One Small Thing(60)

I push past her, leaving the contents of my life exposed and scattered. I hear Dad’s shouts and Mom’s sobs on my way, but I don’t give a damn. I race outside, climb into my car and start driving.

When I stop, I find myself parked in front of Chase’s house.

I don’t know how I got here or why. I don’t know what I’m planning to do. The doors are shut and so are the windows. I see no movement.

Are there slamming doors and shouting going on inside? No, Chase doesn’t seem like the type of guy to lose his temper. It’s probably icy silence.

Meanwhile, my parents are going overboard, wondering if I’m taking drugs because I’m not picketing in front of the school and demanding that Chase be kicked out.

“Oh, Rachel, what should I do?” I moan miserably.

I press the latch for the sunglass compartment and pull out the photo I have hidden inside. Laying my head on the steering wheel, I stare at the image of Rachel and me. We’re leaning against each other, wearing our Lady Hawks club volleyball jerseys. A few of Rachel’s hairs have escaped her tight ponytail and, because of the sweat and humidity of the gym, she has tiny baby curls forming at her forehead.

She’s not smiling, but I can tell she’s happy. I don’t remember this day. I don’t remember what I felt like. I don’t remember what she may have said. The last really clear memory I have of her is the day before she died.

She wasn’t smiling then, either. Something was bothering her. I could hear her sighs through the walls. I sat outside her door, debating whether I should knock, but I was afraid of getting my head bitten off, so I didn’t.

And the next day she was dead.

I regret not knocking. I regret not taking the chance to speak to her one last time.

A tap on my window startles me. The picture falls from my fingers. I see Chase standing next to the car. He’s wearing the same clothes from school—a pair of dark cargo pants and an equally dark T-shirt. He’s thrown a long-sleeved green-and-blue flannel over the top. A black beanie covers his dirty-blond hair.

Eagerly, I roll down my window.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then his expression darkens. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?”

He brushes a finger under my eye and holds it up. I see a dot of wetness there.

“I cry all the time,” I say, swiping the backs of my hands over my face. “It’s a flaw. I don’t even want to cry and the tears fall. I think I have overlarge tear ducts or something. Rachel was the exact opposite. She never cried.”

Silence falls between us when I say her name.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“For saying Rachel’s name? Don’t be. I’m sorry you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about your sister. But I know why and I don’t blame you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I saw your car from the living room window. You staking me out?”

Somehow, despite the anger I’m still feeling inside toward my parents, I actually laugh. “You wish.” The humor dies fast, though. “Did you come out here to ask me to leave? Did your mom see me? Is she mad?”

“No. Disappointed, which is even worse.” He tries to smile, but he can’t. He’s too upset at himself. “It’d be better if she was like my dad, who pretends his son doesn’t exist. But instead, she keeps loving me and I keep...” He sighs heavily. “Screwing up,” he finishes. “Anyway, I came out to thank you for standing up for me today.”

“Really? I thought you’d be pissed because I’m making it worse.”

“No. I was wrong to say that before. Those guys want to flex on someone and I’m an easy target. I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were in their shoes.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” I know this.

The side of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I wouldn’t.” He ducks his head for a moment. When he looks up again, his smile is gone, but there’s something warm in his eyes that makes me tingle all over. “It feels good to not be alone.”

Those tingles turn electric. I curl my fingers around the steering wheel so I don’t do something dumb with them. “No one should be alone.”

We endure another uncomfortable silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs the toe of his boot against the asphalt. I squeeze the fake leather steering wheel so hard I’ll have a permanent indent on my palms from the stitching.

“How are things at home?” he finally asks.

“Fine,” I lie, because I can’t tell him that my parents are going nuts over the fire alarm situation. I can’t tell him that they took away my door again, and that I fled like a fugitive after one of the worst arguments we’ve ever had. He’ll feel guilty and then never talk to me again. And that’s a loss I’m not ready to accept. “You?”

“There’ve been better days,” he admits. “The mayor isn’t happy. This incident is a mark on my school record, and if I get three of them, I’ll be out.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” I’m outraged again. “You were innocent!”

“They don’t know that for sure. The cops don’t have enough evidence to arrest me, but the school operates on a different level.” He shrugs, his hands still stuffed in his pockets.