Slow Burn Part 29

On my way to Government, I b.u.mp into Mr. Rigby, the school psychologist. He's a short guy in an expensive-looking suit with a likeable open face that says "I'm here for you; tell me all your problems."

"h.e.l.lo, Jennifer!" he greets me like we're old friends. "You haven't yet made that second appointment to see me." He lowers his voice, and leans toward me. "We really need to discuss your options. I have brochures."

What? I flinch away from him. Why is he looking at me like that?

Mr. Rigby flashes a sympathetic smile, and pats me on the shoulder. "Come see me after lunch. And don't skip eating this time! Can't have you fainting in cla.s.s again, Jennifer."

I nod my head obediently. "Yes, sir."

His smile grows even wider until he's positively beaming. "Good, good. I will see you in my office. Now hurry to cla.s.s before you get another tardy slip."

"Okay."

I didn't intend to make a liar out of Jennifer, but when it's time to head over to the cafeteria, I just can't do it. It's been a weird day. I could handle Nick's apologetic looks in Government, and Kara's bizarre fake nice attempts at conversation (thankfully Arianna is her usual b.i.t.c.hy self)-but when I run into Johnny on my way to the bathroom-and he barely acknowledges me with a nod-I just can't. I hide out in my car, and eat crackers. Actually, it's not so bad in here. I can eat in peace, and listen to music, while playing that addictive candy game on my phone.

It's the perfect set up-until a scowling teacher raps on my window, catching me with a mouthful of crackers, bopping my head around to a song playing on my phone. Turns out, you can't hang out in the parking lot during school hours. Never mind that groups of other kids are out there as well. One guy is even selling soap from the trunk of his Mercedes. But I'm the one who gets busted. So typical.

To cheer me up, Heather picks me up after work for a double date with Ben and Arianna. We meet them at the movies, and Heather and Arianna giggle to each other, and share popcorn while Ben and I play a drawing game on our phones. No one mentions Johnny, and that's just fine with me.

On Friday, Mack grabs me at my locker and refuses to put me down until I agree to come to his party tonight after the game. Though I'm gasping for oxygen, I manage to tell him that I promised to go to a party with Heather. Then to distract him, I ask if my friend, Tanya Copeland, can go to his party.

Mack looks puzzled for a moment, then his face clears. "Oh, the cute girl with all the hair? Yeah, yeah, she's in my French cla.s.s. Sure, she can come! Actually, I think Nick might have a thing for her."

He says it in a joking way, but it gives me an unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach. Though highly unlikely, what if they hooked up-and Nick accidentally lets it slip about that night? It would be all over school! I almost don't want to tell Tanya about Mack's party after that, but I know she'll be thrilled at the invite, so I tell her the news in Biology. She's so excited, she gives a little scream right there in cla.s.s. n.o.body reacts, not even Sepulveda, who's been staring wistfully at the back of her hands for the past few minutes.

"Do you think I can bring Bobo?" Tanya asks, leaning toward me. Her curls are fairly springing with joy.

"Um, yeah. I guess. He's not going to start any trouble or anything, is he?" I ask worriedly. "I heard he doesn't really get along with Mack's group."

"You mean that thing with Johnny? Ancient history." Tanya waves her hand dismissively. "He'll behave-I promise. Oh, he told me he asked you out-and at first you said yes, but then you turned him down later. Is that true?"

She sticks her face close to mine, dark eyes avid with curiosity. Instinctively, I pull away. "I'm not ready to date yet," I mutter, looking away. "I shouldn't have said yes in the first place."

"Oh, well, don't feel too bad. Bobo likes to ask out every girl he meets. It's like a social experiment for him." Tanya shrugs and rolls her eyes at the same time. "So it's not like you broke his heart, or anything."

