Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(32)

I backed into my room and she followed me. I sat on the floor and rested my spine against the foot of my bed. My head felt as heavy as a brick.

CeCe was looking around, at the cluttered floor.

“I warned you it was messy,” I said. At least the usual laundry piles were put away. But CeCe was taking in more than the random mess.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s strange,” she said. “It’s like there’s two different people living in here.”

I looked around. A music stand stood in the corner, next to a giant duffle bag spelling EDGELAKE FOOTBALL on the side, unzipped, with a helmet and extra pads spilling out of the top. Two guitars stood on stands next to the window. Footballs were piled up on top of song books. She was right. It was a strange mixture of personalities—as if the space were occupied by two people.

A streak of lightning blazed across the sky outside my window, followed by a crash of thunder. I looked at CeCe, at her scar that had always reminded me of a lightning bolt, something strong, and powerful, and mysterious.

She slid down on the floor next to me and picked up a CD case, turning it around in her fingers.

“It’s my dad’s college band,” I said.

“He’s a musician?” she asked.

I nodded. “Was”

“Was? He retired?” she asked.

“He passed away,” I paused. I could feel her watching me. “A year ago today.”

A second of silence ticked by. She examined the CD cover, four guys sitting together on a bench next to a bus stop.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she said. “I would have understood.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want anybody to bring it up. I thought if I stayed busy today, it would help keep my mind off of him.” I looked down at my empty drink glass and rested my head against the mattress. “Plan backfired.”

“That’s why you transferred,” she figured.

“I wanted to stay home, when he got sick,” I said. “Then after he died all I wanted to do was get away.”

“You miss him?”

It was more than that. It’s like I was lost. Life can pull you in so many directions, it’s easy to forget who you are and where you’re headed. Family has a way of reminding you, like a road map, keeping you on track and pointing out which direction is home.

“I miss talking to him. He had this way of looking at life that was different from everyone.”

“Is that why you like to play?” She nodded to a pile of instrument cases on the floor.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It makes you feel connected to your dad?”

I shrugged. I’d never thought of it that way. But she had a point. Music would always give me an outlet, this way to have a conversation with my dad. A way of keeping him alive. And there was something comforting about that.

My entire body felt warm from the alcohol. I took a long breath. My head was finally calm. I looked out the window at the blowing rain. Lightning tore through the sky and a clap of thunder shook the wood floors.

“I shared my heartbreak story,” I said. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I wear my secrets right on my face,” she said.

“You can do better than that,” I pressed. I nudged my hand against her knee. “I thought you didn’t like small talk?”

“I don’t have any heartbreak stories,” she said. “I’ve never had my heart broken. But, sometimes I like to throw out cosmic questions to the universe.”

I smiled.

“Like?” I asked.

She looked over at me. “A lot of what ifs,” she said.

“What if?” I asked.

She looked away, at the storm. “What if things had been different? What if I never got in that car accident? Would I even be playing volleyball? Would I be at this school? Maybe I wouldn’t be straddling the world, half in and half out.”

I stared at her. It’s like she was picking out all the things I needed her to say.

“Maybe things with my mom would be different. Maybe we’d be closer.” She smiled and shrugged. “Sometimes I envy my friends who are all in. Or maybe I just have too much contained inside of me to be all in.” She pressed her lips together, like she was saying too much. But I didn’t want her to stop.

She looked over at me and our eyes locked. And held. I felt trapped by her stare, caught in a strange vortex. She broke our gaze.

“The storm’s over,” she said. I blinked once. I looked outside and realized the rain had stopped. My breathing had stopped. I inhaled a deep breath.

“I should go,” she said. She pulled herself up and grabbed her backpack off the floor. “See you in class,” she said.

“Sure,” I answered. “See you.”

I watched her go, trying to get a hold of my feelings. They felt misplaced, outside of me, like they got picked up and scattered in the storm. I was forced to piece them back together. All I knew was I texted one girl tonight, and the wrong one showed up. But I couldn’t shake the idea that maybe the right one had.





Chapter Thirteen


CeCe


I looked across the net and anticipated the spike. I crouched low, balancing on my toes like a cheetah getting ready to pounce. My forearms burned bright red from the slap of the leather volleyball. A spike is unforgiving and relentless, flying eighty miles an hour like a canon. A normal person would duck, would run, would avoid the blow. But athletes are extremists. We don’t run from danger, we embrace it, head on. The trick is allowing yourself to fall, over and over, until you master your defenses. Then, you can deflect the hardest hit.