Chapter 2

2

It takes a moment for my senses to catch up with me. My heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’ve just dropped off the side of a cliff. My entire body is sweeping hot, and my palms are pooling with sweat.

The car I’ve hit is a black sedan, but before I can get a proper look at it, the other driver stomps out of the car with all the anger of a rabid bulldog.

It’s Irene Abraham.

Fuck.

My shock transforms to fury. Go-freaking-figure. I know I wasn’t exactly looking when I hit her, but I also know I had the right of way. She must have decided the rules didn’t apply to her.

My adrenaline carries me out of my car before I can think about it. I slam my door and meet her in the middle. “What the hell?”

Her eyes flash when she sees me. Under her breath, she says, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

I ignore her and check my front bumper. Miraculously, it’s only slightly dented; I’ll have to get it fixed, but it’s still drivable.

Behind me, Irene is examining her own car. “Shit,” she grumbles. “My parents are gonna kill me.”

“Yeah, well, so are mine,” I say, kicking at my front tire. I can feel tears building behind my eyes, but I fight against them. I hate the idea of crying in front of Irene Abraham ever again. I take a deep breath to steady myself, but when I turn around to check her car, the bottom drops out of my stomach.

Her rear bumper is a craggy, mangled disaster; the right half of it hangs off the frame, dragging against the pavement. There’s no way her car is drivable like this. My anger suddenly turns to panic. If her car took the worst of the hit, does that mean it was my fault, even if I had the right of way?

I steady my breathing and look at her. “Damn it. I’m sorry.”

Her dark eyes sizzle like I’ve just said something offensive. “Do you know nothing?” she snaps. “You should never apologize after a car accident. It’s an admission of fault.”

I’m so thrown off, I can only stare at her.

“Lucky for you, I’m not the type of person to fake a serious injury or some bullshit emotional trauma so I can sue you and your parents for all you’re worth, but someone else might be. Use your head.”

Anger flares inside me again. “You really wanna be giving me a lesson right now? You’re the one who backed into me!”

“Why didn’t you stop when you saw my car?”

“Why didn’t you stop when you saw my car?”

We’ve created quite a scene in the parking lot. A bunch of people from our class run over, checking to see what happened. Even though school’s been out for hours, there are enough kids here that our accident is impossible to hide.

“Are y’all okay?”

“Ohhh, your bumper’s fucked.”

“Aw, shit! Tow Truck Girl fucked up her car again!”

One of the cheerleaders hurries over, her eyes popping out of her head. It’s Irene’s best friend, the same girl who asked me if I was okay earlier: Honey-Belle Hewett. She’s the great-granddaughter of the legendary Mrs. Earl. Her family still runs the Emporium, and she’s exactly how you’d imagine a girl from a Christmas-business family to be. Sugary voice, cartoonish expressions, and a little out of it sometimes. Like a Care Bear magicked to life.

“Holy shit-balls,” she exclaims, running straight for us. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Irene drags a hand down her face. “I have to call my mom. Fuck.”

She stalks away on her cell phone, her brow still furrowed with anger. Honey-Belle gives me a sympathetic look, but I turn away and pick up my own phone.

My mom shows up fifteen minutes after I call her. She smooths the hair back from my forehead and reassures me in her steady, measured voice. The whole world could explode and my mom would say, Hmm, now how are we going to handle this?

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Mom asks.

“No.”

“Were you on your phone?”

“No.”

Mom nods, searching me with her I-don’t-miss-a-trick eyes. “Okay. Let’s call the insurance company.”

Irene’s mom arrives soon after that. She’s an attractive, sophisticated-looking woman, with curly dark hair and pristine lipstick, dressed in lavender scrubs with a name tag that reads DR. ABRAHAM. She has the same scrutinizing facial expression as Irene, like she could figure you out in a second. It looks like that’s what she’s doing to Irene right now.

“How did this happen?” she asks, cocking her head at Irene. Her voice is calm but commanding.

Irene huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was backing out, and I didn’t see her coming—”

Her mom cuts her off. “You weren’t looking?”

“I was, but—”

“But you were lost in your head, imagining more cheer routines?”

