Following up my rash decision with another one, I decide the only thing that could make this worse is apologizing, so I continue my trip around the front of my car, get in, and turn the key.
It clicks.
Several clicks in a row.
The same clicks that the van made when we got the news that we needed a new alternator.
I lean forward—still not buckled in—and kiss my steering wheel, sure that the Fuller men are watching and wondering what the fuck I’m on.
“Please,” I whisper, turning the key and pumping the gas once like my dad used to tell me. The ignition catches, the vibration of hope rattling my fingers where they grip the switch and key. I press the pedal down just a little more, and the sweet sound of a dozen-plus-year-old Honda firing up fills my ears.
I shift into reverse and peel out backward with my eyes glued to the rearview mirror. The car dips from the driveway and into the road and I crank the wheel with every intention of hauling ass out of this place and not coming home until I’m sure Lucas and his dad are inside. But whatever it is that’s growing inside me, this thing that makes me speak up, act out, and be . . . abrasive and bold—it boils to the top. With my car tenuously idling at the curb in front of Lucas’s driveway, I turn to my right, drawn to this gut feeling that he would be there. He was.
While his dad was wading through the knee-high crab grass and dandelion, Lucas had walked to the end of his driveway, probably on the off chance he’d get the last silent word. I meet his stare and promise myself not to blink, and not to drive away until he gives first. My nostrils flare, and the evening air chills the breath puffing from his barely parted lips. My window fogs, but I can still see him clearly under the glow of the streetlight—the same streetlight he and I used to beat with spoons to usher in the new year at midnight every January first. Maybe I imagine it, but the longer we hold on to this, the harder his chest heaves with what looks like anger and pain. The more time that passes, the more determined I am to win.
Without interruption of headlights and the heavy blaring of a car horn, I think maybe Lucas and I would have remained here in this dumb power play until the sun came up and my car ran out of gas. But we both blink and jerk our gazes away to the white Chevy Tahoe violently flashing its brights at me. I shade my eyes as if I have to visually confirm that it’s Lucas’s mom, but my buzzing pulse kicks in my sense of autopilot, and I reverse several feet to clear the Fuller driveway. Shannon Fuller doesn’t glance my way once as she pulls into her home, driving straight into the family garage and closing the door the second the Tahoe’s bumper clears the line. When I look back to where Lucas was standing, he’s gone. I scan the driveway and the deepest part of our properties where our yards meet without a glint of him or his dad.
They’ve gone inside. Mom came home and the game is over. I’m still here, so I guess that means I won. I look back to the road ahead, the street empty through the next several stop signs, and I drive off for school supplies, pizza, and a handle on my pride.
Chapter Five
Abby can’t fathom why I would go out of my way to do something nice for Tory D’Angelo. It’s fair to call it into question, and I can’t quite find the right words to explain that I’m not really doing anything to be nice to him; I’m doing it to make a show of being nice to him in front of Lucas.
I accepted the truth last night sometime around the checkout counter at the office supply store when I slid my credit card for seventy-four bucks’ worth of binders, paper, labels, and pens. That’s a chunk of money and two hours of my time spent on a guy I’ve never really liked. Yeah, it all sank in right at that moment.
“Your new boyfriend is coming. Go woo him with the protractor and pencil bag,” Abby says, making a joke and pointing to the side parking lot where Lucas and the twins just pulled in beside each other.
“You’re a bitch sometimes,” I say, pushing off from my front bumper, where we’ve been leaning and waiting for the last ten minutes.
“Yeah, I know. But at least I don’t buy presents for assholes,” she shouts at me. It draws a few stares from people hanging out in the lot, but I ignore them. My eyes are focused on Lucas, sitting with one leg out of his truck and his hand resting on his steering wheel. He’s wearing a hat today, all black with deep blue AP embroidered on the front for Allensville Public. He’s not strutting his peacock feather of a varsity jacket today either. Just a plain black T-shirt that hugs his biceps. No matter the argument I make in my head, the twins just don’t fill out their shirts quite the same way Lucas does.
I fight the urge to lower my gaze to my feet when I get closer, and I’m rewarded by catching the moment Lucas notices me and shifts his position in his truck, his arm sliding from the wheel and his body sitting taller as I approach. He’s talking to the twins, who stand right beside his truck. He nods out his front window, silently telling them to look my direction, and when Hayden and Tory see me, I put on the performance of my life.
My eyes leave Lucas and greet Tory, all my effort going into an effortless smile I hope breezes across my face.
“Mabee, what’s up,” the arrogant twin says. He holds out a palm and moves a few steps toward me.
Everything in my body buzzes with caution. This could be a trick. I always assume there’s a trick waiting. Nasty words written about me in bathroom stalls, dicks drawn in the dust of my car window, late-night hang-ups from blocked numbers—it’s hard to take Abby’s word that juvenile shit is behind us, especially after the immature prank I fell victim to at the party.
I take Tory’s hand, half waiting for him to pull it away at the last second and laugh like a third-grader. He doesn’t. Instead, he tugs me toward his chest and wraps his other arm around me briefly in a hug. It’s an odd feeling, being swallowed up by his masculine sent, the coolness of his freshly showered body under a T-shirt, his muscles hard, and his height about the same as Lucas. In a brief lapse of judgement, I indulge and understand why so many girls date him. This . . . it feels nice.
“Hey,” I utter out nervously. I swallow down the dry feeling in my throat as we pull apart and glance to the right, to Lucas. It’s as if he’s watching a television show, concentration and suspicion denting his brow, his chin propped up on the back of his palm as he leans into the center console of his truck. His bewilderment sparks a joy in my chest that paints the richest sinister smile on my lips. I flit my eyes back to Tory and lift the bag. “I come bearing gifts.”
Tory’s eyes widen and he bares his teeth in a genuine grin mixed with laughter, like a boy being given a toy from Santa. For once, I don’t even think he’ll make something dirty out of this. He takes the bag from me, a plastic strap in each hand, and opens it wide to look inside. His mouth sours a little and he looks in deeper, exaggerating before popping his view back to me.
“School shit?” His neck shrinks into his shoulders in playful repulsion so I laugh to keep the mood light, shoving at him playfully. Flirtatiously.
“Yes, but you left your list in class yesterday. You left all of your papers, actually. They’re in there too.” I make eyes toward the bag dangling from his hands, but his gaze seems stuck on me. I think I’ve stumped him . . . or he’s afraid I’m falling in love with him. Whatever the cause, I think he’s going to be kind to me right now.