The S-Word (11 page)

“I heard a rumor she did something to Lizzie.”

“A rumor?” His tone is sharp. He’s either genuinely pissed or the world’s greatest actor.

“That’s right.”

“I want to know specifics. I want names.”

“You’ll have that, if you help me.”

Maybe a good actor can spot a bad one. He narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your choice. Look . . .” I pause as several Cheer Bears stroll by. Kennedy’s heading up the pack, with Cara and Elliot swaggering behind. The “twins” are holding hands, but their eyes are trained on Kennedy.

Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t— Damn.

Kennedy turns, catching my eye. The minute she sees Jesse she pivots, like a puppet on strings, and leads her girls over to our
private meeting. “Hello, darlings.” Her smile is spun from sugar but her eyes could cut glass.

Jesse lifts her hand and kisses it, like a knight. “Hey, sweetie.”

Elliot scowls. Cara looks perplexed. I’m guessing this flirtation between Kennedy and Jesse often takes place in unknown places. Her friends on the squad just wouldn’t understand.

I don’t understand either.

What does she want from him?

“Hello, ladies,” I say cheerfully. Between Kennedy’s blond hair, Cara’s black, and Elliot’s red, they look like a modern version of Hecate. Like they’re three parts of the same being.

They’re even wearing red, white, and black.

“Having a nice day?” Jesse asks Kennedy, eyeing her white dress, and now I’m wondering:
What does
he
want from
her? Does being seen with the Queen of the school offer him some protection? Right now, it doesn’t seem to be causing anything but confusion.

“Better now,” Kennedy says, and her little Cheer Bear followers scrunch up their faces. It’s like they’re embarrassed to be seen next to Jesse, let alone talking with him. They tug on Kennedy, not so subtly.

She turns on them. “What, do you guys need to pee? You’re acting like babies.”

Cara frowns. Elliot fiddles with a string on her crimson top. As charming as they are, they have no power over their leader.

Queen Bee returns her attention to me. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Drama project,” I say quickly, and Jesse tenses. I feel bad for lying, but I can’t tell the truth:
We’re plotting against you, you two-faced Bee. That’s not a problem, is it?

“Too bad. I’d hoped it was interesting,” Kennedy says. “Hey, I left you something in your locker,” she tells Jesse.

“Did you, now?” He sounds genuinely intrigued. But part of me wonders if he’s forcing it, if he hears what she’s saying between the lines. Sure, she’ll stop by for a minichat in the hallway, but anything more personal has to be done in secret.

And yeah, I wish I knew what her note said. But it’s not like I’m going to break into Jesse’s locker. I do have a line.

“Can we go?” Cara asks, laying her head on Kennedy’s shoulder. Elliot chimes in, saying, “I actually do have to pee.”

Kennedy rolls her eyes. “I don’t remember signing up to be a mother,” she deadpans. But she backs away, leading the girls as much as they’re leading her, and soon they’re all three swallowed by the crowd.

“Well,” Jesse says, so loudly it startles me. “They’re gone now. You can stop pretending we’re working on a Drama project. Whatever that is.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he says, but his eyes are shining like I actually took an arrow to his heart. He laughs, a bitter sound. “Not like we’re friends.”

I watch him walk away in slow motion. I don’t know why I can’t move. My limbs have suddenly forgotten how. Or maybe they’ve decided they don’t deserve to move.

Honestly, Angelina, are you so obsessed with catching Lizzie’s tormentors that you’ll step on everyone to get there?

No. Maybe. I don’t know.

For a moment the paralysis is complete. Even my brain is frozen. Then, just as quickly, the spell breaks, and my body shifts into fast-forward mode to make up for it. I sprint through the halls after Jesse. Losing him in the crowd is not an option.

Lucky for me, he doesn’t try too hard to get away. I catch him at his locker. He’s pulling out a bouquet of daisies.

“Got a date?” I say, coming up behind him.

He slams his locker shut. “At this school? No thank you.”

“Come on, Jesse, you said you’d talk to me.”

He starts to walk. Even with my long legs, I practically have to jog to keep up with him. “That was before I realized how humiliating it was for you,” he says.

“Give me a break. I didn’t want Kennedy to know I was talking about her. Well, trying to. You’re not making this easy.”

