All the Little Lights Page 13

  Imogen folded her arms across her chest. “This whole house has turned into a dump. It use to be nice. You use to be nice. Now you’re rude. Your mom is weird. I don’t know why we even come here.”

  “Me neither.” I spoke the words under my breath as I turned away. My feet dragged as I made my way back to my room. I stopped, hearing Imogen step out into the hall.

  “Catherine?”

  I turned to face my cousin, seeing the dark circles under her eyes. I prayed she’d fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

  “Yes, Imogen?”

  She stuck her tongue out, wrinkling her nose to make the ugliest face possible. Her tongue glistened with slobber that gathered at the corners of her mouth. I recoiled, watching the spoiled brat continue her horrid expression until she returned to her room, slamming the door behind her.

  My shoulders jolted up in reaction to the noise against the quietness of the house.

  After a few moments, I heard another door, then bare feet padding across the hardwood floor. “Catherine?” Mama asked, looking tired. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” I said, returning to my room.

  I’d pushed my bed until it was flush against the door. The iron feet whined against the floor, creating new scratches in the wood. It had been almost six months since the last time I’d had to keep anyone out. The Juniper was no longer my home, and not just a bed and breakfast; Mama had created a sanctuary for people who didn’t belong in the outside world, and I was trapped there with them. Even though I fantasized about freedom, I wasn’t sure my conscience would allow me to leave her. That was hard to explain to anyone . . . to Elliott, to Mrs. Mason, even to myself. Explaining only meant more questions anyway.

  I scooped up my jewelry box and listened to it play its tune while I carried it back to my bed, trying to let the music lull me back to sleep.

  I pressed my head into the pillow, stretching to get comfortable and reacquainted with my mattress. I heard a creak outside my door and peered down to see another shadow partially blocking the hallway light at the bottom of my door. I waited. Imogen was mouthy, but she didn’t push confrontation. She was angry. I wondered if the person outside was Uncle Toad, or worse—Duke.

  I braced myself for the pounding on the door, the grunt from Uncle Toad or the threats from Duke. Instead, the shadow moved, and the footsteps sounded farther from my room with each step. I took a deep breath and exhaled, willing my heart to stop ramming against my rib cage, and the adrenaline to soak back into my system so I could get some rest before school.

  “Whoa. You okay?” Elliott asked, leaning against the closed locker next to mine. He readjusted the small red backpack hanging from his shoulder.

  I shoved my geometry textbook between my AP chemistry and Spanish II books, almost too tired to stand. Forming a sentence threatened to crash my whole system.

  “Do you have plans for lunch?” he asked. “I have an extra PB and J and a passenger seat that leans almost all the way back.”

  I shot him a death glare.

  “To nap,” he said quickly. He surprised me when his bronze cheeks flushed a hint of red. “Just eat and nap. We don’t even have to talk. What do you think?”

  I nodded, feeling close to tears.

  Elliott gestured for me to follow him, taking my backpack off my shoulders and walking slow to keep pace with me all the way down the hall until we reached the double doors that led to the parking lot.

  He pushed, allowing me to walk past him.

  I squinted from the sunlight, holding up my hand to shield my eyes and hopefully stave off the headache that had threatened to worsen all day.

  Elliott unlocked the door and opened it wide, waiting until I was seated to show me where the lever was to adjust the angle. As soon as the door shut, I was nearly horizontal, pushing myself back until I was flat and the seat back hit the bench behind me.

  The driver’s-side door opened, and Elliott slid in beside me. He pulled two cellophane-wrapped sandwiches out of a brown paper sack and handed me one.

  “Thank you,” I managed, clumsily pulling at the clear edges. Once the bread was exposed, I shoved a fourth of the sandwich in my mouth, chewing quickly before taking three more bites until it was gone. I closed my eyes without saying anything else, feeling myself drift off.

  In what seemed like just a few minutes later, Elliott gently poked me.

  “Catherine? I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be late.”

  “Hmmm?” I asked, my eyes fluttering. I sat up and wiped my eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Pretty much the whole half hour. You slept like a rock. Didn’t move once.”

  I gripped the strap of my nylon backpack and stepped outside. Several of our classmates were turning to do a double take, one small group walking arm in arm in between giggles and whispers.

  “Aw, how sweet,” Minka said. “They still have the same haircut.” Her red hair flipped over her shoulder as she turned to stare. She nudged Owen with her elbow and glanced at us once, looking disgusted before pulling him toward the door.

  “Ignore them,” Elliott said.

  “I do.” We continued across the parking lot toward the school building. The double metal doors were painted red, and a silver bar across instead of handles practically screamed stay away. Immediately the rumors would begin. Presley would have a new reason to heckle me, and now it would happen to Elliott, too. He pushed on the silver bar, and it made a loud knocking sound. He gestured for me to go first, so I did.

  “Hey,” Elliott said, touching my arm. “I’m worried about you. Everything okay? Didn’t you use to be really close with Minka and Owen?”

  “I stopped talking to them after . . .”

  Connor Daniels slapped Elliott hard on the backside.

  Elliott clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together in a hard line.

  “Scrimmage tonight, Youngblood! It’s on!”

