Wake (22 page)

I wonder about him. He was so put off balance by Emily this past weekend—he must value her opinion highly. He called her his friend, but perhaps that’s a new label on their relationship. Maybe they were something else entirely. Maybe that’s why he took it so hard.

I can’t picture Jem dating anyone. Then again, I also can’t really picture him as the red-haired teenager I’ve seen in photos. I’ve only known this incarnation of him—this oversensitive, loveable asshole. Maybe I don’t know him well enough to know his romantic predilections. Maybe Emily wasn’t it, but someone else was. Jem isn’t exactly vocal about the past. I don’t know if he’s ever dated, much less whom, or if he has a type. Even the broad categories like orientation have never come up in conversation. I’ll keep him filed under 'ambiguous' for now.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” The happiness in his eyes dims with suspicion. Jem gets so defensive over the small est things. I can’t even have the pleasure of looking at him without an excuse.

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you used to it?” Jem’s face goes blank, but his hands clench into fists before he gets up off the picnic table and storms away. Moody as ever, I see.

“Wait.”

Jem ignores me. I knew better than to say that, and now I need to apologize.

I get up and take my time crossing the parking lot. Jem is marching toward his car, pissed off as he is.

I know he’s sensitive about his appearance and others’ reactions to him. He says he likes me for not being afraid to look, but I he doesn't really want anyone to look at him, even himself.

Jem gets into the driver’s seat and leans over to check the glove box for a spare key. I open the passenger door and slide in.

“Piss off,” he growls at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“Get out.”

“At least let me apologize. I was out of line.”

“Damn right you were.” He slams the glove box closed. His palms come down heavily on the steering wheel as he blows out an angry breath. I watch his knuckles turn white as he grips the wheel of a stuck-

stationary vehicle.

“Can we talk?”

“What the hell is there to talk about?” He won’t look at me. I must have stepped farther over the line than I thought.

“Why I was staring at you.” That gets his attention. He looks at me like I just threatened to set off a firecracker in the car.

“Why?” he finally asks.

“I was thinking about Elise.”

A little crease appears between Jem’s eyebrows. He wasn’t expecting that, and can’t see how it all adds up to the look I was giving him.

“About her and that guy she’s crushing on. The basketball player.”

“What about them?”

“Does romance weird you out? Or is it just Elise?”

“Just Elise. She’s my baby sister, for crying out loud. She isn’t supposed to be interested in that kind of crap.” His fingers, which were beginning to relax on the steering wheel, tense again.

“Mmmh. I see.”

“No you don’t, your brother isn’t a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“Isn’t that a little sexist? You wouldn’t be tweaking if Elise was a boy.”

Jem sighs irritably and ignores my question. “Was that really all you were thinking?” he demands.

“More or less.”

“What does that mean?”

“I was also kind of wondering, if it wasn’t just Elise that bugged you, but romance in general—if you were some kind of closet case or asexual.”

Jem looks at me expectantly, like I haven’t finished my sentence. When I don’t continue after ten seconds he bursts out laughing. The sudden noise makes me jump, and I sit there watching him rock in his seat with bitter laughter.

“You are so…!” He cuts himself off to think of the right word. “So…insane. You don’t think clearly. Who else would jump to such a stupid conclusion but you?” He has no idea how right he is.

“well you roll your eyes at Paige and Diane whenever they talk about dating, and you’re downright mean to Elise whenever she shows interest in a guy. You’re cynical about Celeste’s boyfriend. You never show interest in any of the girls at school, and you’re oddly fixated on Elwood—it’s not such a wild conclusion, when you really think about it.”

“Paige and Diane talk about petty high school drama. It’s juvenile. And I’ve already explained Elise.

Celeste’s relationship is a joke, Elwood is a complete tool, and what good does it do me to be interested in any girl here—
who the hell would go out with me
?”

“You’re right.” That takes him aback. “You’re an absolute asshole. Any girl with half a brain would avoid you.”

Jem adjusts his face into a more neutral expression and turns away. He slouches down in the driver’s seat, looking thoughtful. Stray raindrops begin to hit the windshield.