Irene’s mouth sets into a thin line.

“This is what happens when you don’t focus,” her mom continues. “You know better than to be careless. Make sure to take pictures of this bumper. Every angle!”

There’s an unbearable stretch of time when our moms are on the phone with the insurance companies and Irene and I have nothing to do but pointedly ignore each other. When all is said and done, our moms exchange a nod and announce that we’re both responsible—since both our cars were moving—but that Irene is primarily at fault since I had the right of way.

“That’s not fair,” Irene says, shaking her head. “She came zooming around the corner—she wasn’t even looking—”

“How do you know I wasn’t looking?” I say heatedly. “Besides, you’re one to talk! This is the second time you’ve messed with my car!”

My mom frowns. “What does that mean?”

There’s a hanging silence. I never told my parents the truth about how my car was towed last year; I lied and said I’d accidentally parked in front of a fire hydrant. I was too embarrassed to admit that I’d been bullied by the head cheerleader.

Now Irene and I stare at each other for a blistering moment. Her eyes are wide and anxious. It’s the first hint of vulnerability I’ve seen from her.

“She … accidentally spilled coffee in my car once.”

I’m not sure what possesses me to say it. This could have been my chance for some much deserved payback, but I’d rather be Tow Truck Girl than Tattletale Girl.

“You’ve been in her car before?” Irene’s mom asks. “You two are friends?”

We stare at each other for another extended moment.

“Mhm,” Irene says, recovering. She gestures at my uniform. “I cheer for her team sometimes.”

It’s a good thing no one’s looking at me, because my eye roll would prove that’s a lie in a second. I have no doubt that Irene, as captain, could get her squad to cheer for us instead of the boys, but why would a cheerleading captain ever bother to challenge the status quo?

“Isn’t that nice,” my mom coos. “Well, that makes everything less awkward, doesn’t it?”

Irene’s mom chuckles. “Yes, what a relief!”

What follows is some of the worst mom-based embarrassment I’ve ever experienced. Our moms introduce themselves, then make corny jokes about how glad they are that neither one of them is an uptight, meddling mother who would blow this accident out of proportion.

“Imagine having to do this with a Candlehawk woman!” my mom says.

“That’s a level of hell I don’t need today!” Irene’s mom laughs.

Irene and I say nothing, waiting for them to stop.

“Scottie, you look like a serious student,” Dr. Abraham says suddenly. “What are you studying?”

“Mom, don’t—” Irene tries.

“Uh … my favorite subject is history,” I say.

“Is that what you want to study in college?”

“Totally,” I lie. I’ve never seriously thought about it, but Dr. Abraham seems like the kind of woman who requires a confident answer.

“And what sport do you play? Is that a basketball uniform? Basketball’s a wonderful sport. You see, Irene? You can be a serious student and a competitive athlete.”

“I am,” Irene says, with an air like she’s said this a hundred times before.

“Cheerleading is very admirable, too,” my mom chimes in.

Dr. Abraham nods politely, but she obviously disagrees. “Well, it seems everything is in order here,” she says authoritatively. “We’re waiting on the tow truck company, but then we’ll be on our way.”

I meet Irene’s eyes at the words tow truck. She flicks her eyes away, but I catch a flash of guilt in them.

“Having your car towed sucks,” I say with fake sympathy. “Happened to me once. I really feel for you.”

I can almost see the steam coming out of her ears. It’s so satisfying I could sing. But then—

“What a pain to be without a car in this town,” my mom says. “How will you get to school, Irene?”

“My husband or I will drop her off,” Irene’s mom says with a wave of her hand. “It’s easy for us. We’re right over on Sleigh Byrne.”

“Sleigh Byrne?” My mom gets a funny smile on her face, and I’m suddenly dreading what she’s going to say next. “We live on the next road over, off Bells Haven.” She looks at me, and now I know what’s about to happen.

“Scottie can give Irene a ride!” Mom declares, her eyes bright. “Please, please, we insist. It’s the least we could do.”

