The Wrong Girl Page 5

  “We’re not going to smash into each other,” I said. “I think I have an awesome idea. Maybe—”

  A door slammed, and I heard rapid footsteps. Heather walked into the room, hoisting a stack of books in front of her. She glanced quickly from face to face. “Hey, guys,” she said, “what are you all talking about?”

  I shot a look at each one of my friends. I didn’t have to say it. We all knew for the prank to work, we had to be bound by silence.

  “Not much,” I said. “Just hanging out.”

  11

  Keith Narrates

  My chest is burning. Mom always makes everything too spicy for me. She likes hot sauce on everything, and she refuses to believe that I don’t. I like shrimp and rice, but my mouth was on fire by the time I was halfway finished, and even a gallon of cold water didn’t cool my tongue.

  Of course, Jake, my ten-year-old brother, had to brag about how much he likes hot food, and he wolfed down the shrimp like it was candy, making faces at me the whole time, slobbering rice down his chin.

  He doesn’t know he’s a total sitcom character, but he is. The little bro who acts so smart and superior and always competes with the older bro, and always WINS.

  So why does my life have to be a sitcom?

  Dad is sitting there shoveling in his dinner without even tasting it, as usual, giving Mom an endless account of how he installed some new refrigeration units at the box factory in Martinsville today. Dad is a hardworking dude, no question. But why does he think anyone at our dinner table is the tiniest bit interested in refrigeration units?

  Meanwhile, my life is falling to pieces. And he’s running on about how the cooling ducts didn’t fit, and he had to change the compression gauges. Or something like that. I wasn’t listening. I was watching Jake suck the burning hot shrimp down his greasy mouth with that crazy lopsided grin on his face.

  Jake is cute. And he knows it.

  He’s just too much, you know? Always shouting, never speaking. Always pounding me every time he walks past. Too energetic, too all-over-the-place. I wasn’t like that when I was his age. I was quiet. Studious. I have no idea how we ended up with him.

  So now it’s more than an hour later, and I guess I have what you call heartburn. Believe me, it’s not the first time. Maybe it’s from Mom’s shrimp, or maybe it’s from the stress, the aggravation that Poppy is causing me.

  She’s giving me the cold shoulder—the silent treatment, literally ignoring me, shutting me out entirely. Do I deserve it? No way.

  Well, okay, maybe I acted a little stuck-up about their pet-store riot. It turned out to be pretty funny, and no one got in trouble. Maybe I should have hung around, but I have to be careful.

  Poppy doesn’t understand the pressure I get from my parents. She knows I’m on the waiting list at Tufts. She knows I can’t do anything to screw it up, or my dad will kill me. He had to drop out of Tufts to go into his family’s refrigeration business, and now he’s desperate for me to go there and finish.

  If it doesn’t work out, well, I’m kind of not sure what he’d do.

  It puts a lot of stress on me. I’m not making excuses. Sometimes I’m too quiet and too cautious, and Poppy doesn’t like it. I know that. But I can’t change who I am. And I think she knows how much I care about her. I mean, it isn’t easy for me to talk about things, but I’ve tried to tell her how much I care.

  She’s the first real girlfriend I’ve ever had, not counting the two weeks I went with Trisha-Lee in fourth grade. So . . . maybe I care too much. And maybe it hurts me too much when she doesn’t want to hang out or she won’t answer my texts and calls.

  I know what she thinks. She thinks I’m this straight-arrow, no-fun guy. Especially since that strutting freak Jack showed up. But it’s not true. I know how to relax and how to unwind and how to let loose. I know how to party.

  It would be easier if I liked Poppy’s friends. Ivy is so stuck-up, totally high on herself, waving her hair around and posing like she thinks she belongs in those gossip magazines she reads. She’s pretty, but she’s not as awesome as she thinks she is.

  And Jeremy is just messed up. He can’t pour ketchup on his cheeseburger without reading the ingredients on the bottle first. Like maybe he’s allergic to tomatoes. I tried to bond with him—you know, connect in some way—but either he’s off in a cloud or else he’s so totally into himself and his problems, trying to talk with him is just . . . awkward.

