Secret Girlfriend Part 5

Luke's numbers rivaled Chris's. One of them took the lead in every category. Where one snagged first place, the other fell to runner-up.

"I haven't been paying much attention to everyone else," I said.

He stopped and smiled down at me, the one that made my stomach flip every time. Every. Darn. Time.

"Yeah. I know. Thanks, babe. I'll see you at tonight's session."

"Oh." I looked up at him and caught his eye, trying to keep the disappointed look off my face.

"You know I'd love to hang out. But Ben is having the seniors from tryouts and the cheerleaders over."

"All the seniors?"

"Yeah," he said, before stopping himself. "Well, you know. Not all the seniors."

Not me.

Some of the guys filed past us as we stood there, him waiting for me to say it was okay and me hoping he'd realize he could bring me with him. No one would probably even notice I was there.

"So," he drawled. "I have to head in."

"Okay. Yeah. See you tonight."

His smile looked more relieved than pleased as he squeezed my arm then strolled away. I gave myself a moment before following everyone into the school. Even with all the time we'd hung out after work at the day camp that summer, we'd never done anything with his friends.

When he'd talked about them, he made them sound like idiots. Like watching twilight creep in with me at the old Rec Center after the campers went home was better than being with them. We were a one-on-one pair and it was just hard to not get that one-on-one time.

I still had my second favorite place to be. Up until Chris, it had been my favorite. It had been far too long since I'd spent time there, since I'd focused on what was important to my plan. Get one of my eleven paintings done to submit for college apps. Just one. You'd think I could do that.

Tossing the binders in the locker and slamming it shut, I turned to find the ever-present Luke Parker standing behind me.

"Hey. You going to Ben's pool party? I guess it's a seniors' thing. He even invited me. Nice guy, huh?"

I closed my eyes, just for a second, just to push it all away and be alone while the new, all-seeing guy towered over me.

"Nope. I'm not going. You have fun though. I'm sure it's a great way to get to know the team." As if I cared about that.

I started to walk away. I knew if I didn't get out of there like super-quick I'd do something humiliating. And even if I didn't, Luke's frightening ability to read me would have him saying things I didn't want to hear again. Not after the way Chris had brushed me off.

"Thanks for the ride this morning," I called over my shoulder. "Have fun. See ya tonight."

Chapter 7.

The lock slid free with a rea.s.suring snick I hadn't realized I'd been listening for. Acrid tinted air washed over me, welcoming, comforting. I pocketed the keys Mrs. Cleary had given me the last day of school. I guess part of me had been afraid I wouldn't be able to get in. That the locks had been changed or the room moved. That the far corner-my corner-had been cleared out.

But there, where I'd left it two months ago, was the two-by-three canvas covered by a pale blue cloth tarp. Other works in differing degrees of completion rested around my corner, my own little world walled off by the ancient bamboo screen.

Pulling the tarp clear, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The scene, half finished on the canvas but fully realized in my mind, swam before me, the two realities overlapping. Blinking away the illusion, I scrutinized the picture with a critical eye. A woman stood by a stream, a hand raised to shade her eyes against the sun. The tree was heavy with leaves, the thick gra.s.s dotted with multi-colored flowers. Behind her, a stream flowed by, dragging the low-hanging willow branches along in its wake. But it was the woman who drew my attention every time. She was ageless, immortalized by a few strokes of a brush.

My mother. Even then, the day we moved into Stonehaven, she was beautiful.

I found the brushes I wanted and set them aside, tapping each on the edge of the counter to make sure no drawer dust clung to the soft bristles. Slipping the keys from my pocket again, I unlocked a cabinet at the front of the cla.s.sroom. This was the Art Room Mecca. Ms. Cleary kept the expensive paints for the students who were serious about their work there.

Freshman year I'd quickly realized the elective I'd thought to breeze through was the one thing I could count on every day to challenge me. Mrs. Cleary wouldn't overlook me. She always asked the tough questions, pushed to make something better than good enough.

With the paint ready to mix, I plugged in the CD player and keyed up U2. Not the new stuff, the really powerful older stuff. Cranking the volume, I left the world of boys and tryouts and seniors and pool parties outside and closed my eyes, feeling the music all the way to my fingertips. Against the naked background of my mind I saw the finished painting as I wanted it to be. As I dreamt it could be.

