The Bright Effect Page 11

  “Want might be a stretch.” He shrugs his shoulders.

  “I get it. It’s not really your kind of thing.”

  “It’s not, but I am curious considering that I’ve never been to a school dance.”

  “Not one?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “And you’re thinking maybe you should do it before it’s too late and you’ve missed out on your chance to experience all that taffeta and bad dancing?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Because God forbid you miss out on teachers requesting that the Deejay play the Cha-Cha Slide. Not to mention the spiked punch or the cookie table.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “There’s going to be a cookie table?”

  “With three kinds of cookies,” I tell him smugly. “Chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, and oatmeal raisin.”

  He’s smiling widely now and it’s impossible for me not to smile back.

  “Damn, that settles it. What time should I pick you up?”

  ***

  “That Spencer really is a nice boy,” Nancy says, drizzling dressing over the olive salad.

  “He sure is,” Daphne responds as she digs into the risotto.

  “I saw his mother this morning and was reminded what a lovely woman she is. Daphne, she told me that Spencer hopes to attend Georgetown next fall and that he just sent in his application. Maybe his college aspirations will rub off on you, sweetpea.” Nancy gives her a pointed look.

  “Guess what? Amelia’s finally got a Homecoming date,” my sister announces crudely. I kick her under the dining room table to let her know I don’t appreciate being thrown under the bus like this. Of course I had planned to tell my parents about Sebastian and Homecoming. Just not right this minute.

  Daddy looks up from his plate. He’s an attorney and spends most of our family meals deep in thought or grumbling to himself about cases and clients who are pestering him. Only occasionally does our conversation draw his interest like this.

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” Nancy says, smiling at me. “Now tell us—who’s the lucky young man?”

  Daphne answers, “Bash Holbrook.”

  Now we really have Daddy’s attention. “Bash? And what kind of name is Bash?”

  “It’s short for Sebastian,” I explain, starting to become uncomfortable. “Like a nickname.”

  “I see,” Nancy says, her mouth tilting dubiously. “Amelia, can you tell us anything more about this Bash? Do we know the boy?”

  “Well, he’s a senior.”

  They both nod.

  “And we’ve gone to school together since elementary school so you’ve probably seen him before, but I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced.”

  Dad frowns. “At least we’ll meet him when he comes to pick you up for your date.”

  Nancy says, “Actually, we have the Perry’s fundraiser that night, but I can cancel if you think it’s best to be here and meet Amelia’s date.”

  I have to struggle to keep from shouting. “Um, no. You don’t need to cancel for me. It’s not even a real date. We’re just going together because it’s convenient.”

  “And Bash is a really cool guy,” Daphne says, flashing me a look of regret. That’s right, sister, you should be sorry for bringing this up! “He works at Kane’s Hardware.”

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Nancy says. “Is Bash on a sports team at your school?”

  “No, he’s not the sporty type.”

  “Well, is he in one of your clubs?”

  “No.”

  “What about colleges. Do you know which ones he’s considering for next year?” she tries.

  “I… uh… I don’t think he’s decided yet,” I answer, shoving a bite of chicken picatta into my mouth and chewing aggressively. I am really disliking this conversation.

  “What do his parents do? Do we know them?” These are usually the kinds of questions they reserve for Daphne’s dates.

  “Nancy, why does that matter what his parents do? Are you going to ask me for his fingerprints also?” I ask defensively.

  “Amelia Laine!” Dad reprimands. “There is no need to sass your stepmother. We’re curious about your date because the world is a dangerous place. We only want what’s best for our girls. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble, cowed by his use of my middle name like I’m six years old again.

  He picks up the glass of sweet tea near his plate and swirls the straw around the glass before taking a sip. “And truth be told, Amelia, we’ve picked up on some changes in you recently.”

  Nancy nods her head in agreement and that fidgety feeling in my belly grows stronger. Where is this going?

  “Like what?”