  Manny is fun. He’s big and loud and funny, but we don’t have much in common. I like to play Madden Football. I don’t like Call of Duty or the other war games he’s so obsessed with.

  So my chest was burning. I was still burping up the spicy shrimp, and my head was kind of ringing, like a high, shrill whistle in my ears. I tried calling Poppy for the tenth time. And when I got her voicemail, I grabbed my dad’s car keys, made my way out the back door without telling anyone, and backed his Mazda SUV, the one he bought used a few months ago, down the driveway.

  Where was I headed? To Poppy’s house, of course. It was a foggy night, not raining, but low clouds blocking the moon and the stars. I eased the car into drive and started to roll down the street. I had to make a hard stop when a family of raccoons came strolling across the street right in front of my car.

  I counted at least six of them, two adults and four little ones, walking close together in a straight line, walking rapidly, silently, eyes straight ahead, as if the car headlights weren’t even on them.

  My heart was pounding. It got me a little shook. Because I almost ran over them. I might’ve rolled over all six at once, wiped out the entire family, and then I’d have to think about it for a long time, probably remember it for weeks. I guess maybe I’m oversensitive when it comes to that kind of thing.

  Peering out into the fog, I drove slower than usual. I’m a careful driver, but I was super careful and cautious, and I made it to Poppy’s house on River Road. She only lives fifteen minutes away. I slowed down, but I didn’t stop. Because I recognized the pickup truck in her driveway.

  Jack’s truck. And then I spotted Ivy’s mom’s car parked at the curb, and then I could actually see them through the front window, Poppy and all her friends except me. I could see them all in the family room with that dark-green furniture.

  I floored the gas pedal. The car lurched forward with a scream, like it didn’t want to pull away but I was forcing it. The car screeched and I hoped they heard it inside the house. I hoped they heard it as I roared away, gripping the wheel but not really in control. Not really driving. Just shooting into the swirling wisps of fog, snakes of mist dancing in the light from my headlights.

  The growl of the engine as I sped up River Road matched the roar in my head. Like we were one, the car and me. And I lost all caution, forgot about being so careful. I made my dad’s car squeal into the turns as the road climbed, the river out of sight, lost in the fog far below. And I whipped around the curves like a thrill ride, a roller coaster at the state fair. Whipped around the curves, roaring and squealing, and man, did that feel good.

  Too bad, Poppy. You’re missing it. You’re missing my wild moment, my rocket trip through the fog, through space.

  And when I pulled back up the driveway to my house, I didn’t want the roaring to end. I didn’t want the roar in my head to leave me. I needed it to drown out all the thoughts about Poppy. Poppy and her friends in her house, without me.

  I could still feel the speed, the power of the car in my head. The house was dark. My parents had gone to bed. I walked to the liquor cabinet against the wall in the dining room, the floor tossing beneath my feet, shadows bouncing. Squinting into the dim light, I found the Jamaican rum.

  That will do, I decided.

  I grabbed a glass and carried the bottle to my room in the back of the house, tiptoeing on the wooden floorboards. I didn’t want anyone to wake up and interrupt my night.

  Sipping, sipping, feeling the warmth go down my throat, I stood staring out the window at the curtains of fo
g, shimmering gray against the purple night. Stood at my window, listening to the ocean crash inside my head, letting the liquid roll down my tongue. My chest burning even hotter now.

  And then I walked to my desk and picked up the Swiss Army knife. Who gave me this knife? Was it a Christmas present from my great-aunt Clara?

  I rolled up the sleeve of my T-shirt. I found the blade I like. Not too big, not too small, but sharp. The waves crashed in my skull, and I raised the blade to my shoulder and made a little cut.

  Cut. Cut.

  Not too deep. Just like before. Just like the other cuts crisscrossing my shoulder.

  Cut. Cut.

  Do you see, Poppy? Do you see?

  You think you know so much, but I’m not what you think.

  You’ve got me wrong.

  You’re so wrong. You don’t know how wrong you are.

  I made another cut, this one a little longer. Just an inch or two. I felt a warm trickle of blood. I felt the pain of the blade slicing so tenderly into my skin.

  Cut. Cut.