  Elliott pointed at him. “We are the Mudcats!”

  “The mighty mighty Mudcats!” Connor yelled back, doing his best Heisman pose.

  Elliott chuckled and shook his head, then sobered when he saw the look on my face. “I’m sorry. You were telling me about Minka and Owen.”

  “You’re friends with Connor Daniels?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I guess. He’s on the team.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh what?” he asked, nudging me with his elbow as we continued walking.

  “I just didn’t know that you . . .”

  “Youngblood!” another team member called out.

  Elliott nodded and then looked down at me. “That I what?”

  “Were friends with those people.”

  “Those people?”

  “You know what I mean,” I said, continuing to my locker. “He’s friends with Scotty, who’s friends with Presley. And didn’t you take Scotty’s place as senior quarterback? Why don’t they hate you?”

  He shrugged. “They like winning, I guess. I’m good, Catherine. I mean . . .” He looked like he was about to backpedal but then decided against it. “Yeah, I’ll say it. I’m pretty good. I’ve been named as one of the top quarterbacks in the state.”

  We continued walking. “Wow. That’s . . . that’s great, Elliott.”

  He nudged me. “Don’t sound so impressed.”

  Teammates randomly yelling his last name happened half a dozen more times before I stopped in front of the row of maroon lockers. I stopped at number 347 and twisted the black dial, entering my combination, and pulled.

  I growled. The door stuck like it always did. Elliott watched me try it again and then stood behind me. I could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt and mine. His arm slid over my shoulder, settled on the handle, and yanked hard. The lock released, and the door cracked open.

  He leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Mine sticks, too. Just have to be persistent.”

  “You are that.” I was aware of my every muscle, every movement, my postur
e. Everything felt awkward as I removed books from my backpack and replaced them in my locker before hanging my pack on the hook. I had to stand on the balls of my feet, but I could reach. “What’s with the little red bag?”

  “Oh,” he said, looking down. “It’s my camera. It’s inconspicuous.”

  “Thank goodness I can keep a secret,” I said with a grin.

  Elliott stared at me, amused. “You should come to the scrimmage.”

  “Tonight? No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Why?”

  I thought about that for a moment, too embarrassed to answer. I wouldn’t have anyone to sit with. I wouldn’t know where to sit. Was there a student section? Did it cost to get in? I was angry at myself for being such a coward. I’d faced scarier things than an uncomfortable social situation.

  “Please come,” he said, watching me from under his brow.

  I chewed on my lip while I mulled over why I would or wouldn’t. Elliott waited patiently, as if the bell wouldn’t ring any second.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said finally.

  The bell rang, and Elliott barely noticed. “Yeah?”

  I nodded and then pushed him gently. “You should get to class.”

  He walked backward a few steps, grinning like an idiot. “You first.”

  I gathered my things and shut my locker, letting my gaze linger on him for a few more seconds before turning toward my next class.

  I didn’t make eye contact with Mr. Simons while I took my seat. He stopped speaking for a few seconds but chose not to single me out, and I quietly slid into my chair, relieved.

  Mr. Simons was as animated as ever about physiology, but my thoughts were being pulled back and forth between going to the scrimmage like a regular high school student or going home like I knew I should. I didn’t know who’d checked in—if anyone—and lists began to form in my mind, scrolling through what I’d planned to do after school and if it could wait or not.

  Laundry.

  Scrubbing tubs.

  Dinner.

  What if I went to the scrimmage and Poppy was at the Juniper alone, or worse, what if Imogen was still there, pouting and angry when I returned for not coming home at a predictable time? Uncle Toad would inevitably make an appearance. Imogen’s arrival assured that. I closed my eyes, imagining my uncle’s temper flaring or Poppy’s father angry that I was late. The longer I thought about it, the more deflated I felt. The cons far outweighed the pros. The bell rang, startling me.

  I trudged back to my locker. Before I could open it, a familiar bronze arm slid over my shoulder and yanked up on the handle. I tried not to smile, but when I looked up at Elliott, his contagious grin from before hadn’t faded.

  “Have you thought about it?”

  “What time does the game start?” I asked.

  “Pretty much right after school.” He held out a set of keys. “If you need to run home, you can take my car. Just bring it back. I won’t have the energy to walk home.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have my license.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”

  “Dad never got around to it before he . . . I never learned.”

  He nodded once. “Good to know. We can get to work on that. So? Scrimmage.”

  I looked down. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Mr. Mason was checking his phone, the pits of his ratty white shirt stained with sweat. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Dear God, will it ever cool off?”

  “It doesn’t cool off in hell, Mr. Mason,” Minka grumbled.

  The rest of the chairs filled, the bell rang, and Mr. Mason had just pushed off his desk to stand when Mrs. Mason walked in.

  She immediately noticed Elliott. “I thought I requested a table for Mr. Youngblood?”

  Mr. Mason blinked and then eyed Elliott. “It’s in the back.” Scotty was sitting at Elliott’s table. “All right, you two. This isn’t musical chairs. Get back to your spots.”

  Elliott sighed and then struggled to free himself of the small wooden chair and attached desk while everyone chuckled—everyone but me and the Masons.

