The Sweetest Thing (11 page)

The baby fat around his cheeks has disappeared, setting off his dark eyes. It’s not so hard to see why girls at school think he’s cute. And why they get annoyed at me because I’m his best friend.

There’s a moment of silence before Jack picks up a pencil 107

and opens his notebook.

“You writing the lab on your hand or something?” he asks.

“Oh. You’re gonna make me walk back upstairs?” I stand up. “My bed’s up there; no promises I’ll come back down.”

He steadies his gaze at me. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll come after you.”

Our eyes meet and lock, for just a second longer than normal. A tiny spark zaps me. He flinches like it zapped him, too. What was that? Besides weird, I mean. I turn away quickly, laugh, and run upstairs, trying to ignore whatever just happened.

I do come back down, with paper and pencil, and by ten thirty we’re done. I send him on his way with a “See you tomorrow” and try not to think about how it made me feel when he said he’d come after me. It wasn’t a big deal—not like when I see Ethan. Still, it was something. And that’s a complication I do not need.

I wake to a room flooded with light. My head twitches toward the alarm clock. Seven thirty? Oh God! I forgot to set it. I have exactly thirty minutes to get to school. I jump out of bed onto the cold wood floor and hightail it to the shower.

In the bathroom mirror I see major damage from Easter Sunday. Puffy, red eyes, and hair like Medusa’s. There’s a lot of work to do here and not a lot of time to do it. I hear Dad snoring down the hall and wonder what time he got home.

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I make no effort to be quiet or let him sleep in peace.

The shower wakes me up a little, but not nearly as much as a jumbo latte would—if I had time to grab one. Not likely.

I jump soaking wet into my fluffy blue bathrobe and feel various body parts turn to icicles. With a toothbrush in one hand, I erase my dragon’s breath, and then take a comb to my hair. I’ll never make it. And Mr. Wasserman doesn’t just give tardies; he makes an example of you.

I can’t stand the thought of being humiliated in front of Haley again.

And what if she’s heard about Ethan’s strange visit to the bakery? What if she’s gotten wind of the fact that her boyfriend, er, ex-boyfriend, has kind of maybe asked me out? I’ll be dead before lunch. Killed.

I shimmy into my jeans and pull a long-sleeved button-down over a lace-topped white cami. I dry my hair for exactly two minutes, which accomplishes exactly nothing. So I sweep it up into a clip and apply three swipes of mascara and a smudge of lipstick. No time to work miracles. This will have to do.

7:45. I grab my bag and my coat and hop down the stairs while pulling on my Uggs. Dad is still sawing logs, but I give the door a good hard slam just so he knows I’m gone.

Oh my God! It’s got to be below freezing outside. I quickly stick my arms into my coat and pull up the hood.

No cakes for me if I get pneumonia. Then I run—I mean,
run
—down the alley and up onto Main Street.

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7:50, by my watch. I can do this. I push through the door of Geronimo’s and wave to Mrs. Davis, who then points to the gigantic wall clock behind her.

“I know, I know,” I say. “But I won’t make it to second period without some coffee.” There’s a line, but in under a minute, she passes me a cup from around the side of the counter.

“Now get to school,” she whispers.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I whisk the coffee out of her hand and head for the door. I can feel the warmth of the cup through my mittens and can’t wait to take a sip.

I round the corner. Only one more block. By the time I can see the building, the front steps are deserted. I must have missed the first bell.

I’m trying to stabilize my coffee and walk as fast as humanly possible when I hear footsteps in the snow behind me.

Apparently, I’m not the only delinquent this morning.

“Mornin’.” As soon as I hear the voice, I know who it is.

I turn my head and see Ethan closing in on me.

“Hi . . . ,” I say through an awkward smile, trying to act cool and totally not succeeding. “I’m so late. We are so late.

Come on.”

But he’s slowed down. His long legs could beat mine by a mile, but they stall and stop.

“You coming?” I ask.

He smiles, a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face.

That’s what Nanny would call it.

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When he doesn’t answer, I assume he’s staying put.

“All right . . . ,” I say, totally rejected. “Bye.”

