Chapter 12 Ella

Chapter 12

Ella

Andy Sandwell glares at me across the classroom with two bruised black eyes.

I click the end of my ballpoint pen with my thumb, maintaining eye contact. I don't surrender this time. I won't give up. I have too much to live for—homemade guacamole, good books, legal adulthood right around the corner, the sweet victory of peeling an orange in one go, and Max's lists.

I realize that now.

I'm not sure why Andy has two black eyes, but I wouldn't be surprised if he accidentally ran into a brick wall. Flashing him a smile, I scribble something onto a blank notebook page and discreetly tilt it toward him:

I'd love a tutorial on that sexy smoky eye. Are you practicing for the dance?

He flips me off and I throw him a wink.

Beside me, a new student sits quietly, a boy who recently moved here from the Philippines while I was home fighting off a pesky lung infection. His name is Kai, a name as short and crisp as the black hair that hangs over his eyes like a veil. His locker is two down from mine. He's shy and reserved, but when he catches my note to Andy, he snorts a soft laugh.

A potential ally. Sweet.

Our algebra teacher paces the front of the classroom, rambling on about the thrill of factoring. He's waving his arms like a conductor in an orchestra. His chalk-dusted hands create a cloud of academic enthusiasm that has failed to reach the majority of the class, who are either doodling on their textbooks or participating in undercover texting.

I flip to a blank page in my notebook and scrawl another note, then twist it in Kai's direction.

Mr. Barker's zest for parabolas and roots is bordering on manic.

He grins at me and scribbles something back.

I read it with a side-eye.

Nonsense. His excitement is contagious. Spoiler: I'm regretfully immune.

Holding back a chuckle, we continue the notebook conversation for a few more minutes until the bell rings and students scatter.

Kai stops me in the hallway, pushing his jet-black bangs out of his face. "Hey," he says, holding out his hand. "I'm Kai."

"Ella," I greet back, accepting the handshake. "This is probably the part where I should welcome you to Juniper High with shining hope and optimism, but I'm no liar. I hate it here."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Luckily, no. We just moved back to town a few months ago." I readjust my backpack, which took days to fully dry out on my front porch. Some of the doodles and designs are now nothing but droopy ink and smears of color. "Are Andy and his dumb friends giving you trouble?"

He shrugs. "Not really. They haven't acknowledged my existence. There's a really nice girl in my art class, though—Brynn Fisher." His honeyed cheeks pinken. "Have you met her?"

"Yep, she's cool. She was the only person who really gave me the time of day, aside from—"

"Sunny."

The rich baritone voice of Max Manning has me pivoting around in a full circle until our eyes meet. He's leaning against a wall of blue lockers with irises three shades lighter, and his arms are not visible today due to the faded black hoodie he's wearing. The hood is drawn up, also concealing the majority of his pecan-brown hair, save for a few stray locks that spill over his forehead in a casual sort of disarray.

Shoulder pressed to the locker, he flicks his attention to Kai and then me.

"Hey," I say, my voice still hoarse from bouts of dry coughing. "This is Kai. He just moved here."

Max gives him the smallest nod before returning his attention to me. "Meet me in the clearing after school today. You know the one."

"Oh." I fiddle with my backpack straps. "I was going to head into town after school. There's a coffee shop off Walnut Street that has a job opening."

He nods again. "I can drive you."

"Drive me?"

"Yeah, in my truck with wheels."

I blink, then shake my head. "Right. Um…sure. I guess I should refrain from biking until this cough clears up." On cue, my throat tickles and I start to cough.

Also on cue, some guy sweeps past me and smacks me on the back. "Lay off the deep-throating, Sunbury. You sound rough."

Max looks like he's about to fly at him, but the student scampers away like a frightened mouse as a barricade of football buddies and cheerleaders bursts out laughing and surrounds him on each side.

Embarrassment warms my cheeks while I watch them disappear around the corner. I'm not sure why. These idiots don't get under my skin—nobody does, really—but for whatever reason, I don't like the implication that I'm a floozy when Max is within earshot.

