Wild Reckless Page 31

  As if a switch flips, her laughter shifts into tears and her breath escapes her, her knees buckling again, sending her to the floor.

  “Are you okay?” I rush to her, helping her to one of the chairs. “Wait here, I’ll get Owen.”

  “No, it’s…it’s fine. It just, it gets to me sometimes—all of it. It’s all just…so much,” she says, her red eyes peering at me, her face pale, her hair thin and tangled.

  “I know,” I speak, not sure what else there is to say. I don’t really know, but I know enough.

  Owen’s mom takes a full breath, closing her eyes just long enough to clear them of tears and hide the redness, then she stands and pulls a hair tie from her wrist, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “I’m going to run to the store. Owen’s upstairs; he’d love to see you,” she says, grabbing her coat from the hook by the door and leaving in a rush.

  Everything has to happen fast, and there always has to be something to do. If there isn’t, she’ll fall apart. That much I understand.

  I pull my own coat from my body and leave it on the table, then I climb the stairs, catching the soft sound of Owen’s stereo. He’s listening to the Black Keys, the same album he’s listened to for five days straight. There will come a time, I fear, that he will never be able to hear these songs again.

  Knocking softly, I push his door open enough to slip through. He’s lying on his side, his arm propped up on an elbow, a pile of homework in front of him. “What’s this…Owen Harper studying?” I tease. I’ve actually never seen him do homework, so the sight of it strikes me.

  Owen smiles, the curves never quite making it fully up his cheeks, then tosses his pencil in the crease of his book, closing it, and pushing the papers to the side to make room for me. I crawl into his arms obediently.

  “I’m a little behind. Just trying to catch up,” he says, his nose cold as he nuzzles against my cheek.

  “That’s nice that the school got this for you. Nobody’s really saying anything. You know, about what happened?” I say. Owen lifts his hand, running it through my hair and stopping at the back of my head to pull me to him for a kiss. He backs away a little after and sighs, his chest rising and falling in a pattern that he’s kept up for days. Every breath he takes is heavy, an attempt to cleanse himself from how he feels inside.

  “Mr. Chessman brings things over for me every couple days. He lives a block or two away. He’s cool like that,” Owen says, his eyes sculpting my face, looking at me endearingly. His affection for me has never waned, not once, through this tragedy. I think he’s clinging to it. And I’m clinging to him.

  “How’s my boyfriend, Gus?” I ask. I’ve been wondering about Owen’s grandfather, how his role in their house fits now.

  “He’s good. He misses you,” he smirks.

  “Well, he and I…we sort of had a fling. He’s a really good dancer,” I say, sucking my top lip in. Owen leans forward and gives me a chaste kiss, his lips grazing over mine until I let my lip free.

  Owen pushes himself up to sit, and I join him, my hands spreading out a few of the assignments stacked on his bed. I notice Owen’s math homework, and I pull it out from a folder, looking at the problems that he’s already completed. His homework, it’s different from mine. It’s more advanced.

  “Just one of many,” he says quickly, taking the folder from my hand and pushing it back into the pile with everything else. He flips his English book open again, pulling the pencil out and tucking it behind his ear.

  “I’ve gotta stop in at home, check in with Mom. I’ll let you get to some of this. Maybe next week, you’ll be at school with me?” I ask, standing from his bed. Owen smiles quickly, his eyes full of a fake kind of hope, pretending for my benefit.

  “Maybe,” he says. “I’ll text you later, ‘kay?”

  “’Kay,” I say, my eyes on his for a few extra seconds. Every look feels like he’s drowning, and I’m trying to pull him back ashore.

  I grab my coat and stop by my car for my backpack on my way back to my house, rushing up to my room before my mom has a chance to stop me. She’s on the phone and nods with her finger up as I fly by her on the stairs. She’ll come find me soon, but maybe I’ll have a few minutes to log onto my computer, to be alone first.

  My computer isn’t where it should be when I get to my room, which sends me back downstairs, back to my mom, who ends her phone call and turns my computer screen around for me to see when I enter the kitchen.