My mother's face drifted in and out of focus as I reached deeper for the more honest memories of our time in Stonehaven. The picture cleared. Opening my eyes, I dabbed at the pallet with a flat brush, fine tuning the slope of her neck down to the pale, loose sundress like all the others she lived in that summer. Detailing. Shadowing. Trying to capture that something that even then couldn't stop her from being breathtakingly beautiful. The shadows emerged, giving a reality to the scene I hadn't been able to achieve with my other stuff. My own work dragged me in, consuming me.

Maybe it was that the day was hazy. Or maybe I'd done everything possible to push it from my memory. Either way, the artist in me struggled to capture her, to hold her on canvas... even as the teenager in me wished that day six years ago had never happened.

"Amy Nicole, if you're not down here in two minutes, you're going to school. The elementary school is an easy stop on my way to work."

Were there ever words crafted to motivate an eleven-year-old faster?

"Coming!"

I pulled my Keds on and sprinted down the stairs. It was a double-stuff Oreo worthy day. Not only did I get to skip school, but my mom and dad were staying home too.

It was enough to make a kid suspicious.

Of course, this was all part of the "things are going to change, we need to spend more time together as a family" kick my parents had been on for a couple months. They'd started what they'd called "minor adjustments" right before we'd moved to the little cottage on the river in Ridge View. Leave it to parents to see ripping me from my friends and moving several states away as a minor adjustment.

In the kitchen, my mom sat at the oversized butcher's block table, packing a bunch of food into a basket while my dad played with her hair.

"Hey, are you guys going to be all mushy or are we going on a picnic?"

My dad turned and grinned at me... he didn't let go of my mom, but still. It put a quick stop to anything more. Like kissing. Who wanted to deal with that?

"Are you ready?" Mom asked, as she brushed past my dad to get some sodas from the fridge.

"Amy-girl." My dad reached up and gave my ponytail a light yank. "Run to the car and get the picnic blanket out of the trunk."

Picnics were so perfectly special that, yes, we had a picnic blanket permanently in the car. You never knew when you'd need to eat outside and without a table.

But...

"Why am I bringing the blanket in?" It was beautiful out, and I never bought that whole if-we-eat-indoors-on-the-floor-we-can-call-it-a-picnic thing.

Dad glanced toward Mom before answering.

"Why would we want to go somewhere else when we haven't even explored our own new s.p.a.ce?" He threw his hands out wide like a ringmaster in a circus. All he needed was a top hat and some clowns dancing behind him. But our new kitchen wasn't really big enough for dancing clowns. "We have lots of land and flowers and that big tree with that pretty perfect looking rope swing. Not to mention the river running by. What more could we want?"

I glanced at my mom. She looked so hopeful. And tired. She'd been doing all the unpacking while I'd been at school, so I guess it was time to suck it up and yard-picnic.

"I'll go get the blanket." I called over my shoulder as I pushed the screen door open, "But this means I get two sodas at lunch. And cookies."

Mom and Dad were already headed down to the river as I slammed the truck shut. Mom had her arm looped through his, leaning against his side and smiling up at him. They looked like a couple from an old movie.

Other kids complained about their parents all the time. How they fought with them, fought with each other, were boring or stupid or annoying or bossy.

I was one of the lucky ones. I had great parents. They'd always told me they had wanted three kids, but were blessed with one super kid instead. When I was little I thought I was a super hero and just hadn't come into my powers yet.

My mom made me a cape.

I wore it.

In public.

No, we do not discuss these things.

Dad settled Mom on the blanket and then spread everything around us, spoiling each of us. His girls.

I picked one of the flowers bending over the edge of our blanket. I think they were one of the reasons Mom pushed for this house-a natural garden painting the river's edge.

"These flowers are going to be gorgeous. All the silt from the last time the river flooded has really made the sh.o.r.es fertile." Mom pulled a b.u.t.tercup from its cl.u.s.ter and held it under my chin. "Someone likes b.u.t.ter."

I made a face, ignoring how both of them laughed.

My favorite part of the new house was the rope swing over the river.