  It felt so good.

  Just the right amount of pain.

  12

  Poppy Narrates

  Ivy was with me on the night of the school play. I sent Rose Groban a text: Break a leg! Simple but thoughtful. And then Ivy and I hurried to meet the others and cause a major car accident.

  We were both giggly. Giddy. We both agreed it was going to be a hoot, a total riot. Neither one of us thought we could get in trouble. We drove in her mom’s SUV, the radio blasting, Ivy thumping the dashboard with one hand as she drove. Me with my knees up on the glove compartment, so casual and relaxed.

  We were a couple of blocks from school when Ivy broke the mood with a question. “Did you ever get around to breaking up with Keith?”

  I nodded. “Well, yeah.” Ivy sped up to make it through a yellow light. “What made you think of him?”

  She drove with one hand, tugged at her hair with the other. “I was just thinking how much he would not approve of what we’re doing. The poor guy. He—”

  “We don’t have to worry about Keith anymore,” I said. “I am out of the No Fun zone. I caught up with him at his job. You know, at his uncle’s hardware store? And I just told him point-blank that it’s over.”

  “Whoa.” Ivy kept her eyes straight ahead as we pulled onto Division Street. “He probably guessed it was coming, right?”

  “I’m not sure.” I poked her with my elbow. “Watch out for that guy on the bike.”

  “I see him. What do you mean you’re not sure?”

  “Well, I think I saw tears in his eyes,” I said.

  Ivy’s mouth dropped open. “OMG. He cried?”

  “No. Just teared up,” I said. “And went kind of pale. And then his lips got real tight. You know. Like he was holding himself in.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He didn’t say a word. Just turned around and walked to the back of the store.”

  “The strong, silent type,” Ivy said, slowing to let a woman with a baby stroller cross. “Do you think you broke his heart?”

  “Who knows?” I replied. Her questions were starting to annoy me. Why did she have to know every detail? Did she have a thing for Keith? Not very likely. Ivy was always telling me to dump him.

  “Keith is the most bottled-up person I ever knew,” I said. “It was impossible to know what he was thinking.”

  “Well, he cared about you,” Ivy said. “A lot.”

  “How do you know?” I snapped.

  “Because he called me. To talk about you. He was worried you were going to break up with him.”

  “Enough about Keith,” I said. I lowered my legs and sat up straight. “We’re almost there. We’ve got to time this perfectly, right?”

  The play’s curtain was at eight. We planned to stage the accident at exactly seven fifteen. On a Saturday night there was a lot of traffic on Division Street. We had to make it look real. And we knew we’d have only one chance.

  We had three cars. Ivy’s, Jeremy’s, and Jack’s. Jack wasn’t bringing the pickup truck. He’d borrowed an SUV from his cousin. Manny was riding with Jeremy. He was our photographer, and it was his job to get everything on video.

  We planned to put the video on Snapchat and maybe Facebook, too. And we’d already set up our Shadyside Shade YouTube channel. It was ready for uploading.

  Of course, we would do that later, after we backed up traffic till eight o’clock and made sure the high school auditorium was empty for Rose and her play.

  You have to give us credit. We went for it.

  As for the police? Well . . . we just didn’t think they would take it seriously. Maybe we weren’t thinking clearly. Maybe we didn’t want to think about any consequences that would spoil our fun.

  Ivy and I both took deep breaths as she inched the car closer to the intersection. My heart was thudding so hard in my chest, I could barely breathe. Please let this go right. Please let this go as we planned. I gripped the dashboard with both hands as if we really were going to crash.

  But, of course, we didn’t. I could see Jack’s SUV coming toward us on the other side of Division Street. He was driving into the sunlight, so his windshield was covered in gold. And Jeremy’s car was in place. Manny was waving at us from the passenger seat. And—talk about perfect timing—there was a sudden break in the traffic. No one in view for at least a block or two.

  We edged our cars into the intersection. Ivy let out an excited squeal. “I can’t believe we are doing this!” she cried, gripping the wheel with both hands, leaning forward in anticipation until her face was almost at the windshield. “This is so stupid, Poppy. This is so stupid!”

