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  “Nope,” he says, slides his hood off and stands. “If I plan on seeing you with any frequency, I need to weather this storm sooner or later.”

  “Seeing me?” Why do I sound shocked? If I’m honest with the feelings building inside, I want to see him more.

  “You’re the only one here besides me,” he casts a glance at the white face floating in the shadows above the sofa. “And seeing of any serious sort can’t happen without parental approval.”

  “Baton down the hatches,” I use his sea-going metaphor.

  “Aye. Avast!”

  Just before I open the door, he brushes his fingertips through my hair, pushing it aside to whisper, “I’d weather any storm to be with you.”

  Is that what he meant by it doesn’t beat for me?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Renfield beats Mom to the door, and winds around my ankles. She’s standing there, a few feet back, arms crossed, foot tapping, and white frilly apron detracting from her Mean Mom appearance. I give her a pleading please-be-nice look and bend to scoop up the cat. Renfield twists like living, clawed silk in my arms and pins me with an indignant look before settling into the crook of my arm.

  “Come in,” I tell Alex, then step to the side, closer to the sofa, leaving room for him to make an escape if things turn ugly. Which, knowing my Mom, they probably will.

  “So you were texting me from the porch?” she asks.

  At this rate, ugly is going to happen before the dinner I smell in the kitchen.

  “Yes,” I say. I have a flimsy excuse brewing, but don’t give it. Alex reaches a hand forward and says, “Hi, Mrs. Gentry. I’m Alex Franks. I walked Emma home and she was just thanking me before coming in.”

  Smooth, I think. I could learn to like this guy. He tries to get me out of trouble and is not afraid to stretch the truth to my mom to do it.

  Mom eyes his hand like she’d just as soon push it away than shake it. Tension builds, the energy of a storm blowing off Lake Michigan. Then, she takes it, and give him one swift shake.

  “Nice to meet you,” Alex tells her.

  “Mm-hmm.” She says. “You, too.”

  Her expression sours, but he remains close to me, an easy smile firmly in place on his lips. Knowing Alex like I’m beginning to, I don’t think she could claw it off. As it to prove he could fit in here, Alex lifts his hand higher to pet Renfield, who’d been watching the icy exchange between him and Mom with feline disinterest.

  “Watch out,” I warn. “He hates everybody but me.”

  That’s not true, though. Renfield always loved Daniel. He should’ve. Daniel brought him to me as a kitten. We’d watched Bram Stoker’s Dracula that night and named him after the poor crazed man under Doctor Jack’s care.

  Renfield lies in my arms now, eyeing Alex’s approaching fingers and all I can think of is, Great. My cat’s going to give him more scars. Mom watches with cool interest, too. She knows how awful the cat can be—his passionate dislike of pretty much every other human is legendary. Maybe she’s hoping he’ll roust Alex out for her. Instead, the cat bonks his head against Alex’s fingers, then lets Alex pet him. A rare purr rumbles in the feline.

  “Making a liar out of me?” I ask the cat in a whisper.

  He blinks, white eyelashes stroking over the black freckle in his iris.

  “Alex Franks,” Mom says slowly. I look up and see a horrible light dawning in her eyes. “The doctor’s son?”

  He stiffens slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you’re the boy” her gaze narrows, “who dropped Emma off at the clinic, filthy and needing a new brace because of helping you?”

  “I am.”

  If anything, instead of shrinking under her scathing gaze and uncompromising questions, he stands taller and moves closer to me. Dad appears in the dining room door, chipped coffee mug in hand. His eyes skim over me, and land on Alex. Dad dusts sawdust from his salt-and-pepper hair, and peers through his glasses. “Emma, who’s your friend?”

  Relief washes through me. Dad’s always the diffuser in the Mom-Emma-Dad concoction.

  “Dad, this is Alex Franks.”

  Alex offers his hand, and Dad shakes it hard enough to dribble coffee out the chip at the top. “So, you’re the boy involved in the fight on Saturday?”

  Bless him for having a hint of a grin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Word is you broke Josh’s nose.” A ghost of a smile dances across Dad’s face. “And cracked a couple of his ribs.”

  A flash of something—pride?—in Alex’s eyes. “I’ve heard that, too.”

  “Well, for protecting my daughter,” Dad says, “I’m willing to give you a chance. There’s something to be said for a man willing to risk hurt to defend our Emma.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gentry.”

  Mom visibly deflates. She gives my dad a mutinous look, and I’m sure a cold night on the sofa is in his very near future—like, tonight. She turns toward the kitchen as he aims for the basement door.

