A WEEK SPEEDS into the beginning of April. It's easily the nicest day of the year—the sun shines over the fresh green leaves of the trees, and the melting snow reflects light like the crystals of a chandelier. Too bad I'm trapped in school, so I can only appreciate it through the windows.
Art class blows. As I stare at my canvas with a stick-like tree on it, I pray my project will somehow materialize into something majestic and artistic and beautiful. Fat chance. I might be a natural musician, but when it comes to this crap, I'm like a toddler with a crayon.
"You gonna paint, or just gawk at it?" Val asks. Beside me, she swipes her brush across her canvas with expert precision. Easels are set up around each square table of the room, along with the acrylic smell of paint.
"Gawking at it sounds good," I say. "Look at this monstrosity. You know I only took this class so we could be together. It'll look good on my uni applications too."
Like me, Val isn't applying this year—even with financial aid, her family can't afford to send her to the city. So after we graduate, she's going to work for a year and save up. Same plan as me. I also need as much in my savings as possible if I want to afford New York. But it's not like I can leave Nolan anytime soon anyway...
Ignoring that, I check out Val's art. A raven with its wings spread is painted over a pale background in dry, piecey brush strokes. Val flicks white over black and dark blue before she adds a dusting of red to the eyes.
"Whoa, this is awesome, Val."
"Thanks. Without Jacobi infesting my mind, I feel like I can finally think again."
I smile. Ever since Sunday night, Val's had this glow, this I don't give a fuck attitude that she wears like a crown on her head. When she sees Jacobi in the halls, she doesn't even bother flipping him off.
From across the room, I feel a pair of eyes on me. I glance over to catch Clarissa glaring in my direction, then look away as fast as she does.
"Okay," I whisper, "is it just me, or is Clarissa staring at us? Don't look now, but I swear this is the fifth time I've caught her..."
Val dips her brush in maroon paint. "Something tells me it isn't me she's interested in."
Even though I was born and raised in Hull, been with these same people since preschool, I've never been the center of any drama. I've watched Val get in fights and I've silently spectated on who's-banging-who hearsay, but I've never been a part of it.
But I'm also not stupid. I know what Clarissa must be thinking. Carson's eaten lunch with Val and I every day since Sunday night, and I've dropped him off at her place every night after our shifts. I put the rock he gave me in my treasure chest next to Grandma's gold ring, and yeah, we have gotten closer. But that's all there is to it. Friendship. If Clarissa thinks it's something more, I need to set the record straight.
The bell rings, and everyone packs their supplies. Val cleans her brushes off in the sink while I throw my untouched paints into my art bag. Clarissa is still packing when Val and I head toward the exit.
"I'll meet you in the caf, okay?" I say. Val shrugs and leaves the room. Anxiety forms, but I suck it up and walk up to Clarissa's table. The rest of the room empties until it's only us and the easels. I sling the flimsy strap of my denim backpack over my shoulder and run my thumb along it.
"Hey," I say.
"Jill. Hi." She tucks her final pencil into the front pocket of her Dakine backpack. "What's up?"
"Not much." I pause. "Are you okay? You seem bothered by something."
Her normally-pale cheeks are as crimson as her hoodie. Judging by the DC logo and cigarette burns on the sleeve, it's Carson's. Clarissa always dresses like this; big baggy shirts and leggings. I've always admired her easy-going style.
"It's nothing." She throws her head back then firmly meets my eyes. "Okay, maybe it's something. Are you and Blue, like..."
I blink.
"Are you hooking up?"
"What? No, we're really not..."
"You've been chilling with him all week, and I see you drop him off at my place every night," Clarissa says.
"Yeah, because I work with him..." Feeling guilty, I wring my thumb along the strap of my backpack. "I get how it must look, with us suddenly hanging out and all, but I promise it's not like that. He just started working at Dee's."
"I know that." Clarissa supports her weight with her palms on the table. "I'm not trying to accuse you of anything. It's just, when I offered to have him over at my place, I didn't think he'd be so... out of it." She laughs half-heartedly, revealing her crooked front tooth. "I don't know what's going on between us. We're not dating, but I don't want to hook up with him either if he's mentally with someone else. Dunno, something about this doesn't feel right."
My response is lodged in my throat. I hate the thought of making her feel that way; Clarissa and I have never been close, but I like her. I know she and Carson aren't dating but I'd still never try anything with a guy who's hooking up with someone else. It would make me feel slimy. That's only one of the many reasons why Carson and I will never happen.
Clarissa slots her sketchbook into her backpack and zips it up before she throws it over her shoulder. She's painted an electric blue jellyfish on her canvas, and the shade matches her irises. They peer at me beneath thick, inky lashes.
"We're just friends," I say and wish I'd never started this conversation. Suddenly it feels like the fate of Carson's relationship with Clarissa rests on me.
"But you have to know he likes you."