“Why don’t you avoid me?”

“You’ve grown on me.”

“Like a tumor.”

“Jem.” He absolutely has to ruin everything with bitterness and morbidity, doesn’t he? He mutters an apology and sighs.

“Can we just forget about this?”

“No. You’ve made me curious.”

“I’m not going to tell you what kind of cancer I had.”

“Not about that.
Is
there anyone you’re interested in?” Lord have mercy on the girl he chooses to pursue. He’d probably be all creepy and melodramatic about it, like Van Gogh.

Jem looks at me out of the corner of his eye. The movement is just a flicker, gone before I can be sure I’ve seen it, and he sighs. “No.”

*

It’s the last day of the egg project. We hand in the assignment and show Mrs. Hudson the egg to prove that it’s still ‘alive.’ When she sends us back to our seats Jem asks what we should do with the thing.

What a stupid question.

I take it out of his hand and lob it toward the trash can. It cracks on the far side and yell ow goo runs down the black bag, into the bin.

Jem is looking at me like I just murdered a kitten. “What?”

“What is the matter with you?”

“Dude, it’s an egg.”

Jem refuses to talk to me for the rest of the period. I don’t get it. He wasn’t even interested in this assignment.

Saturday The gulls made good on their prophecy. It rained hard all night, with hail to punctuate the Devil’s Hour.

The storm carries over into the morning, bringing down blustery winds and flirting with sleet. On an especially nasty day like today it’s hard to do anything. Of course, some people can’t be deterred. Luke calls at nine o’clock and persuades me to drive out to Port Elmsley to spend the day in his garage. He was deeply offended when he heard that I didn’t know how to do basic stuff to my car like change a tire or check the oil. So we scheduled this little meeting to ‘make me less of a girl.’ I’m not sure if that’s sexist or just true.

I spend the morning in the Thorpe garage and stay for lunch. Luke wants to spend the afternoon together too, but I beg the excuse of homework. When I get back to Smiths Falls and decent cell reception, my phone buzzes with three missed calls and a text message. The calls were from Jem. How the hell did he get my number? I certainly did not give it to him. He must have swiped my phone while he was over and programmed his info into it.

The text message is from him too:
Where are you?
It’s been five hours since he sent that text.

You’re not the only one who is allowed to be MIA on a Saturday.

Jem gets back to me right away:
I reserve the right to monopolize your attention next Saturday.

We’ll see.

Are you home now? What are you doing?

Your mom.

I don’t hear from him again until late at night, just as I’m crawling into bed. I’ve gotten into the habit of putting headphones on to fall asleep lately. It helps to drown out the sound of the frigid wind blowing over the roof. Luckily Jem’s text arrives before I press play, or I wouldn’t have noticed the buzzing.

What are you thinking about tonight?

I keep it simple:
Music. Santana.
He made a reference to one of their songs yesterday at school and I’ve had the melody stuck in my head since.

I can’t sleep.

Tough break.

Are you listening to Santana now?

Yeah. “Into the Night.”

Can I listen with you?

Before I can reply my phone rings. That’s not my usual ringtone. It’s a short recording of Jem saying, “Pick up, it’s me.” A picture of his stupid smirking face replaces my wallpaper. Not only did he steal my number, he programmed himself into my phone, created an annoying ringtone, and took a picture to go with it. That douche.

“We need to have a talk about boundaries,” I say in place of ‘hello.’ He giggles like a little kid who has managed to pull off a lame prank successful y.

“I thought it was pretty stealthy.”

“You are such an ass.”

“Did you have a good day?” There’s a hopefull undercurrent in his voice, like he genuinely wants me to be happy. What a weirdo.

“It was decent.”

“Did you and Frank do something?”

“No, I was in Port Elmsley all day.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t like that. And it’s too late in the day for me to even consider dealing with his sulky moods.

“Do you want Santana or not?”

“Yeah, please.”

I leave one earphone in and place the other over my cell phone mic on my pillow. I listen to “Into the Night” with Jem, a song that sounds sort of like a lul aby despite the electric guitars.

