“No,” he says. “Oh no,
“I’m not sorry.” He swings his legs out of bed, stands up, and crosses over to me, gives me a quick but tender kiss on the mouth, holds my face in his hands, and looks into my eyes.
“Okay? I’m not sorry. It was worth it. I’ll take the heat.”
“Okay.”
“It’s been nice knowing you, Clara,” he says.
“Huh?” My brain is still a bit shell-shocked.
“Say a prayer for me, will you?” He gives me a shaky grin. “Because I’m pretty sure my parents are going to kill me.”
When I get home it only gets worse. My bedroom window is locked.
Awesome.
I slip in the back door (thankfully not locked) and close the door gently behind me.
Mom works late nights. She sleeps in a lot, these days. There’s a chance she didn’t notice.
But my window’s locked.
Jeffrey’s drinking a glass of orange juice at the counter.
“Oh man,” he says when he sees me. “You are so busted.”
“What should I do?” I ask.
“You should have a really good excuse. And maybe you should cry — girls do that, right?
And possibly be gravely injured. If she has to fix you, she might go easier on you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re so helpful.”
“Oh, and Clara,” he says as I’m tiptoeing upstairs, “you might want to turn your shirt so it’s not on backward.”
I’m amazed I make it all the way up to my room without being pulled over. I put on fresh clothes, wash my face, and comb out my hair, and I start thinking everything’s going to be fine, no worries. But then I come out of the bathroom and see Mom sitting in my desk chair.
She looks like one pissed-off mama.
For a minute, a minute that feels like eternity, she doesn’t say anything. She stares at me with her arms crossed over her chest.
“So,” she says finally, her voice like drips of ice. “Tucker’s mother called a few minutes ago. She asked me if I knew where my daughter was, because last time she checked you were in her son’s bed.”
“I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I went over to the Lazy Dog to see Tucker, and I fell asleep.” Her hands clench into fists. “Clara—” She stops herself, takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to do this,” she says. “I can’t.”
“Nothing happened,” I say.
She scoffs. Gives me a look that tells me not to insult her intelligence.
“Okay, something almost happened.” Maybe if I go with the truth, she’ll see it as a sign of good faith, I rationalize. “But nothing did. Happen, I mean. I fell asleep. That’s it.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” she says sarcastically. “Something almost happened, but didn’t. Great. Wonderful. I’m so relieved.” She suddenly shakes her head. “I don’t want to hear about last night. We’re done with this, young lady. If I have to nail your window shut, you are staying here, in your own bed, in your own house, every night. Do you understand me?”
“Furthermore,” she continues, when I don’t answer, “you and Tucker are no longer to see each other on a one-on-one basis.”
I whip around. “What?”
“You’re not to be alone with him.”
All my breath leaves me in a rush. “For how long?”
“I don’t know. Until I figure out what to do with you. I think I’m being very generous with you, considering what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done? This isn’t the year 1900, Mom.”
“Believe me, I know,” she says.
I try to meet her gaze. “Mom, I have to keep seeing Tucker.” She sighs. “Are you really going to make me say the my-house-my-rules thing?” she says in a weary voice, rubbing at her eyes like she doesn’t have the time or the energy right now to deal with me.
My chin lifts. “Are you really going to make me move out just so I can do what I want with my own life? Because I will.”
It’s a bluff. I don’t have anywhere to go, any money, any place to be but here.
“If that’s what it takes,” she says softly.
That does it. My eyes fill with humiliating tears. I know she has a right to be mad, but I don’t care. I start screaming all the stuff I’ve been wanting to say for months: Why do you have to be this way? Why don’t you care about Tucker? Can’t you see how good we are together?
Okay, so you don’t care about Tucker, but don’t you care about my happiness?
