Wrath

Chapter 10

Reed was all about avoiding the hassle. School sucked, but it’s not like there was anything you could do about it, right? So he floated along, attending the occasional class, laying low, sneaking out for a smoke when it all got too much. He stayed under the radar. That would have been his motto, if he’d ever bothered to formulate one.

That, also, was too much effort.

So when they pulled him out of class, he was stumped-and also a bit stoned, which wasn’t helping matters. He hadn’t done anything. He never did anything. So why haul him down to the vice principal’s office and stick him in front of the administrative firing squad?

Best not to speak until spoken to. More words to live by.

So Reed slouched in the low-backed wooden chair and stared at them: the principal, the vice principal, that French teacher all the girls were so hot for. They didn’t scare him.

And then his father stepped into the office.

Shit.

“If you admit what you’ve done, I may be inclined to go easier on you,” the vice principal finally said.

He’d done nothing, so he said nothing. And he tried not to look at his old man.

“Mr. Powell found the evidence,” the vice principal continued. “You can’t just weasel out of this one, Mr. Sawyer. Just tell us why you did it. And who helped you.”

Reed laced his fingers together and put them behind his head, sliding down in the chair. He didn’t have to speak out loud for them to receive his message: Get to the point.

“Does this look familiar?” Vice Principal Sorrento dropped a can of spray paint onto the desk. “Mr. Powell received a tip that led us to search your locker. Imagine our surprise when we found a number of these.” He pursed his lips, as if it pained him to continue. “It’s obviously what you used to doctor the billboard.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” Damned if they were going to pin that lame stunt on him. As if he’d waste his time. If Reed wanted to say something, he’d say it-he wouldn’t need to hide behind an anonymous prank. And if he had nothing to say, he’d shut up.

“Are you denying that we found these cans in your locker, young man?”

Reed snorted. “For all I know, you found them up your ass.”

“If they’re not yours, perhaps you have an alternate explanation to offer?” the principal jumped in, before Sorrento could lose his shit.

Reed shrugged.

“Maybe you’ve been framed, is that it?” Sorrento suggested sarcastically. “Someone’s out to get you, right? And who might that be?”

Reed shrugged again. “For all I know, it was you.”

That’s when his father spoke for the first time. “That’s enough! For God’s sake, boy, just tell them you did it and that you’re sorry, and we can get out of here.”

Reed was sorry, but only that the school had bothered to drag his father out of work for this. His father usually didn’t care what Reed did-but he did care about missing his shifts. And, like everything else, this would somehow become all Reed’s fault.

He would have been happy to speed things along, even if it meant sucking it up for a parental lecture, but he wasn’t about to admit to something he hadn’t done.

Bring it on, he thought, staring at the vice principal. You don’t scare me.

Sorrento couldn’t threaten Reed, not with anything that mattered, because you could only threaten someone who cared.

“Mr. Sawyer, I hope you realize that your son is putting us in a very difficult situation here,” Principal Lowenstein said. “I simply can’t have this brand of… disruptive element polluting my student body.”

Reed’s father took off his cap and rubbed his bald spot, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Reed wondered what kind of memories this office held for the old man, who’d been a proud Haven High dropout, would-be class of’88.

“I understand, ma’am, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Hank Sawyer said, and Reed winced, hating the way his father talked to the people who ran his life. “You wanna suspend him for a week or so, I’ll put him to work, set him straight.You don’t have to worry.”

Not his life, Reed vowed to himself, not for the first time. Not for me.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand me, Mr. Sawyer.” It seemed to physically pain the principal to address Hank with even the barest term of respect. “If Reed here refuses to take responsibility for his actions-his very serious actions, I might add-we might be forced to take harsher measures. As I always say, if a student truly doesn’t want to learn… well, I’m afraid sometimes there’s just nothing we can do.”

“I’m not sure I get what you mean,” Hank mumbled.

But Reed got it. He wasn’t as thick as people thought.