Bobo is a player? I'm amused, but kind of offended. Tanya quickly changes the subject, talking about what she'll wear to the party. I don't get the chance to tell her I won't be going. I really did promise Heather I'd go to Tamara Fife's party with her. It's a huge deal for her because Sloane's coming! But...there seems to be some confusion as to whether Sloane knows that she's Heather's date. That's where I come in-as the back-up, in case events take an awkward turn. How could they, right? But tonight is important to Heather, and I'm going to be there to support her no matter what.

I'm actually looking forward to going. Despite what I might have implied before, I miss my former school, and most of my old cla.s.smates. I've only kept in touch with Tamara online, but she's great. Like Heather, she can be friends with anyone, and her parties are always a cool mix of people. It will be fun to catch up with the Jefferson gang-as long as no one asks me about Johnny.

"I heard you and Johnny Parker broke up!"

"Did Johnny really cheat on you?"

"I saw him at Frizby's with Janelle Lopez-my little brother's best friend's sister goes to Valley with her! They were all over each other!"

"Juliet! Did you really throw oranges at Johnny when you caught him cheating on you with some girl at homecoming?!"

This is only a sample of what I hear all night. Some are sympathetic, some are snide-Healani Bauer and Elena Moran, two of the acknowledged prettiest girls at school, are gleeful (yet oddly non-malicious). They've always been absently nice to me, but tend to start really offensive comments off with, "no offense, but-"

"No offense, but you two weren't really in the same...league," Healani says after they corner me in the kitchen. "So it must be kind of a relief, right? I mean, he must've always had girls way prettier than you after him all the time."

"Actually," I begin, holding up a finger, "Johnny told me it's a relief being with someone slightly hideous. He said really pretty girls are high maintenance."

"Really?" Elena tilts her head to the side, pondering. "Oh, yeah, I guess that's true."

"He also said that guys prefer plain girls because we have to try harder." I widen my eyes in sincerity. "You know? We do."

At this point, they're both staring at me, not quite dumb enough to miss the sarcasm in my expression. Then Healani lets out an uncertain little laugh, and I take that as my cue to clumsily sidle away.

Now I really want to lock myself in a bathroom, and go through all my pics of me and Johnny together (yes, I still have a few on my phone) to see just how mismatched we really were. I thought we had looked good together, both of us with an unconventional attractiveness. Or maybe I was the unconventional and he was attractive. Whatever. It's not like I haven't heard this before. I don't know, I guess I'm feeling sorry for myself again.

I want to whine to Heather about it so she can kiss it and make it better, but she's having so much fun right now. Sloane is a big hit, and everyone is in awe of her. She stays close to Heather the whole time. I don't know what to make of it, but when I try to move in to interrogate her, I feel someone slowly reeling me back by my long hair.

"Don't even think about it, Jujubee," Heather sing-songs in my ear.

"What? I say innocently, rubbing the back of my head. "I wasn't gonna do anything."

"Sure you weren't," she mutters. She flashes a bright smile at Sloane, who's looking our way. Then she says out of the corner of her mouth, "I'm fine, Jule. Go have fun-and stop worrying about me."

And just like that, I'm dismissed. Heather prances back to Sloane, who is now glancing around at her surroundings in a slightly puzzled way, like she's not sure how she came to be surrounded by such mediocrity.

Okay. I know when I'm not wanted.

Tanya's been texting me every few minutes with updates on her night. According to her, Johnny was a total beast in the game against Farron, and is now hanging out in Big Mack's heated pool with a blonde-who, according to one of her sources, is an out of town friend visiting Hayley Dixon, a cheerleader.

I decide not to acknowledge that, but then she sends me a crystal clear pic of Johnny, looking s.e.xy in his dark blue board shorts, and a tall girl in a red bikini with what looks to be some kind of snake or dragon tattoo visible on one of her shoulders. She's leaning cozily against his side while his head is turned, and he appears to be talking to someone off camera.