  “Why do you have my computer?” I ask, reaching for it. She snaps the screen shut and slides it back a few inches with her fingertips, just out of my reach.

  “Why do you have a listing posted on Craigslist for the piano?” she asks.

  Shit! How did she find that?

  “It’s my piano; I can sell it if I want to,” I say, reaching again for my computer. This time she picks it up with both hands and hugs it to her chest. “Mom…”

  “That’s enough, Kensington. You have been stomping around here, acting like the adult of this house, for weeks. You may be eighteen, but this attitude needs to stop right here. Now tell me, without your new brand of sarcasm, if you don’t mind, why the piano is on Craigslist?” She’s doing that thing where her eyes blink at me slowly. She’s pissed. And I still don’t know how she found out about the piano listing.

  “How did you find it?” I ask.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says. Her answer is fast. Too fast.

  “Uh, no…I kind of think it matters. I put my phone number on there, and my personal email. So…” I wait for her, my head leaned to the side, my brow pulled in tight. And then it hits me.

  Dad.

  “He saw it, didn’t he? That’s what this is about,” I say, shaking my hand, my feet shifting and beginning to trail back to my room. Fuck it. She can keep the computer.

  “Yes, your father saw it. You know he’s always looking for good buys on instruments for the program. He recognized this immediately and called me. Kensington, you cannot sell something that’s your father’s,” she says, and I stop in my tracks, spinning on my heels, my blood boiling.

  “His?” I shout. “His piano? Mom…are you…are you joking?”

  “Kensington, you need to take this down…now,” she says, opening the computer and spinning it around for me.

  “No,” I say, folding my arms. I’m throwing a fit. A staunch, standoff kind of fit—like I did when I was four and didn’t want to eat my green beans—but a fit nonetheless. This is ridiculous.

  “Yes,” she says, the word coming out slowly, her eyes scrunched, wrinkling at the corners. We stare at each other like this for several minutes, and the longer I look at her, the longer I think about what she said, the angrier I get.

  “You said it was mine. Mine! You said that was my piano. You told me when I was ten, after I won my first competition. Grandma died and left that piano to you—your mother, not his! And then you said it was mine. You told me that it was always meant for my hands, and you loved the joy it gave me. You don’t get to take it back. And if I want to sell it, because it doesn’t give me joy any more, then I’m going to! And he doesn’t get any say in things! You can sweep those awful things he’s done under the rug if you want to, but I will never forget. And I will never forgive him!”

  I turn around the second my last word is uttered. With a calm but quick pace, I climb my stairs, turning back only after I’ve made it up the first few. My mother is frozen in her place, her hand just where it was on the computer, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes wide and on me…almost. I may as well have slapped her.

  I get to my room and slam the door, like a child, and move to my window, putting my headphones on and pulling my knees up to my chest while I unzip my backpack and pull out my pile of homework. I look up every few minutes, waiting for Owen to look back, and after an hour, I can’t take the waiting any longer, so I send him a text and ask him to come over.

  My mom must have let him in, because I never hear the doorbell or knock, just the sound of him s
lipping through my door moments later.

  “Homework done?” I ask, everything inside me still churning, still fuming.

  “Uh huh,” he says, his head tilted to the side as he moves toward me a little apprehensively. “You’re pissed about something. Your dad coming over? Cuz I’m not so sure I’m up for wrestling him again.”

  “Ha,” I let out a short laugh, then let my head fall forward into my hands, rubbing my eyes. “No, you’re safe. Just doing that thing where I yell at my mom, but I feel bad about it. Even if I’m right…I feel bad.”

  Owen slides down on the floor next to me, both of our backs against my bed. He flips through a few of the things I’ve let fall out of my backpack, looking at the back of one of the books I picked up from the library. “This looks like a chick book,” he says, tossing the copy of Emma I picked up from the library back onto my stack of notebooks.

  “It is. It’s one of my favorites,” I say, looking at the cover. It’s an image of the movie version, a carefree Gwyneth Paltrow holding her bow and arrow. “How come you have advanced calculus homework?” I ask the question quickly, keeping my eyes on the book, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. I sense Owen’s pause though. I don’t know why this makes him uncomfortable.

