Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(11)

Chapter 3





Emma



“All I’m saying, Em, is that you can’t take any risks right now. I’m not saying that you can’t have a life. Of course you can have a life. It’s just…for now…for the next little while, however long that is, you have to take life slow.”

My mom has been sitting on the foot of my bed, explaining her decision to me for at least an hour. I quit listening five minutes in, when she finally choked out the part where I have to stay home today instead of going to the hockey rink to watch Andrew. Correction: she didn’t say I had to stay home, she said she wouldn’t give me a ride.

My dad took my little brother, Cole, to this Tiny Tikes soccer program, something they do at this indoor gym by the mall. Not that it matters, because I know he wouldn’t take me either. It’s part of their concerted effort to make decisions about my life while they whisper behind their bedroom door at night—decisions that I am not a part of making.

“Em, you do understand, don’t you honey?”

My mom has asked this question at least six times. Each time, I say no. I say it again.

“I’m never going to agree with you. It’s ice-skating. I’m not going to get hurt. Nothing is going to happen. It’s only slightly riskier than walking,” I roll my eyes.

“Honey, you know that’s not true. You could fall and break something, and the time it would take you to heal, it all plays into everything,” she says. She’s making things up at this point, but I don’t argue. There isn’t a point.

I was standing out in the front yard with her and my father, watching my brother race around the dying grass, when the woman who lives across the street came over. Mom mentioned I was a sophomore, and the woman asked if I’d met anyone nice yet. I said I square danced with Andrew Harper.

I said too much.

After an hour of hearing this woman expose every wound and skeleton that exists in the Harper home, two things became certain—my parents would never approve of Andrew, and I would never be able to forget him.

They won’t say it. They won’t, because they know how it will sound—bad. It will sound bad because it is bad to sum Andrew up based on a nosey neighbor’s opinion, and to assume because bad things have followed him through life, he’ll do nothing but bring them to me too.

So instead, my parents talk about how careful I need to be—reminding me why we moved to Illinois in the first place, and the promise that is now only weeks away.

I keep my attention on my phone, wishing like hell I were brave enough to ask him for his number so I could text him right now, let him know I won’t be there. I hate that he’s expecting me, and I’m going to disappoint him.

“What if I promise not to skate?” I ask, surprising myself. I’m putting a foot down, something I haven’t been very good at lately. But I’m doing it.

My mom doesn’t answer, and for a brief second or two I think she might pretend she didn’t hear me. She finally looks at me, and I can see her trying to work out a new reason I can’t go. There’s a lot of work happening behind her eyes—but unless she’s willing to say she doesn’t want me hanging out with Andrew, she’s got nothing.

“No skating,” she repeats, standing and holding a finger up at me, as if I’ve done something wrong.

“No skating,” I say, my stomach sinking a little, knowing I might be lying, because skating with Andrew was so…

“I want you home by noon,” she says, her finger still pointing. Why is she pointing? I want to snap it off; it’s infuriating me so.

“His game isn’t done until noon. I won’t get to talk to him at all,” I say, standing and getting my shoes on, not bothering to pause while I speak for fear she’ll reverse the direction we’re moving. I am getting progress for the first time all morning; I’m not halting it.

“Were you planning on spending the whole day with him?” she asks, and I can sense that small hint of distaste in her tone. I stare her down until she looks away.

That’s the other part about moving here. We had a long conversation about giving me some freedom, within reason. I am what everyone in my high school would call a goody-goody. I call my parents. I come home on time. I don’t sneak around—though, I’m pretty sure I’m going back on that whole no skating promise. I’ve never given my parents a reason not to trust me, and if I’m going to go through with the things on my plate over the next few months, then I’m owed a little slack when it comes to the social things that are supposed to define this time of my life.

“We might have lunch. I’ll be home before the sun sets. My homework is done, and I won’t do anything that will result in a trip to the hospital or casts or…or even a Band Aid,” I plead. Dragging my finger over my chest in a crisscross pattern, I stare into my mom’s eyes, hoping to hear the sound of her keys jingling in her hand. She reaches into her purse, and I hug her.

“Home by six,” she says, one more point with her finger. I don’t even mind it this time—I’m so happy.

Andrew’s game is halfway over by the time my mom gets me to the rink. She wanted to come in and watch with me, but I begged her not to. She compromised by waiting at the curb by the front doors until I was completely inside. There’s a part of me that thinks she might still be out in the parking lot now.