The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett(25)

“Yeah, I’ve heard some kids mention you guys,” Emily said. “I’ve never heard you play though.”

“You should come to one of our shows. It’s pretty intense. We do this sort of metal-bluegrass fusion. I think you’ll like it.”

I snorted.

“Let me know when you have your next gig,” Emily said.

“Sure thing.” He threw down the cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his Doc Marten. “See you in sixth.”

I gaped at Emily as soon as the door shut. “Metal-bluegrass fusion? What does that even mean? Does he scream obscenities while strumming a banjo?”

“Don’t be so judgmental.”

“Seriously? That guy is clearly inviting judgment on himself.”

“Sort of like someone who believes in werewolves?”

I scowled.

“Besides,” Emily went on, “I’ve heard that his band is actually really good.”

“Heard that from who?”

“People.”

“What people?” I pressed.

“Friends, Hawthorn. My friends. You’re not the only person I talk to.”

I wasn’t?

“Are you going to see his band play?” I asked.

“Maybe. Do you want to come?”

“Maybe.”

I didn’t know why we were arguing over something so stupid. The last thing I wanted to do was fight with Emily. But I was still uncomfortable with her having friends I didn’t know, talking about music things I didn’t get.

How long before Emily’s new friends, the people who shared her interests, stole her away from me? Pretty soon, maybe Emily wouldn’t have any use for me at all. Why would she? She belonged to a world I had no place in.





Chapter 11


In the Woods

I was sitting on a stool at the back of the Sunshine Café, updating the specials on the whiteboard, when Vinny the cook came in from his smoke break and said, “Your boyfriend is here, Creely.”

I knew he meant Enzo and didn’t bother telling Vinny that calling him my boyfriend was not as hilarious as he thought it was. I also didn’t tell him we weren’t in a locker room, so there was no reason to call me by my last name.

I got up and peeked through the window to the dining room. Sure enough, Enzo Calvetti was sitting at the booth by the door, wearing the same ratty sweater as last time I saw him. I grabbed the coffee carafe and made my way out of the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Enzo said.

“Any news on your girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Sorry.”

I finished pouring and stood there, hating myself because I knew I was being awkward, but not wanting to walk away, even though I didn’t really have anything more to say.

“Are you coming here because it makes you feel close to her?” I blurted out.

“I come here because no one bothers me.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, thinking maybe I should take a vow of silence to prevent stupid things from coming out of my mouth.

“Hey, that didn’t come out right,” Enzo said. “I didn’t mean you.”

“No, I’m probably being invasive. Let me know if you need anything else.”

The next thing he said startled me. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Hawthorn Creely.”

“Hawthorne like the writer?”

I usually said yes when people asked that question, though it was a lie. It would have been nice to be named after a writer.

“Hawthorn like the tree,” I said, making a face.

“Your parents named you after a tree?”

“They sure did.”

Enzo smiled. “There’s got to be a story behind that.”

“There is, and it’s one of my least favorite stories ever.”

“Now you have to tell me.”

I sighed. “Apparently, I was conceived under a hawthorn tree.”

Enzo laughed, and I smiled, though I didn’t think there was anything remotely funny about it. I was still angry at my mom for sharing that information with me in the first place.

When Enzo stopped laughing, he looked me in the eye, which made me sort of uncomfortable. I didn’t know if I should stay or go.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.

My surprise must have shown on my face.

“Most people are treating me like a criminal.”

“I’m not like most people,” I said.

“I can tell.”

He didn’t sound put off by it. It was possible he even thought it was a good thing.

“And I know you’re not a criminal,” I said.

“How?” Enzo asked. “You don’t know me. And if I’d killed Lizzie, I’d hardly go around broadcasting it.”

“Are you trying to convince me you are a murderer then?”

Enzo smiled. That was the third time. When he smiled or laughed, it felt like a victory.

“I guess I’m being nice to you because I know how it feels,” I said.

“How what feels?”

“Being an outsider.”

As soon as I spoke, I wished I could take it back. I waited for him to say, “Now that you mention it, you are kind of a loser.” Or maybe, “Please don’t compare me to you.”