  “I tested out of freshman algebra. I’ve always been a year ahead in math. Brain just sort of likes numbers, I guess,” he says, his voice trailing off at the end. He reaches his arm to my leg, grabbing my hand and pulling it into his lap, cupping it with both of his and playing with my fingers. “What was this fight about? You know your mom gives me bacon; I hope you didn’t mess up my supply,” he says, leaning into me.

  I smile, my gaze into my lap. Owen’s joke is sweet.

  “She’s letting my dad rule things. She always has, and it just…it makes me so mad,” I say, the frown taking over again.

  “What’s he trying to rule?” Owen asks.

  “Her,” I say quickly, looking up at him. “And me, by extension.”

  Owen lifts his hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, leaving his hand on my cheek when he’s done. “So don’t let him,” he says. Simple, plain. “Is this about your playing again? Because I thought we had that figured out—you do that for you, wasn’t that the deal?”

  “I thought so,” I say, standing up to move to my doorway, checking to see if my mom is still downstairs or up. “But apparently it’s not my piano.”

  When I turn back to Owen, his eyebrows are pulled in, one eye closed. “Last I checked, it’s not the piano that makes that kick-ass music. It’s you,” Owen says.

  “Exactly, so there’s no reason I can’t sell it,” I say quickly, regretting my words just as fast.

  Owen’s standing now, his body moving behind me. I turn into him, reaching my arms out to hug him, embrace him, move away from talking—but he greets my hands with his, holding his arms out stiffly, keeping me at a small distance so he can watch my face. “Why would you sell it?” he asks.

  He knows.

  I shrug, nodding ambivalently, as if I haven’t thought this through.

  “Kens,” he says, his eyes looking over my shoulder, out my door, then back to me. “You’re not selling your piano.”

  I let go of his fingers and lean back against my wall, my arms folded—pouting. Pouting and pissed. Why is everyone insistent that I can’t do what I want with my piano?

  “Kens,” he chuckles, moving closer to me, pulling on my arms, which I’m holding together tightly against my body. My stubbornness makes him laugh harder, until he pulls his hat from his head, tosses it on my bed and rubs his eyes. He sits down next to it and calls me over to him. I scoot my feet closer reluctantly, and when I get to him, he loops his fingers into the pocket of my jeans and drags me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me tightly, his lips at my ear.

  “It is so sweet that you want to help my family. But that would pay for what? Another couple months of my Grandpa’s expenses? I can’t let you do that. The cost is too high,” he says. “But I love that you’re willing to do something like that for me.”

  “I don’t want the piano anymore. And it would help,” I say, my eyes growing heavy with tears.

  “Yes you do. You don’t think you want it…but you do,” he says, swaying me side to side in his lap, his cheek against mine. I let my head fall on his arm, running my hands along his, holding his caged arms around me tightly.

  I don’t want the piano. All I want…is Owen.

  Six in the morning arrives way too quickly. Owen stayed late, my mom never coming up to my room and telling him he needed to go home. I left my door open, knowing she would feel more comfortable with him here if I did, and I heard her move to her bedroom hours after our fight downstairs.

  I feel worse about it today. She’s still asleep when I sneak downstairs to brew a cup of coffee and grab a packet of Pop Tarts from the pantry. Willow texted me when she was leaving her house, which gave me precisely seven minutes to shower and get dressed. I lock our front door behind me and pull my coat around my body, shielding the hot coffee mug from the freezing air.

  I’m bundled from head to toe, the only things exposed are my lips and nose and the tips of my fingers through my gloves. Jess leaps from the front seat and holds the door open for me, then moves to the back.

  “Thanks for letting me ride shotgun,” I say, unwrapping my neck from my scarf, letting the heat from Willow’s car penetrate my body.

  “Thanks for giving me a sip of your coffee,” Jess says, reaching through the center to the cup holder where my mug is steaming.

  “Go ahead,” I roll my eyes.

