Bright Before Sunrise(32)

“I only need one,” I answer and storm the aisles, searching for what I want. While it isn’t exactly the same, it will do. I hurry back to the register, and Mrs. Yates is waiting with a smile.

“You came out at nine p.m. just for this?” she asks.

“It was an emergency.” I smile at the bottle I’m rolling between both hands; it stings each time it coasts over the marks left by my nails. “But how about I add this too?” I hand her a Snickers bar.

“I remember being a teen—fashion and chocolate are always emergencies. Have fun.”





17

Jonah

9:01 P.M.


LONGEST HOUR OF MY LIFE


A Brighton rebellion. I’m curious what she’ll buy in the pharmacy. Or maybe she won’t buy anything—maybe she’s proving she’s not boring by shoplifting. Jeff once stole a Matchbox car after his older brother called him a chicken. But Jeff was eight, and I really can’t see Brighton pocketing anything without paying.

Bells signal her reappearance. Never barks once and strains to go sniff her. I tug on his leash and he sits, but his tail beats impatiently against the ground. I know how he feels. Is she walking slowly on purpose? If she’s waiting for me to ask, I won’t.

“This is for you.” She tosses me a candy bar—a very bad throw, but I stretch up and catch it automatically. “And this is for me.” She holds up a glittery-green bottle like it’s a trophy.

“That’s it?” My voice sounds harsh, even to me, but seriously, nail polish?

She frowns at me and continues to turn the bottle so the glitter reflects in the streetlight. “What were you expecting? It’s a pharmacy, not a tattoo parlor.”

“I don’t know, something more impressive like hair dye or condoms or something.”

“This is impressive! I’ve been wearing Pointe-Shoe Pink since I was twelve.” She curls the bottle into her palm and tightens her other hand into a fist. “Wait! Condoms? Why would I need—”

“Let’s head back; they might be there.” I turn Never and head toward the crosswalk. I can think of a reason for condoms … if she were Carly.

Carly. She’d dyed her hair a few weeks ago. Had there been some bigger significance to that? Some late-night dare, or had she done it to prove a point? I hadn’t asked. I’d been too shocked to do anything but stare.

I kick a piece of mulch that’s dared to stray from a perfect flower bed. Is it too early to call her and try and explain? Once my car’s unlocked and my phone’s accessible, do I want to? If she knew who I was with right now, she’d never believe me.

I want my old life back, but do I want to grovel? She wouldn’t even listen to me. Didn’t trust me. My stomach prickles, and I have to stop myself from grinding my teeth.

Brighton continues to talk about her nail polish—are there really people in the world who care this much about colored fingertips? I roll my eyes at Never, wishing Paul would even consider getting a dog this awesome. He gave away his cat as soon as they found out Mom was pregnant, so I’m sure anything that sheds, slobbers, or is remotely interesting will be categorized as “absolutely not.”

I’d love to see how Never handles a game of fetch. Maybe if AAA’s not there yet.

“I almost got this color today, and I let my mom talk me out of it. No, I didn’t even let her talk me out of it, because that implies I did some talking. I just let her bulldoze me. ‘You don’t want that color, baby; you always get the same color. Go, sit.’ And I did, just like a dog. Not like that dog, but like one that’s obedient.” She throws these words at the sidewalk without looking at me.

“Here. I’ll show you how to walk him. I had a boxer when I was little. A Saint Bernard’s not that different.” I loop the leash over the hand she extends. God, her wrists are tiny. She’s not rail thin or sickly like a lot of Cross Pointe girls, but her wrists are tiny. I bet my fingers could wrap around and overlap two knuckles. I shake off the urge to try, jerking my hand off hers.

“Now, you walk.” I start down the sidewalk, and Never stands up and follows, panting, tongue dripping.

She manages a few almost-controlled steps before Never begins galloping.

“Give him a command!” I yell as she struggles to sprint behind him, then digs in her flip-flops to try and stop him; they’re useless on the sidewalk. The little bottle falls from her hand in a metallic blur. I ignore it and run to catch up. Time seems to freeze in the moment when the edge of one foam flip-flop catches in a sidewalk seam and folds beneath her foot. Her exposed toes scrape along the concrete, and she pitches forward. My mouth opens in warning but is too dry to speak—I’d be too late anyway. On pure instinct, I grab her arm with one hand and the leash with the other.

“Never, sit!” I command. The dog obeys and I turn to her. “Dammit, Brighton. You’ve got to be in charge! He’s the animal; you’re the master.”

She starts crying. Crying. I used the same furious tone with her as I had with the dog. She’s got a torn shoe, a bloody foot, she’s shaking, and she’d told me she couldn’t control a dog that outweighs her. And I yelled at her.

I’ll show you how to walk him.

All I did was watch her get dragged. Dammit. I exhale through my teeth.