"I..." I picture Carson giving me a rock and smiling at me and singing on the beach to me. Then I picture him pecking my lips on the yard in the sixth grade, and how shy he'd acted when he asked me to dance in the eighth. Then Val's in my head again saying, "You know he still loves you, right?" and I have to ask myself if he really has liked me for all these years and I've just been blind to it.
"Maybe he does," I say, "but he honestly hasn't tried anything."
"Are you into him?"
I chew on my cheeks. He does make me feel warm inside. And sometimes when he's cleaning off tables, the sunlight pours through the windows of the diner and casts shadows over his arms that accentuate the curve of his triceps—and I admit, it's nice to look at. On top of that, he's a dependable worker, and I think he has a good heart.
But I don't want to date him. We just talked about how I don't date earlier this week. Even if part of me is drawn to Carson, he's too much of a wild card—I could never rationalize being with a guy who does drugs after what Dad did to Mom. Carson's done an incredible job staying clean and I'm proud of him, but...
"It's okay if you are," Clarissa says. Her tone is apathetic, but her eyes show something else; not sorrow, but a glint of hurt. "You don't have to feel bad. It's not like he's mine. I just needed to know."
"I care about Blue as a person, but I don't like him like that."
"All right. Pretty sure he likes you, though. Either way, when I see you two together, it definitely feels like more than just friends."
"I'm sorry if it bugged you."
"Don't worry about it. You didn't do anything. Like I said, he's not my boyfriend." She smiles tightly. "I just needed to know."
Clarissa takes off, and I can't shake the feeling that I just kicked over a domino.
***
"You're not as chatty as usual," Carson says near the end of our shift. This time, he's stocking the fridges, and I'm mopping the floors. We take turns with our duties so our lives don't feel so repetitive.
I lean against the mop and avoid his stare. This whole thing with Clarissa has left a bad taste in my mouth. If Carson does like me like she said, it'd be better if he just stopped. Because we work together and if he was to ask me out I'd say no and God, that would make everything so awkward.
Carson stands and squares his shoulders. "Jill?"
"Right. Sorry." I tuck my hair behind my ear. "I'm just tired, Blue."
He looks over the top of my head. "Weird, I didn't ask Clarissa to pick me up," he says. I turn to see Clarissa's Monte Carlo parked out front. She flashes the lights three times, and concern darts over Carson's face. "Be right back," he says.
I shouldn't watch. But when Clarissa gets out of her car, goes into the back seat, and takes out Carson's guitar, I can't look away. Carson stops in front of her and frowns, and Clarissa looks apologetic as she hands him the guitar. After moment, he takes it, and she passes him his backpack too.
Carson's lips move, but I can't read them. Clarissa shakes her head and lowers her eyes. After a quick back-and-forth, she shrugs and glances into the restaurant at me. She nods at Carson, mouths something that looks like, "I'm sorry, Blue," then gets into her car and drives away. He stands there with a blank expression on his face before he comes back inside. I stare at him, but say nothing.
"She doesn't want me at her place anymore." He dumps his stuff on the floor. "Obviously."
I'm so guilty I feel sick. Clarissa can make her own decisions, but damn if I didn't play a part in this.
I ask, "Are you okay?"
"I just don't get what I did." Carson's pale and shaky. "I wasn't gonna freeload off her forever, but she said I could stay until things at home cooled down. It's just one thing after another." He shakes his head. "Sorry. I shouldn't feel bad for myself."
I swallow. This is bad. I don't know how Carson is feeling—if he really liked Clarissa or if he's just confused—but he's definitely upset. And if Clarissa kicked him out, where is he going to go now? Maybe if I'd handled the conversation with Clarissa at school better, he'd still have a place to stay.
"Did she say why?" I ask.
"No." I don't believe him—Clarissa was pretty straight with me earlier. I bet she laid it on Carson too.
This is a mess. I haven't given him any sign that I like him as more than a friend, and we sure as hell haven't touched each other. But somehow, I'm still blaming myself for this. It isn't my fault if he likes me, either, this just... sucks. I want to confront him about it, but it's all so awkward. Clarissa was right; whatever is going on with Carson and I is more than "just friends," because if he was anyone else, we'd be talking it out right now, not avoiding each other's eyes like little kids too shy to speak to one another.
"I should probably head home anyway," he mutters. "About time."
When he got into a fight with his family, I barely hesitated to offer him a spot on the sunroom couch. That doesn't feel right anymore. Maybe he's waiting for me to say something, because there's an air of hopefulness around him. Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, "Do you need a ride?"
"No." He turns to the door. "The walk will help me clear my head. Do you still need me or can I sign out?"
"I'll sign you out. It's no problem."
He takes off his apron and hands it to me.
"Thanks." I ball it up and hold it with both hands.
"See you tomorrow." Carson picks up his backpack and guitar and heads to the exit. A bad feeling crawls within me. Something tells me not to let him go. Something bad will happen if he goes. Ask him to stay. Drive him home. Help him out.
But he pushes through the glass door, and I don't stop him.