“She means if we can’t settle this to our satisfaction-if we see no signs of… remorse, it may no longer be possible for Reed to attend Haven High School,” Sorrento explained with a barely hidden smile.

Hank Sawyer looked dumbfounded.

Lowenstein looked apologetic-or rather, what she thought a suitably apologetic expression might be.

Sorrento looked triumphant.

Powell looked satisfied.

And Reed looked away. Whatever happened, he’d still have his job. He’d still have his band. He’d still have his buddies, and his stash.

There was nothing in this place he wanted or needed, so maybe Sorrento, for once in his miserable tight-ass bureaucratic life, was right.

Maybe it was time for Reed to go.

“I know I said I’d do the lab for you, but don’t you think you should at least pretend we’re working together?”

“Sorry, what?” Harper looked up from her doodles to discover her geeky Girl Friday had put down her beaker, turned off her Bunsen burner, and was waving the lab instructions in Harper’s face.

“I said, how about you actually help me out here, before Bonner catches on?” The girl jerked her head toward the front of the empty room, where their robotic chem teacher was nominally supervising them.

Harper had cut class again today, unable to face Miranda across the lab table, but that meant a makeup lab-and that meant a big, fat zero unless she could find someone to do the work for her.

Enter Sara-or was it Sally? Sandra? whatever-a Marie Curie wannabe who always aced her labs and whose semester-long services could apparently be bought for the price of an outdated dELIA⋆s sweater and a setup with debate team captain Martin somebody the Third.

“Trust me, you don’t want my help,” Harper said, laughing…

“But it’s easy,” the brainiac argued. “If you just balance the equation and calculate the molarity of solution A, then you can estimate…”

Harper tuned out the droning. Back in the old days, with Miranda doing their labs, she hadn’t been subjected to any of this chemistry crap; instead, Miranda had just measured and stirred and poured, all the while keeping up a running commentary on Harper’s latest rejects or the possibility that the Bonner was naked under her ever-present lab coat.

Miranda had always known the perfect thing to say; she was never judgmental, patronizing, or-the worst crime, in both Harper’s and Miranda’s minds-boring. Harper had taken her for granted-and driven her away.

She got that now. Miranda and Adam were right: They’d been too good for her. Maybe she was lucky it had taken so long for them to realize it. And maybe she still had time to change.

“Thanks for your help, Marie, but I’ll take it from here,” she said suddenly, grabbing the lab instructions.

“Uh, my name is Sandra?” the girl pointed out, sounding slightly unsure of it herself. “And I’m not sure you want to do that. We’re at kind of a delicate stage, and last time you-”

“I said I’ve got it,” Harper said, accidentally sweeping one of the beakers off the table. Both girls jumped back as some of the solution splashed through the air.

Young Einstein pushed her glasses up on her face and began backing away. “Sure. Okay. No problem. I’ll just get out of your hair then, uh… good luck!” She turned and raced from the room.

No one’s got any faith in me, Harper thought in disgust. No one realized that she could be diligent and virtuous if she set her mind to it. Hadn’t she managed to manipulate and connive her way to the top of the Haven High social pyramid? That took strategy, brains, and forethought. Compared to that, being a good person would be easy.

Harper sighed. Okay, maybe not easy. But it wasn’t impossible; she was just out of practice. Whatever Miranda and Adam thought, she had it in her. She’d prove it to herself, and then she’d prove it to them. “Okay, what’ve we got here?” she mumbled.

Step 3: Combine 10 ml of your titrated acid solution with 10 ml of water. Record the pH.

What had Marie Curie Jr. said about balancing the molarity and calculating the equation of the solution? Or was it estimating the equation and balancing the solution? And what was a titrated acid, anyway?

Harper threw down the work sheet. She didn’t need to get a perfect score on her first try, right? The important thing was making it through the lab on her own. So all she needed to do was concentrate and-

CRASH!

Oops. Hopefully that wasn’t the beaker of titrated acid that had just smashed to the floor.