I immediately save the attachment so I can zoom in on the picture. I stare so hard at it, the image feels tattooed onto my retinas. His hand is on her hip, and hers is resting casually on his stomach-the kind of touch that says, "Hey, Juliet! Guess where my hand was thirty minutes ago?"

I guess deep down, I didn't really believe Johnny was seeing other girls-but I'm looking at the photographic evidence right now, so...yeah. Well, guess now there's no doubt he's moved right on. Good for him.

I'm inexplicably mad at Tanya, though I don't think she sent the pic to deliberately torture me. She thinks she's looking out for me by spying on him, but it kind of makes me want to punch her. My thumbs, acting independently of my brain, starts furiously texting a response: I am licking chocolate sauce off the body of an incredibly hot guy right now. Want me to send you a pic?

And send! Seconds later, I receive a reply.

Dean: No thanks Wait-what? Oh, s.h.i.+t! I sent that to Dean! How the h.e.l.l did I do that?! Mortified, I quickly type back.

Me: Sorry that was meant for someone else as a joke!

Dean: Ok Me: Seriously! There is no guy!

I grab Tamara and her friend, Josie-and snap a pic of the three of us making duck faces at the camera. Then I send it to Dean, as if that's proof that-oh, d.a.m.n it, I should have looked at it before I hit send. Tamara's boyfriend, Charles, totally photobombed us. Ugh, why is he pretending to lick my head?

A couple of minutes go by, then I get another text.

Dean: Where are you Me: Party with my old Jefferson cla.s.smates! R u still at Mack's?

Dean: Cut out early. Got some things to do Me: Want some company? This party blows.

Why did I just type that? How rude am I? I'm only joking, but that doesn't come across in a text message-unless you put an emoji, or something. I hastily compose a retraction, but Dean's reply comes in before I can finish it.

Dean: What's the address?

Wow, he'd really let me tag along? I bite my lip, considering. Oh, why not? I'm curious to see what Dean Youngblood does in his spare time-and my enjoyment of this party ended with the Healani and Elena encounter, anyway. After only a brief hesitation, I text him Tamara's address. He replies that he'll be there in fifteen minutes. I'm actually kind of excited. I don't want to be here, anymore. The mix of loud music and loud voices is starting to give me a headache, and I have to work to fake smile my way through questions about Johnny. I could use some fresh air, and the company of someone's who's quiet, and really pretty to look at.

Well, he is.

Chapter 29.

I try to get Heather's attention to let her know I'm leaving, but she's very busy thrilling a crowd of people with one of her hilarious stories. She's behaving herself for Sloane tonight-I haven't seen a drink in her hand once. Sloane, however, looks slightly gla.s.sy-eyed. I don't know if she's on something, or just bored. I hope it's the latter. I send a text to Heather to let her know I'm leaving with Dean, and to call me if she needs me.

I have to admit, I thought about having Dean come into the house to get me-because how awesome would it be to see the looks on everyone's faces when that comes walking through the door-for me!

But, no, I couldn't objectify Dean like that. Not without him realizing it. So I say my goodbyes to everyone and wait outside at the curb. I'm sure Dean would prefer it that way. Exactly fifteen minutes from his last text, his bada.s.s Pontiac rumbles up to me. There are a few nosy people hanging out on the lawn and watching me, so I quickly hop into the pa.s.senger side before Dean can get out and open the door for me.

I settle into the leather seat and breathe in the scent of freshly laundered clothes and warm male. It makes me think of Christmas morning, and I give Dean a big smile. "Hi! Where are we going?"

He gives me a quick sidelong glance as he pulls away from the curb. "Sunlit City."

I raise both eyebrows in surprise. "On the coast? What's going to be open at eleven at night?"

"My uncle. He lives there."

"Oh. Isn't it kind of late to go visiting?"

Dean's attention is on the rearview mirror, watching a cop pull up behind us at the stop sign. "He doesn't sleep much," he replies absently.

"Like you. Johnny mentioned you're always up at night," I say-then bite my lip. d.a.m.n it, I wasn't gonna bring him up for the rest of the night!

