The Precious Dreadful Page 13

  Coming up for air, I press my fingertips against his jaw, rest my head on his chest. His heart pounds. Mine keeps pace.

  I look into his eyes. He breaks contact, glances skyward. I get the feeling he wants to say something. Can’t decide how.

  “What is it, Aidan?”

  “What’s what?” He smiles, tries to kiss me again.

  This time, I step away. Returning to the rock, I study the pond surface, waiting for him to speak. After a moment, I face him and say, “Something’s wrong.”

  Aidan joins me on the flat rock; sitting, he takes my hand, pulls me down beside him.

  Biting his lip, he sighs. “You said you miss me. But you don’t even really know me.”

  Taking his hand, I kiss each knuckle. “Not as well as I want to.”

  Unexpected tears fill his eyes as he says, “I don’t get it, Teddi. I feel . . . you’re this amazing person and—I . . . just . . . if you could see inside me.”

  As he stands, panic constricts my ribs. I’m certain if I let him go, I won’t see him again. Relying on my typical make-or-break tactic, I shoot for comic relief.

  “Don’t tell me! Those anger issues you mentioned are more serious than you’re letting on. There are warrants for your arrest in seven states!”

  It seems he might laugh, but then his expression shifts. Face going mask-blank, he backs off the rock edge, onto the path. “Why would you say that?”

  I catch his wrist. Kissing his hand again, I say, “I’m sorry, Aid. I was totally kidding. I didn’t mean anything.”

  He just squints at me, his face a cement wall. Then his features soften. “I get it. You were joking.”

  Sweeping a fringe of hair from his forehead, I say, “Please tell me.”

  “You don’t know what’s inside, Teddi, but—” his voice is hushed, tentative, “it’s not good.” He closes his eyes. “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Hurting you. Messing things up. Mostly of being . . . forget it.”

  “Your father’s son?” He nods. “You’re not him, Aidan.”

  “I wish that were true, but, people are always saying I’m just like him, and . . .”

  “You really believe we’re all just a mashup of our parents’ worst qualities?”

  His miserable expression answers for him.

  “Well, if that’s true, you’re the one who should worry. My mother’s a disaster.”

  His smile’s weak, but it’s a start. Leading him back to the rock, I pull him into a sitting position, my lips brushing his forehead, cheeks, chin. Then, just as our mouths are about to meet, I ask, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Leaning close, I say, “I, um, think I sort of like you, Aidan Graham.”

  He’s quiet, taking it in; then, brow furrowing, he says, “Well, this is awkward.”

  “Awkward?”

  “Well, yeah. Because I’m pretty sure I’m in full-on love with you, Teddi Alder.”

  Barely stifling a gulp, I’m speechless, unsure how to react. The last guy to profess his love for me did so in the back of a Mazda, his hand down my pants. Surprisingly, that relationship didn’t pan out. While Aidan waits, I attempt to banish intrusive Hecht thoughts.

  Finally, twining my fingers with his, I manage, “Uh, wow?”

  Aidan says, “That’s it?” Then, jaw tight, he stands. Wrenching a cattail from the bank, he grinds the brown spike in his fist. Pitching it into the water, he says, “Shit, Teddi!”

  Jumping to my feet, I touch his back. He goes rigid, but when I wrap my arms around his waist, he loosens and says, “I’m sorry, Ted. I’m not mad. Not at you.” Removing my hands, he steps away from me. “It’s just. It’s me. I’m so stupid.”

  “Stupid? No, you’re sweet.”

  He rubs his cheekbones with the balls of his fists. “Great, I can hear exactly where this is headed. You’re sweet, but.”

  Taking his hands from his face, I hold them in my own and say, “But I’m not ready to say it back, Aid. I’m sorry, really. And I pray I won’t regret not saying it, because I . . . I really may feel it. It’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  The last thing I want is to bring up Pool Girl and all these crazy memories that have been surfacing, but he needs an answer. “It’s not even about you, Aidan. Honest.”

  “Oh, come on, Teddi! Please don’t say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Even I’ve stopped using that shit line.” Turning, he stomps off. Then pacing back, he says, “If you don’t want to be with me, say so.”