  Her car bumped Jack’s SUV. Head-on. Just a tap of bumpers. And then Jeremy’s car slid in from the side until it bumped our back door on my side. A thump that made Ivy and me jump, harder than we expected.

  And there we were, the three cars pressed together in the middle of the intersection. I scrambled out of the car and left my door open. My legs were shaking. I had to grab the side of the car to steady myself.

  Ivy jumped out, squealing, pumping her fists in the air.

  “You’re not supposed to look happy!” Manny screamed. “You were just in an accident. Stop celebrating, Ivy!” He was already standing on the roof of Jack’s SUV, his phone raised, recording the “terrible, tragic” accident.

  “Looking good!” Jack said, strutting around the three cars. He pulled open the driver’s door on Jeremy’s car. Then he raised the hood. He grinned at me. “Look upset, everyone. Come on. Let’s see some acting.”

  “Here come the cars,” Jeremy said, pointing. And yes, a stream of cars was heading toward us from each direction. We stood looking at our cars, shaking our heads, muttering to ourselves as if we didn’t know how this had happened and didn’t know what to do next.

  The horns started. Cars began to back up. A silver oil truck rolled up behind Ivy’s car. It had nowhere to go. I glimpsed Manny on the car roof, videoing everything, moving his phone from one car to another, and capturing our distraught, confused faces.

  A man in a blue work uniform climbed out of his car and hurried over to us. “Can I help?” he asked me.

  I just shook my head.

  The driver of the oil truck joined him, an old guy with a Chicago Cubs cap tilted over his forehead. The two of them muttered to each other, shaking their heads.

  I heard sirens in the distance, growing louder. I turned and saw the backup of cars. It stretched for blocks now. No one could get past us. No one could turn around. And, of course, no one could get to the high school.

  I had one surprise I hadn’t told anyone about. My great idea for making our accident look like a real wreck.

  I waited till no one was watching. Then I opened the trunk of Ivy’s car and pulled out my surprise: a smoke machine I’d taken from the Drama Club supply cabinet.

  A crowd had gathered around us. And the police sirens were louder now.

 
I cradled the machine in my arms and slid to the side of Ivy’s car. I slipped it onto the back seat. I glanced around, suddenly panting like a dog, unable to catch my breath. Was I really doing this?

  I glimpsed Manny on the roof of Jack’s SUV. He had his phone aimed at Jack’s car. So far, no one had seen me.

  I pulled open the compartment between the two front seats and plugged in the smoke machine.

  Then I turned the machine on. Backed out of the car. Left the door open. Stepped back . . . back.

  A few seconds later, wisps of black smoke floated from Ivy’s car. I heard screams and startled cries.

  “Look out!” a woman screamed. “Get back! Get back!”

  “The car could blow!” another woman cried.

  “Smoke! Help! Smoke! It’s going to explode!”

  People were wide-eyed with fright, backing away. I couldn’t keep a grin off my face. I hoped no one could see how pleased I was with my little smoke trick.

  Ivy and I backed away, our eyes on the billowing black smoke. I squeezed Ivy’s hand. I wanted to celebrate. We had pulled this crazy stunt off. The Shadyside Shade were in business, and we were going to be stars.

  I thought of Rose in the auditorium, standing in a nearly empty theater, wondering why no one had come. I thought of all the attention we were about to get, thousands of views online. Thousands.

  I was thinking only good things when flames shot up from Ivy’s back seat. The black smoke billowed even higher, and the bright yellow-orange flames leaped from the car.

  Ivy’s car.

  I was still squeezing her hand as we watched, paralyzed, watched the flames grow wider, watched Ivy’s car burn.

  13

  Poppy Continues

  Like a dream, what happened next didn’t seem to take place in real time. Some of it came at me so fast, I couldn’t take it in. And some of it was in painful slow motion so the unfolding horror had plenty of time to soak into my brain.

  When the flames leaped from Ivy’s car, I gripped her hand and stared as if I’d never seen flames before. I saw Jack reach up, grab Manny, and pull him from the roof of the SUV, where he was recording the whole scene. Manny fell, landed on his knees on the pavement, and Jack pulled him to his feet.