I try to catch my mom’s eye to communicate what a terrible idea this is, but the damage is already done. Irene’s mom lights up like this is the best plan she’s ever heard. She smiles brightly at Irene and lifts her hands as if to say How about that!

Irene blinks and offers my mom a courteous, grateful smile, but I can tell she despises the idea as much as I do.

“Well, that’s settled,” Mom says, looking happily at me. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

It’s not until we’ve walked away from the Abrahams that I voice my horror. “Mom,” I whine, “I can’t stand that girl! I’d rather go to school naked than drive her anywhere!”

“I thought you said you were friends?”

“Uh … I mean, that might have been a slight exaggeration,” I fumble. “But does it matter? The accident wasn’t even my fault!”

Mom looks unperturbed. “No, it wasn’t your fault, but it’s still your responsibility. It won’t kill you to give her a ride until her car’s fixed.”

In the end, I walk away from my first car accident with a wounded ego, a dented bumper, and the looming dread of carpooling with the only person who could make my senior year worse than it already is.

---

My dad and younger sister are in the front yard, stringing up Halloween lights, when Mom and I caravan into the driveway.

I love our house. We’ve lived here since I was four. It’s a quirky street, tucked away off a busy main road. The houses are as different as the people who live in them. There’s the one-story ranch house where the Sanchez family and their three Labradors live. There’s Mrs. Stone’s green bungalow with the rocking chair porch, where she’s always inviting people in for a cup of turmeric tea and a discussion of what their dreams mean. At the end of the street is my mom’s least favorite house, the faux-modern monstrosity where Mr. and Mrs. Haliburton-Rivera host bougie parties we’re never invited to. Mom and Dad call them “Candlehawk wannabes.”

Our house is a lilac-blue classic with shutter boards and a tiny front porch. Instead of a garage, we have an old carport where we park our cars. There’s a maple tree in the front yard that reaches as high as the second story and a row of bushes that guard the front porch. That’s where Dad and Daphne are now, arranging the orange lights so they hang over the bushes the way Daphne likes them.

“What’s the damage?” Dad asks when Mom and I join them in the yard.

“It’s my front bumper.” I grimace. “It’s all dented in, but I was still able to drive it home—”

“I mean you, Scots,” Dad says, bracing his hands on my shoulders. He looks me over with a worried frown, like he might be able to assess whether or not I’m concussed. This is one of the best things about my dad. I know he will be annoyed about the bumper, and that he’ll insist on coming with me to the repair shop, but right now he’s only concerned about me.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Daphne says, hugging me gently. “Do you need an ice pack? There’s one in the freezer from when I bruised my toe.”

Daphne is the sweetheart of the family. She’s only thirteen, but my parents like to say she’s an old soul.

“I’m fine, Daph, thanks.”

“How’s your neck?” Dad asks. “Any whiplash?”

“Maybe a little whiplash,” I say, and Dad starts feeling along the top of my spine. He’s a chiropractor, so he’s always quick to check my back if I tell him I slept funny or pulled a muscle in practice.

“Flat on the grass,” Dad says, stepping back.

“What? We’re gonna do the adjustment out here?”

“Daph and I are still working on the decorations,” Dad says, like it’s obvious. “Come on, you know the drill.”

Mom and Daphne just stand there, amused, as I drop to the grass and lie flat on my stomach while Dad starts cracking my back. If the neighbors are watching, I doubt they’re surprised. My family’s been known to do weirder shit in the front yard—like the time five-year-old Daphne insisted we eat breakfast out here with our winter coats on. In the middle of July.

“All right, that should do it,” Dad says, giving my neck a final crack. “Feel better?”

I can only grunt into the grass in response.

We spend the next half hour finishing the Halloween decorations. It’s dark outside, and we’re limited by the lamps on the porch, but we’re motivated to finish because Halloween is next week. It’s tradition on my street for everyone to go all out with holiday decorations, even the stuck-up Haliburton-Riveras, who decorate in a style my parents call tasteful Pinterest crap. Our decorations, on the other hand, are cheesy as hell. We plant plastic tombstones all over the grass, Mom sets up a witch and vampire couple to look like American Gothic on the front porch, and Daphne wraps cobwebs all over the mailbox. My contribution is to arrange a group of skeletons around some hay bales. Last year, Dad made them look like they were doing the macarena. This year, I take a fat twig and place it in one skeleton’s mouth to look like he’s smoking. Mom rolls her eyes, but she lets it slide.