My gaze trails to Max, who has one taut hand pressed to the locker. His face is full of hard lines and edges and his blue eyes gleam with fire when he looks at me. It's then I notice his split bottom lip, the wound looking a few days old. I frown. I'm about to ask him about it when Brynn! skips into my line of sight, dragging McKay behind her by the shirtsleeve.

"Hey, guys!" She beams, dressed in a sun-yellow dress with white polka dots, a light denim jacket, and canvas sneakers. Her hair is braided and tied with pink ribbon, and it shimmers like a golden summer under the recessed lights.

She's the Barbie to my Monster High doll.

I almost forget Kai is hovering beside me when he inches forward and taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, it was nice officially meeting you. See you around."

I swivel to face him and note the smitten glow in his brown eyes as he peers at Brynn! through long, black lashes. Somebody has a crush. As he moves to retreat, I snatch him by a backpack strap. "Hold up. Let me formally introduce you to my sort-of friends—Brynn!, McKay, and Max."

He gulps.

Brynn! lights up, bobbing her head. "Hey! You're in one of my classes. Art, I think?"

"Yeah," he replies, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Max interrupts. " Sort-of friends?" he parrots, leveling me with an arched brow of mock outrage.

I give him a one-shoulder shrug but step forward and link my arm with his. "I suppose you've earned an upgrade. The crayon plant won me over."

Everyone goes quiet when our arms loosely hitch.

Why did I do that?

Now I'm entirely aware of how good he smells.

I don't know why I'm touching him. McKay clearly doesn't know why either as his gaze locks on our joined arms.

Max senses my pullback and tugs me closer by the elbow. "Is it a carrot yet?" he asks, gazing down at my red face and pop-eyed expression. I think he's teasing me, but his mouth doesn't lift and his eyes look heated and intense, instead of playful.

"The metamorphosis is beginning," I croak out. "It'll be ready for stew in no time."

Brynn! looks completely confused, but she goes with it. "I love stew."

Kai is lost. "I'm going to head to lunch now. Bye." He makes a hasty retreat without another word, and I immediately feel a kinship toward him.

With an overdramatic throat clear, I slide my arm from Max's and take a sizable step backward, almost bumping into another student. McKay is still eyeing me, and I can't really read him, so everything is awkward. "So," I mutter, drawing out the word. "Lunchtime. My favorite. I'm going to go find a quiet bathroom stall to dine in." Not waiting for a response, I whip around and book it in the opposite direction, paralleling Kai's escape.

It's not long before footsteps race to catch up. "You're not eating in the bathroom," Max says, walking beside me.

"I like reading the graffiti on the stalls while I eat. It's therapeutic. Did you know someone turned the second stall into a makeshift ‘Dear Abby' column? They're giving advice on everything from forbidden love to biology homework. It's like a live-action, anonymous Reddit thread."

"Ella."

"I never see you eating in the cafeteria, so you can't judge me." It's true—I've never once seen him there. Brynn! and McKay are usually in their own little love bubble and I'm not one to intrude. She's invited me to sit with them a few times, but there's only so many kissing noises I can take while I'm trying to eat a turkey sandwich.

"I usually eat outside by the willow tree or hang out in the library," Max says. "Come join me."

I spare him a glance as my feet keep sprinting forward. "Just the two of us?"

"Sure."

"Because we're friends."

"Yes. The arm-link sealed it."

My face heats again. "Sorry. That was weird and intrusive."

"More or less than when I snuck through your bedroom window three times?"

My lips curl into a small smile and I bite down to repress it.

Following Max's evening visit, he stopped over two more times after school last week. Mom was at work and kept the front door locked, so he claimed the window was more convenient since I didn't need to get out of bed and walk down a short hallway to the foyer. Thoughtful, I guess. And some foreign part of me kind of enjoyed the little secret we shared.

The visits were fairly uneventful, but we listened to Fleetwood Mac playlists, talked about autumn plans, and I showed him some of the bookbinding work I'd been doing. We kept the conversations light—no talk of what happened at the lake, or of Jonah, or of his father and his tumultuous family situation. I appreciated the reprieve from my usual dark cloud of woe.

