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ice at the sports complex, I think this paper is no joke.
“Kika's my little sister. Hand that over!”
Do the right thing. Like she said, this is private information. None of my business.
Only, it could possibly be my business.
Indirectly. Not her fault…not mine…
Jess's eyes have turned wild, exposed. “She made the list for me—as a joke . It's revenge. Last week I made her one on personal hygiene called: How NOT to Repel All Mankind .”
I smile as Jess makes a leap for the list, but I sidestep her easily. The top of her head doesn't reach my shoulder. The only way she can get to this paper is if she tries to climb me. I'm confident she's not about to go there.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please don't…”
Her anguished tone causes my heart to twist. I almost relent; but suddenly, facing this girl—I feel like I'm no longer myself.
The fact that I didn't drive away when I spotted her car proves it.
The fact that I sought her out and willingly broke the promise I made to her parents proves it again.
The fact that I'm still here when I should probably walk away and never look back solidifies it. This must be what it's like to wake up and discover you've become a drug addict overnight. I'm so high and out of control right now, I can't stop myself.
High on curiosity. On Jess Jordan's voice. My need for more information has become unquenchable, unstoppable.
Now that I'm certain she doesn't remember me, I want to know her. The real her.
Not the odd-ball-super-bitch everyone thinks she is, but the girl in front of me now. The one with a headache that takes the color out of her cheeks. The girl who likes Clone Wars art, and defends block-buster romances. The girl who I swear hid a few smiles from me earlier.
The girl whose same ‘ please ’ and haunted blue eyes have tormented me for three years.
Relentlessly, I read on: “Number one: Make at least two friends your own age. Number two: Go places besides your room. Number three: Get boyfriend. Number four: Make sure Mom and Dad notice numbers one through three.”
I lower my hand.
“You suck,” she says, crumpling the list as she turns her back on me. Her narrow shoulders heave as though she either can't breathe or she might cry—or both.
“Your list—it's real, isn't it?” I press. “It's why you really need this job.”
She's stalked to the coffee table where she left her bag and stuffs the list inside. “So what if the list is real? I'm sick, okay? Not cancer or anything extreme. Sick here.” She taps her temple with one finger and meets my gaze dead on. “Permanently messed up.” She shrugs. “The parents are tracking my lack of social life. Something you wouldn't understand. This internship is going to get me what I need in order prove to my parents that I can do normal things like survive a summer job. If I can't pull it off, they won't let me move out and go to college. Happy? Now you've seen the proof. I need the job more than you. So—how about you do me a favor and step out like I've been asking all along?”
“Jesus. You're completely serious.” I swallow.
“Go ahead. Laugh. I'm sure you can get days of amusement off this info at school.” She crosses her arms. Instead of looking brave or comically defensive like she had earlier, I get the feeling she needs to hold herself up. Like she's not okay, and it's got nothing to do with me.
“What do you have—what makes you sick…or whatever?” I ask softly, wondering how far she'll go on details.
“Please. I'm not going to give you more ammunition to hand to your gossipy friends.”
“I wouldn't tell. I'm not like that.”
She shakes her head and looks away. “Everyone's like that.”
“Right.” I don't push her again because my conscience has caught up. My friends would have a field day with her list. I've already gone too far. Besides, I know her diagnosis: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder . Those are the exact words her Mom told me years ago. I'm no expert, but PTSD is what war veterans