Sean Griswold's Head (11 page)

THIRTEEN

I'm delicate with my parents at dinner. After Sunday, they are worried, and worried equals more attentive. I don't want them deciding we need a late-night chat and then discovering I've disappeared. So I talk a little, smile a little, and claim my monthly visitor is not being friendly. This makes Mom sympathetic, Dad uneasy, and Trent completely disgusted. It's enough that they leave me alone for the night.

As part of the show, I walk down my hallway to say good night a little before nine. I contemplate holding a warm water bottle against my side, but sometimes less is more. Although I might want to pack one for the ride—my butt is already shuddering at the inevitable.

I knock softly on my parents' door but no one responds. Cracking the door a bit, I peer inside.

Dad's sitting on the edge of the bed buttoning up his flannel pajama top. Correction—
trying
to button his flannel pajama top. His fingers aren't cooperating and his lips press together in frustration. It's like watching a four-year-old tie his shoelaces.

“Need help?” Mom asks as she appears from the bathroom. She's wearing one of her long, satin nightgowns, the kind I used to sneak into her closet to rub against my cheek.

Dad smiles. “I've performed oral reconstructive surgery. I think I can button a shirt.”

Mom watches him for another moment before whispering, “Is it getting bad again, Wayne?”

“Just tired.” Dad finishes the last button and kisses my mom on the cheek. “Nothing to worry about.”

Mom nods, but her look proves she doesn't believe him and neither do I. I push the door open and try my best to pretend I didn't witness the scene. “Just wanted to say good night.”

“Feeling better, sunshine?”

I should be asking him this. Even while dealing with his own pain, he thinks about someone else. Why can't he be mean? Why can't he have a woeful, self-involved, I'm-sick-screw-it phase where he eats Chinese food while watching game shows all day?

“Feeling great. Well, night.” I'm about to close the door behind me but poke my head through the crack.

“Oh, and about spring break.”

Mom and Dad exchange a loaded look.

“Florida's not bad.”

I shut the door quickly and plod to my room. I slip Dad's Sixers shirt onto my pillow like a pillowcase and clutch it, pretending that I'm hugging my dad, like I can squeeze all his pain away.

I'm glad I didn't stay to see their reaction to my Florida comment. Mom's probably gaping or even worse, tearing up. That I can handle. But what I don't want to see is the look of hope that would be in my dad's eyes. Because it'll ache that much more when I hurt him again.

“Who are you trying to be? Catwoman?” I ask Jac when I bike up to the corner of Pawlings Road. She's in black gloves and head-to-toe black spandex, with her hair freed from its braids and flowing under her helmet.

“Meow.”

“You're going to freeze. It's forty-something degrees out.”

“This spandex is fully lined.”

I pull out the extra sweatshirt I've stuffed into my backpack along with some water, hand warmers, and safety flares. Just in case. “Take this.”

She grabs the sweatshirt but ties it around her waist.

“And you're supposed to wear bright colors when night riding,” I say.

“Duh.” She whisks some glow-in-the-dark necklaces out of her pocket and starts fastening them around various parts of her body. “Doesn't mean I can't do it in style.”

“Let's go,” I say before I decide she is too much of a hazard and call the whole thing off.

The park we're meeting Sean at is only a few blocks away, and we're there in less than five minutes. The park closes at dusk and, luckily, there isn't a ranger in sight. For a moment, I think we've been stood up. Then a maroon Honda Civic with three bikes on a rack swerves into the parking lot and parks in a spot behind the restrooms.

“Is that them?” I ask Jac.

“Let's find out.”

“But what if it isn't—” I start to say. She's already covered half the lot.

It could be a car full of criminals looking for high school girls to feed on. Or some weird extremists who kidnap young girls for their cult. Or undercover cops, here to arrest the delinquent youth loitering at the park after hours.

Oh. Or it could be Sean. He gets out of the backseat and waves while the driver slams his door shut. Whoever is in the passenger seat stays there, and even when I get closer I can't see who it is.