During the last visit, I had just battled through my final brush with fever and passed out on the bed while Max flipped through The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. It was a copy I'd created my own cover for and the leather-bound novel was decorated with a fig tree made of felt and fabric scraps, some of the figs ripe and vibrant, while some were rotting and shriveled.

When I awoke hours later, Max was gone, but the book was left open on my desk to a specific page. An orange Post-it note was stuck underneath a sentence, underlining the quote:

"I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, ‘This is what it is to be happy.'"

The gesture made me smile. It also made me wonder how long it took for him to find a quote he found worthy enough to highlight and leave out for me.

It had to have taken some time.

It had to have taken effort.

Max waltzes beside me now, his posture looser, arms swinging at his sides as he glances at me every few seconds while we wind in and out of distracted students.

The little smile still pulls at my lips like my favorite bookmark saving my place in a chapter I'm eager to get back to. "I didn't mind the visits," I admit. "Thanks for keeping me company."

He nods. "You can return the favor by keeping me company at lunch out by the willow tree."

The stubborn loner inside me itches to turn him down. Run away. Lock myself in a restroom stall and force down my dry turkey sandwich while I wait for the bell to ring. It's comfortable and safe. The notion is like a knobby finger poking at my side, over and over, until it's all I can feel.

Run.

But then Max slides his arm through mine, linking them together and tugging me closer as we move through the hallway.

He looks down at me, his expression soft. Eyes warm.

And suddenly…that becomes all I can feel.

***

I'm catching up on reading Monster while I wait for Max at the clearing after school. There's a passage toward the beginning of the book that has stayed with me since I read it:

"You need to predict without predicting."

It was in reference to the ending of a film. If you write your movie too predictably, the viewers will make up their minds before it's even over.

In a way, our lives are like a movie and the viewers are the people we surround ourselves with. Something tells me my movie is pretty damn predictable.

Sad girl is sad.

Sad girl moves to a new town where everyone hates her.

Sad girl succumbs to the torment and leads a sad, unremarkable life.

The end.

Perhaps my surrender when Andy threw me in the lake was a reckless attempt at a plot twist. Everyone predicted that I'd pop back up from the water and make my way to the dock. They thought I'd shake myself off and shout obscenities into the setting sun with a heaving chest and balled-up fists, and my miserable existence would carry on accordingly.

But I didn't do any of that.

I sank.

I surprised everybody by letting myself drown.

Take that, predictability.

After all, predictability is nothing but a thief of thrill.

As I pull my feet up onto the hand-carved bench, I watch the sun splash stripes of pale light across the clearing while tree branches create dancing shadows along the patches of grass and dirt. Footsteps rustle from a few feet away, the sound of boots against crunchy sticks pulling my chin up.

Max appears at the opening seconds later, and I curse my heart for whatever the hell it just did. Some kind of weird leaping thing.

Maybe I need to make an EKG appointment.

I snap the book closed and sit up straight. "Here I am, appeasing your ominous request to meet you at the clearing after school."

He's still wearing his hoodie, the sleeves rolled up. "Sorry it sounded ominous."

"Don't be. That's what sold me."

His lips twitch. "Come on. I want to show you something."

"Ooh, also ominous." I jump from the bench, ready and eager. "Sign me up."

A full-blown smile emerges and he ducks his head like he's trying to hide it. Damn, it's kind of cute. Especially when he pairs it with a hair ruffle while lifting only his eyes to me.

I swallow, banishing the thoughts.

Then I break away, bending to retrieve my backpack and stuffing the book inside before zipping the bag shut. A chilled breeze kisses my skin as a few sun-wrinkled leaves flutter down around us like autumn's version of snowflakes. Max stares at me for a beat while I situate my book bag over my shoulder. "What?" I probe.

He takes a tentative stride forward and extends a hand, plucking a golden-green leaf from my tangled mane of hair. He falters a little, his fingers falling away in slow motion. "Follow me," he says, turning around and walking away.

Instinct has me combing my own fingers through the hair he just touched before I jog after him. "Where are we going?"

"Mexico."

