Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(17)

“Home before sunset, just like I promised,” I say through gritted teeth only my mom can see. She ignores my nonverbal plea, though, and shifts her focus right to Andrew.

“Yes, I see. Thank you, Andrew, for bringing Emma home,” my mom says, reaching out a hand for him to take. This is a test, to see what he does. But Andrew does nothing but act like himself. He stutters a bit, then responds with a few of courses while he repeatedly shakes my mother’s hand before awkwardly reaching for my father’s.

He calls them both Mr. and Mrs. Burke, saying their names at least a dozen times, and when he’s not looking, they’re taking turns surveying his car for danger, then memorizing his piercings and the way he’s dressed. I’m sure in their mind he looks to be everything the nosey neighbor warned about—the youngest in a brood of hoodlum troublemakers—but I’m hopeful that his bumbling speech and clumsiness in front of them cancels most of it out.

Before I realize it, he’s made his way back to the driver’s side, and when he gets in the car and revs the engine, I realize I’ve managed not to get his number for a second time. I regret that the moment he drives away.

I regret it more when my parents begin to pick him apart as we walk back up to the house.

I regret it most, though, when I shut my bedroom door on them and curl up in front of my window and wait for the sun to go down—for one more day to tick off my calendar, for the waiting to be over.

I should tell him. It would be nice to tell someone.

Maybe after our trip to Chicago.





Chapter 4





Andrew



I’m pretty sure Emma’s parents don’t like me. I don’t think they dislike me, but I got the strong sense they were working through a lot of Harper-shit to drill down to the real me. And I think they still think the real me isn’t far off from the stories they’ve heard.

I didn’t help things by acting like an idiot. At least I wasn’t threatening.

Of course, now I can’t find Emma. I drove by her house every morning this week, and their cars were always gone. I looked for her in PE every day, but she was missing from the line of girls racing up the steps or out from the locker room. After my morning drive-by on Friday, when I got a strange look from the woman who lives across the street, I finally broke down and asked Dwayne where Emma was. He checked with the office for me and said her parents signed her out for the week.

I know she isn’t gone because of me. But there’s also that f*cked-up little voice in the back of my head that’s working real hard at convincing me that yeah, she’s gone because of me. I creeped her out. Her parents hate me. She’s moved back to Delaware—fleeing the entire state of Illinois because Andrew Harper is bad news.

The only thing that’s made me feel better is skating, and I’ve been extra rough with the guys who’ve shown up to scrimmage this week. One of them finally had enough, and checked me back, then took his elbow to my chin hard, cracking my lip open.

I’ve been sitting on the other side of the glass, spitting, for the last fifteen minutes. Chris, the dude who popped me in the face, stopped by to apologize. I flipped him off.

“Look at baby Harper,” a voice calls from behind me. I twist in my seat, wincing at the deep bruise Chris apparently left on my ribs. I’m able to shift enough to see my brother’s friend House in my periphery. House is kind of an *, but he’s harmless. And he was glued to Owen for most of my life; when he moved away, it was kind of like losing another brother.

“Dude, what are you doing in town?” I say, standing, but holding the washcloth to my mouth while I slap House’s hand with my free one.

“Yo, Indiana sucks worse than this shithole,” he says, spitting his tobacco into a cup he’s carrying. That cup—it’s f*ckin’ disgusting.

“Yeah, well, I could have told you that. If you want change, you need to go to the city, or some place like Vegas or California, man,” I say, testing the bloodstain on the rag I’ve been holding to my mouth. The blood is less, so I toss the cloth on top of my borrowed equipment on the floor.

“Your lip’s all f*cked up, dude. What happened?” he says, reaching his hand toward my face as if to touch it. I smack his hand away, but he does it again. He keeps doing it until I punch his arm. “Look at that, baby Harper’s growing up, and he’s feisty.”

“Dude, whatever,” I roll my eyes and bend down to pick up my things to return to the counter. “It’s nothing. I just took a jab to the face.”

“You Harpers, always getting hit in your pretty-boy faces,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the counter while I hand my things over to Gary and toss the bloody cloth into the trash.

“Whatever, man,” I say, stepping toward the door and encouraging House to follow. He isn’t quiet, and people are already starting to watch us suspiciously. House—he’s like a warning siren for a shit-storm of trouble.

He follows me out to the parking lot, to my car, and when he whistles, my chest feels a little fuller. There are few people who will recognize this car—my brother and House are at the top of that list.

“Damn, that old man finally sold it. Or…wait, did you lift this shit?” he says, stepping back with his hands in the air.

“Fuck off. Mom bought it, but I have to pay her back,” I say, cracking open the door, not even minding the sound it makes.