  “You’re too nice. I would have spilled it on him,” Willow says, backing out of the driveway with enough speed to make the bump jerk Jess’s hand a little, splattering coffee on his chin and cheeks.

  “Your such a bitch in the morning,” he says, slurping the coffee once more before putting my mug back.

  “See, now when he says bitch it sounds authentic,” Willow says to me.

  “That’s cuz you are one!” Jess says from the back seat. Willow raises her middle finger and smiles at him in the rearview mirror.

  “Are you two going to fight all the way to Champagne? I’m just saying, that’s like…three hours of bickering. So if I have a chance to bail out now and drive myself, I’d like to take it,” I say, looking to Willow. She smirks at me.

  “No, we’re just going to bicker for the first ten minutes,” Jess says from behind me. “The rest of the time we’ll be all shmoopy, making kissy faces at each other, and I’ll keep feeling her up from the back seat.”

  “Uh, that’s not happening,” Willow says, pointing at him in the mirror.

  “Worth a shot,” Jess says, settling back in his seat, pulling his coat up over his lap.

  It’s still dark out when we hit the highway, but by the time we make it to the University of Illinois, three hours later, the sun is shining. It’s one of those rare days where there’s a tiny bit of leftover snow on the ground, too, so everything feels especially bright. I know it will all melt by the time we take the field for competition, but the early morning sun makes the ground look as if it’s covered in jewels.

  “We’re going to tune in ten minutes, then we go to photos and pre-staging before we compete. You’re going to love this, Kensi,” Willow says. She’s wired on a few energy drinks. I counted three empty cans in her car. I’m pretty sure that isn’t safe, but I’m also fairly certain that there’s little difference in her personality—wired or not.

  Willow walks around each section, listening and adjusting instruments as everyone warms up, her whistle perched at the edge of her lips.

  “Just one more reason why drum line is the best,” Jess says, rapping out a drumroll on the rim of his snare. “We don’t tune.”

  I laugh and wait at the back of the moving truck for a few of the booster parents to help unload the xylophone, smirking when one of the wheels falls off into my hand as they pull it from the truck. I bend down and lift t
he leg up so I can work the wheel back in place, and suddenly the weight is lighter.

  “I hope you know this is butt-crack early, and I would only show up to something like this for you,” Owen says, his head buried in its usual black hoodie.

  “You’re here!” I squeal, rushing into his arms. He catches me and holds me under the sides of his coat, shielding the cold breeze from my skin. We changed into our uniforms the second we got to the campus, and I haven’t been warm since.

  Owen rubs his hand on the giant feather on the top of my hat. “You guys look like birds. Why do you have to wear these?” he asks.

  “It’s so the judges can see us on the field. Willow says it makes the formations pop more,” I roll my eyes.

  “But you don’t march…” he says, fluffing my feather once again. I slap his hand away and straighten my hat.

  “Yeah, I tried that argument, but here I am, all plumed,” I say.

  “Well, you’re adorable. Go win something. You do get to win something, right?” he says, taking a few steps away, moving backward toward the stadium.

  “That’s what Willow says. This is like her Super Bowl, you know?” I say, wide eyes.

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Owen shields his mouth as he passes Willow, but she hears him anyhow and punches him on the arm. “Owwww!”

  I smile as he turns, my heart feeling warm inside. Everything feels right—at least for right now.

  Most of the morning is spent standing around, rolling my xylophone from patch of grass to patch of grass, until we’re in the tunnel. It’s kind of cool being in here, and I look around at the motivational words painted on the wall, the most amusing the threat that any opponent will feel the Orange Krush.

  Before today, there was no reason I would ever find myself in a sports tunnel at a major university. The whole scene feels silly, and maybe a little pointless, but it also feels…good.

  As we get ready to take the field, Willow calls us all in for one final huddle, and Jess leads everyone in a chant of hoorahs, as if we’re actually the university’s football team—about to scream through the tunnel to take on Ohio State or Kansas. The longer everyone cheers, the more it makes me giggle, and the louder I’m cheering too.