"I love chilaquiles." I look up at him as we move in tandem, taking in his pulled-back hood and dark sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Slate-gray jeans, worn and faded, encase two long legs, and his shoes are scuffed and mud-smeared as they kick up gravel beside me.

It's newly November and the weather has cooled. Tennessee offers a wide range of temperatures in the fall, from hot and humid to cool and crisp. Today is in the midfifties, which I think is perfect. My pale skin is unforgiving in the scorching sun and my preference for sweatshirts and cozy sweaters has always been inconvenient while living in this state. To be honest, I probably wouldn't love Mexico. Beaches are dirty and full of sweaty people and sand is nature's cruel version of glitter.

My dream is to move to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan one day, where summers are tame, winters are cold, and snow sparkles like diamonds.

When we approach the waterline of Tellico Lake, I already know what he brought me here for. "We're skipping stones, aren't we?"

"Did you bring the stone from your nightstand?"

Yes —it's in my back pocket. "No."

"That's fine. We'll find plenty." He veers toward the lake's edge and combs the ground for stones to skip. "You said your brother tried to teach you?"

My heart skitters. He brought up the topic of my brother so easily, like it wasn't a giant, unhinged elephant in the room charging toward us. Fidgeting in place, I nod. "He did try. He said it was like dancing—all about the rhythm and the glide." I shrug. "I'm a terrible dancer, so the outcome wasn't surprising. They all belly-flopped."

Crouched down, Max glances up at me for a split second. "Tell me about him."

"What?" I blink. "My brother?"

"Yeah."

"Um…" Smoothing back my hair that's capering in a cool breeze, I keep shifting from foot to foot, unsure how to respond. "I told you what happened."

He seems unfazed. "That's not what I want to know," he says, plucking a gray-tan stone from a patch of gravel and stroking it with the pad of his thumb. "Tell me about him before."

Before.

Nobody ever wants to know about the before. Nobody cares. They only want to know about the after…about the monster, not the man.

Monsters are interesting. Men are ordinary.

The man is the predictable narrative in the story, but the monster—

The monster is the thrilling plot twist that keeps you turning the pages.

Inhaling a breath of earthy air tinged with the distant smoke of bonfires, I crouch down beside Max and collect a few stones in my palm. "Jonah was my best friend," I confess. "He loved me. So much. There was a time when I was convinced he'd do anything for me, but it turns out…that wasn't the case." I peer over at Max, my voice softening. "All I ever wanted was to keep him by my side forever. And now, I'm not even allowed to touch him."

Max studies me, passing his stones from hand to hand as he listens.

I continue. "He was four years older than me, but that never put a damper on our bond. I think it made it stronger. He was wiser than me. He taught me things. He loved playing the guitar and reading really tedious literature that he'd try to explain to me. He enjoyed camping in the Smoky Mountains…oh, and he liked cooking the most complicated recipes in existence just to say he did it." I chuckle a little, the memories bursting to life like fireflies at dusk. "Jonah said that love conquered all and to always remember that he loved me when life got hard. Nothing else should matter when you have love like that. It was a stupid thing to say and all it made me do was resent love. It turns hearts into stone, men into monsters, and dreams into ash. It's not a fairy tale—it's a tall tale, shoved down our throats to keep us whimsical and yearning. But when the love goes rotten, so do we. People never stop to think about that. They don't consider who they might become in the wake of bad love, or how that poison will affect the ones who love them ."

The words spill out of me and I'm forced to stop to catch my breath. Emotion seizes my chest, holding tight. I gaze out at the lake as my dreary words hover around us like sad little rain clouds.

When I brave a glance at Max, he's staring at me with a wrinkle between his brows. His expression is pinched and thoughtful. Worried, maybe—worried that my sanity is hanging by a cobwebby thread.

It is.

"Anyway," I mutter, exhaling a breath and drawing to a stand. I swipe the dirt and grit from my blue jeans, feeling silly for the depressing word vomit. "Sorry I got carried away. That's not what you asked."

"It's what I wanted to know." Max slowly rises to his feet, both fists filled with round, multicolored stones for skipping. "Come on. The water is perfect."