“Sorry.” He pushes through the doors and out onto the grounds. The grass is slippery, and I take great pains not to fall on my ass. Out in the park, trees shake their branches at the sky, loosing leaves into the air.

“It’s cold,” I murmur, hardly warmed at all by the effort to keep pace with Jesse.

“Give it a month,” he says.

“Yeah, and then another month until it’s freezing again. I hate this town.”

“You eighteen?” he asks as we enter the parking lot.

“Just about.”

“Then you’ve got nothing keeping you here.”

Wrong. There are a lot of things keeping me here. People, actually. If he would just slow down, I would tell him about it.

He does me one better. He stops completely in front of this brown, beat-up clunker that looks like the opposite of what he would drive. “Well then.” He bows, waving his arm regally. “This is where I bid you adieu, Your Majesty.”

“You are royally starting to piss me off,” I say as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Ten minutes ago you were all set to have lunch with me. Now you’re—”

“Oh, honey, no.” He scoffs. “I agreed to chat with you. Besides, isn’t it against the rules for you to convene with me? Won’t I give you some kind of disease?” He goes to close his door.

I put my hand on top of it. He’ll either have to slam my fingers
or let me speak. I pray he’s in a giving mood. “You’re totally misunderstanding me,” I say. “But if it helps, I apologize for upsetting you. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Apology accepted.” He turns the key in the ignition. “Now, would you mind taking your paws off my Corvette?”

Yeah, right. This car is so old I can’t even remember the name. But I smile anyway and lift my hand. “Your chariot,” I say obligingly. It’s obvious I’m not going to win this one.

Unless . . .

Let’s see what happens if I change my tack.

“Hey, Jesse?” I say as the door closes in my face.

Damn. Too late.

No, wait, he’s rolling down the window. “Yes, Princess?”

“Do you want to come over after school today?” I feel like I’m in kindergarten, talking to him this way, but what else can I do? I really do need his help.

“Let me guess, you’ll have the cops waiting?”

“Yeah. I totally have connections with the police.” I roll my eyes. “Because this is a movie. Come on, Jesse. You’ve got to take a chance on something.”

He raises his brows. “You think I don’t?”

“You eat alone almost every day.”

“You watching me?”

“Lovingly.”

“That’s not surprising.” He blows me a kiss. Then, for a moment, he’s silent. I’m just about to call it quits when he whispers, “Lizzie sat with me.”

My eyes trail to the ground. “Yeah, she did,” I say softly. “You guys spent a lot of time together when you were rehearsing, didn’t you?”

He nods slowly. My downcast eyes catch the movement. “Gordy sat with me too.”

I nod back, though I don’t remember seeing them together. Gordy was even better at playing the invisibility game than Jesse. Except in the guys’ locker room. He always came out with bruises.

And nobody ever said anything.

“Sure you want to risk being seen with me?” Jesse asks.

Big sigh. “Yes, I will ‘risk’ it. I’d be honored if you’d come over after school today. As long as you agree to hear me out.”

“Aw. I thought it was because you liked me.”

“You drive me fucking crazy. Take that however you want.”

“Sure thing.” Putting the car in gear, he backs out of the parking lot before I can think of a witty remark.

I’m certain he’s going to blow me off. But after the last bell rings I see him waiting outside of Drama class, all set to escort me to the parking lot. We drive separate cars to my mother’s place. That way if he needs to storm off, he can do it real dramatic-like. Yeah, I’m starting to understand this boy.

I think.

I
BURST THROUGH MOM’S
front door, flinging my backpack onto the couch. Sure, I’m usually a neat freak, but something about Mom’s museum-quality decor makes the house feel unlived in. And since I already feel like an intruder in her house, I do what I can to make things seem more comfortable.

I know, I’m a textbook case of Neglected Child. I try not to think too hard about it. Any good psychologist knows better than to analyze herself.

Of course, any human psychologist will do it anyway.

It doesn’t help that Jesse’s looking at me like I’m an alien. “You live here?”

“No, we’re breaking in.” I kick my shoes in two different directions.

He slides his off in a neat little row by the door.

“You don’t have to,” I say, nodding to his feet. He’s got pale pink polish on his bare toes. “I mean you can. But it’s not a rule.”

He looks at the snowy-white carpet. “You sure?”

“Pretty much. Where do you want to talk?”