  “Mostly small things,” Nancy starts.

  “Like what?” I repeat.

  “You seem distracted and I’ve certainly noted a decline in the amount of time you’re spending on schoolwork.”

  “That’s because I’ve been busy helping plan things with the Homecoming committee,” I contend, my face flushing. “Not to mention that I’ve got volunteer commitments and the tennis team breathing down my back and Mrs. Kyle is already asking me to organize a food drive for the holidays. But I won’t let my grades suffer. I promise.”

  Daddy says sternly, “You haven’t let me look at your Emory essay as of yet.”

  “Because I haven’t written it!”

  He just looks at me. “That’s exactly what we’re talking about, darlin’. If I’m remembering things correctly, you had planned to have all of your college essays completed last Friday.”

  “And your room, dear,” Nancy adds.

  “What about my room?”

  “You didn’t even ask if you could paint it and yet I leave for a few hours for my sewing circle and when I come home, you’ve painted a wall blue in your room.”

  I feel a lump rise in my throat, thick and painful. “It’s just paint. If you don’t like it, I’ll change it back.”

  “I’m not arguing that I don’t like it; I’m simply pointing out that this sort of behavior seems out of character for you, Amelia.”

  “Darlin’,” Daddy says, “we don’t want you to lose sight of the finish line when you’re this close to getting what you want. We’re not criticizing you. We’re nudging.”

  Nudging? It feels more like a hammer hitting me over the head. Repeatedly.

  I stare down at the fork balanced on the edge of my plate not knowing how to respond. Have I been distracted? Am I really letting things slip? I did allow my self-imposed deadline for college essays to come and go.

  “Hey, did I tell you guys that I’m thinking of getting a tattoo?” Daphne blurts out, breaking the terrible silence. “A bird or maybe a star or something else right along here.” She lifts up a hand showing us the pale skin on the underside of her wrist.

  My mouth flaps open in surprise. Nancy and Daddy both turn to Daphne, their eyes bulging from their heads. And, like that, my interrogation is over.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bash

  It doesn’t seem to matter that Elaine Travers cleared us almost as soon as she walked into our house last week. I still feel like she and the entire Department of Children and Family Services are looking over my shoulder. Watching me. Taking notes. Judging me.

  Because of this, I’ve been trying to take special care with things, like packing healthier lunches and making sure to pick Carter up on time. But it’s not like I can control everything.

  Which is precisely what I’m thinking when my cell phone rings in the middle of class and Mr. Gubera loses his cool.

  “Mr. Holbrook, I think you are aware of my no cell phone policy,” he scolds, glaring at me from over the thin metal rims of his glasses.

  “I am,” I say, checking my phone anyway. Shit, I missed a call from Carter’s school.

  “I don’t think it’s too much to ask you kids to keep your cell phones on vibrate, is it?”

  “It’s not, but…” I point to
my phone. “I might have an emergency.”

  “Fine. At least take it outside so you don’t disturb the rest of the class,” he says, gesturing to the classroom door.

  “Thanks. And I’m sorry,” I say, stuffing my notebook into my bag and slipping out of my chair. Amelia catches my eye as I head out the door. You okay, she mouths. I don’t know, I mouth back.

  In the hall, I play the voicemail.

  This is Susan Knowles, the nurse at Green Cove Elementary. I’ve got Carter Holbrook in my clinic and it appears he’s come down with a stomach bug that’s been circulating the primary grades. I’ve given him some fluids and let him rest on one of my beds, but I think he’d do a lot better at home. If you could call the school and arrange for pick up, I’d greatly appreciate it.

  So Carter’s sick. I’ll have to miss the test in my economics class this afternoon, but at least I’m sure I can get Mrs. Martin to give me a make-up.

  I make a quick stop in the office and let Ms. Hanson, the lady who guards the admission desk know why I’ll be gone. Then I haul ass out to the parking lot and get into the Bronco and—SHIT.