Inside, we sit down to a dinner of rotisserie chicken that Dad picked up on his way home from the clinic. Mom and Daphne throw together a side of noodles and croissant rolls, while my task is to set aside a plate for my older sister, Thora, who’s still at work.

“I texted Thora about the accident,” Daphne says, helping herself to a double portion of noodles. “She’s worried about you, Scottie. She wanted to come home right away, but she said the restaurant is a cluster-eff.”

“Don’t use that word,” Mom says.

“I didn’t, I said ‘eff.’ Thora used the real word.”

“Still.”

“Mom, most people in my grade use the f-word all the time.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to be uncouth, too.”

“Yeah, wait until you’re older to be uncouth,” Dad says.

Thora works as a bartender at the best pub in town, The Chimney. She’s saving money to rent her own apartment, but for now she lives in our basement with her two cats, BooBoo and Pickles, who keep getting into Mom’s vegetable patch and digging up her arugula. The cats drive Mom crazy. Dad is cooler about them, but he’s always more lax when it comes to Thora because he’s technically her stepdad. Mom divorced Thora’s birth father when Thora was a toddler, but she didn’t marry Dad until Thora was seven.

“Scottie,” Mom says when there’s a lull in the conversation, “do you want to talk about what happened?”

I pick at the skin on my chicken, aware of everyone watching me. I knew our evening of decorating fun would eventually give way to this conversation, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for it.

“Do we have to?”

Dad tilts his head at me. “Do we have to talk about why you were so distracted that you didn’t notice a car backing into you? Yes.”

I drop my fork. “I had a bad day, okay?”

“Because of the Candlehawk game?” Dad asks.

“Because of Tally?” Mom adds.

I feel lucky to have parents as loving and engaged as my mom and dad. They know about all the little things happening in my life, like when I have an exam I’m stressed about or a fight with Danielle that trips me up. But sometimes their involvement is so earnest and omnipresent that I feel like something can’t happen to me without them wanting to pick it apart over the dinner table.

“We’re sorry we couldn’t be at the demo game,” Dad says, ruffling my hair. “We know it’s been a tough semester. It hasn’t been easy for you without Tally.”

“Losing your first love is excruciating,” Mom adds sympathetically.

I’m not sure my parents ever liked Tally. They were sure to smile and hug her whenever she came over, but I always got the vibe that they were doing it for my sake rather than because they actually liked her.

“I promise it’s going to get better,” Mom coos. “But that doesn’t mean you can lose sight of everything else going on in your life. You’ve got your whole senior year ahead of you, with basketball and college applications and your wonderful friends—”

“I know, I know.” Tears spring into my eyes. I try to swallow them down, but they drop onto my chicken. “I really am sorry about the car, you guys.”

“Okay,” Mom says quietly. “We’ll let it go for tonight. Go upstairs and watch a movie. Daphne will take care of the dishes.”

Doing the dishes alone is a pain—we usually split the cleanup—but the wonderful thing about Daphne is that she would never argue in a million years. She nods and clears everyone’s plates, tossing me a small smile, and I take the stairs to my room without looking back.

---

I’m notorious for taking the longest showers in the family, but tonight is really something else. For a while I just stand there under the water, my aching muscles grateful for the heat. I wash my hair, loofah with Daphne’s vanilla sugar body wash, and scrub my face after a good long cry.

Normally I would blow-dry and straighten my hair so it looks good for school tomorrow, but tonight I don’t have the energy. I wrap a towel around my wet hair, change into my favorite long-sleeve tee and joggers, click on the string lights Thora got me last Christmas, and curl up in my bed. For the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe.

Mom was right to tell me to watch a movie. Aside from playing basketball, watching movies is my favorite thing to do. Tonight I queue up 10 Things I Hate About You, the king of teen rom-coms. I can recite parts of it in my sleep.