  “Not a big chance,” she warns.

  Two shocks right in a row. First, Renfield doesn’t hate Alex, the cat acts like they’re old friends. Second, Mom didn’t kick Alex out and tell him never to speak to me again, which is what I dreaded she’d do.

  Of course, the afternoon isn’t over yet.

  “So, One-Armed Warrior…have any homework I can help with?” asks Alex.

  “Yeah. Writing’s a pain with this brace,” I say at the same time as Mom barks from the kitchen, “Not upstairs you don’t!”

  “Dining room table, then?”

  I lead the way, with Renfield peeking over my shoulder, watching Alex with his lamp-like eyes. He flinches, back claws flexing when Dad starts up the power tools in his workshop. Like any other day, the sounds of a saw and the smell of burning wood drift beneath the basement door. Normally, it’s comforting in an odd way. With wealthy, popular Alex Franks standing in the dining room, I tend closer to chagrin than to cozy.

  “What’s he doing down there?”

  “Not sure. He’s always building something. Chairs, picture frames, puzzle boxes...”

  “That’s cool.” He sounds honestly impressed. “My dad’s always locked away in his lab, muttering over formulas and studying any advancement in surgical procedures. The only thing he made,” he pauses, then looks at his chest, where I know scars crisscross his skin, “is me live.”

  “Then I like his handiwork,” I whisper.

  When Alex sets my backpack on the table, the cat launches from my arms, using his back claws for traction. He might not have fangs, but he has some vampire qualities. The cat lands on Alex’s chest. Lightning quick, Alex wraps his arm around the slinky white cat, and says, “Hey, kitty. You don’t look like a crazy character.”

  The cat screws his face up, sneezes at Alex and twists out of his arms. His paws glance off the table top, enough to change his angle and shoot for the stairs.

  “Well,” I deadpan, “the honeymoon’s over.”

  “Odd cat.”

  “I’m shocked he liked you at all.” Okay, so I’m teasing him.

  “Thanks,” he says, mocking pain by the scrunched look of his face and hand over his heart.

  Immediately my nightmare flashes behind my eyes. The still-beating heart, blood dripping between the fingers… It doesn’t beat for me. Alex holding my hand over his heart and saying those words. I can’t ask him about it now, with Mom one room away and banging pots and pans to let me know she’s very close and can most likely hear every uttered word.

  Unlike Bree, who just writes the essay problems for me, Alex takes the pencil, positions the papers between us and patiently takes dictation for every class. He even writes out the Trig problems for me, and helps on the few I struggle with. Mom scuttles out of the kitchen a few minutes before five o’clock, eyes serious, mouth set in a thin line.

  “We’ll be having dinner soon, Alex.” Though the look on her face says anything but, she adds, “you’re welcome to stay.”
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br />   His face brightens, pale as it is. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Emma Jane,” Mom says, “You can clear off the table.

  I heave a sigh and get an elbow to the ribs for it. Soft, not like the vicious hits Alex gave Josh, but the point is made. Together Alex and I reload my backpack with my books and papers, pencils and the like. Silently, we help set the table, putting out Mom’s linen placemats and good china. Funny she’d bring that out when she acts like she hates him. Then Mom opens the basement door and yells, “Merle! Dinner!”

  Drill Sarge in an apron directing traffic.

  “Merle sits at the head of the table. I sit here. Alex, you there,” she points to a seat by the window, then points across to the opposite side, “and Emma, you there.”

  Divide and conquer.

  Alex obliges silently, despite the empty seat beside the one I’m supposed to sit in. Dad comes up the steps, sawdust whitening his clothes and clinging to his glasses. He eyes the seating arrangement, then my Mom with a slight shrug of his shoulders, before sitting where he normally does. Once I’m seated, Mom brings out the chowder and rolls.

  “I hope you’re not allergic to shellfish, Alex,” she says innocently. “We’re having Clam Chowder.

  “Actually, I love sea food,” he says.

  If he’s foiled her plot to run him off, she doesn’t show it. Mom ladles the chowder for us, and then passes the rolls and butter. Dad pops up, dusting off sawdust and walking toward the kitchen. He points at Alex before disappearing through the door. “Like hot sauce? I prefer my chowder with a little kick.”

  “Love some.”

  He’s trying too hard, I think.

  The bottle of red poison—I hate spicy stuff—passes from Dad to Alex. He adds a liberal amount to his bowl. No hot sauce virgin could get away with that much without making some kind of face. The entire table watches his first bite, and the aftermath.

