09

ELIZABETH WEXLER makes her pizza from scratch, and it's the most delicious pizza I've ever tasted.

It's hard not to stuff my face—to be a lady—but I wasn't born on the streets. As I eat with them, I resurrect a part of myself that died years ago. The part of me that knows how to be polite and courteous and adhere to bullshit table manners that don't matter to me anymore. Honestly, I never thought I would need to behave this way again, but here I am.

Even though I take small bites and sip my root beer only after swallowing, Elliot's family has to sense something off here. My outfit is nothing like what normal high school girls wear. Elliot's dad, in particular, seems distrusting. At six-foot-something, Adam radiates authority, with grey streaks flowing through his hair and thick wrinkles on his forehead. His eyes are suspicious, like he's waiting for me to slip something in my pocket.

I may be imagining that part.

Elizabeth is nice, though. Brown curls drape over her slim shoulders, and she adjusts the pearls around her swan-like neck as she politely stabs a tomato with her fork.

"So, when's Ana coming over again, Ollie?" Elliot's little sister, Charlotte, asks. She smiles sweetly, but there's something devious about her.

"Dunno." Ollie, Elliot's older brother, crams pizza into his mouth, getting sauce caught in the corner of his lips. "Cass has her all week, but I'm probably gonna have her next weekend."

This is insanity. These people have no idea I tried to steal from them; not even Elliot knows that the time he caught me wasn't my first visit to this house, but he looks at me with a tiny grin on his face, like he's truly happy I stayed.

Stupid, stoned idiot.

He's a cute idiot, though. His eyes keep lingering on me over the dinner conversations.

What does he think of me?

The thought fires in my head and resonates like a gunshot. Why do I care what he thinks? I shouldn't even be here.

"You know, Lucy." Adam swallows his food and points at Elliot with his fork. "El's the best hockey player this city's ever seen."

Elliot's face flushes. "Dad, shut up."

"Oh?" I say.

"You go to Saint Jacob's, don't you?" Charlotte asks. "Every high school in the city knows about El. Even other cities. He's gonna be in the NHL."

If I wasn't sure of it before, I am now: Charlotte is onto me. She probably goes to Elliot's school. "I mean, I knew he played," I mutter. "I'm just not into sports, so I don't really get it. I can't even skate."

"El's never been friends with someone who's not into sports," Charlotte says. "Katie's like the best ringette player on her team."

Katie?

"Guys, stop," Elliot says. "Seriously, I don't wanna talk about hockey."

"All right, everyone, that's enough," Elizabeth says.

A palpable silence shrouds us. I hate silence. I have to say something, anything's better than shallow breathing, chewing, and forks clinging on plates.

"So..." All eyes land on me. "Um—this salad is fantastic, Elizabeth."

Lies. I hate salad.

She smiles. "Oh, thank you, dear. Have as much as you'd like."

The rest of the dinner goes by fast. I stuff spinach down my throat so I can finish and get the hell out of here. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the food, but I don't belong here. "Come on, Lucy." Elliot stands. "Let's go discuss that project."

Like an obedient schoolgirl, I clasp my hands together, nod a thank you at Elliot's family, and follow him down the hall. I find myself in a living room surrounded by beige couches, mahogany shelves, and cream brick walls. The warm scent of cinnamon lingers in the air from the candle burning on the coffee table, its reflection flickering against the glossy surface of a Christmas-themed magazine.

"Sorry about the mega-awkward dinner," Elliot says.

I spin to him. "You should be! What the hell, Elliot? You shouldn't have invited me to stay!"

"Sorry, I wasn't really thinking. I half-expected you to bail at your first chance, but you stayed. Can I ask why?"

"I didn't want to make a scene, and your parents seem like nice people." I kick the edge of the rug. "Plus, I was hungry, so..."

"I noticed. You practically inhaled that salad."

"I hate salad."

"Could've fooled me."

Silence. I study his face. He has an upturned nose with soft, round features, and the dim light illuminates a ring on his dark hair. There's that halo again. I feel so dumb for thinking this guy is cute. It isn't like me to think—or care—about whether a guy is cute.

"I should go," I say.

"Oh, yeah, okay. If you want. But there's cake, if you wanted to stay a bit longer."