Dean doesn't seem to notice my self-hate moment, even when I slap myself in the face. I hit myself a lot.

The peaceful quiet that follows is comfortable, until I decide to ruin it with a question that just suddenly pops into my head.

"That time we talked at the rec...you know, that night?" I begin hesitantly. "Did Johnny ask you to check on me? Is that why you came?"

Dean turns his head to look at me before giving a brief nod. Then he focuses on the dark road ahead. And that's all I'm going to get out of him.

It's really stupid-but I feel a tiny bit better. That Johnny would still care enough about me to make sure I'm okay. I can't help but- Ugh! Pathetic! I need to stop obsessing over Johnny Parker. He's obviously not thinking about me now. I give my head a violent shake to clear it, and turn to Dean. "Let's change the subject. So...what was life in military school like?"

His beautiful profile is in the shadows, so I can't see his expression, but his silence feels surprised. "Very regimented," he finally says. "Not a lot of down time."

"Where was it?" I ask curiously. "What'd you do for fun?"

"Pennsylvania. It was an all male academy in a small town with nothing there." One side of Dean's mouth crooks up into a smile. "I worked out a lot."

"Well, you made friends there, right? Didn't you hang out with them on the weekends, or something?"

"Some," he answers, amus.e.m.e.nt starting to lace his tone at my slightly exasperated expression. "Where do you think I got the scars from?"

I try for details, but getting Dean to talk about himself is like trying to pull teeth from-something that doesn't have teeth. I decide to change the subject again, and we talk about everything from the smoke bomb incident, to where he's going to college (he's given verbal agreement to a scout from Louisiana)-to our days at Sally Brown Park. Which leads Dean to ask me why I'm not on any teams at school, since he remembers me playing sports just as well as any of the guys there.

"I don't know. I'm not much of a joiner, and I don't have the time or discipline to practice," I answer slowly. Not to mention, you can spend a lot of money on uniforms, equipment, and trips. "Also, I have this thing about organized sports. Something about everyone wearing the same uniform-and all that camaraderie. You know, like when you miss a goal, or strike out-and your teammates pat you on the back. And they're like 'good try,' or 'you'll get 'em next time.' It freaks me out. It's really weird."

"That is really weird."

"I know, okay? Why do you think I don't tell anyone about it?"

"You told me," he points out.

"Yeah, well, you don't count." I gesture at him in annoyance. "You already know about my bedroom."

Dean laughs again, and it's a low pleasant sound that I don't find offensive, even though he's laughing at me. I change the subject again by asking him if his uncle will be okay with me tagging along. He says his uncle won't have a problem with me, but doesn't elaborate. Through a very specific set of questions (of the yes and no variety), I find out Uncle Jimmy is actually his great uncle. Dean's mother used to take him to see Jimmy every Sat.u.r.day when Dean was little, and Dean reveals how Jimmy taught him things like how to whistle with two fingers, and make a paper airplane fly ridiculously far. Uncle Jimmy had served as a medic in Vietnam, and came home with both physical and mental trauma. He lives by himself in a beach house, and almost never leaves it. Dean still goes to see him every week to check up on him- To which I go, "awww!" and that's when he stops talking. Awkward silence ensues until Dean goes through a Frizby's drive-through. He orders three Big Dog burgers and a Heap O' Fries, then asks me what I want. I could really go for some onion rings, so I make my request. When I try to give him some money, he gives me that look again. I stubbornly place the few dollars on his dashboard, and he immediately grabs it and sticks it back in my hand. Ugh, what's the big deal?

Uncle Jimmy's big gray ratty looking house on the beach is straight out of a slasher movie. It's huge and misshapen, and the whole thing seems to lean a little to the right. Maybe in the daytime, the house is simply old and unkempt, but in the shadows of the dark, it's a looming monster, waiting for its next victim. Dean gets out, grabbing the Frizby's bag, and a small white box from the backseat. He waits for me to get out before he starts walking up the narrow crooked drive.

