I turned my attention to the row of trees at the edge of the road opposite. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. I waited for a chil to warn me there was something back there, something I couldn’t see, but nothing felt off. A warm summer breeze rustled past, the sound of cicadas filling the air. If anything, the woods looked peaceful under the silver glow of moonlight.
Patch hadn’t seen anything in the woods. He’d turned away because I’d said three very big, very stupid words, which had gushed out before I could stop them. What had I been thinking?
No. What was Patch thinking now? Had he driven off to escape responding? I was pretty sure I knew the answer. And I was pretty sure it explained why I was left staring at the back of his Jeep.
CHAPTER
2
FOR THE LAST ELEVEN SECONDS, I’D BEEN lying facedown, hugging my pillow over my head, trying to shut out Chuck Delaney’s traffic report from downtown Portland, which was coming through my alarm clock loud and clear. Likewise, I was trying to shut out the logical part of my brain, which shouted for me to get dressed, promising repercussions if I didn’t. But the pleasure-seeking part of my brain won out. It clung to my dream—or rather, the subject of my dream. He had wavy black hair and a killer smile. At this moment, he was sitting backward on his motorcycle and I was sitting facing forward, our knees touching.
I curled my fingers into his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss.
In my dream, Patch felt it when I kissed him. Not only on an emotional level, but a real, physical touch. In my dream, he became more human than angel. Angels can’t feel physical sensation—I knew this—but in my dream, I wanted Patch to feel the soft, silky pressure of our lips connecting. I wanted him to feel my fingers pushing through his hair. I needed him to feel the thrilling and undeniable magnetic field pulling every molecule in his body toward mine.
Just like I did.
Patch ran his finger under the silver chain at my neck, his touch sending a shiver of pleasure rippling through me. “I love you,” he murmured.
Bracing my fingertips on his hard stomach, I leaned in, stopping just short of a kiss. I love you more, I said, brushing his mouth as I spoke.
Only, the words didn’t come out. They stayed caught in my throat.
While Patch waited for me to respond, his smile faltered.
I love you, I tried again. Once again, the words stayed clamped inside.
Patch’s expression turned anxious. “I love you, Nora,” he repeated.
I nodded frantically, but he’d turned away. He swung off the motorcycle and left without looking back.
I love you! I yelled after him. I love you, I love you!
But it was as if quicksand had been poured down my throat; the harder I tried to wrestle the words out, the faster they were towed under.
Patch was slipping away in a crowd. Night had fall en down around us in a snap, and I could barely distinguish his black Tshirt from the hundreds of other dark shirts in the masses. I ran to catch up, but when I grabbed his arm, it was someone else who turned around. A girl. It was too dark to get a good read on her features, but I could tell she was beautiful.
“I love Patch,” she told me, smiling through shocking red lipstick. “And I’m not afraid to say it.”
“I did say it!” I argued. “Last night I told him!” I pushed past her, eyes scanning the crowd until I caught a glimpse of Patch’s trademark blue ball cap. I shoved my way frantically over to him and reached out to catch his hand.
He turned back, but he’d changed into the same beautiful girl. “You’re too late,” she said. “I love Patch now.”
“Over to Angie with weather,” Chuck Delaney yapped cheerfully in my ear.
My eyes sprang open at the word “weather.” I lay in bed a moment, trying to shake off what was nothing more than a bad dream, and get my bearings. The weather was announced at twenty before the hour, and there was no possible way I was hearing the weather, unless …
Summer school! I’d overslept!
Kicking back the covers, I fled to the closet. Shoving my feet into the same jeans I’d discarded at the bottom of the closet last night, I stretched a white tee over my head and layered it with a lavender cardigan. I speed-dialed Patch but three rings later was sent to voice mail. “Call me!” I said, pausing a half second to wonder if he was avoiding me after last night’s big confession. I’d made up my mind to pretend it had never happened until it blew over and things returned to normal, but after this morning’s dream, I was beginning to doubt I’d let go of it that easily. Maybe Patch was having just as hard a time dropping it. Either way, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it right now. Even though I could have sworn he’d promised me a ride
…
I pushed a headband into my hair in lieu of a hairstyle, snatched my backpack off the kitchen counter, and rushed out snatched my backpack off the kitchen counter, and rushed out the door.
I paused in the driveway long enough to give a scream of exasperation at the eight-by-ten-foot slab of cement where my 1979 Fiat Spider used to sit. My mom had sold the Spider to pay off a three-months-delinquent electricity bill, and to stock our fridge with enough groceries to keep us fed through the end of the month. She’d even dismissed our housekeeper, Dorothea, a.k.a. my surrogate parent, to trim expenses.
Sending a hateful thought in the direction of Circumstance, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started jogging. Most people might consider the rural Maine farmhouse my mom and I live in quaint, but the truth is, there’s nothing quaint about the mile-long jog to the nearest neighbors. And unless quaint is synonymous with eighteenth-century drafty money pit situated in the eye of an atmospheric inversion that sucks in all the fog from here to the coast, I beg to differ.
At the corner of Hawthorne and Beech, I saw signs of life as cars zipped along on their morning commute. I used one hand to stick my thumb in the air and the other to unwrap a piece of breath-freshening, toothpaste-replacing gum.
A red Toyota 4Runner braked at the curb, and the passenger window lowered with an automated hum. Marcie Mill ar sat behind the wheel. “Car trouble?” she asked.
Car trouble as in no car. Not that I was about to admit it to Marcie.
“Need a ride?” she rephrased impatiently when I failed to answer.
I couldn’t believe out of all the cars passing down this stretch of road, Marcie’s had to be the one to stop. Did I want to ride with Marcie? No. Was I still worked up over what she’d said about my dad? Yes. Was I about to forgive her? Absolutely not. I would have gestured for her to keep driving, but there was one small snag. Rumor had it that the only thing Mr. Loucks liked more than the periodic table of the elements was handing out detention slips to tardy students.
“Thanks,” I accepted reluctantly. “I’m on my way to school.”
“Guess your fat friend couldn’t give you a ride?” I froze with my hand on the door handle. Vee and I had long ago given up educating small-minded people that “fat” and
“curvy” are not the same thing, but that didn’t mean we tolerated the ignorance. And I would have gladly called Vee for a ride, but she’d been invited to attend a training meeting for hopeful editors of the school’s eZine and was already at school.