Dangerous Boys

  DANGEROUS BOYS

  Copyright © 2013 Abigail Haas

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Formatted by George Bittmann, Dead River Books

  Also by the author:

  Dangerous Girls

  (Written as Abby McDonald)

  Sophomore Switch

  Boys, Bears & a Serious Pair of Hiking Boots

  The Anti-Prom

  Getting Over Garrett Delaney

  Jane Austen’s Guide to Hollywood

  The Popularity Rules

  The Liberation of Alice Love

  This book is dedicated to everyone who championed Dangerous Girls.

  This one is for you.

  Our lives are made up of choices. Big ones, small ones, strung together by the thin air of good intentions; a line of dominos, ready to fall. Which shirt to wear on a cold winter’s morning, what crappy junk food to eat for lunch. It starts out so innocently, you don’t even notice: go to this party or that movie, listen to this song, or read that book, and then, somehow, you’ve chosen your college and career; your boyfriend or wife.

  So many choices, we stop counting after a while. They blur into an endless stream, leading seamlessly to the next question, the next decision – yes, no, no, yes. The line of dominos falling one by one. Click, click, click, they tumble faster until you can only see the two that really mattered:

  The beginning, and this, the end.

  Oliver, and Ethan, and I.

  ‘What are you doing, baby brother?’ Oliver takes half a step towards us. ‘You’re scaring Chloe.’ He looks from me to Ethan and back again, and I can see him trying to assess the scene, his brain ticking quickly behind those sharp blue eyes. ‘Just calm down.’

  ‘I am calm!’

  ‘We can talk about this.’ Oliver tries to soothe him.

  ‘No!’ Ethan insists, his voice a hoarse yell. The sound sends shivers of fear through me. I’ve never seen him like this before, so wild and erratic. Out of control. ‘I’m not listening to your lies any more. It’s all bullshit, every word of it. You can’t talk your way out of this!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, crumpled in the corner. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I never meant . . . I never meant to hurt you.’

  ‘It’s too late for that!’ Ethan screams.

  I flinch back, shaking, looking desperately for some escape. But I’m trapped with Ethan standing between me and the door. Oliver is closer, he could go and get help; I catch his eye, trying to gesture, but instead of leaving, he just inches towards us.

  ‘Shh, Ethan, it’s OK.’ Oliver holds his hands up, a sign of submission. ‘We won’t talk, we don’t have to do anything. Just put the knife down.’

  Ethan looks at the blade in his hand, like he’d forgotten it was there. The steel glints, bright in the candlelight, so pretty I could almost forget what ugly truths it could write.

  ‘Ethan, please,’ I beg. ‘Don’t hurt us.’

  DISPATCH: Nine one one, what’s your emergency?

  CALLER: Please, you have to send someone. An ambulance, please, he’s bleeding!

  DISPATCH: OK, we’ll send help. Just calm down, and tell me where you are.

  CALLER: I . . . I don’t know what to do. There’s so much blood, I can’t make it stop.

  DISPATCH: Where are you, honey? What happened?

  CALLER: Up by Echo Point, by the lake. I tried to get him out, and now . . . (sobbing) Please, he’s not moving!

  DISPATCH: I’m sending an ambulance now. Tell me what happened, where is he hurt?

  (Silence)

  DISPATCH: Honey? Are you there? Talk to me.

  (Silence)

  CALLER: (Quiet) It’s burning. Everything’s on fire.

  It was three weeks until the end of summer, and I was counting down, the way I always used to as a kid. Then, the countdown was to keep fall at bay; measuring every precious moment of summer freedom, as if somehow charting the days out in neat red marks in my journal would give them weight enough to make them real, anchor them steady in my life instead of letting them drift, aimlessly by, into the front porch popsicle haze that was already gone.

  Now, I counted towards the end of summer because I couldn’t wait for school to start. Marking out the weeks in an afternoon lull at the diner, day by day, planning my escape.

  Three weeks until freshman orientation. Three weeks until I could be done with Haverford, Indiana, for good: the single-stoplight Main Street, the shuttered stores on the outskirts of town, and the house that stood too quiet – filled with torn photographs and the ticking time-bomb that was my mother. Three weeks until my real life could finally begin.