  Mr. Mason looked up at his estranged wife, waiting for some sign of her satisfaction. She was caught off guard—for once it wasn’t Mr. Mason’s fault. I watched him sit a bit taller, that small victory enough to make him feel more like a man than he had in probably a long time.

  “What do you need, Becca?” he said, firm.

  “I . . . need Catherine.”

  I sank low in my seat, already feeling twenty pairs of eyes on the back of my head.

  Mr. Mason scanned the room, and his gaze landed on me—as if he didn’t know exactly where I sat—and then he jerked his head toward the door.

  I nodded, gathered my supplies, and followed Mrs. Mason to the office. She sat behind her desk and clasped her hands together, still a bit shaken from losing the upper hand.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She smiled, breathing a small laugh out of her nose. “I’m supposed to be asking you that.” I waited, and she conceded. “Yes, I’m okay. I guess I’m not used to being wrong, Catherine. I’m slipping.”

  “Maybe you’re not perfect. Maybe that’s okay.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, a playful scowl on her face. “Who’s the counselor here?”

  I smiled.

  “You know what I’m going to ask,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Why don’t you just talk?”

  I shrugged. “Things are better.”

  She sat up. “Better?”

  “Elliott.”

  “Elliott?” She was clearly trying to keep the hope she was feeling a secret, and failing horribly.

  I nodded, frowning as I stared at the floor. “Sort of. I’m trying not to.”

  “Why? Because you prefer to keep to yourself, or because he’s pressuring you to be more than friends?”

  My nose wrinkled. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just still angry.”

  She bristled like my dad use to do when I’d talk about Presley. “What did he do?”

  “He use to stay with his aunt during the summers. Then he had to go home. It was the day my . . . the day he . . .”

  She nodded, and I was thankful she didn’t need me to say the words. “And?”

  “He promised he’d come back, but he didn’t. Then he tried when he got his license, but he got caught. Now his parents are getting a divorce, and he’s here.”

  “That’s quite a story. So you’re starting to realize that maybe it wasn’t his fault? He seems like a nice guy. And you said he tried to come back?”

  I nodded, trying not to smile as I envisioned him sneaking out in the middle of the night and jumping in his rickety car, racing down the highway at forty-five miles an hour. “He tried . . . Mrs. Mason?”

  “Yes?”

  “Back when you were my age, did you go to football games?”

  She smiled at the instant memories filling her mind. “Every one of them. Mr. Mason played football.”

  “Did you have a job?”

  “Yes, but they understood that I was a kid. You can’t get these years back, Catherine.”

  I thought about her words. High school wasn’t my favorite, but I couldn’t go back and do it over.

  “Have you been to a game?” she asked, snapping me back to reality. She knew the answer by the look on my face. “Never? Oh, you should go, Catherine. They’re so much fun. What makes you nervous about going?”

  I hesitated, but Mrs. Mason’s office had always been a safe place. “I have chores at home.”

  “Can they wait? Maybe if you talk to your mom about it?”

  I shook my head, and she nodded in understanding. “Catherine, are you safe at home?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t hit me. Never has.”

  “Good. I believe you. If that changes . . .”

  “It won’t.”

  “I don’t want you to get into trouble. I can’t advise you to do anything against your mother’s wishes. I think
you should ask permission, but a night off is not unreasonable. As a minor, it’s required. Anything else?” She noticed my unease. “Come on. You know you can talk to me. Do you want me to do my top ten most embarrassing moments of high school again?”

  A laugh erupted from my throat. “No. No, I won’t make you do that.”

  “Okay, then. Share.”

  After a few seconds, I vomited the truth. “I’ll have to sit by myself.”

  “I’m going. Sit with me.”

  I made a face, and she conceded. “All right. All right. I’m not the coolest, but I’m a person to sit next to. Lots of students sit with their parents.” I eyed her, and she backpedaled. “Okay. Some of them do. For a second. Just sit with me until you’re comfortable. We can get a cherry limeade on the way home, and I can drop you off.”

  “That’s um . . . that’s very nice of you, but Elliott said he’d take me home. We’re practically neighbors.”

  She clapped her hands together once. “Then it’s settled. First football game. Woo!”

  Her reaction might have made another student roll her eyes, but I hadn’t experienced that kind of celebrating since before Dad died. I offered her an awkward smile and then glanced over my shoulder at the clock.

  “Maybe I should . . . ?”

  “Yes. We’ll talk again next month if that’s okay. I’m impressed with your progress, Catherine. I’m excited for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pushing in my chair.

  The bell rang, so I went straight to my locker, placing my hand on the black dial, pausing for a second to remember the combination.

  “Two, forty-four, sixteen,” Elliott said behind me.

  I narrowed my eyes. “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll forget it. So? You coming?”

  I sighed. “Why? Why do you want me to come so badly?”

  “I just do. I want you to see us win. I want you to be there when I run off the field. I want to see you waiting by my car when I come out, my hair wet, still out of breath, high on adrenaline. I want you to be part of it.”

  “Oh,” I said, overwhelmed by his admission.

  “Too much?” He chuckled, amused by my reaction.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Really?”