Bright Before Sunrise(16)

“That’s so sweet of you to say. And here you are with no plans—would you even consider it? Sophia is an angel. I promise she’ll be easy. I bet my husband will even have her asleep before we leave. And we won’t be late. What do you think?”

“Mom?” I wonder if she’ll object to my going to a stranger’s home—But, no, if you’re in the jewelry/candles/scrap-booking party circuit, then you’re trustworthy.

“It’s up to you—but I want a home number and address.”

“Of course!” says Mrs. Shea.

Both of them are waiting for my answer. Me, in Jonah’s house—I’d wished for a way to figure him out and this is backstage access. Almost too much access—I just want to know a little more about him. I don’t need to see where he sleeps and eats his morning cereal.

But if I want to meet the deadline for ordering the plaque, if I don’t want to let down Mr. Donnelly, if I ever want Jonah to give me more than a moment’s attention, then this could be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

“Will Jonah be home?”

“No, sorry. As soon as school ends on Friday he’s off like a shot. I barely see that boy all weekend.” She looks disappointed. I’m melting with relief.

All that’s left for me to do is agree—and despite my desire to spend the night hibernating, I nod.

“Great!” She carefully claps her hands, now tipped with dark red nails. “Why don’t I bring you straight to our house from here. That way I can go over all the emergency numbers and instructions with you.”

“Sure, I guess.” I wish I had even half a spine and the ability to say that word that starts with an N and ends in an O. It’s a word Jonah clearly has no problem saying … maybe after tonight I’ll understand why.





9

JONAH

5:03 P.M.


CARLY TIME


Normally Carly is waiting out front when I pull up, eager to kiss me, burrow beneath my chin, then kiss me again. It’s an impatient-Carly thing, but also a practical one; if I enter her house, it’s at least an hour before we finish talking to all her family members and get back out the door.

Tonight she’s not sitting on the steps, but that’s no big deal. I love her family. I’d even asked my parents if I could move in with them and finish my senior year at Hamilton High. Mom had said, “Don’t you understand the opportunities I’ll be able to give you now that I’m married to Paul?” Dad had been speaker-phoned into the conversation. When Mom mentioned “Paul,” he’d hung up.

But tonight, if we end up watching a Brazilian soccer game with Carly’s parents, sister, and brother before going to Jeff’s party, I’m okay with that. One of the best things about her is that she’d probably be okay with that too.

Seven-year-old Marcos answers the door. “Hey, Jonah.”

“How’s it going, little dude?” I brace myself for an ambush—for him to jump on me and demand a piggyback ride or whip out his Nerf guns and begin a foam-bullet assault. When he just stands there eyeing the toes of his scuffed blue sneakers, I ask, “Do we have time for a quick catch? My glove is in the car. Or want to play a round of MLB Showdown?”

“Can’t.” Marcos’s sigh is so exaggerated I have to fight a smile. “I’m supposed to go watch TV. Carly’s in a bad mood—she said I’m not allowed to play with you. It’s not fair.”

I put my hands on my knees and stoop to make eye contact. “Level with me. On a scale of one to ten, how cranky is she?”

Marcos sucks on his pointer finger while he thinks about this. “Eleven. She’s been yelling at Ana all night and she slammed her door—twice.”

“Hmmm. How about I come over tomorrow and we play catch? I haven’t seen Carly all week—I was cranky today too.”

Marcos nods and sticks out a hand to shake on the deal, then disappears downstairs to his playroom. I take another step into the kitchen and look around—the house is abnormally quiet for a Friday night.

I’m disappointed Mr. Santos isn’t around. We typically talk baseball until Carly’s tugging on his sleeve and whining, “Papai, we need to go.” Or until his wife intercedes. But the only one here is Carly’s grandmother, Avó. She’s sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine devoted to her soap operas. It must be a high-drama article, because she doesn’t get up to hug me and fuss. She raises her eyebrows over the glossy cover and then turns a page. I lean down and peck her cheek and scan the headlines.

“Do we want Dr. Drake to come back from the dead? Or is it better for Cordelia if he stays gone?”

“She’s better off without him; he’s a cheating scoundrel.” Avó lowers the magazine and adds a string of rapid-fire Portuguese that reminds me, yet again, what I’m being taught in school is not at all helpful in the real world. At least not in my real world. It’s probably useful for my classmates who spend their spring breaks on Ibiza. And those who pat themselves on the back for being so cosmopolitan when they use their textbook Spanish to give condescending instructions to their Hispanic housekeepers. Cross Pointe High offers six languages—I could study Latin, which isn’t even spoken anywhere but stuffy universities—but I can’t learn the language my girlfriend’s family uses when they’re pissed off.