All the Little Lights
Page 30

“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.