“Everything all right back there, Ms. Grace?” the Bonner asked nervously, too nearsighted to see for herself.

“Just fine, Ms. Bonner,” Harper chirped. “Don’t worry.”

Harper picked up something that might or might not have been her titrated acid solution and dumped some into the remaining beaker. Then she spotted a test tube filled with a clear liquid. Marie must already have measured out the water; now, all she had to do was dump it in and…

A huge puff of smoke exploded out of the beaker, blasting past Harper before she had the chance to move out of the way. “Ugh,” Harper moaned in alarm, “what’s that-?”

The Bonner looked up in alarm, wrinkling her nose as the stench wave hit her. “Harper!” she cried, pinching her nostrils together and backing toward the door. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know!” Harper waved away the foul greenish smoke, trying to hold her breath and escape the noxious combination of rotten eggs and raw sewage. She dumped the beaker into the sink, grabbed her backpack, and ran out of the room, joining the Bonner in the hallway.

“Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” the Bonner was muttering to herself. “I’ll have to contact the principal, I’ll have to have the room fumigated, I’ll have to-” She caught sight of Harper, or rather, caught scent of Harper. “Smells like we’ll have to get you fumigated too,” she said, stepping away.

Harper took her hand away from her nose and breathed in deeply, her eyes widening in horror. She smelled like she’d gone swimming in a toilet.

The Bonner shook her head sadly and pulled her lab coat tighter around herself, as if it would offer some protection from Harper’s cloud of stench. “Ms. Grace, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to give you a zero on this lab.”

Harper looked down at her soiled clothes and back at the lab-turned-toxic-waste dump, took a big whiff of her new eau de sewer, and nodded. “Zero sounds about right,” she muttered. Apparently, these days, that’s all she was worth.

When Kane had coaxed Miranda out for a post-detention aperitif, he hadn’t intended a torture session at the Nifty Fifties diner. But when Miranda had suggested it, her face flushed with pleasure, he’d said yes almost instantly.

Not that there weren’t plenty of good reasons to stay away from the diner, even above and beyond those the local health inspector published in the town paper every year. He could have cited the watery milk shakes and five-alarm chili, aka heartburn-waiting-to-happen. He could have reminded Miranda of the grating Chuck Berry anthems piped through tinny speakers, punctuated by scratches, squeaks, and the high-pitched whine of a grimy waitress announcing “order’s up.” Then there was the burned-out neon, the scratched, faux-leather bar stools, the vintage movie posters peeling off the wall, and the Route 66 junk clogging the counter, longing for impulse buyers to give them a new home.

But all of those would have been excuses, skirting the truth of why he’d hoped never to set foot inside the dilapidated diner again. It was Beth’s turf, and he didn’t want to face her there. He’d spent one too many long afternoons lingering over a greasy plate of fries, waiting for her to finish her shift, and he could do without the flashback to happier days.

But when Miranda had raised the idea, he hadn’t hesitated before agreeing, “Shitty Fifties it is.” His own reluctance was reason enough to go; he wouldn’t let Beth’s presence scare him away from anywhere, especially one of Grace’s few semi-tolerable dining establishments. Reluctance stemmed from fear, and fear was a sign of weakness, to be attacked wherever it appeared. Better to do it yourself, Kane believed, than wait for someone to do it for you.

He and Miranda kept up a steady stream of banter as they settled into a booth and waited for their food to arrive. She was so much easier to be around than most girls, neither boring nor demanding, just… there. Like one of the guys, only with a better ass.

“You sure you don’t want some?” he asked, waving a spoonful of ice cream under her nose.

“You’re a growing boy, Kane-I can’t take food out of your mouth.”

He shrugged and swallowed another mouthful of the flavorless vanilla.

“Not quite Ben & Jerry’s?” she asked, grinning wryly at his expression.