Does he know my weakness is sugar? First the hot chocolate, then the Fruit Roll-Ups...

I sigh in defeat. Where do I need to be? It isn't like I live on a schedule, so I flop on the couch and scoot to the corner, where a plush quilt rests over the arm. Elliot raises his eyebrows.

"What?" I shrug. "You asked me to stay."

With a laugh, he sits. "I didn't think you'd say yes."

Now this is weird. If I stretch my leg a little farther, I'll be able to poke him with my foot.

"My mom'll offer us cake soon." He grabs the remote off the coffee table and turns on the TV, filling the room with voices. My head falls to the side.

"'Kay."

Some sitcom plays on the screen, but I don't focus on it. I can't remember the last time I felt so full, warm, and comfortable. My toes graze Elliot's jeans, and the sugary taste of root beer lingers on my tongue. This boy came into my life out of nowhere, yet we sit together like old friends, like we know each other, even though we really don't.

I stare at him. When he notices, he stares back. I don't know what he's thinking, but his eyes, they say everything.

Elliot needs a friend of the female variety, and I fit the bill.

My heart flutters as my phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. Elliot looks back at the TV, and I take out my shitty pay-as-you-go touch phone. I was able to add more minutes to it, but not many. Brett texted me.

Hey, where you at?

Some rich guy's house in the east end

Wtf? You need a ride? We need to talk. And I can drop off your stuff

Yeah. 60 Ambleside

Be there in 30

I look at Elliot's face. The glow of the candle flickers hues of orange and red on his pale skin. I text Brett again.

Make it an hour.

* * *

"Lucy, did you want some cake to go?" Elizabeth offers, and I peek up from my plate as I scrape chocolate icing off it with my fork. Embarrassment touches my cheeks, because I just shamelessly stuffed my face.

"Oh, sure, I'd love some," I mumble. "I mean, if you don't mind."

From across the table, Elliot grins. I glare at him as Elizabeth hands me a container filled with cake.

"Don't worry about the Tupperware." She waves her hand. "We have a million kicking around here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wexler."

"You're welcome." She takes her spot at the end of the table. "It's nice to have someone around who appreciates my food."

"I think we all appreciate the pizza and cake," Elliot says.

"Just not the salad," Ollie mutters.

Adam glares over his newspaper. "That's enough."

When Elliot begins helping Charlotte clean up the plates, I stand, too. "I better get going. My ride's almost here."

"Yeah," Elliot says, "just gimme a sec and I'll meet you at the front door, okay?"

"Sure."

He and Charlotte leave the room, and I face the parents. "Thank you again. It was really nice meeting you."

"Take care, kid," Adam says.

Elizabeth smiles. "It was lovely meeting you, Lucy."

Ollie says nothing, and I slip out of the room to the foyer. Elliot and Charlotte's voices resonate from the other room.

"Science partners, El? Really?"

"Yes, Charlotte. Science partners."

"Have you forgotten I go to Saint Jacob's or something? Lucy doesn't go there!"

"It's a big school."

"Not that big. I mean, I don't care, I'm just confused about why you're lying."

"Just shut up, Char. Seriously."

She scoffs. "You're such a doofus."

Uh-oh. It's not like a little suburban girl like Charlotte intimidates me, but I feel for Elliot. He walks into the room and threads a hand through his hair.

"So... you have a ride coming?" he asks.

I nod.

"That's good. Hey, so you don't want the coat, but what about a hoodie? Think you'll get hassled for that?"

"No, but it's okay. It isn't your job to clothe me, Elliot."

"Well, duh." He scratches the back of his head. "But like, do you want one? It's really cold out. I know you have that leather jacket, but it's pretty thin..."

I try not to, but I smile. "Sure."

"Cool."

He takes a cobalt blue hoodie from the closet and hands it to me. Stuffing my Tupperware of cake in his hands, I pull the hoodie over my head until it devours me, and his smell of clean laundry practically leaks into my pores. When I poke my head out, I snatch the cake from him.

"Don't look at me like that," I say.

"Like what?"

"With that stupid grin on your face."

"Sorry."