  “Aidan, I’d be crazy not to want to be with you. You’re like a for-real Prince Charming.”

  Volume rising, he says, “Well, you’re acting more like I’m the frog.”

  Battling back tears, I answer, “Don’t say that.”

  Face red, Aidan shouts, “Look, you get to decide what you will and won’t say, but you don’t get to tell me what I can say.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Lunging, he pokes his finger in my face. “If I’m such a prince, why are you treating me like some frog? SOME FUCKING FROG!”

  Terror floods me; I bat his hand away. Arms wheeling, I strike him in the chest and neck. I’m not sure how long I flail, but I’m out of breath when Aidan slaps me.

  Huffing out shock, I sit down hard.

  Eyes trained on the pond, I experience this momentary disconnect. I’m on the ground; he’s standing over me. How did I get here?

  Aidan’s voice is choked, quavering. “My God, Teddi. I hit you. Oh God, I didn’t mean to hit you! Oh shit, oh shit!”

  Barely above a whisper, I answer, “Don’t, Aidan. I’m okay.”

  When he bends to help me up, I wince back, and for just an instant, he looks like he might hit me again. Without warning, he starts to sob, dropping next to me.

  Cradling Aidan’s head in my lap, I comfort him. He finally calms, and I tilt his face to mine, kiss him gently on the cheek. Then I say, “You’d better go find Nic. You have lines to run, don’t you?”

  Aidan just gapes at me. After a moment, uncertainty creasing his brow, he asks, “Are we all right?”

  Shaking my head no, I answer. “I’d say we need some time apart, Aidan.”

  Features gathered into this pleading look, he says, “I never meant to hurt you, Teddi.”

  Staring past him at the water, I say, “Nobody ever means to hurt anyone, Aidan. Not usually. Even when I was little, I don’t think anyone ever meant to hurt me. But that didn’t stop it from hurting.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I shock him by laughing. How do I explain I don’t understand anything anymore?

  Aidan’s face takes on that dark cast I’ve come to recognize as stifled rage. Scarily soft, he says, “Don’t laugh at me.” It sounds like a threat.

  Anger breeds anger and, pulse beating in my throat, I say, “God, Aidan! I’m not laughing at you. I just. I have some things to figure out.”

  “About me?”

  “Not . . . exclusively. There are . . . there are some things I haven’t told you.”

  “What things?”

  I brace for his reaction. “Marisol’s aunt. This friend from when I was little. I’m not sure what happened to him.”

  His expression slides from confusion to concern.

  “And it all has something to do with the girl from the pool. She’s the link. I know she’s trying to help me, to tell me what happened to Corey.”

  As if I’ve kidney-punched him, Aidan changes. Compassion draining from his face, kindness eclipsed, he’s wordless.

  Rising, I touch his shoulder. “Aidan, what is it?”

  Voice cold, he says, “This again? For real?”

  “For real.”

  Exhaling frustration, he says, “Good-bye, Teddi.” Then, turning his back, he calls for Nic as he trudges pondward.

  19

  After the pond, I’m close to calling Willa, but as I imagine rehashing the Aidan fiasco, I admit I haven’t got
the energy for it. Or for Willa’s reaction, which will almost certainly be as dramatic as the event itself. Instead, I commence drowning sorrow in Forever Fudge. Flatulence be damned.

  The sugar crash finally hits. Hard. I conk, and I’m out ’til early afternoon when Willa calls, to discuss a “semi-big matter.” She feigns chipper, but I can tell something major’s up. Ironically, she suggests we meet for ice cream. Pocketing some lactose pills, I slip through Bren’s den without alerting mother bear, and head to Sprinkles.

  Slouched in her plastic chair, it’s obvious Praline Pirouette’s not sufficient to lift Willa’s spirits.

  When I ask, “What’s your parasite?” friend-code for “What’s eating you?” Willa just grunts, shoveling a spoonful.

  Scooping whipped cream with a peanut butter cup, I ask, “Is it Nicky, Wills?”

  She slams her spoon on the plexi tabletop with force enough to snap it in two. “Wow, who died and made you clairvoyant?”

  “It doesn’t take a mind reader. Your face is a billboard. What’s up? Is he still obsessed with the show?”