  ‘Can I grab a drop of that refill, sweetheart?’

  I looked up from my paper napkin calendar with a start. Sheriff Weber was in his usual booth by the windows, nursing a cup of coffee as he leafed slowly through the local paper, chewing absently on the end of a ballpoint pen. Most afternoons, he would be there, flipping through paperwork or settled in with his word puzzles. He often would say – yawning, stretching – leave the chasing down criminals to the younger deputies; people knew where they could find him.

  ‘Sure, sorry.’ I rounded the counter and poured him more, glimpsing the scribbles on his crossword page.

  ‘Thanks. You know a five-letter word for discordant, on edge?’

  I paused, seeing the letters take shape in my mind. ‘Sharp?’

  Weber nodded slowly, writing in the answer along the edge of the box.

  ‘Why don’t you fill it in?’ I asked, curious. Now that I was up close, I saw he had almost the whole page covered with notes, but nothing written in the grid itself.

  ‘I like to wait until I’ve got it all figured out.’ Weber gave me a conspiratorial smile, his weathered face drooping above the crisp blue of his uniform; a dark, Basset Hound face. ‘Saves going back and making a mess with the crossings out.’

  I lingered by the cherry-red booth. The diner was quiet, it always was this time of day: a haven of sunshine and pie displays, and swinging Sixties pop on the old-school jukebox. Now that most of the summer crowds had decamped from their lakeshore vacation homes, Haverford seemed in limbo, the streets empty where only days ago, they’d bustled with the busy throngs of day-trippers and summer kids, tracking sand across the floors, dripping melted ice-cream across the cracked vinyl seats for me to clean.

  ‘You’ll be off soon?’ Weber asked. I’d known him forever. His daughter was my best friend and this year, I’d spent more time than was polite over at their house under the guise of studying and after-school hang-outs.

  I nodded. ‘I leave a few days after Alisha, I think.’

  ‘It’s too soon. Although don’t let her know her old dad said that.’ Weber gave me a rueful smile. ‘She says we’re acting like it’s the end of the world, not college. I expect your folks are the same.’

  I tensed at the mention of my parents. ‘Something like that,’ I answered vaguely, but Weber must have realized his mistake, because he coughed, awkward.

  ‘Say, what’s the pie today?’ He changed the subject.

  ‘Blueberry.’ I smiled quickly. ‘It’s good, you want a slice?’

  ‘Sure, why not? I’ve got some time before dinner.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  I headed back behind the counter. One thing I wouldn’t be missing about this town was the way everybody knew everyone’s business – even if they pretended like they didn’t. Nobody had said a word to me about the events of this spring, but I’d caught the curious glan
ces around town, and overheard snatched murmurs of gossip in line at the store. ‘No, they never knew . . . Yup, out in San Diego, due in the fall.’

  I slammed the coffee pot back under the drip, swallowing down the anger that bubbled, treacherous, every time I let my thoughts wander.

  Three weeks. Just three more weeks to go.

  ‘Wow, what did that coffee pot ever do to you?’

  I spun around. The boy was back, walking over from the front door and slinging himself down on one of the stools by the counter, the same way he had done every day so far that week.

  ‘Oh, hey.’ I swallowed, looking away. ‘What can I get you?’

  The boy reached over and slid a menu closer, glancing over the peeling laminate sheet even though I already knew what he’d be ordering.

  ‘Tuna melt, mustard, mayo, pickle on the side.’ The boy gave me an easy smile, a flash of white against his tanned face and sandy-brown hair. His eyes were blue: kind eyes, guileless, and today his gaze drifted past me, up to the specials board hung overhead. ‘Throw in one of those root beer floats.’

  ‘You sure?’ I raised an eyebrow. We kept all the old-fashioned soda shop specials written up on the chalkboard, but nobody ever ordered them. They all knew better.