Before I could test it out, we had to move everything out of the way, settle Mom in the lawn chair, and let Dad do the first string testing. He bounced on the rope a couple times, putting all his weight into it. And then, super fast, he ran at it, swinging out over the river.

Which would have been great if he'd grabbed on high enough to not drag his feet through the water on the way back.

Finally he let me on. I hooked my feet over the thick knot at the bottom and let him push me out and catch me back over and over. Mom held up her fingers, giving us scores. She was worse than the America's Top Model judges. That last one so didn't deserve a three.

When I was done-okay, when Dad was tired of pushing me-we flopped down at Mom's feet and played I-spy with the clouds drifting by.

"So, Amy-girl." My dad propped himself up next to the lawn chair my mother was in. "There's something your mom and I need to talk to you about."

I glanced from one to the other. They both looked worried. I'd known it was too good to be true.

"Dad, I'm eleven, not stupid." He rolled his neck to look up at my mom while I waited. "Seriously, how much worse than moving here could it be?"

"Your dad and I moved us here for a very specific reason." My mom shifted her hand to lay it on my father's shoulder. "We want the next couple months to be a great time for all of us. We wanted to slow things down and just enjoy our family. There's a good school here and we're close to one of the top hospitals."

I'd argue with her on the school thing, but...

"Why do we need to be near a great hospital?" My gut clenched like when you're at the top of a roller coaster and your brain tells you for one split second you're going to fall off the track.

An edgy, grating sound escaped my dad and I shifted to look at him. His eyes were glimmery and focused far off over my shoulder.

"Amy, I'm sick." My mom's hand tightened on Dad's shoulder when he covered his eyes and let out something that sounded frighteningly like a sob.

"Sick, like a really bad cold, right?" Right?

"No, honey. Sick like I'm not going to get better and..." She gave me the saddest smile I'd ever seen. It hurt to look at coming from my always sunny mother. "And I'm going to get worse. Pretty quickly."

My dad really was crying now and I don't know which scared me worse.

"No, you're not." I mean, that didn't even make sense.

"Yes, sweetie. I am." She looked healthy. I mean she'd been tired and stuff, but we'd just moved. And she was sitting there, peaceful. Shouldn't she be throwing stuff and screaming if she was dying?

If she was leaving us?

How could she stand it? I couldn't.

I jumped up, not sure where I was going, and ran. I ran down our lane and over the bridge that kept us separated from the rest of town. I don't even remember which way I turned, I just ran like I'd find an escape. The sound of my Keds slapping on the ground, the huffing of my breath, the too loud pounding of my heart pushing everything else out of my head.

I'm not sure when I stopped. I ran until I had to walk and I walked until my legs gave out. Someone called my dad and he came and got me. Not one word about running out on the family. Not one word about Mom dying.

Yeah, that was a day for the history books.

Years later, that was the day I tried to capture on canvas. The first part, the flowers and my mom's soft smile. The rest? Not so much.

It wasn't until the music switched off that I realized I wasn't alone in the art room anymore. The sudden silence snapped me back to today, the painting in front of me a faded study of a faded memory.

Glancing up, I funneled my sadness into an anger I didn't know I had in me. It pounded through my body and over every nerve ending like a summer rain, hard and deafening. When I saw Luke Parker standing there, looking around as if he'd never seen a high school art room before, I almost threw my brushes at him.

"What are you doing here?" I didn't have the time or energy to show him any type of patience. This was my place. My sanctuary. And wasn't he supposed to be at a stupid seniors-only pool party?

"I thought I'd see what was so interesting you'd skip hanging out with your boyfriend and his buddies."

I swung toward the jar of soapy water and swirled my brush until it came away clean. Without facing him, I answered. "He's not my boyfriend."

Luke was closer than I expected when he replied.

"No. You aren't his girlfriend, but I'm not so sure about the other way around."

The sound of his footsteps neared and I spun to face him as he moved to step past the easel, to come around to my side of the painting. My s.p.a.ce behind the canvas. I raised a hand in front of me, the movement so abrupt it caught his attention.

"Stop," I said. "No more."

I shook my head at the words. No more. No more questions. No more pushing. No more steps toward the only four square feet of Earth I considered my own.

Most people would have pushed, urged me to let them see, questioned why they couldn't.