She was okay, he supposed-physically, probably even a seven, thanks to her long, slim legs and model’s body. The chest was a little flat for his tastes, but she compensated for it with a tight ass. Her long, thin face wasn’t complemented by the long, thin hair-but it wasn’t bad. It was the rest of her that brought the total package down to a five: the way she never quite looked you in the eye, the plain white T-shirts, boxy jeans, the fight-or-flight reflex on overdrive, and, most problematically, the way she seemed so content to fade into the background.

She was a fixer-upper, basically. The raw materials were all there. It would just take some effort-a project best saved for a rainy day.

Beth, on the other hand, was fully formed, and a perfect ten. She’d have to be, for Kane to be giving her a second thought. As Miranda longingly eyed the milk shake he had insisted she order-and from which she’d yet to take a sip-he eyed Beth. Her long, blond hair was pinned back from her face, and her full lips glistened with a see-through gloss.

He still wanted her, he realized. Despite everything, he missed her.

It only made him more determined to wash her out of his system for good.

“Waitress,” he called loudly, “we need you over here.” He’d sat in this section deliberately, knowing how much she hated to be watched at work. That was the thing about being in a relationship, he’d discovered:You learned people’s weaknesses.

It was why he planned never to get ensnared in one again.

“What are you doing?” Miranda hissed, as Beth approached. She clucked her tongue. “Play nice.”

“Do you need something else?” Beth asked thinly. “Or just the check.”

“I need you to clean up this spill.”

“What spill?”

True, the table was clean. He’d have to remedy that. Kane took a sip of his Coke, and then, with a slow and deliberate turn of the wrist, dumped it out all over the table. The sticky brown liquid spread across the metallic tabletop, spattering onto her white sneakers. “Oops.”

Beth took a deep breath, then tossed a filthy dish towel in his face. “Clean it yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kane, drop it,” Miranda said sharply.

He glanced at her in surprise, raising his eyebrows questioningly. What? What did I do?

“Can you, just for once, not be an asshole?” Miranda asked, as if genuinely curious to hear the answer.

“Now, where’s the fun in that?” he drawled, waiting for the inevitable smile.

But Miranda’s face was indecipherable, her lip twitching slightly, as if choosing between potential expressions. Finally, she settled on a scowl. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced, standing up and throwing down her napkin. “I’ll be back, maybe. Try to behave yourself.”

She hadn’t walked out on him, Kane thought with pleasure; he disliked melodrama of all kinds, unless he’d created it himself. But she hadn’t egged him on, either, or sat there with an adoring look the way the bimbos all did, chastising him with their words while rewarding him with their eyes. No, the original go-along-to-get-along girl, Miss Gumby herself, had actually taken a stand-of sorts.

He could apologize later; for now, Beth still stood over him, fuming, and he found that he couldn’t stop himself from pushing just a little harder.

“I know this isn’t the finest of dining establishments,” he drawled, “but didn’t they bother to teach you that the customer is always right?”

“I guess you’re the exception that proves the rule,” Beth snapped. “I always knew you were special.”

“Oh Beth, just give it up,” he said, suddenly raising his voice to ensure that it would carry to the table of eavesdropping juniors a few feet away. “We’re not getting back together.”

“What?”

She was so smart in some ways’and so pathetically dumb in others.

“I’m glad it was good for you,” he continued loudly, “but it just wasn’t for me. I’m sorry-you’re just… not very good.”

“Shut up.” Her pale face was turning a bright red. “Stop.”

“You keep saying that, and yet you just keep coming back. It’s a little embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassing.”

What a snappy comeback.

Kane smiled serenely and handed back the dish towel, now sopping with Coke.

“I’m serious about one thing,” he said more softly. “Stop pretending this is all some game you can win.”

“I thought everything was a game to you.”

“That’s because I know how to play.” He gestured toward the giggling juniors who kept sneaking looks before turning back to their huddle and bursting into laughter. “As you can see. When you’re a born loser, it’s better to just stay out of the game altogether. Just a helpful piece of advice, from me to you.”