The yard is overwhelmed by waist high weeds, and I have serious doubts about walking through that mess to reach the front door. Who knows what could be living in there. I follow as closely behind Dean as politely possible-but when I feel something big scurry across my foot, screw politeness, I grab the back of his s.h.i.+rt in a viselike grip. Dean glances at me over his shoulder, but doesn't say a word.

By the time we make our way to the sagging front porch, I decide the house has character, and I like it. I could get used to the roar of the cras.h.i.+ng waves, and the salty sea breeze ruffling the air. Under the glow of the yellow porch light, I notice the splinters of wood sticking up like unruly strands of gray hair. What lives in the jagged little holes peppering the front door? I hope Dean doesn't knock, and disturb...them.

He rings the doorbell. I can't hear it go off in the house, but I a.s.sume he'd know if it works. We wait for a good three minutes until the door finally creaks open, and we are greeted by a thin elderly man in a faded t-s.h.i.+rt and jeans. An ancient ball cap sits over longish gray curls, and a delicate face dominated by translucent green eyes that seem to s.h.i.+ne in the dim light.

Dean introduces us, and Uncle Jimmy gives me a nod and shy smile in acknowledgement. I immediately like him, and his quiet easygoing demeanor. While Dean hands over the Frizby's bag, as well as the white box, I take the opportunity to glance around at my surroundings.

Okay, so there's a definitely a musty, unwashed smell in here, but it's no big deal if I breathe through my mouth. Everything in the house is old, faded-typical bachelor decor, and by that, I mean only the most basic of furniture probably bought before I was born.

But I barely notice the faded couch and the huge boxy television balanced on a couple of crates. There are birds everywhere. Not the real kind, but carved ones of every size, shape, and color. There are little sparrows-so lifelike with curious expressions in their eyes, perched on the coffee table; a glossy black raven with wings outstretched in midflight on a bookcase...a brightly colored parrot peeks through the cobwebbed leaves of a fake plant. About a hundred more decorate the living room and kitchen, turning the drab surroundings into something kind of magical and a little creepy.

Though Jimmy seems shy and quiet, he talks to me easily enough. He calls Dean, "Buddy," and I a.s.sume it's a special nickname until he starts calling me that, too. I find out that he hand carved all the birds himself, and we end up talking shop. I tell him about my carousel horses, and we discuss carving tools and technique. His work is infinitely superior to mine, with such fine detail that I want to touch the bird feathers to see if they feel as silky as they look.

"Do you sell them?" I ask, running a light hand over a bright blue robin with its head c.o.c.ked to the side.

Jimmy shakes his head, sticking a finger under his cap to scratch an itch. "No, I could never part with any of these little guys," he admits softly.

"That's how I feel!" I blurt out. "I name all of mine, and sometimes I talk-"

I stop abruptly, having just remembered that Dean is there. I shoot him a self-conscious look. He's half-sitting on an ornately carved wooden chest, arms crossed, and with an amused half-smile on his face. I'd been so busy talking to Jimmy that I forgot all about his presence. It's just that-it's so nice talking to someone who shares my obsessive behavior. I bet I could tell Jimmy that I've made little clothes for some of my favorite horses, and he wouldn't bat an eye. Not that I've done that, I'm just giving an example.

Jimmy has ferrets! He brings out two slinky silver creatures named Holy and Moly. They are so adorable and playful that I immediately want one for myself. Moly claws its way up Dean's leg to perch on his shoulder and chitter in his ear. Dean doesn't look thrilled, but seems resigned to having the ferret there. It's so cute, I can't resist taking a pic with my phone. I swear, I'm not gonna post it online, or anything.

About an hour into the visit, Jimmy starts to become visibly tired. He seems to be babying his left arm, keeping it awkwardly against his body. Dean notices, too, and glances at his watch.