren't always what they seem. Especially in a situation like this where—”

“Then what was it?” I yank open the door to the closet in the foyer. Snatch my coat down from its wooden hanger. “He wasn't faking. He was—I
know
what he looks like when he's happy. He was
happy
in those videos, so how is it not what it seems?”

“Honey.” Mom moves toward me, her eyes wide and her hands clasped helplessly in front of her soft, camel-colored sweater. “This is one piece to the story, and it's only the beginning. They—they have to look at all sides, talk to people who knew him while he was away.”

My hand is on the doorknob. I can't listen to them spout off these things that are supposed to make me feel better but actually make me feel like shit because they're trying
so hard
and no matter what they say or do in this moment, it won't change what I saw. “Please let me go. Please.
Please
.
”

They look at each other and I know they don't want to say yes, but I'm getting out of this house, with or without their permission. This conversation is just a formality as far as I'm concerned. But I can sound less crazy while we have it. Flies, vinegar, honey, whatever.

“I'll be safe,” I say. Calmly, and while I look them in the eyes—both of them—so they'll trust me. “I just need to clear my head. Please don't make me stay here right now. It's . . . I feel claustrophobic.”

Dad sighs. “Take your phone. Check in with us in an hour and don't even think about going into the city. Got it?”

“Got it.” I use my rational voice.

“And Theo,” Mom says as I turn the handle. Her mouth stays open a few moments before she speaks, like an opera singer ready to hit the big note. “We need to talk about you seeing someone. Maybe not tonight, but—soon.”

“I don't want to talk to anyone.” Wasn't Juniper Hill sufficient? Three full months in that damn hippie house in the middle of nowhere and they don't think I've had enough therapy?

“Sweetheart, he was your best friend.”

Her mouth turns down and it makes me want to cry, so I say, “Can we talk about this later?” and they nod and I use that moment to slip out the door.

This is the first time since he's been back that I walk down the driveway without looking at Donovan's house.

• • •

I end up at Casablanca's. It's kind of busy for a Tuesday, but our back booth is open, so I don't care. I park myself there and wait. For what, I don't know. I don't even care if Jana comes over to take my order. I just needed to sit down somewhere away from my parents and make sense of what I saw.

I always knew how much Donovan liked Chris.
I
would have run away with Chris if he'd asked me. I didn't know what to call how I felt for him, but it was addictive. I'd never wanted to please someone so much. Even when he didn't deserve it, I wanted to be the one who made him happy.

But he didn't ask
me.
He went with Donovan.

I look around the diner, at the plain white walls, broken up by random pieces of retro art. Generic portraits of bouquets and New England landscapes and a sun setting over a beach somewhere. Framed pieces you'd buy from a flea market, probably castoffs from a doctor's waiting room.

“Your partners in crime ditch you?”

Jana. Usually I can hear her coming from a mile away. Her overdramatic sighs and the fact that she's always yelling at someone over her shoulder give her away. I stare up at her blankly.

“They're . . . they're not here.”

She squints at me like I'm up to no good. “Well, what are you having?”

“Tea,” I say, as I kick my foot against the bottom of the bench seat across from me. The resulting thump sounds good to my ears, feels good on the toe of my boot. So I do it again.

“What kind?”

“Chamomile.”
Thump, thump.

“That all?”

Thump, thump.

I nod and she stares at me until finally I say, “What?”

“First of all, you can stop taking out your problems on my booth. Second, you're going to sit here in this big old booth to drink a cup of tea?” She rests a hand on her bony hip. Her fingernails are painted a bright red and it's a strange contrast against the veins that crisscross the back of her hand. “What's your deal, girl? You come in here every week and stare at that menu, stare at everyone's food, and you never order more than a cup of soup.”

I stop the kicking, but give her the dirtiest look I can muster. “How is that your business? I'm still a paying customer.”

She lets out her signature sigh before turning around.

“I'm a regular, too,” I call after her.

She pretends not to hear me.

I'm sitting with my back to the rest of the diner, with just the dingy wall ahead of me, but I wish I'd brought something to do. Even my English essay would be better than nothing, because when I'm doing nothing, all I think about is Donovan and Chris.

Without Sara-Kate and Phil to distract me, I'm entirely too aware of every sound in the diner, from the dinging of the register to the person who keeps scratching a fork across their plate like nails down a chalkboard. I'm also aware of the heavy footsteps approaching my table. Different from the reluctant trudge of Jana's, these are slow but purposeful. When I look up, Hosea Roth stands next to me, holding a white take-out bag.

“I thought that was you,” he says with a hesitant smile. Hesitant because I look as unhinged as I feel? Or because he's here alone and I'm here alone, and we keep ending up in the same places? Alone.

He's wearing a jacket this time. A black one over the same gray hooded sweatshirt. I find myself wondering again about the black T-shirt. Maybe it's not part of his uniform in the cooler months. I don't say anything. I just stare at his jacket and think how strange it is that he's suddenly around all the time. There's always been some overlap in our circle of friends since I got to high school, but he was just Phil's dealer. Until now. I never really thought about him before he showed up at my dance studio, because I didn't know how much there is to like about him.

“Theo? Everything okay?”

“Where are you going?” I ask, turning the pepper shaker around the table in wide, slow circles.

Because I want to know, but asking also means I don't have to answer his question.

Hosea is taken aback and I guess I shouldn't have asked but I don't care. If nothing else makes sense today I don't have to, either.

“Home, I guess. Had to make a drop-off at this party a couple of blocks away.” His cheeks are two pink circles again, flushed from the cold. I want to press my hands over them.

“Oh.” I look down at the table again. Squeeze my fingers around the pepper shaker. Wish the news that he's not staying wasn't so disappointing.

He opens his mouth. Pauses, then: “You look pretty bummed. You sure everything's okay?”

I abandon the pepper, poke my finger at the yellow stuffing that bursts through the cracked red vinyl of the booth. “I saw Donovan on the news tonight. There was video. From when he was gone. He was laughing, like those people were his
friends.
”

Hosea looks at me for a while before he speaks, his gray eyes searching my face like he doesn't quite know what he's looking for. “I don't have to be home right away. Want to go for a drive? It helps clear my head sometimes.”

“Okay.” It's automatic, though I still have an English essay to finish, I barely know him, and he has a girlfriend. But it's just a drive, and maybe it will clear my head.

“Then let's go.” He cocks his head toward the door, but not impatiently.

Still, I shrug into my jacket right away, afraid he'll revoke the invitation if I don't move. On the way out, I stop in front of the counter and stare at Jana until she looks over, annoyed. She's flirting with a trucker young enough to be her son.