justify no socks? The night of the party, his hands were so clammy they left streaks on the dashboard. When he kissed me, I tasted salt—the tang of sweat from his upper lip. Salty, slobbery, jam-it-down-your-throat kisses. Not like Ryan. More like a rabid Saint Bernard. A rabid, sweaty, slobbery—
“Lexi?”
Waffle cone.
“I brought you some … uh…”
Waffle cone, in my face.
“…Heath Bar Crunch.”
Suddenly, Jarrod was standing beside me. One arm in a sling. The other, tan and bare, holding a waffle cone. He was so close. So close I could smell him. So close I could feel the pressure of his fingers on mine, the heat coming off his skin just like it had that night.
I tried to think of something to say, the perfect insult to hurl. But instead of words, it was ice cream. I didn’t plan to do it. It just happened. Now, Heath Bar Crunch was splattered all over the wall, an explosion of white and brown, like a Jackson Pollock painting.
The room was dead silent.
Before anyone could speak, I yanked my arm away from my father and stumbled back into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
When the LeFevres were gone, Ruthie convinced our parents to disappear so we could have some sister time. I don’t know what surprised me more: the fact that they listened, or Ruthie’s use of the term sister time .
Ruthie and I weren’t like most sisters. We lived in the same house, obviously, but we didn’t bond the way Kendall and her sister, Claire, bonded. We didn’t gossip about boys, or swap nail polish, or stay up late talking. And we didn’t really fight, either. Because, well, what was there to fight about? We were nothing alike. We had totally different interests. Most of the time we were so busy living our separate lives that we barely noticed each other, let alone engaged in passionate conversation.
I watched Ruthie now, picking up the box of chocolates Mr. LeFevre had brought and tearing open the cellophane with her teeth—a move that our mother would call “crass.” But did Ruthie care? No. My sister didn’t worry what anyone thought of her. She just let her freak-flag fly. Today she was wearing a variation on her summer uniform: vintage concert T-shirt (The Kinks) and cutoff jeans (stained). Her long, dark hair had zero shape. If you saw her on the street, here is what you would think: drugs. But as far as I knew, my sister had never tried anything stronger than Tylenol. Not that she would tell me if she had.
“So,” Ruthie said, plucking a chocolate from its paper skirt and popping it into her mouth. “Are you going to tell me what really happened?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, playing dumb.
“The accident, Lex.”
I pushed a finger up under the gauze on my face, trying to scratch. The worst part about stitches isn’t the pain; it’s the itch. You have to be gentle when you scratch, though. Otherwise it hurts like hell.
“Lex.”
“What?” I said. “I told you. Jarrod was driving and we ran off the road. End of story.”
“Uh-huh.” Ruthie bent over the chocolates, plucking out another. “So what about the beginning of the story?”
What was I doing in Jarrod’s car in the first place? she wanted to know. Where were we going? And what actually caused the crash? An oil slick, a squirrel in the road, what?
I remember my father saying once that Ruthie would make a great lawyer. I’d witnessed enough debates between the two of them to know that my sister could strip an argument down to its bones, poke holes in any claim. I could avoid Ruthie’s questions for a few hours, maybe a day. Eventually, she’d wear me down.
“Fine,” I said. “But you can’t tell Dad.”
Ruthie raised an eyebrow.
“Or Mom.”
“Agreed,” she said.
So I began at the beginning, sparing no detail.
The only time Ruthie interrupted was when I got to the part about Taylor and Ryan.
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “That explains a lot.”
“What?”
“Your boyfriend’s conspicuous
“Lexi?”
Waffle cone.
“I brought you some … uh…”
Waffle cone, in my face.
“…Heath Bar Crunch.”
Suddenly, Jarrod was standing beside me. One arm in a sling. The other, tan and bare, holding a waffle cone. He was so close. So close I could smell him. So close I could feel the pressure of his fingers on mine, the heat coming off his skin just like it had that night.
I tried to think of something to say, the perfect insult to hurl. But instead of words, it was ice cream. I didn’t plan to do it. It just happened. Now, Heath Bar Crunch was splattered all over the wall, an explosion of white and brown, like a Jackson Pollock painting.
The room was dead silent.
Before anyone could speak, I yanked my arm away from my father and stumbled back into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
When the LeFevres were gone, Ruthie convinced our parents to disappear so we could have some sister time. I don’t know what surprised me more: the fact that they listened, or Ruthie’s use of the term sister time .
Ruthie and I weren’t like most sisters. We lived in the same house, obviously, but we didn’t bond the way Kendall and her sister, Claire, bonded. We didn’t gossip about boys, or swap nail polish, or stay up late talking. And we didn’t really fight, either. Because, well, what was there to fight about? We were nothing alike. We had totally different interests. Most of the time we were so busy living our separate lives that we barely noticed each other, let alone engaged in passionate conversation.
I watched Ruthie now, picking up the box of chocolates Mr. LeFevre had brought and tearing open the cellophane with her teeth—a move that our mother would call “crass.” But did Ruthie care? No. My sister didn’t worry what anyone thought of her. She just let her freak-flag fly. Today she was wearing a variation on her summer uniform: vintage concert T-shirt (The Kinks) and cutoff jeans (stained). Her long, dark hair had zero shape. If you saw her on the street, here is what you would think: drugs. But as far as I knew, my sister had never tried anything stronger than Tylenol. Not that she would tell me if she had.
“So,” Ruthie said, plucking a chocolate from its paper skirt and popping it into her mouth. “Are you going to tell me what really happened?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, playing dumb.
“The accident, Lex.”
I pushed a finger up under the gauze on my face, trying to scratch. The worst part about stitches isn’t the pain; it’s the itch. You have to be gentle when you scratch, though. Otherwise it hurts like hell.
“Lex.”
“What?” I said. “I told you. Jarrod was driving and we ran off the road. End of story.”
“Uh-huh.” Ruthie bent over the chocolates, plucking out another. “So what about the beginning of the story?”
What was I doing in Jarrod’s car in the first place? she wanted to know. Where were we going? And what actually caused the crash? An oil slick, a squirrel in the road, what?
I remember my father saying once that Ruthie would make a great lawyer. I’d witnessed enough debates between the two of them to know that my sister could strip an argument down to its bones, poke holes in any claim. I could avoid Ruthie’s questions for a few hours, maybe a day. Eventually, she’d wear me down.
“Fine,” I said. “But you can’t tell Dad.”
Ruthie raised an eyebrow.
“Or Mom.”
“Agreed,” she said.
So I began at the beginning, sparing no detail.
The only time Ruthie interrupted was when I got to the part about Taylor and Ryan.
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “That explains a lot.”
“What?”
“Your boyfriend’s conspicuous
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