“You-I can’t-what-”

“Spit it out,” he sneered, trying to convince himself he was having fun.

“Go to hell.” And she picked up Miranda’s untouched milk shake, gave him her sweetest Beth smile, and dumped it over his head.

It was juvenile, but effective-and very, very cold.

He smeared a finger across the icy goop sliding down his cheek, stuck it in his mouth, and sucked, hard.

It was sweet, but not as sweet as what came next. An overweight, under-showered man lumbered up behind Beth and, in a voice choked with anger, uttered the three little words that every bitter, milk shake-covered ex wants to hear:

“Manning? You’re fired!”

Kaia hadn’t known where to look, not at first. She didn’t even know where he lived, she realized. It was just one of the many things she didn’t know about him.

It should have been a warning, she thought now, disgusted with herself. She’d been so eager to believe in Reed that she’d ignored the possibility that his sleazy, pothead, criminal-in-training exterior wasn’t just a veneer.

She still couldn’t quite believe that someone who’d kissed her the way he did could have tormented the way he had. How had he touched her so gently, and then branded her a whore? It didn’t seem possible, but the evidence didn’t lie. They’d found the paint in his locker: two cans, both red, like blood.

As soon as she’d heard the truth, she’d gone looking for him. She’d searched the dingy Lost and Found, his father’s garage, and Guido’s Pizza, but had no luck at any of them.

Then she realized that she knew exactly where he’d be.

She drove slowly down the highway, savoring the roar of the BMW’s engine and the clatter of the gravel kicked up by her tires, trying to enjoy the dusty billboards:

AIRSTREAM TRAILERS FOR SALE!

GET MARRIED QUICK-GET DIVORCED QUICKER!

LIVE! NUDE! GIRLS!

She was dreading the encounter, yet hungry for it, eager to finally have an end to the uncertainty and an outlet for her rage. She arrived at the mines, and his truck was pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, just as she’d expected. Reed was standing at the mouth of the abandoned mine as if wondering whether to disregard the fading DANGER signs and step inside.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, keeping a few feet of distance between them.

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it. I don’t even care. I just came here to tell you to stay away from me.” She didn’t touch him, or look at him, just stood next to him, facing the gaping hole at the head of the mines.The industrial processing complex stood several yards away. This entrance must have been a remnant from an even earlier era, one of pickaxes and rickety wooden machinery. It had once been boarded up with plywood and barbed wire, but the wood had rotted away, and the torn, frayed strands of the jagged wire climbed haphazardly over the entrance like vines. It would be easy enough to slip inside.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I heard what they found in your locker,” she snapped. “You think I’m too stupid to see what that means?”

“You think that crap was mine?”

“What else am I supposed to think?”

Reed shrugged. “Whatever. Do what you want. Get out of here. I won’t follow you.”

He began to walk away, toward the entrance to the mines.The dark, hulking mouth of the tunnel loomed over him. It reminded her of a carnival haunted house, but with no safeguards to stop the roof from crashing down.

“Where are you going?” she asked, grabbing his shoulder. “Are you crazy?”

“Maybe.” He turned back to her. “What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Hey-” He grabbed her shoulders, and she felt a moment of panic but resolved not to let it show. “I don’t know what’s going on with you or what’s got you so mad, especially when you’re the one who… I know there’s some other guy, and-”

“And that’s it, right?” She tore out of his grasp and started hitting at his chest. “I cheated on you, and that makes me a slut, right? A whore? Go screw yourself. You don’t scare me.” Her voice was rising, but she couldn’t help herself. “Do you hear me? You. Don’t. Scare. Me.”

He grabbed at her hands, and she swatted him away until finally he grasped them both and held them still. “I don’t want to scare you,” he said softly, intensely. “Look at me. Look at me,” he insisted as she stared resolutely over his shoulder.