  ‘What can I say, I’m a dare-devil,’ the boy grinned. ‘A risk-taker. I live life on the edge.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nope.’ The boy laughed. ‘But it sounds good, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll get you a milkshake,’ I decided, placing his order on the back bar and hitting the bell to call José back from his not-so-secret cigarette break. ‘Chocolate OK?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  I took my time fixing the drink, scooping the ice-cream and running the blender on loud as I snuck a glance back to him. He waited at the counter, perfectly at ease. He didn’t bring a book or a paper, I noticed, or endlessly scroll through his phone like the other regulars who came in alone. He just sat, calm and still, watching the occasional pedestrian stroll past outside the windows.

  ‘Here you go.’ I delivered his shake, served in a tall glass with whipped cream spiralling into a snowy peak.

  His eyes widened at the sight. ‘Damn, that’s something. You think I should drink it or scale the thing?’

  ‘Up to you,’ I laughed. I pulled out the bottles of ketchup and began setting them on end, filling old containers with the new. ‘I’ll send a search party if you’re not back by dawn.’

  The boy grinned. ‘I’m Ethan, by the way. I figure, since I’ve been in every day . . . ’ he looked awkward for a moment, waiting for my reply.

  ‘Hey.’ I reached to shake his outstretched hand. ‘Chloe.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Chloe.’ Ethan took a slurp of his shake. ‘You’re officially my first friend in Haverford.’

  ‘Welcome to town.’

  He smiled again, easy. ‘We just moved here. Dad’s developing the tract out past Echo Point.’

  I nodded. Kids from high school would head out there to get high and drink cheap beer, blowing off steam with their fathers’ guns. I’d never been invited, I didn’t run in those crowds, but I’d see the debris when I went out running around the lake sometimes, the ashes from the campfire and the twists of empty cans.

  ‘It’s going to be four luxury properties,’ Ethan continued. ‘Rustic cabin style, but all the mod-cons. Fifteen hundred square foot a piece.’ He stopped, looking bashful. ‘Sorry, construction talk.’

  ‘You’re working on the site?’ I asked, studying him. His plaid shirt was crisp, and his face was more cleanly shaven than some of the construction guys who stopped by for breaks, all scruffy beards and dirty nails.

  He nodded. ‘Kind of, more the office for now. Learning the ropes. I graduated this summer and went straight into the job. Suddenly, I’m supposed to be an adult, just because I’m earning a paycheck.’ He gave me a rueful grin and I nodded.

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? They give you a diploma and then you’re supposed to magically know what you’re doing. I’m leaving for college soon.’ I added.

  ‘Shame.’ Ethan said. ‘Not the college part, but . . . ’ He coughed, looking bashful. ‘Who’ll keep me in tuna melts?’

  ‘I don’t make them.’ I felt myself blush.

  ‘But you do cut the crusts off for me,’ Ethan grinned, a teasing glint in his eyes.

  I turned to straighten up the back counter, shielding my face from him for a moment. I’d been thinking of him as ‘the boy’ all week, but he was more than that, I realized. Eighteen, nineteen – Ethan was a man. It shouldn’t have seemed like such a foreign discovery, but it was. This was the year it had changed: my classmates suddenly filling out from gangly boys to broad-shouldered, solid-chested guys with a new certainty to their stride, a sense of physicality, occupying their space in the world with ease.

  Ethan was one of them: tall and solid, and watching me with a blatant interest in his eyes I couldn’t ignore; an interest that felt thrilling and uneasy all the same. The boys in school never looked at me like that, they knew better; that I wasn’t one of the girls who partied by the lake, or hooked up in a basement on a Friday night. I was careful, determined that nothing would distract me from my future plans.

  But Ethan didn’t know that. He didn’t know anything about me at all – and still, he looked at me like I was someone worth watching.

  José slid his order through the hatch and I busied myself slicing off the crusts and folding a paper napkin before bracing myself and turning back to the counter. I placed the food in front of Ethan and his eyes flicked down to my chest for the briefest of split-seconds before locking eyes with me again.

  ‘Thanks. So when do you head out?’

  I blinked a moment. ‘Oh, end of the month.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Connecticut,’ I replied. ‘Mills.’