  Shoulders shaking, Willa struggles to swallow a glob of butterscotch without choking. Then she answers. “He’s obsessed, but not with the play.”

  “What do you mean? Don’t tell me he’s fallen for a costar. That’d be entirely too predictable.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  Magenta splotches each of Willa’s cheeks. Fighting the urge to call her Raggedy Ann, I reach across the table. She resists, fingers curling into a stiff fist, but, refusing to let go, I hold her hand.

  Breaking down, she blurts, “I’ve lost him, Teddi. And I don’t know if I want him back.”

  “How, Willa? And why?”

  She shakes her head, black ringlets sproinging, and says, “Dick.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “He’s a dick, Teddi. Nic the Dick.” She gets up, pitching her half-eaten ice cream into the trash. Returning, she spreads a napkin on the tabletop and sags, resting her face against it.

  I wait for her to speak. When she doesn’t, I spread a napkin next to hers and lay my head alongside. Touching my nose to Willa’s, I say, “Talk to me.”

  She groans. “Oh, T Bear, what’s the point? It’ll just upset you.”

  Straightening in my seat, I pull her upright. “Willa, why are you worrying about my feelings? If I can help, that’s what counts! Besides, you’ve spent more than your share of time lately listening to me gripe about Aidan.”

  At the mention of his name, my heart hiccups, and oddly, Willa’s cheek patches darken. As she bites her bottom lip, a fresh tear plinks from her chin, seeping into her napkin.

  Swiping the next tear with my thumb, I say, “What is it, Wills?”

  “Aidan—”

  Over the shushing sound in my ears, I ask, “What about him?”

  Breath shivering out in a thin stream, Willa studies the tabletop and says, “Nic is, like, fixated on Aidan or something.”

  “Fixated?”

  “Yeah, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s obsessed with your boyfriend.”

  I resist joking that’s one more thing they have in common, because she’s genuinely bugged. I also don’t say anything about running into them at the pond, or my episode with Aidan, figuring it’d only make things worse. And, honestly, I’m still struggling to process that. Instead, I just wait as Willa traces shapes on the sticky glass tabletop.

  Shoulders drooping, she says, “He’s been spending way too much time with Aidan. He’s got this insipid boy crush or something.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I am most definitely not shitting you, Teddi.”

  “So your boyfriend is crushing on my boyfr—” thinking back to the pond, I finish with “ex-boyfriend?”

  She doesn’t react to ex, proving she’s neck-deep in her own woe. I repeat, “Crushing? On Aidan?”

  “Utterly. But platonic, some bro-fatuation.” Voice trailing, she rests her chin on her hand.

  Unsure whether I want an answer, I persist. “What makes you think so?”

  Wadding her napkin into a ball, she says, “Well, aside from the damn play, all Nic talks about lately is Aidan.” She sticks a finger in her mouth, adjusting an elastic. “He blew me off last night. We were supposed to catch Penalty Box live.” Flattening her napkin on the table, she smoothes it with her hand.

  “Supposed to?”

  “He never picked me up.”

  “You’re kidding. Did he give you a reason?”

  “No, and I texted him about fifty times. He says he was wiped, that he crashed right after rehearsal. Claims his phone was set to silent.”

  “Sounds legit.”

  “Sure, but it doesn’t excuse him not getting back to me.”

  “Well, did he have an explanation?”

  Dabbing another tear, she says, “Yeah. Aidan showed up around midnight, and they went to his place to play video games. When I asked Nic why he never called, he said he forgot about Penalty Box. Thought it was tonight.”

  “But you don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. He’d been hyped about that concert for weeks. But Aidan shows up and—BAM!—forget Willa. He doesn’t even seem sorry. The old Nic would’ve been all puppy-sweet apology. But since he’s been hanging with Aidan, he’s . . . different.”

  Despite my own Aidan issues, I say, “Or it could be the play.”

  “Teddi, please don’t defend Aidan. Just, please. It’s bad enough he tried . . .”

  Something tells me to ditch my sundae and hightail it home. Instead, I ask, “Tried what?”

  She looks down then, bracing herself. I know I should brace, too. Or leave before she has a chance to continue. Instead, I repeat, “Tried what, Willa?”