  The thing won’t start.

  I turn the key again. The engine screeches like it wants to turn over, but it dies out before it catches.

  “Come on!” I beg, simultaneously punching the steering wheel and twisting the key.

  Nothing.

  “Great,” I mumble as I reach over into the passenger seat to find my phone. I’ll have to get Seth’s help and if that doesn’t work out then I’ll call my Aunt Denise.

  As soon as my fingers wrap around the phone, it starts to ring in my hand. Thinking it’s Carter’s school, I don’t even bother looking at the screen.

  “I’m on my way,” I say.

  A pause. “On your way where?”

  It takes me a second to make out who the voice belongs to. “Amelia?” We traded numbers when we studied together but this is the first time she’s used it.

  “Yeah, hi. I was just checking to make sure that everything is okay because you never came back to Spanish class.”

  “The nurse from Carter’s school called. I need to go pick him up but my truck won’t start.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m sitting in the parking lot trying to figure out what to do next,” I tell her. “Thanks for checking in, but I’ve got to go so I can text Seth. I think he might be able to give me a ride out to the elementary school and hopefully home.”

  “Oh, okay,” she replies slowly. “Or you could get that girl walking toward you to help.”

  “What?”

  “The brown-haired one with the purple backpack. Do you see her?”

  I pick up my head and spot Amelia walking out the main doors of the school. “What are you doing, Amelia?”

  “Helping out,” she says into the phone.

  “But you’ve got class,” I remind her when she reaches the edge of the parking lot. “Isn’t this your AP History period?”

  I see her shrug her shoulders. “I’ll just tell Mrs. Turner that I had to work on important Homecoming stuff.”

  I chuckle in disbelief. “You’re going to lie to one of your teachers?”

  “I don’t know if I would call it a lie.”

  “Then what would you call it?”

  She’s almost to my car. “Bending the truth.”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble for me. I know school’s important to you.”

  Amelia dangles her keys and says into the phone. “I’ve heard that some things are more important.”

  Our eyes meet through the windshield and something razor-sharp inside of me wrenches free. Have I been kidding myself this whole time? I never wanted to fall for Amelia Bright, but now I know I was just fooling myself. I can’t not fall for this girl.

  It’s impossible.

  ***

  “Now you’re all set,” Amelia says as she swings a plastic grocery bag up onto the kitchen counter.

  After we got Carter from school, she insisted we stop at the store so she could run in and pick up a “magic cure,” which as it turns out consists of peach popsicles, ginger ale, and five cans of chicken noodle soup.

  “Where do these go?” she asks as she pulls the cans of soup from the bag.

  “I’ve got them,” I say, acutely aware that this is the first time that Amelia has been to my house. It’s nothing like her place and I’m wondering what she makes of the low ceilings, the peeling kitchen wallpaper, and the well-used furnishings.

  “Carter,” she calls, poking her head around the hallway corner, “what do you want, sweetie?”

  Predictably, he says, “A popsicle.”

  “How about some soup and then a popsicle?” I shoot back.

  Amelia grins at me. “That sounds fair. The magic cure doesn’t really work unless all three ingredients are combined.”

  I open the cabinet above the sink. “I’ll pour him a ginger ale.”

  While I get the soup going, Amelia entertains Carter in his room. He introduces her to our cat, Jinx, and she tells him that she’s allergic but should be fine as long as she doesn’t pet her.

  “You can’t pet cats?” he asks.

  “If I do my eyes get red and I start to sneeze.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I agree. It is sad.”

  I’m pouring the steaming soup into a bowl when I hear Carter ask her, “Can you read me a story?”

  “Sure thing,” she answers instantly. “Which one?”

  Carter must be pointing to a book. He says, “Mama said that one was Bash’s favorite.”

  It must be Where the Wild Things Are. When I was a kid, I made her read that one a thousand times.

  “That makes sense,” Amelia says. “In the book, Max reminds me a bit of Sebastian.”