Finally, Kaia gave in and met his dark eyes. She shivered, still feeling the irresistible pull to give in, to fall against him and forget herself. She leaned in, hating herself, but hating him more. Then she stopped, just before their lips touched. He was so close that when he spoke, she could feel the movement of his lips even before she heard his words.

“I need you,” he whispered. “I need you to believe me.”

Remember the car, Kaia told herself, remember the flowers, and the photos. She breathed in and out, aware only of his strong hands wrapped around hers, and the dark locks of hair framing his bottomless eyes. She wanted things to be different; but Kaia had given up on fairy tales long ago-you couldn’t make something true just by wishing for it. You couldn’t turn a frog into a prince just by giving him one last kiss.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back, pulling away. “I can’t.”

He didn’t say anything as she walked away, nor did he follow. She got into the BMW and leaned her head back against the cool leather headrest. Maybe now it could finally be over.

Reed had turned his back on her, and was striding toward the entrance of the mines. Kaia sat behind the steering wheel, one hand on the ignition key, one hand clenched into a fist, unable to stop watching as he swung one leg over the barbed wire, then another, then ducked beneath the rotted wooden boards and disappeared into the dark.

“Sorry about before,” Kane said as they walked out of the restaurant together.

“Before? Oh, you mean when you pulled off that great magic trick, turning into a giant asshole before my very eyes?” But Miranda asked the question without rancor; she knew she should have been disgusted by Kane s treatment of Beth, and was a bit disgusted with herself for not caring more. Instead, she’d made excuses for him: He’d been hurt, was just lashing back-and the saddest thing of all was that the prospect of him still harboring feelings for Beth was what upset her the most. Someone else might have mistaken his cruelty for anger, but Miranda recognized it for what it was; and if he still felt that way about Beth, there seemed no hope he’d ever look in her direction. No matter how much time they spent together, it suddenly seemed likely that Miranda was only imagining the possibility it could ever be anything more. Just because you talked yourself into believing in something didn’t make it true.

“Actually, I was apologizing for stepping on your foot back there,” Kane said, laughing, “but let’s say it covers the asshole thing too. And, since I spoiled our afternoon, let me make it up to you.” He led her to the car and opened the door for her.

“And how are you going to do that?”

“A little fun in the sun,” he said cryptically, getting behind the wheel and pulling out of the lot. Miranda wrinkled her nose in confusion, but said nothing as they followed a familiar route, finally pulling back into the school parking lot.

“Didn’t you say something about fun?” she asked as they came to a stop.

“Trust me.” He got out and went around to the back of the Camaro, pulling a basketball out of the trunk. Miranda gaped at him in horror.

“No. No way. Are you kidding me?”

“Stevens, I am about to do you the biggest favor of your life,” he promised, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the rickety outdoor court set up on the opposite end of the parking lot.

Miranda hated sports. She hated everything about them: the running, the jumping, the sweating, the terror when she caught the ball, the humiliation when she missed it. The last thing she wanted to do was subject herself to all of that in front of Kane, object of her deepest and darkest desires.

But he was tugging her along and giving her that boyish grin she couldn’t resist. He was holding her hand.

“I’m not sure I see where the favor part comes in,” she said skeptically as he began bouncing the ball against the concrete pavement. “Unless you’re about to clue me in on how to get out of gym for the rest of my life.”

“Better.” He tossed the ball casually toward the basket, turning away a moment before it swooshed through the net. “Stevens, I’m about to show you the surefire way to any guy’s heart.” He grabbed the rebound and tossed it toward her; she hoped she didn’t look like too much of an idiot when it slipped out of her hands and rolled away.

“Basketball is the key to any guy’s heart?”

“Basketball, baseball, whatever-no guy wants some girlie-girl who’s going to get all mushy when it comes to sports,” Kane explained, chasing the ball and tossing it back to her.This time, she caught it. “Football works, too, though.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Especially the tackling.”

Miranda threw the ball toward the basket as hard as she could-it arced back down to the ground long before coming anywhere near the net. “So this is all for my own good?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“You’re just helping me out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

“And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that you missed practice today and you’re just looking for an excuse to get out on the court?”