“Hey girls,” Sean says. “This is my cousin, Mark. He and I ride together all the time. Mark, this is Payton and this is Jac.”

Mark nods. “What's up?”

Even in the dark, I can see the familiar look in Jac's eyes. There is no denying it, Mark is hot. He has Sean's same hair and easy smile, but he's older and more chiseled looking. Catwoman is ready to pounce.

“Do you live around here?” Jac asks him.

“Yeah. Just up in Limerick. You?”

Jac flips her hair. “No. I live in Audubon with my mom”—she lowers her voice—“who is never around.”

Mark grins. “Lack of parental units. I can dig on that.”

The kid in the passenger seat opens his door and spits.

“Grady, get out,” Sean says. “I need your help pulling the bikes down.”

I still can't see what Grady looks like but I can hear him as he lets out a string of swear words before yanking the bikes off the rack. Finally, he looks up at Jac and me and scowls. She doesn't flinch but I start to shake. I am facing a fate worse than prowling criminals. I'm about to go biking with Vampire Boy.

He's dressed head to toe, as usual, in black. He snorts at Jac and says, “What's with the Day-Glo crap? We riding bikes or going to a rave?”

Sean is already on the ground, putting on his shoes and helmet. “Ignore him. Full moons make him grumpy.”

So he's not a vampire but a werewolf. Lovely.

“It's my version of bike safety,” Jac says. “People can see me.”

Grady walks over and snaps off one of her necklaces. “We're riding in a state park after hours. If anyone sees you, we'll get kicked out. Save your fashion statement for the Fourth of July, would ya?”

Jac's mouth hangs open but she removes the remaining jewelry. Grady turns his attention to me and scrutinizes my bright yellow North Face jacket.

“And what do we have here?”

“I can't take off my jacket,” I protest. “I'll freeze.”

“You're not taking off your jacket.” Sean stands up and clicks his shoes into his pedals. “And Jac, you can wear the jewelry if you want. I've ridden here a million times at night and never gotten caught. No one cares.”

Grady shrugs and leans on his bike. “Fine. But if these little divas slow us down—”

Sean laughs. “Grady, you've been slowing me down since fourth grade.”

“And what kind of guy complains about having hot girls alone with him at night?” Mark adds.

Jac's twinkling glance asks Did you hear him just call us hot? A chilly breeze rustles the trees and I point to the sweatshirt around her waist. She shakes her head and sticks out her chest.

“You guys can ride and we'll follow,” Jac says.

Mark offers her his smooth grin. “And miss the view? I'll stay behind you.”

Gagfest. Finally, FINALLY, Sean starts down the path and we trail behind. Even though the sky is clear and the moon is bright, it's still hard to see through some of the denser patches. The naked trees cast shadows across the yawning river, which joins the shore so abruptly, it'd be easy to ride right in. Thinner dirt trails snake off the main cement road, leading into thicker forest. Our circling bike pedals provide a rhythmic hum but don't completely drown out the occasional twig snapped by whatever animals are hiding in the darkness.

I bike as close as I can to Sean and as far from Grady as possible. At least I don't feel his stare on me and he seems content to ride far behind the rest of us. Sean points out little novelties, like the log over the river and the raccoon in the trash can as Mark and Jac flirt behind us.

Jac: I know I've seen you before!

Mark: Nah, I'd remember someone as cute as you.

Jac: But that's how
I
remember
you
.

We hit an incline and stop talking to concentrate. We're almost to the top when I hear a grunt. I turn around to see Grady face down in the dirt, his bike to his side with the wheel spinning just above his head.

He lifts his head and brushes the dirt and leaves out of his face. “Suck. My bike hit a pothole or something.”

Sean and Mark are already off their bikes and on the ground, laughing. I cover my mouth to hide my own smile.

“Shut up,” Grady says. “I think I hurt my ankle.”

Sean is beside him in an instant, inspecting his leg. “You idiot. It's twisted. How'd you manage that?”

“Are you going to help me or criticize me?”