  ‘Wow.’ Ethan bit off a corner of his sandwich and chewed. ‘You must be smart.’

  I paused. I never knew what to say to that. Often, it sounded like an insult coming from guys, as if I was supposed to back-track and stutter, no, no, I wasn’t smart at all.

  ‘Chloe?’ Weber’s voice came. I turned, remembering.

  ‘The pie! I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, I’ve got to get going.’ He tucked away his phone and rose out of the booth, shrugging on his jacket. ‘Damn kids spray-painting at the Seven-Eleven again. Broad daylight.’ He shook his head with a sigh. ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘On the house.’ I waved it away.

  Weber shook his head and placed a five-dollar bill down on the table. ‘You take care,’ he said. ‘And come over for dinner sometime this week. We should have a goodbye with you girls before you leave.’

  ‘I will.’ I moved to wipe down his table. He’d left the newspaper, so I checked the crossword: filled in, every box marked with neat black lettering.

  ‘Friendly town.’ Ethan spoke up when I returned to my spot behind the counter. ‘We’ve been moving around so much, I forgot places like this existed.’

  ‘I guess . . . ’ I nodded. ‘I’ve never been anywhere else. Not yet.’

  ‘You’re lucky. Last place we lived, I never saw our neighbours once. Except the time they tossed dead wood over the fence into our backyard, nearly knocked my brains out,’ Ethan added.

  I thought of the world out there waiting for me, filled with cities where I wouldn’t know a soul and could lose myself on streets I didn’t know by heart. It sounded like bliss to me, but I knew that if I said so, Ethan would only ask why, so I busied myself with wiping down the rest of the tables instead, daydreaming in the warm, bright diner until he finished his sandwich and the afternoon rush (which was more of a trickle these days) started up, and I had to deal with the cluster of junior high kids all ordering bottomless dollar sodas and single portions of fries, cluttering the booths with their vibrant sling of bags and jackets and the breathless buzz of their cellphones.

  ‘Hey, Chloe?’ Ethan
lingered awkwardly by the door as I delivered a tray of drinks, trying not to spill. ‘You, umm, maybe want to go out sometime?’

  I stopped, taken by surprise. Behind me, I could hear a table of teenage girls burst into excited whispers, but I wavered, unsure, clutching my empty tray to my chest.

  ‘I don’t know . . . I’m leaving in a few weeks.’

  ‘So you’re busy every night until then?’ Ethan teased.

  I smiled. ‘No, but . . . ’ I trailed off, not sure how to explain that I didn’t want to put down any more roots in this town, not when I couldn’t wait to cut my last ties loose.

  ‘Look, the way I see it, you can’t lose.’ Ethan grinned.

  ‘Really?’ I had to laugh at his confidence.

  ‘Sure, it’s zero risk,’ Ethan explained. ‘If it turns out you can’t stand the sight of me, you won’t have to. You’ll be hundreds of miles away. What do you say, dinner and a movie?’

  My mind raced. He looked good, standing there, backlit by the afternoon sun, gold in his hair and a hopeful smile on his face. Solid and easy.

  But I was already a hundred miles away.

  ‘I can’t,’ I mumbled, looking down. ‘But, thanks.’

  He blinked, his face falling. ‘Well, here, take my number.’ He grabbed a napkin and scribbled it down. ‘In case you change your mind.’ I took the paper, slowly folding it into my pocket. ‘See you around.’

  I watched him go, back out on to the sidewalk and across the street to where a brand-new blue pick-up truck sat waiting. He was unhurried and sure in the sunlight. I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

  But the red marks on my calendar were counting down, closer to the life that was waiting for me in Connecticut. Men wearing thick cable-knit sweaters and parka coats, fall leaves, freshman dorms. I had weeks to kill here, sure, but what was the point in starting something new when part of me was already gone?

  You can never really know someone.

  Maybe you think that sounds trite, or perhaps you already learned it a long time ago. But me, I didn’t really grasp it until now: huddled in the corner of the ambulance, watching the medics try to shock life back into a motionless body.