  “Yeah. They’re both grumpy sometimes.”

  “True. But both Max and Sebastian are good guys.”

  “Why do you call him Sebastian?” Carter asks.

  “Isn’t that his name?”

  “Everyone else calls him Bash. Only Mama called him Sebastian.”

  Amelia hesitates. “Well, I think it’s a great name. It’s no wonder your mother wanted to use it.”

  Carter yawns. “Are you his girlfriend? Is that why you call him that?”

  Shit.

  “I’m a friend who’s a girl,” Amelia says carefully, “but I’m not his girlfriend in the way that you’re thinking.”

  “I didn’t like his last girlfriend. She was icky.” This is news to me. I always thought that Carter and Rachel got on pretty well.

  “Oh?” she asks as I creep closer to the bedroom door.

  “Yep. She was always rolling her eyes at me or talking to me like I was stupid. You’re much better.”

  Amelia gives a soft laugh. “Thank you.”

  “And it would be okay with me if you were Bash’s girlfriend. Then you’d get to spend even more time with me and that would be good.”

  I think that’s my cue. I loudly enter Carter’s room and set a glass on the small table next to his bed. “Here’s your ginger ale.”

  Jinx is curled up on the foot of the bed and Carter is buried beneath his favorite blue blanket. It’s sort of dingy but the kid fights me every time I try to wash the thing.

  “Thank you,” he says, sitting up and taking a sip from the glass. “Amelia is going to read to me.”

  “Amelia probably needs to get back to school, bud.”

  “No way. Not until I read this story,” she says. “Carter tells me it’s your favorite.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Secret stuff,” Carter answers, twisting his fingers around the blanket and pulling it up to his chin.

  “Oh yeah? Well, the soup is probably cool enough now. If you eat it all up, I’ll let you have one of those popsicles Amelia got you.”

  Carter gives me a weak salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

  “Let me help you with the soup,” Amelia says, standin
g from the bed and setting the book aside.

  “No, I can get it,” I start to tell her, but she’s already in the hall.

  “Bash, can I have some crackers too?” Carter asks.

  “You got it.”

  “And cookies?” he asks hopefully.

  “Don’t push your luck there, hoss.”

  “It was worth a try,” he sighs and lets his eyes flutter shut. He really does look pale and tired. I hope he’ll get some sleep after he has the soup and popsicle.

  In the kitchen, Amelia is blowing on the soup. “I think this should be fine,” she says, glancing at me over one shoulder.

  “Good. The little man is exhausted. I hope this magic cure of yours does the trick.”

  That dimple in her cheek makes an appearance. “Trust me, his fever is going to break by tonight and he’s going to feel much better.”

  I pick up the bowl of soup and reach around her to rip a paper towel off the roll. She moves to the side so I can get past, but I’m still close enough to smell her skin—that intoxicating blend of citrus and soap.

  “About my name...” I say.

  “Y-yes?” she stammers awkwardly, probably realizing that I was listening in on her and my brother and I overheard the girlfriend question.

  “It’s true what Carter said. You are the only one who calls me Sebastian now.”

  She shifts in place uncomfortably. “I can stop if you don’t like it.”

  I make sure that our eyes hold when I tell her, “Don’t stop. I like it.”

  Her mouth falls a little and her breathing changes. I can actually see her chest pumping faster and her eyes flick to my lips, which I think is a good sign. Is it possible that she’s thinking of me the way that I’m thinking of her?

  Testing the waters, I lean in and tilt my upper body more fully to her. Her eyebrows furrow and she takes a deliberate breath like she’s deciding something. Damn, maybe it is possible...

  “Bash?” I hear from Carter’s room.

  A frustrated sound escapes my throat. Not taking my eyes off Amelia, I call out, “Yeah?”

  “Can you find Red Dead Fred for me? He’s hiding.”

  “Red Dead Fred?” Amelia whispers.