Sean looks up at Mark. “Why don't you walk him down to the car? We'll stay here with the bikes. You can drop him off at home and come back for the rest of us.”

“Rest of us?” Jac asks. “I'm going with Mark!”

Sean raises an eyebrow. “Why's that?”

She takes off her helmet, unleashing her hair in all its golden glory. “He'll need help walking Grady down. And I don't want to sit out here at night. Creeps me out.”

“I can walk down by myself!” Grady tries to stand up on the ankle but grimaces.

“Stop trying to be the martyr,” says Mark. “It's like a mile to the car. Jac and I will carry you down, get you a Band-Aid, fluff your pillow—”

Grady looks like he is going to bite Mark, but he loops his arm over Mark's shoulder anyway. He barely touches Jac's arm and she doesn't push it. She turns and winks at me. “You two be good,” she says.

They ease Grady down the hill and disappear around a corner. The only sound is the chirp of an insomniac bird.

And just like that, we're alone.

FOURTEEN

“Told you this ride would be easier than the last one.” Sean shakes his head and sits down on a log next to the trail and massages his temples. “Good thing too. Grady was starting to give me another headache.”

He's so casual about the whole episode I can't stand it. And I'm still a little in shock about the vampire encounter. “Why are you hanging out with Grady?” I ask.

“What, he didn't win you over with his friendly personality?”

“He's a goth.”

“Really? I thought he was more emo. With a punk edge. Old-school punk though, not like Hot Topic style—”

“He has fangs.”

“Sure. Goth it is.” Sean shrugs. “But so what? Labels are stupid. Do you like it when people call you an uptight prep?”

My mouth hangs open. “No one calls me that!”

“Not to your face. And Grady's the goth, I guess. I'm not sure what I am. Borderline nerd maybe? Wannabe jock? What do you think?”

“I think … I think … Don't change the subject! Even if you took away Grady's freakishness, he's still a jerk. Why is someone like
you
hanging out with someone like
him
?”

“It's a long story.”

I look up the trail where the injured and company have disappeared. “We've got time.”

Sean pats the space on the log next to him and I sit. We're close, but not too close. Nothing is touching. Not yet. “See this scar?” he says, pointing to the mystery that is the base of my Sean Stalking. “This is how I met Grady.”

“Did he knife you?” I ask, aghast.

Sean laughs. “Hardly. It was the summer before fourth grade and I was at the community pool, trying to swim the full length—no breathing—for the first time. Well, I … kind of passed out in the water and hit my head on the side of the pool. Pathetic, I know.

“The pool was packed and the lifeguard didn't see me. But Grady did. He jumped in, dragged me out, and even got the cute lifeguard to do CPR on me.”

“So now you're indebted to him,” I say.

He shook his head. “I paid him back. See, Grady was there with some other foster kids from the state. I convinced my mom to take him in. But the thing with my mom is she starts all these projects and never finishes them. Like she'll volunteer to do a charity luncheon but she's not going to stick around to clean up. So once she realized that a foster kid requires … effort, she flaked out.” Sean flicks a bug off the log. “Grady got sucked back into the system until his dad got out of jail last year. Now he lives with him, but spends a lot of time at our house still. I think he wears all black so you can't tell he only has three shirts. He's … There's more to him than he puts out there.”

“If you say so.”

“Really. You'll see.”

Right. Like I have any plans of hanging out with Vampire Boy ever again. Schedule it in right after my lunch date with Lord Voldemort. “And what is that scar now? Some symbol of your friendship?”

“Honestly?” Sean looks down. “The day I almost drowned was the day I decided I wanted to do triathlons. I remember feeling so … weak and powerless in the water. A total scrub. I never wanted that again.”

“Oh,” I say, because I'm lousy at thoughtful remarks. The scar story explains a lot about Sean, but it's still a bit of a disappointment. Some of Jac's wild ideas had managed to rub off on me, and even though a near drowning is newsworthy, I'd been hoping for a knifing.

“Doesn't Grady ever get to you, though? The whole I-am-death thing?”