“You wanna skip?” He kicks a pile of snow next to him.

“Skip?” I try to keep moving toward the steps, but I am caught in his tractor-beam smile. “For real?” He’s kidding.

He’s got to be kidding.

“Come on, you probably worked all day yesterday. I’ll call in for you.” He looks at me from under lowered lids.

“No one will ever know.”

I laugh. No way can I do this. “Really? I mean, I can’t.” I am on the first step. “I’ve never . . . Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Come on, let’s do it.” He looks up at the front doors. “I mean, look at that rat hole. I can’t even stand the thought of going in there today.”

I follow his eyes up to the school, all prison-like and stone-faced. It is a total rat hole. But still. “If I get caught . .

.” I finish that thought in my head. No cakes.

Ethan turns and walks away. He seems to have made a decision. “You are
not
going to get caught.” He motions for me to follow. “But the first rule of skipping and not getting caught is to put as much distance between yourself and the actual school as possible.”

The final bell rings. He motions for me again. One foot moves away from the steps. The other one follows. Oh God.

I’m ditching with Ethan Murphy. And no matter how many times I repeat that sentence in my head, I can’t believe it’s true.

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Once we’re off school grounds, he slows down. I am a step behind him, glancing sideways. What now?

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“You’ll get over it.” He grabs my hand like it’s the most natural action in the world. My mittens are still on, but I can feel the heat coming off of his bare skin.

I peek over my shoulder like an escaped felon holding the hand of an accomplice. And the fact that I’m trying so hard to steady my latte so it doesn’t slosh around strikes me as completely ridiculous. I mean, what kind of fugitive cares if her coffee spills?

“So what do you wanna do, Sheridan Wells?” he asks, and squeezes my hand.

Three options come to mind: (1) kiss him—hard, (2) figure out how not to be a spaz around him, or (3) run away, go get my tardy, and pretend this never happened. Number three is my most likely choice.

“Wanna go for a drive?” he says.

“Um . . . sure. Where to?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.” He laughs.

“Okay.” I’m sure this sounds utterly uncool, but I say it anyway: “For how long?”

We turn another corner, and then we’re standing in front of his house. Well, his mansion, really. The tall wrought-iron fence casts shadows on the sidewalk as we reach the gate.

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“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “As long as you want.”

He grips my hand again and pulls me along like I’m completely brain-dead. Before Ethan lived here, Nanny was a member of the Historical Society and worked to make this house a landmark. It was built by some cereal baron a long time ago and is undoubtedly the biggest, most ornate house in St. Mary. When we reach the door, Ethan unlocks it, pushes it open, and walks in. “Here we are.”

I step inside and gasp. Marble floors in the entrance lead to a sweeping grand staircase. An enormous chandelier hangs above us. I am in awe. He laughs when he sees my face.

“I know, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

When I stop gawking, my wide eyes land on his.

“You’re funny,” he says.

What? Was that a compliment? “I’m funny?”

“Yeah. Funny. Different.”

“Thanks.” I do a 360 in the huge foyer. “I think.”

He walks away, through a giant dining room. “Come on, let’s pick a car.” We move through a short hallway into a kitchen that would fit my entire chemistry class and then some.

“Wow!” Now I’m in complete shock.

“What?”

“This is the nicest kitchen I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Donovan Wells is your dad. You’ve seen kitchens nicer than this.”

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I don’t know what he thinks it means to be related to Donovan Wells, but he’s got the wrong idea.

“No. This is definitely the nicest kitchen I’ve ever seen.

Is your mom a cook or something?”

I clamp my mouth shut. If I ask him about his family, he might ask me about mine. And that’s the last topic I want to discuss with him.

“That’s the joke,” he says. “No. She hates to cook. I’m the one who loves it.”

“Oh, right,” I say, sure that he’s kidding.

“I’m serious. I’m actually pretty good. I’ll prove it to you one of these days.” He leans against a counter. “But my mother really just got the kitchen to piss off Rod.”

“Rod?”

“My dad.” Ethan walks to the fridge, a beautiful Sub-Zero that could hold a side of beef or two. “She’s determined to make him pay.”