  Chocolate eyes wide, she answers, “Aidan tried to kiss me.”

  At first, I’m sure she’s joking, but that doesn’t account for the tears. Still, my initial response is a laugh.

  Expression clouding, Willa says, “You think it’s funny?”

  Unsure how to respond, I just stare at her. Then, carefully weighing my words, I deliver probably the worst imaginable response. “You’re lying.”

  For just a second, I hope Willa might laugh, too, until we both register what I said. And that apparently I meant it. There’s no going back.

  Barely audible, Willa asks, “What did you just say?”

  Swinging into full-scale bitch mode, I glower, arms bolted across my chest.

  She repeats, this time at full volume, “What did you say to me, Teddi?”

  “You heard me.”

  Crimson patches reappear, along with a wounded expression that gives me instant guilt. I know core-deep Willa’s not lying, but admitting this truth would open a massive can of bad for Aidan and me. And if our pond squabble was any indication, the last thing we need’s more bad.

  Thinking back to the Fourth of July, I realize Willa was right. It is a choice between her and Aidan. And ass that I am, I seem determined to choose poorly.

  I have one last chance to fix the situation. So of course, when Willa says, “Teddi, be reasonable. Why would I lie?” I reply, “Because you’re jealous.”

  This is so outrageous she does laugh. I join her, until she says, “Don’t you even want to hear the details?”

  I answer, “I’d prefer to save the fiction for SUMMERTEENS. But if you’re set on sharing a story, go for it. Tell me about the time Aidan Graham tried to kiss you.”

  Instead of flinging a fistful of rude back at me, Willa takes the high road. That’s another reason I know she’s telling the truth. It’s obvious it’s hurting her to share info that will hurt me.

  Frowning, she says, “He was drunk. Or something. He’d gotten Nic all messed up, too. It was yesterday, after supper. They said they saw you writing by the pond.”

  “Oh.”

  Along with proving her story, this detail propels me into new territory, some Land of Magnified Emotio
n. Pressure building, I close my eyes. As I knead my temple, my right thumb slips automatically between my teeth.

  Willa keeps talking. “. . . upset or something.”

  Opening my eyes, I dab my bloody cuticle with a napkin.

  “Anyway, they showed up at my house—wasted. Nic was being a total ass. He never could handle booze. And Aidan took me aside . . . and—” She stares at her hands.

  “And?”

  “Teddi, he says he’s worried about you, because you’ve been acting . . .” voice barely audible, she says, “. . . unstable.”

  “Unstable?”

  “His word, not mine.”

  It occurs to me just maybe she agrees.

  “And then he suddenly kissed you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, then?”

  She loses herself, shredding her napkin. Then she continues. “We walked Nic home. Luckily, his folks weren’t around, so we were able to get him inside. He was all sloppy. Giggling, falling down. I helped him to bed. He kept saying how much he loves me. And how great Aidan is.”

  “Yeah, Aidan’s a real gem. So, when do you get to the part where Mister Wonderful was so overcome with desire he couldn’t help trying to kiss you?”

  For the first time, Willa looks seriously pissed. “Is it that hard to imagine Aidan Graham could find me attractive?”

  Because we’ve never fought over a guy, or because I’m a natural at Petty Bitch, I don’t pause to consider ground rules, or what constitutes cruel. I blurt, “Honestly? You are so not his usual type.”

  No longer committed to the high road, Willa hooks a left onto Low Lane. Leaning back, she says, “Oh, right. I hear he’s developed a taste for neurotics who fart when they eat ice cream. And who betray their friends.”

  Rising, she topples her plastic chair, and stalks off. I almost call after her, but the whole experience has me stunned. Afraid what might come out of my mouth next.

  Ditching dairy debris in the big striped barrel, I waver in the Sprinkles lot. The last thing I want is a Brenda run-in, so home’s out. Some small, insane part of me envisions going to Aidan’s to confront him. Then I acknowledge how asinine that is.

  Instead, I wander toward the library. We have the night off from SUMMERTEENS, but I cross Literate Green anyway. Halfway up the walk, I see the sign: CLOSED FOR A/C REPAIR. REOPENING TOMORROW.