“I’ll take a cosmopolitan in the arboretum.” He tilts his head to take in the vaulted ceiling. I start to feel warm. Is this what they mean when they say an embarrassment of riches?

“Sorry.” I perch on the arm of the couch. “It’s not viewable to first-time visitors.”

“Naturally.” He fidgets a little, looking like he wants to lean against the door, or bolt through it. “Where would you go if you hadn’t invited me over?”

I look up at him, not sure why he’s asking.

“You did invite me over, didn’t you?” he says when I don’t answer right away. “I didn’t just imagine that.”

That’s when it hits me. He feels like he’s intruding.

Interesting.

“You didn’t imagine it.”

“Okay.” He catches my gaze. For some reason it makes me blush. When he looks at me like that, I feel like he can read my every thought. “Something up?”

“No.” I look away. “Nothing.”

“Oh, I get it.” He steps toward me. “You were planning to do something private. A little
alone
time, eh?”

“No— No, I wasn’t!” Now I’m blushing badly. I don’t understand my reaction. I’m not usually so easy to rile. But Jesse says things to me that other boys won’t. I honestly think he would say anything without regret. Like he’s not afraid of anything.

I miss that feeling.

Now he’s smiling. It’s less of a leer and more of a challenge, like he wants me to fight back. To play along.

I don’t give him the satisfaction. Smoothing out my feathers—er, hair—I lead him through the room. “Actually, I was going to make chocolate chip cookies.”

He touches his heart dramatically. “You bake?”

“I dabble. But I’ll just do it later.”

In the kitchen, I flip a switch and light spills over everything. The countertop island. The little nook with the bay windows. For the millionth time, I wish my parents could’ve just worked through their differences. My dad would’ve appreciated living in this kind of comfort. Me, I just feel out of place.

I have no way to impart this to Jesse without sounding ungrateful.

“Thirsty?” I ask.

“Hungry,” he says, touching the surface of the island. “For chocolate chip cookies.”

I look at him. “Seriously?”

“You know the last time I had homemade cookies? My mom doesn’t have time for that shit.”

“Neither does mine.” I open my hands, as if to say
Duh.

“I’ll help.” He clicks on the oven.

“You know how to cook?” I ask, gathering ingredients, though I’m not sure this is a great idea. Convincing him to pull a fast one on Kennedy doesn’t really mix with sugar and chocolate chips.

Or does it? Maybe I can use the treats to butter him up, pardon the pun.

He smiles like he knows I’m scheming. “Me? Cook?”

“I bet you do,” I say, and it’s not just because he’s pulling milk and eggs out of the fridge. “I bet you cook for all your siblings.”

All right, I admit it. I’m fishing for information. He’s standing in my kitchen, about to make cookies with me, and I know next to nothing about him. And yeah, I know baking isn’t the same as hopping into bed together. But there’s something intimate about this. We’re sharing a moment.

“You got me,” says Jesse, studying a bag of chocolate chips. “I’m usually the oldest kid in my house.”

Usually? What the hell does that mean?

I snatch the chips from his hands.

“I was looking for a recipe,” he says.

“Recipe? Please. All you need is in here.” I tap my head.

“Wow,” he says as I reach for the flour. “I didn’t see you as a little Sally Homemaker.”

“Hey, maybe we have a label maker somewhere. You could stick the label right on my forehead.” I tear the flour bag too quickly, roughing it up in my hands. White dust explodes into the air. “You know, so everyone will know exactly who I am.”

“Okay, okay.” He wipes the powder from my forehead. I jump a little at the feel of him. “I was just teasing. So, what’s the occasion?”

“My mom’s on this diet,” I say, pulling myself onto one of the high stools. “She’s always on a diet, those really bad ones where you just eat bacon or lettuce or something. And it’s freaking ridiculous because she’s stick skinny and she’s destroying her body.”

Jesse laughs. “Sounds like a high-class problem.”

“No shit,” I agree, though I’m not sure what he means. I pick up a knife and start hacking up a stick of butter. I’m halfway through the stick when it hits me: dieting is for people who have the money to buy too much to eat.

Jesse sticks his finger in his mouth, and I study the litheness of his arms. He’s not scrawny, but he’s certainly not carrying excess fat. I wonder if he’s ever had too much to eat in his life.