“But that's what I'm trying to tell you. That's not him at all, just how you perceive him. It's like, you could go dress yourself in a potato sack, and you'd still look …”

Say good. Or if I'm being greedy, beautiful. But good will do.

“… like you. It doesn't change who you are. Haven't you ever looked past your first impression and seen more?”

Exhibit A was sitting right in front of me. My initial impression of Sean, the impression that'd stuck for almost seven years, was that he was blocking the board. That's it. No thoughts about his likes or dislikes. Who he was. He was the boy with the head. How many people do I know like that—the school counselor with the Afro, the teacher with a hangover, or the goth kid with the fangs. Yet, through Sean I was seeing them as different people with their own stories.

Sean rests his chin on his knees before picking up a stick and drawing a circle in the dirt. “Okay, so your turn.”

“My turn? What do you mean?”

Sean turns his head to the side and smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle, like my dad's but in a very I-don't-think-of-you-like-my-dad sort of way. A chill runs down my neck. “Oh, c'mon. You're always asking me questions. And I don't know anything about you. Where's the dirt?”

“There is no dirt. I'm totally clean. Boring. Sorry.”

“It's the boring people who have something to hide. Tell me why you quit basketball.”

I lick my lips. Suddenly my mouth is dry. “I just wasn't into it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. I can't explain it. Something changed and it just felt … fake.”

Sean goes back to drawing in the dirt. Although there's enough moonlight right here to make out shadows, I can't see the detail in his artwork. I fumble in my jacket pocket for my flashlight and shine it on the ground. He's adding lines to the circle, curves spanning the interior until it looks like a basketball. Next, a stick figure of what I assume is me, hands arched like I'm following up a shot. He doesn't say anything, and neither do I, but the silence is creeping up on me, choking me until the only way I can breathe is if I talk.

“My dad has MS,” I blurt out. “Do you know what that is?”

Sean stops drawing and gives me a slow nod.

I keep talking, the words that I've held in my mouth for so long rolling along like pebbles in the nearby river. “Then you know what it does. It takes your life away. He used to be this athlete—he played ball in college and does rec leagues. Or, he did. Now he can't do much besides shoot baskets. And even that will probably change and soon he won't … he won't … be doing any of it. Which everyone in my family seems to be ignoring. And he knew. About his MS. My whole family knew and kept it from me. Like I'm some little kid who needs to be protected.” I stop to brush the tears away. Oh my gosh. I'm full-blown crying in front of Sean. I bury my face in my hands, hoping to shield myself from the mortification.

“Keep going,” Sean says gently.

I look up at his face, which is soft and earnest and kind. I swallow. “So part of me feels like I need to stop sports because he can't do them, but this other little piece of me is trying to hurt him. Which is awful, I know it's awful. But if I'm not mad, then what am I? What do I feel then?”

I sniff and wipe my eyes on my jacket. That late-night bird chirps again and I contemplate chucking a rock at it. When the irritating lullaby ends, Sean rests his hand on my knee for a moment so brief, I'm not even sure it happened. He stands and picks up my bike.

“This bike really is a joke, you know that?” he asks.

“Whatever. It was expensive.”

Sean snorts and kicks the tires. “First off, it's a mountain bike. The gears suck and it's heavy. If we're going to have you riding more, I'll have to get you my old road bike. It should fit you if I lower the seat.” He rubs his chin. “And that helmet, well, maybe you can borrow Grady's. It's too bad it's supposed to snow again this weekend, but it might be good to get you into a spin class first to get you in shape before spring. I'm not sure the team will—”

“Hello!” I wave the flashlight beam in front of his face. “I'm not a
cyclist
.”

“Not yet.”

I put my hands on my hips. “And why the sudden need to go into this right now, after I bare my soul to you. Trying to change the subject?”

Sean blinks. “I know about MS. I've done a lot of rides and runs for it—for all sorts of diseases. For the last two years, I've done a ride called the City to Shore. Starts near Philadelphia and ends in Ocean City. Obviously, you won't be able to do the whole thing, but you can do part of it. Maybe 25K.”

