Chapter 9 Borrowed Clothes

I wanted to go home and sleep.

That was all. I had said it to Jolie three times in the parking lot, with my hands, with my phone, and finally with my whole face.

A hockey party was the last place I wanted to be.

"You're coming," Jolie said, and hooked her arm through mine.

I'm tired.

"You're always tired. You're coming."

"She's not," Jace said from behind us, his bag over his shoulder and his jaw tight. "Isa, go home. I'll drive you."

Jolie turned around. She was a foot shorter than him, and he took a step back anyway.

"Jace Saint," she said, very sweetly, "if you keep telling her to hide in her room, I will tell the entire team about the thing you did at my birthday."

My brother went pale.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

He looked at me, then at her, then up at the sky.

"Fine. Twenty minutes. Then we're leaving."

Jolie smiled at me, victorious.

I sighed and followed.

The party was at Sheylla's house, a big white place at the edge of campus, already full of music and bodies when we arrived. Red cups were everywhere. People shouting over the noise. Hurricanes jerseys in every room.

I kept close to Jolie, my hood pulled low.

I lost Jolie near the kitchen. I was looking for her when someone bumped into me from the side.

Something wet and sticky soaked through the front of my hoodie, down to my stomach, and I gasped.

"Oh my God!" A girl stood in front of me with an empty cup in her hand, eyes wide. She had long auburn hair and perfect makeup. I had seen her in the cafeteria, always at Sheylla's side. Brielle. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you!"

Orange juice dripped from my sleeve onto the floor.

I looked up at her.

She wasn't sorry at all. There was a small, quick curve at the edge of her mouth and her eyes slid across the room to where Aren stood near the stairs, laughing at something Trent said. Then she looked back to me.

It was on purpose.

I didn't know why.

"What happened?"

Sheylla appeared out of the crowd, hair loose now, a soft sweater over her cheer skirt. She saw my hoodie and her face crumpled with concern.

"Brie! What did you do?"

"It was an accident," Brielle said quickly. "She came out of nowhere."

"Oh, you poor thing." Sheylla was already taking my arm. "Come upstairs, I'll find you something to wear. Please, it's no trouble."

I shook my head and tried to pull back. I couldn't speak, and my hands were sticky, and I didn't know how to refuse her.

Then Sheylla's hands moved.

It's okay, she signed. Come with me. I'll help.

I froze.

Her signs were clear and fluid, not perfect, but still practiced.

You know sign language? I signed back, slowly.

She smiled, bright and warm. I volunteer at a center downtown. For deaf and mute kids. Two years now. She signed kids with a little grin. They taught me. They're better teachers than anyone.

My chest went tight.

I'm sorry, she added, tilting her head. I should have said hello earlier. I wanted to, but I didn't want to scare you.

I stared at her.

That was when it hit me.

When I saw her in the cafeteria, laughing next to Aren, I had decided she was a certain kind of girl. I thought she was like the cliché pom-pom girl, always mean and arrogant.

Never thought that she was so gentle and kind like that. I had quietly hated her for something she had never done. Just because I was jealous.

Shame crawled up my neck.

Thank you, I signed, and meant it.

Her bedroom was spotless, pale pink and white, with photos of her and the kids from the center pinned over her desk. Sheylla dug through her closet while I stood with my ruined hoodie in my hands, feeling like a stain in a clean room.

"Okay," she said, turning around with a hanger over each arm. "Here."

She held out a black crop top with thin straps and a pair of dark jeans.

"I'm sorry," she said, wincing. "I know it's not your style. You always wear big hoodies and it might be not confortable to you. But this is honestly all I have that's your size. Everything else is cheer stuff or dresses."

It's fine, I signed quickly. Don't worry.

"Really?"

Really.Thank you.

She beamed at me, so relieved that I felt guilty all over again. "I'll wait outside. Take your time."

When the door closed, I looked at the clothes, and then at myself in the mirror.

The top was tiny. It left my shoulders and my whole stomach bare. The jeans fit too well, hugging every curve I usually hid under layers of cotton.

I turned left, then right.

Everyone's going to look.

I almost took it off. But I thought of Sheylla outside, waiting so patiently, and of how rude it would be to refuse her kindness twice.

And I thought, This is the girl he should be with.

She was good and generous, and she signed to deaf kids on weekends.

She belonged to his world, and she deserved a boy like Aren.

The thought hurt more than I expected.

I took a breath, opened the door, and gave her a small, shy nod.

"You look great," Sheylla said, and she meant it. "Truly. Now go have fun!"

Thank you, I signed again, and she squeezed my hand before she went downstairs.

I stepped into the hallway, still tugging at the hem of the top.

And stopped abruptly.

Aren stood against the wall right outside the door.

He had changed out of his jersey into a dark shirt, and his hair was still damp. He was staring at the floor with his arms crossed. When the door clicked, he looked up.

His whole face went blank.

I went rigid.

He was waiting for Sheylla. Of course he was. She was in her room. It was her house. They had just won a game together.

I didn't want to be in the way.

I pointed down the hall to the bathroom and made a show of rushing toward it with my head down.

He didn't answer.

He didn't move.

He just stood there staring, lips slightly parted.

I hurried past him, locked the bathroom door, and leaned against it.

My face was burning.

"Pull yourself together, Isadora," I whispered. Barely a breath. "He's not here for you. Stop it."

I turned on the tap and let cold water run over my wrists until the shaking eased. I counted to thirty. Then to sixty.

Then I opened the door.

And screamed, silently, as my whole body jumped.

Aren was leaning against the doorframe, shoulder pressed to the wood, arms crossed.

He hadn't moved.

"I was waiting for you, Isa," he said quietly.

My heart stopped.

He stepped forward, closing the distance so that I had to tilt my head back to look at him, and his eyes held mine.

"Now you can't run from me anymore."