Tease(44)

Emma got right in the middle of everything. If I was invisible, she was too visible; she was ultraviolet. She was a nuclear explosion, detonating and destroying everything and everyone else in the process. Now I’m stuck at a school that’s still in mourning, stuck in a whole world of people who think I’m the reason this girl is dead. They act like they want me dead too, like I should just go kill myself because Emma did—and no one even seems to see how that doesn’t make any sense at all.

I’m still crying, but the sobs have turned into regular tears, just fat drops rolling down my face without my permission. The next song starts and I turn the keys, cranking the engine back on. As I’m backing out of the parking space I think I see Dylan in my rearview mirror, walking out the back door in his stupid store clerk blue polo shirt and khakis. I blink hard, trying to clear my vision, but I don’t look back again. Instead I lower the visor and slide open the little mirror. Carefully smoothing the skin under my eyes to hide that I’ve been crying, even though the tears are still coming, I take a long breath. Then I snap the visor back up and jerk the car into reverse. There’s still time to kill and I need to do it somewhere else.

No one from school goes to the Starbucks at the Barnes & Noble on Seventy-second Street because it’s right next to the crappy mall, which is another place no one goes. The bookstore isn’t so crappy, though, and it’s not too far from Teresa’s. It’s basically the perfect place. As I walk in I think maybe I should just move in here.

There’s no one in line so I get my latte pretty quickly, even though the guy working looks like he’s baked and hates everyone. There are a couple of little kids running around the seating area while their moms talk and take up all the armchairs. So I put a Splenda in my coffee and head farther into the store, running a hand over the Staff Recommends and Great Reads for Back-to-School tables. I turn aimlessly down an aisle and practically trip over someone sitting on the floor.

It’s Carmichael.

“Oh,” I say, almost falling backward. We haven’t talked much at school since that first day, mostly because I don’t know what to say.

I still don’t know, and for a second I think I should just run in the other direction, when Carmichael looks up and shakes his hair out of his face.

“Hey,” he says easily. “What’s up?”

I shrug. I think maybe I’ve been avoiding Carmichael, but I’m not sure if it’s been for his sake or mine. His friends are all shaggy-haired bike riders and usually he seems busy with other things at school—and our schedules are just different. And I’ve gotten really good at not looking anyone in the eye during the school day. It’s easier that way.

“Sit?” he asks, sweeping a hand over the patch of floor next to him like he’s offering a silk pillow or something.

What the hell. I shrug again and lower myself down, crossing my legs and looking at the book he has open on his lap.

“It’s a good one,” he says. “Have you read the others? The Walking Dead?”

“Like the show?” I ask.

“Waaaay better than the show.” He flips the book closed and adds, “If you haven’t read them, I don’t wanna give anything away.”

I smile a little and sip my coffee.

“So,” he goes on, “you following me now? Like you did all summer?”

“What? That’s the dumbest—I wasn’t following you!”

He keeps a totally straight face as he says, “Well, whenever I went to school, you were there.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s how it works,” I say, unable to stop explaining the obvious. “And you were never there!”

“I helped you pass English, though.”

“Yeah,” I agree. This is true. And he helped me to feel sort of normal for a couple weeks. “You know your Shakespeare. What were you doing in summer school, anyway?” I’ve been wondering this for a long time, but I want to bite the words back. It’s like when I asked about his tattoos—I’m sure it’s too personal.

But like with the tattoos, he doesn’t seem to mind. “I tried to transfer,” he says. “Well, technically, I tried to move away, but it didn’t work out. And by the time I came back, I was behind, so, you know.”

“Where’d you go?” I ask.

“My dad’s. Kearney.”

I nod. I’ve never been to Kearney, but I know it’s a couple of hours away, kind of in the middle of nowhere.

Carmichael looks back down at his book, at the cover with a bloody guy on it. “It’s that same old story,” he says, lifting his head again but staring at the shelves now. “Crappy dad, never around, gets back in touch, blah blah blah.”

“So you moved in with him?” I ask. I used to think about going to live with my dad sometimes. In the very beginning, before he had new kids and everything, it was like this perfect fantasy—we’d live in a fancy apartment in Chicago and we’d do stuff together. I’d learn to like baseball or fishing or whatever. I’d be one of those pretty tomboy-type girls, with this cool dad teaching her how to fix cars.

Obviously it was a completely stupid idea.

Carmichael nods and finally looks back at me again. “He’s still a crappy dad, so things didn’t work out,” he says. “Not a very good story, I guess.”