“Goodnight,” I say when the song ends. He doesn’t answer me, but I hear slow breathing on the other end of the line. So much for insomnia.

Sunday I set today aside for errands, since I’ve been busy all week. I make a quick stop at the bank and then it’s on to the grocery store. I’m choosing apples from the bin when a pair of hands grabs my waist suddenly. “Gotcha.” I jump. I can’t help it. And when I turn around, guess who’s the culprit?

“Are you seriously stalking me now?”

“It’s a nice Sunday morning hobby.” Jem takes the bag of apples from me and ties it off. “What next?”

He pushes the cart farther down the aisle toward the nectarines and oranges. I guess he’s shopping with me, then.

“Fresh ginger,” I say, and Jem gives me a strange look. His expression is almost happy, somewhat satisfied, and a little bit suspicious. Let him wonder.

*

In complete violation of common sense, I bring my stalker home with me. He helps me put the groceries away and then I sit down to plan four days’ worth of frozen meals. I figure two lasagnas and two casseroles should do the trick. I’ll make those this afternoon.

And in the meantime, I show my stalker how to make green tea sweetened with fresh ginger.

“You should be a chef,” he tells me. “You love cooking so much.”

“Maybe.”

“Lucky for me you do.” Jem nudges my shoulder teasingly. “I was getting sick of puking up green Jel -

O.”

“So you’re glad to have a variety of things to puke back up?” That might be the strangest compliment ever given to anyone, anywhere.

“No,” he says, suddenly serious. “Your food has never made me sick. well , there was one time, but I was pretty tense so it probably wasn’t the food.”

“I’m glad to hear it, then.”

“How do you know?” I look up from the simmering pot of ginger on the stove to find him giving me a searching look.

“Know what?”

“Just what to make, when. You never make something I can’t handle, and that changes hour-by-hour.”

I didn’t even realize I was doing it, but now that he’s asked, the answer springs to mind with the obviousness of plain truth: “I watch you. When you’re sluggish you need sugars. When you’re cranky you need protein. You suck on the inside of your lip when you’re in the mood for something sweet. If you keep very still or flex your hands a lot, I go heavy on the mint and ginger.” I shrug. “You’re an open book, Harper.”

Jem frowns just slightly and slips his hands into his pockets. “Thank you, for…caring enough to notice all that.”

“It’s habit.”

“Your sister?”

“Everyone. I like to cook, remember? It involves pleasing an audience.” But that’s only partly true. He had it right with his first guess. Cooking for my sister made me feel a little less helpless.

Monday Jem writes the next progress report for our Soc project. We’ve successfuly killed six snapdragons in il ustration of the effects of pollution on local vegetation. I’ll do the next phase of the report—probably about community clean-up initiatives.

At night Jem calls me up before bed and requests “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks.

“Why?” And why am I pandering to his requests like a DJ?

“It reminds me of you.”

“Go to hell.”

“I’m not calling you a bitch,” he protests in that persuasive tone that I’ve come to think of as his form of whining. It sounds nicer, but it’s whining nonetheless, because most of the time it works on me.

I ignore his request and put on “Possibility” by Sierra Noble—another lul aby song. It’s my go-to music on nights I can’t sleep. This time, Jem is awake when the song ends.

“Why did you pick that one?” he says quietly.

“It relaxes me.” He doesn’t say anything, but I can hear the faint rustle of bedding as he adjusts his position on the other end of the line. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Willa.” He hangs up before I do. His parting tone was sad. Thinking about that keeps me awake longer than it ought.

Tuesday Frank plans to put in the weekly call to Mom and Dad with my progress report after dinner, so I make myself scarce. Holed up in my room, I try to get some homework done, and after four hours this essay outline for Geography is driving my insane.

The phone rings. Thank God. Even if it’s Paige calling to gush about Elwood, it’ll rescue me from this project. More likely it’s Luke, calling to work out plans for this weekend like we said we would. I leap across the room to grab it off my dresser and answer without checking the caller ID.

“Thank God you call ed.”

An altogether too smug chuckle greets me. “Happy to hear from me?”