“How does me riding a bike have anything to do with MS?”

“You get sponsors and donations and the money all goes to MS research. And you can ride for someone you know. Last year I biked for this guy my mom sold a house to. Really got to know him and I felt like … like I was doing something right. So I think if you commit to this, it could help you with everything you just talked about. You might not be able to make your dad better, but you can still help.”

“How do you know I want to?”

“Well, don't you?” he asks.

I avoid his gaze by shutting off the flashlight and stuffing it back into my pocket. How did this conversation balloon so out of my control?

“Or are you going to keep moping about it?”

I grab the handlebars of my bike from Sean. What a punk! I tell him all that stuff and he shoves it back at me. “I am not moping!”

“You're totally moping.” He pulls the bars back. “But it's cool—you're entitled to a mourning period. Maybe now is a good time to get over it. For your dad. Look, that guy I rode for had a much more advanced stage. He found out and boom, three months later he couldn't walk. So if your dad isn't like that, if he's still trying to play basketball and stuff, then I say take advantage of what time you have, you know?”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “It's none of your business,” I say, trying to pull my bike but Sean keeps a firm grip.

“I think you just made it my business,” he says.

I tug on the seat of the bike and try to yank it away but it doesn't budge. Sean's just watching me with this weird look on his face, like he's amused and sad at the same time.

“Let go.”

“No. I mean it, let me help. You still have a choice here.”

“Stop.”

I ease up a bit on my grip. When Sean does the same, I give one more firm tug. Sean is not holding on as tight and my momentum throws him off balance. The bike flies on top of me, along with Sean.

We're face-to-face, with nothing between us but the middle bar. I can see his scar so clearly now, see how deep it really is. I want to run my fingers over it, to feel the mark that has made such an impression on his life. He makes no effort to move, just stares intently into my eyes.

I'm not sure what is supposed to happen next. The whole thing is too bizarre. One moment I'm admitting more to him than I've admitted to myself. Then we're fighting, and now he's close. The closest he's ever been. And up close like this, with the moonlight turning his hair almost an iridescent white, I think for a moment I wouldn't mind being even closer to Sean Griswold.

I have no idea what Sean is thinking because, like me, he hasn't moved. He isn't leaning in, but he's not moving away. Definitely not moving away.

He's still staring. Into my eyes.

The only movement either of us makes is to breathe. Until we hear a twig snap in the distance, at which time Sean scrambles up and lugs the bike off me.

“Told you your bike is too heavy.” He chucks it on the ground.

Jac stomps around the path, Mark in tow on his cell phone. Her arms are crossed and her brow is furrowed.

“Grady okay?” Sean asks, brushing dirt off his shirt.

Jac flips her hair. “Grady is just
fine
. We would have been here sooner but Mark's
girlfriend
called.” She grabs my wrist and lowers her voice. “That's right. His girlfriend. Here he is flirting with me the whole time and then this chick calls and he turns to mush. And I have to sit and talk to Grady the Goth the whole time, who is just as charming one-on-one as he is in a group. Where does Sean
find
these people?”

“Tell Caroline I say hi,” Sean says to Mark, before turning to us. “I'm surprised it took that long for her to call him. She's got him on a leash.”

Mark gives Sean a dirty look. “Stop it,” he says. “No, not you, sweetheart. No, I'm not talking to a girl, I—”

Jac rolls her eyes and smiles at Sean. “Well, should we get these bikes down the path? That was so impressive how you handled everything.” She squeezes his elbow. “Smart and cute all in one package, right, Payton?”

“Whatever,” I grumble.

Sean gives her a goofy grin and shrugs. “Well, I try.”

“And I think present company would agree that you succeed.” Jac nudges me. I can't tell if she's flirting with him or trying to flirt on my behalf. I step away.

“Um …” Sean's grin gets wider. “Thanks.”

There he is, just eating up Jac's … Jacness only two minutes after whatever just happened … happened between us. Seriously, what
did
just happen? My head hurts. I grab my bike and ride it down the path as fast as I can.