Elliot opens the door, and cold air breezes in. I already miss the warmth of this place, but at least Brett is coming to give my stuff back. I hop onto the porch as Elliot leans against the doorframe and chews on his bottom lip.

"So," he says, "do you like, go to school or anything?"

"No, I dropped out."

"Really? So what do you do?" At my silence, he shifts on his heels. "Sorry. I'm asking too many questions."

"Maybe a little. Thanks for dinner, though. I really do appreciate it." He averts his eyes and fidgets with his fingers, like he wants to add something. I don't have all night, so I say, "What? Come on, spit it out."

"I was thinking about what you said earlier, about you not wanting me around you anymore. Do you still want that? Or can I like, have your number or something?"

Butterflies. I don't do butterflies, yet they tear around in my stomach like a tornado. "What for?"

"I don't know." He rubs the back of his neck. "I was thinking we could be friends or something. I mean, we met in a pretty crazy way. You can't expect me to forget something like that."

I cross my arms. I don't know what this guy likes about me, but I guess having a way to contact him wouldn't be so bad. "Sure. Whatever. Hand over your phone."

"Really? Okay, awesome." He slips his fancy iPhone into my palm, and I type in my name.

"You know," I say, "normally in a situation like this, I'd do something hilarious like program in the rejection hotline."

"What?"

"Nothing." I hand him back the phone with a smile. "That's my real number."

"Thanks. Guess I'll see you around?"

"I guess. Bye, Elliot." I turn on my heel and storm down the driveway, unsure why my heart is beating so fast. I'm acting like an idiot.

Elliot shuts the door, and I exhale a breath of relief. When I open my eyes, Brett's box Chevy is parked across the street, its black body contrasting with the bright snow. Wu-Tang plays from the stereo.

Sliding into Brett's car is like coming home; the stink of his Marlboro cigarettes, the heat pouring from the vents. It's achingly familiar. He rests his hand on the wheel and smiles a little as I get in. Brett is what I'd call softly handsome, with gentle features, warm brown skin, and pointy ears, but all the ruggedness of a man his age. He can be a mean sonofabitch if you're on his bad side, but there's a kindness in his eyes I've always loved about him. I think of him as my brother, my best friend, my protector. But he's twenty-eight years old and I'm seventeen, and sometimes I wonder if I'm nothing but a charity case to him. He feels bad for me because of Slater. But I feel bad for him, too.

Hard to believe such a good soul could ever have been Colton Slater's best friend. They've known each other since high school, but by the end of mine and Colt's "relationship," Brett realized how messed up he is. Now he looks out for me in the only ways he can. If Colt found out, I don't want to imagine what he'd do.

Brett reaches into the backseat and hands me a plastic bag. "Here's your stuff."

Some of my clothes are inside, and I cram everything into my worn-out denim backpack. It's not much, but it's enough. Brett's silence says nothing good.

"Just spit it out, Brett."

"Slater still thinks you owe him your life."

"I do owe him my life, but I don't care. He can't have it."

He falls quiet. The golden glow from the lawn reindeer of Elliot's house is like the light at the end of a tunnel. "Anyway," Brett says, "he should be gone in a day or two. Maybe you can come by then."

"Maybe?"

He hesitates. I scoff.

"I get it, Brett. You get no pleasure out of this. Say what's on your mind."

"It's hard having you around, Luce. The way Colt showed up out of the blue like that... hell, if you'd been there, we'd all be in big shit. If he finds out we're helping you, it's game over. For all of us."

Brett's words are a bitter pill to swallow, but he's right. I grab the door handle. "I'm sorry, Brett. I'll stay out of your hair."

"Wait, at least let me give you a ride."

"No, thank you. I'll be okay." Back in the cold again, dark clouds shield the half-moon's pearly light. Brett rolls down the window.

"Come on, Luce. Get back in."

"No, it's okay, really. I'll see you later, okay?" I try to sound strong, but my voice breaks. As I trek down the street, regret pools into me. I have too much pride for my own good, and it isn't going to get me someplace warm. But no way am I getting back in that car. Brett idles for a moment before he revs the engine and speeds away. His taillights disappear into the snowy night, and I pull Elliot's hood over my face. I don't mean to breathe in his scent, but...

It's weird to say, but wherever I end up tonight, I'll be thinking of him.