Kane stopped dribbling and turned to stare at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

Miranda shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Kane jogged over and handed her the ball. He placed both hands on her waist, turning her around to face the basket. Miranda tried to keep her breathing steady and ignore the fact that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He reached around her, arranging her hands into a shooting position while murmuring soft instructions in her ear.

“Like this… no, a little higher… use your right hand to balance it… bend your knees…” When she was set up exactly as he wanted, he stepped away, instructing her to freeze in position. It wasn’t too difficult; Miranda hoped never to move again, the better to remember every place he’d touched her.

“Most girls wouldn’t do this, you know.”

“What?” she asked, forcing herself to stay focused on her bent knees and straight posture and not on Kane’s reedy voice or laughing eyes.

“This, here. All of it.”

Miranda suspected he’d have no trouble getting most any girl in school out on the court, especially if it meant some physical contact with Haven High’s resident Greek god. But all she said was, “I’m not most girls.”

“Tell me about it,” he said as she launched the ball into the air, holding her breath as it sailed closer and closer to the basket… and bounced off the rim.

“Told you I suck.” She rolled her eyes and began walking toward the sidelines, but he grabbed her, drew her back to the center of the court.

“Okay, you do suck,” he agreed, retrieving the ball and slipping it back into her hands.

“Nice. Very nice.”

“But you’ve got a great teacher.” He moved behind her again, and this time, as he grabbed her arms, she leaned back, ever so slightly, so that her shoulders grazed against his chest. She could feel him breathing. “See? That was only your first try and you hit the rim. It’s a start.’

Of what? she wanted to ask, playfully but meaningfully. Of course she didn’t have the nerve. So she closed her eyes, feeling his chest rise and fall, his voice soft in her ear, and let him guide her body into position. It didn’t mean anything, she knew that. He didn’t realize what it felt like, his fingers wrapped loosely around her forearms, caressing her hips, her lower back, her thighs-for him, this was just another day on the court.

But even though she knew it was silly, Miranda allowed herself a moment of let’s pretend: What if he spun her around and pulled her into his arms, for real? What if this was all just foreplay, and the real game was about to begin? What if he wanted an excuse to touch her just as much as she longed to be touched?

And then he let go again and, perfectly lined up for the shot, she let the ball fly off the tips of her fingers. It sailed toward the basket, rolled around the edge of the rim, again and again, before finally tipping away and toppling to the ground.

She’d missed. Again.

But it was a start.

It was pitch black inside the mine. But Reed didn’t need to explore. When he was a kid, he’d spent hours blundering around in the dark, holding a flashlight up to his head like an old-time miner. He could’ve gotten himself killed.

This time, he just stepped far enough inside the darkness to make everything disappear, then sat down, his back pressed against the cool, dank wall.

What did she want from him?

Why did he even care?

His father wanted him to confess, and had already made it clear that he’d throw Reed out of the house if he got expelled.

Then what?

Reed wished he could light up a joint, since that was the best way to drive the questions away. A few puffs and he could sink into the worry free zone and forget it all. But you didn’t sneak into an old mine and light a match-not if you cared about staying alive.

There were other ways to forget. Reed closed his eyes-though there was no light to shut out-and leaned his head back against the wall. He could almost hear the sounds of an earlier time: pumping, clanging, chugging, grunting, rhythmic grinding of steel on steel. That was why he liked it here: The place was full of ghosts, and it was easy to imagine you were one of them, fading into the past, all your problems long solved, your decisions made, your life lived.

Reed knew he’d eventually have to get up, walk out, and do something. He couldn’t just hide there in the dark, waiting for his problems to pass. But it was tempting to imagine the possibility, just for a while.

He’d never been afraid of the dark, just like he’d never been afraid of dying. As far as he was concerned, darkness was easy. Leaving it all behind was a piece of cake. The hard part came when you turned on the lights and had to face the day.