New Girl in Town

Chapter 28

How could she tell them about my mom?

The question's still circling in my head the next day, over and over. Jennie's filled me with questions. About her. About myself. About the world and my heart's capacity for everything: hate and love and jealousy and spite and anger.

Oh God, I'm so angry at Jennie, but even more, I'm angry at myself.

I shouldn't have trusted her. That's what this means, doesn't it? But I did; I told her everything. I spilled my fears and my truth and the gnawing wound and wondering inside me, that terrible "what-if" that I'll never be able to shake. And she turned around and told her friends like it was gossip. Somehow, this feels like I've betrayed my mom just as much as Jennie betrayed me. I was stupid and careless, lost in the whirl of Jennie, and now I'm here. Where everyone knows I'm the girl whose mom killed herself.

How fucking dare she?! I want to tear her hair out. I want to scream at her. I want to fall on my knees and cry and ask why while she holds me.

That's the worst of it: I still want her. How can I still want her when she's so cruel?

My mouth flattens as I jerk up in bed, my mind made up. She may not want to see me, and at this point, I don't know if I want to see her. But I need to get my mom's jacket back. So I grab my stuff and head toward the front door. The soft strumming from the living room should've clued me in—but I almost don't notice Marco sitting on the couch, playing one of his guitars.

"Hey, Lis."

I stop halfway toward the front door. "Hey, I'm just heading out."

"Where are you going?" he asks. "You've been busy lately. In and out of the house. Not that that's a bad thing," he adds. "I'm glad you're making friends. But I was hoping we could have dinner together at least once a week."

"Sure," I say distractedly. "But I left my jacket at Jennie's," I say. "You know, Mom's jacket? Or, I guess, your jacket."

He smiles. "It's your mom's jacket," he says. "She had it way longer than I did. And it looked way better on her. And on you. Why don't I drive you?"

It's not ideal. "I can bike—" I start to say.

"No, this way we can go to dinner. There's this great hibachi restaurant that I've been meaning to take you to. I like to eat there on Fridays."

"So I've been messing up your routine?" I ask.

His face falls, but then he smiles determinedly, which makes me feel like a total ass. 

"More like giving me reasons to create a new one," he says, putting away his guitar.

"How many of those do you have?" I ask, gesturing to it while he grabs his keys.

"A few," he says. "A lot fewer than I had when I was younger. I sold some. And my motorcycle."

"You had a bike?" I ask, suddenly a lot more interested.

"I did," he says. "An old Harley. Do you like bikes?"

"Mom always said they were too dangerous," I say, following him into the car. "Jennie lives on Kingsley Street," I tell him.

"That's a fancy neighborhood," he remarks, pulling out of the driveway.

"Your mom was right: motorcycles are really dangerous. I don't want you riding them."

"That's totally hypocritical."

"I'm finding that being responsible for a kid is kind of all about that," he says.