My fingers slide across the cold white quartz counter-tops, probably worth more than most of the houses in St.

Mary.

“He must be paying big-time.”

“Yep.” He shrugs. “You want a Coke?”

“No thanks.” I have yet to take a sip of my latte, which is sitting on a corner of the kitchen island.

“That’s what happens when you take off: you pay,” he says, reaching in and grabbing a can for himself.

My eyes skip around the room. I am not sure how to re-114

spond to that comment. I wonder if he knows about Mom.

I wonder what price she’s paid for leaving us.

I glance at a clock on the wall, figuring that by now I have been marked absent by Wasserman. Funny—I’m feeling nervous but also exhilarated. Not just to be here, with the hottest guy in St. Mary, but also to be breaking the rules.

I am not a rule breaker.

I finally take a sip my latte, which is now cold. This will all be fine—as long as I don’t get caught. If I do . . . I don’t want to think about it. I have a lot of cakes on the books for the next few months. Who will make them if I’m locked away?

I watch Ethan walk to the phone and start dialing. “This is Donovan Wells calling in for Sheridan.” His voice is so manly he doesn’t even have to deepen it to sound like my father. “She’s got a fever and will be staying home.”

He hangs up like he pretends to be someone else’s dad every day.

I guess it’s official: I am skipping school.

“Thanks?” I try not to look terrified.

“Sure.” He is so cute I can’t stand it. And his stare makes me blush from forehead to feet.

“Are you gonna call for yourself?”

Ethan stops, smiles. “No one cares if I skip school. My mom’s in Gatlinburg with her latest boy toy. Doesn’t care.”

“But . . . don’t you need an excuse?”

He shuffles over to where I’m standing and leans on the 115

counter, his face a foot away from mine. So close we are shar-ing the same oxygen. The little hairs on my arms are standing at attention; my whole body is trapped in this electric field that seems to surround him. His blue eyes are shining.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll forge a note from my mother and bring it in tomorrow.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” He touches my arm and I quiver, even under my thick coat. My body is one big fat nerve ending.

I try to act confident, like I’m in on some joke, but I am a total fraud, an imposter. He’s still looking at me. I think his face has moved closer. Just a millimeter. But still. I have no idea what to do.

“Um . . . is there a bathroom?”

He stands straight up and turns around. “Right through there.” I wasn’t trying to kill the mood, I swear. But I have.

Completely.

I walk into the most beautiful powder room ever, with scarlet walls and a fancy gilded mirror. A light fixture drips with crystals above the toilet, and on the wall is a painting.

Not a framed print but a real painting. He has fine art in the bathroom.

The golden mirror mocks me as I wash my hands.

What are you doing, Sheridan? You’ve never even kissed a
boy. Not real y. And Ethan is used to a different kind of girl.

You are so far out of your league, they’re gonna have to send up
a flare so you can find your way back.

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I switch off the light and the mirror stops talking. I lean on the wall in the dark and think. Or try to. This is not a good idea. I know that.

But in my defense, I have had it rough. My mother, gone al these years. My father with his own big plans. I work hard.

I put up with a lot. I think I deserve to ignore the rules once in a while. To spend one day with someone like Ethan Murphy.

I push the door open before I change my mind. “Okay,”

I say. He’s waiting for me, just outside the door.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.” He leads me down a hall and through a door to the garage. A light comes on. Okay, so not only is his
house
bigger than my house, his
garage
is bigger than my house . . . and it is filled with sparkling cars. There’s a black BMW SUV, a blue Volvo sedan, and a cherry red convert-ible Corvette with racing stripes. At the far end, a speedboat.

“Which one do you like?” he asks.

“I have no idea.” I turn to him and give him a flirty smile. “You choose.”

“Okay then.” He looks at me as he moves down the row. “Definitely not a Volvo girl.” He keeps walking. “The SUV?” He shakes his head. “Too expected.” He makes it to the Corvette and opens the passenger door. “You may not be a Corvette girl, either, but I think I can convert you.”

I take a step forward. “What if I don’t want to be a Corvette girl?”