I shuffle behind him, my throat still stinging with leftover bitterness. Swallowing it down, I move in next to him as he looks out at the unburdened lake.

"Your brother was right about treating it like a dance," Max tells me, setting the collection of stones near his feet, save for one. The surface of the stone is grayish-white, weathered smooth by rain and time. "It's all in the rhythm."

"I have two left feet," I grumble. "And, apparently, two left hands."

Max weighs the small stone in his palm, popping it up and down a few times before situating it between his thumb and forefinger. "Watch this." His arm draws back, elbow bent, hand held just above shoulder level. Effortlessly, he steps forward and swings his arm in a low arc, releasing the stone with a flick of his wrist.

The stone leaves his hand and races over the water. It touches the surface, skips once, twice, three times and beyond, each hop leaving a succession of tiny ripples before it sinks with the inevitable pull of gravity.

I glance up at Max, my eyes wide and impressed. There's a big smile on my face. I can feel it. It blossomed as fluidly as Max's stone skipped.

He turns toward me, his gaze dipping to my mouth. To my smile. To the authentic joy painting my lips—a rare, rare thing. When his attention returns to my eyes, his own smile draws up to match mine. We stare at each other, smiling at the simple, basic concept of a stone dancing across water on a crisp autumn day.

There's a tightness between my ribs, so I press the heel of my palm to my rust-colored hoodie, rub at my chest, and look away. "Can I try?"

"Of course." Max sifts through more pebbles and plucks one from the pile. "I'll help you."

I refuse to look at him as he comes up behind me. I don't move, don't breathe, when the front of his chest presses to my spine and he wraps both arms around me like a gentle backward hug. My heart is doing more than leaping now. It's vaulting. Somersaults and cartwheels.

Gymnast shit.

"Like this," he says, his chin hovering above my shoulder, warm breath ghosting over my ear. His hand slides down my arm with a featherlight touch as he tucks a small stone in the center of my palm. His fingertips are calloused yet soft. Delicate as they graze against mine. The scent of pine needles, clean soap, and a trace of cigarette smoke curls around me. A compelling elixir.

With our arms overlapped, he guides them both upward to mimic the throw, his wrist flicking out at the end. "Feel the rhythm, Sunny."

We practice the motion a few times.

I try to focus.

I try to concentrate on my breaths and the instructions he gave me, all while he's pressed against my back, his body heat seeping through my hoodie.

Eventually, Max pulls away and gives me space to toss the stone. I feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting. I heave in a shaky breath, square my shoulders, and haul my arm back like he showed me. I let go of the stone and watch with anticipation as it glides through the air—

And immediately plops into the water like a boulder.

Epic fail.

I shake out my arms, groaning with self-deprecation. "I'm a natural."

Max chuckles and finds me another stone. "Not bad. You'll get it."

"Your unwavering belief in me will be your downfall."

"There are worse ways to go." He hands me a smooth pebble, slightly smaller than the last one. "Try again."

I do try again.

And again, and again.

Plop.

Plop.

Plop.

I'm not even mad about it. My inefficiency at stone skipping is truly hilarious.

I keep tossing stones until every splash of defeat has laughter stirring in my chest, bubbling to the surface. Max skips them beside me with elegance and finesse, while I double over with giggles and give up trying altogether. Now I'm just chucking rocks at the water to see how far I can throw them. The buoyancy in the air is contagious and Max laughs, too, until nearly an hour has passed us by and my arm starts to hurt from dozens of unproductive swings.

Eventually, our collection of stones reaches its end and Max turns to me as the sun dips lower in the sky. "Ready to head into town?" he asks. "Luck is clearly on your side today."

I jab him in the ribs with my elbow but my smile sticks. There's a happy glow shimmering around my heart and I feel brighter. Lighter. A little less buried.

I don't skip a single stone that afternoon.

Predictable.

But I realize as I traipse alongside Max to his truck, the sunset staining the sky apricot-orange—that wasn't the point.

The point was, that with every stone that left my hand and plunked into the water…the whole world fell away.

And that was something I did not predict.