A few minutes into the movie, Thora barges in. She’s still in her bartending outfit, and her keys are in her hand, which tells me she literally just got home. She drops onto my bed, squeezes me tight, and fusses like I’m a poor kitten she’s come across in the road. Daphne scurries in behind her, crawling up on my other side.

“Who hurt you?” Thora asks, still squeezing me. “Who do I have to kill?”

“Nobody.” I laugh. “I’m fine. How was work?”

“The opposite of stimulating,” Thora says, picking at the pink tips of her hair. “Seriously, how are you feeling?”

“It was a shitty day,” I admit. “We played Candlehawk in a demo game. They clobbered us. Then my car got clobbered.”

Thora winces. “Candlehawk means Tally, huh?”

“Yeah. Their new star player. She gave me my button back.”

My sisters trade a loaded look.

“What?” I ask, even though I know what they’re going to say.

“She sucks,” Thora says, rolling onto her back. “Like, really, really sucks.”

“She didn’t always suck. Not until she transferred to Candlehawk.”

“I think she sucked before that,” Daphne says. “Remember when she got mad at you for posting that pic where her hair was frizzy?”

“Remember when she didn’t speak to you for a whole day because you refused to sneak into that concert with her?” Thora adds.

Here’s the thing: I know Tally was tough sometimes, but it makes me uncomfortable to hear it from other people. It makes me question my judgment, because for a while there, I was so happy with her. Was I just oblivious? Or, worse, did I convince myself she cared about me when she really didn’t?

“I know, I know,” I say, dragging my hands down my face. “I promise she wasn’t always that bad.”

There’s a pause where my sisters are clearly holding back their words, until Daphne says, “Well, I think she’s an eff-head.”

Thora busts out laughing, and I can’t help but smile a little.

“Daph, you’re a national treasure, you know that?” Thora says. Daphne beams.

“Can we watch the movie now?” I ask.

“Sure,” my sisters say, and they snuggle up on either side of me.

---

Maybe an hour into the movie, my phone rings with a local number I don’t recognize. I reject the call, assuming it’s a telemarketer.

A moment later, it rings again.

“Scottieee,” Thora whines.

“Sorry!” I fumble for the phone and answer it impatiently. “Hello?”

“Scottie?” a brittle voice asks. “It’s Irene.”

What the fuck.

I sit bolt upright, scrambling to pause the movie. My sisters stare at me, but I wave my hands for them to be quiet. Why the hell is this girl calling me? How did she even get my number?

“Hey,” I say into the phone, trying to sound casual. I switch on the lamp and swing my legs off the bed. “I didn’t expect you to call—”

“Didn’t you, though?” she asks brusquely. “We have to plan for tomorrow. You know, since I have to carpool with you.”

It takes me a moment to speak. “Right,” I say tersely. “Obviously. I just figured we’d text.”

“Calling’s more efficient.”

I clear my throat, trying to stop myself from screaming at her. “How’s your car? What’d the mechanic say?”

She ignores the question. “What time are you picking me up in the morning? I usually leave by seven twenty-five.”

I’m still trying to get my footing in the conversation, and it takes me a second to realize what she’s asking. Seven twenty-five? Our school is only ten minutes away, and class doesn’t start until 8:05.

“I usually leave at seven forty,” I say pointedly.

She makes an impatient noise. “I have things to do in the morning. If I had my own car, I’d leave at seven fifteen.”

“I guess you should have thought about that before you rammed your car into mine, huh?”

There’s a stiff silence. “Are you picking me up at seven twenty-five, or not?”

I grit my teeth. “I’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll text you my address.”

“Great. Isn’t texting so efficient?”

A beat passes. “Cute,” she says in the most acidic voice I’ve ever heard. Then she hangs up. I stare at my phone in outrage.

“Who the hell was that?” Thora asks.

“My nemesis,” I say, only half joking.

“I thought Tally was your nemesis,” Daphne says. Thora elbows her in the side.

“Scots,” Thora says, grabbing the remote from me, “I don’t know what this says about me, but your drama is becoming the most entertaining part of my life.”