  Nothing.

  “So,” Dad says after a spoonful, “Have any plans after high school?”

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Gentry. I was thinking about going to Med School.”

  “And become a doctor like your father?” Mom asks. Her tone is conversational, but I know her. I see the tightening around the eyes.

  “Now, Arlene…” Dad says in that soothing voice of his.

  “Don’t ‘now Arlene,’ me.” She shoves part of a biscuit into her chowder, drowning it with force. “That boy’s father hurt Emma’s hand. On purpose.”

  Alex’s eyes widen, and he swallows his mouthful. The temperature drops in the room, a cold front emanating from Mom’s expression. She could probably crack nuts with her eyebrows with how hard they’re pinched together.

  “I know what you think of my father,” Alex says. I’m not sure if it’s recklessness, or bravery in action. “And I’m terribly sorry Emma was hurt.”

  “But…?” she prods.

  “No but. He taught me not to argue with adults.” Okay, so he’s not reckless.

  A harrumph escapes Mom, who then eats her soggy biscuit. Tension shifts and swirls around the table. Dad holds her in an even stare, one slight shake of his head before saying, “So, how are you liking Shelley High?”

  Alex chews, swallows, then casts a swift glance at Mom. She’s busy tearing another biscuit to crumbs. He turns back to my dad. “It’s taking some getting used to. Shelley High is smaller than Sadony, and people weren’t very welcoming.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything. Guilt maybe? She hasn’t been very welcoming either. Whatever her problem, Mom keeps it to herself, eating the chowder and monitoring every little look that passes between me and Alex. Dad seems uncomfortable, either from the awkward silence, or the fact there’s a boy at his table.

  “How,” he asks, “did you meet our Emma?”

  Alex turns to me, gaze soft enough to be a caress. Heat spills through me and I wish we weren’t at the dinner table with my parents. I’d cuddle my face into his chest and breathe him in. “She was standing outside with Bree Ransom, drinking coffee. We said ‘hi.’ Then I helped her open her locker.”

  “After he chased off Josh Mason.”

  “The boy he got into a fight with,” Mom points out, jabbing her spoon in Dad’s direction.

  “We’ve already established that, Mom.”

  A sharp whack in the shin under the table can only come from Alex. He doesn’t argue with adults and obviously I’m not supposed to either, or back sass as Mom would call it. She’s definitely stabbing me with the look that says she does not appreciate my lip.

  “If that boy was hurting her, then Alex did the right thing,” Dad says.

  “Would you like to see the bruises?” I offer, needling Mom with a sarcastic glare.

  “He bruised you?” Dad and Alex say at once, sharp notes of shock, sour notes of anger in both voices.

  An unpleasant shade of red creeps into Alex’s cheeks. Mom’s have blanched, like someone siphoned the blood from her face.

  “Yeah.” I stab at a clam with my spoon, wishing it would pop, bleed, anything to dispel the tension in the room. “It would’ve been worse if Alex hadn’t stopped him.”

  A solemn nod from Alex. “Josh was drunk. I tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t having it.”

  It’s impossible to miss Dad arching his eyebrows, as if saying, “See, Arlene?”

  Quiet descends, except for the scrape of spoons. The only conversation is Mom and Dad, giving each other Significant Glances. Apparently, Dad wins. Mom stands, wipes her hands on her apron and says, “Well, Alex, it was…” I want to rail at her for pausing, “a pleasure meeting you.”

  The frosty dismissal is unmistakable. Alex stands, gathers his dirty dishes, and says, “It was nice to meet you both.” He gestures to my bowl. “Are you done, Em?” When I nod, he piles my dishes into his and carries them into the kitchen. Mom watches wide-eyed, but narrows her gaze when he walks to stand beside me, and close to her. “I understand my father has destroyed your faith in him. Please give me a chance to prove I may be my father’s son, but I care about Emma and would never hurt her.”

  Dad inhales, and I think the entire house does, too.

  “I’ll try,” she says. Then adds, “But if you’re going to be seeing Emma, in any capacity, it will be here.”

  A smile lights his face, tugs at the pale lines of scarring. “Thank you, Mrs. Gentry.” Then he turns, and holds his hand out to my dad. “Mr. Gentry.”

  The guys shake hands, and Dad adds, “Nice meeting you.”

  At least Dad sounds honest about it. With Mom, it had all the tones of “get out of my house.”

  The drab gray walls are even more morose with Alex walking away from them. I don’t look at my parents as I follow him to the front door. When he pauses, the rest of the house could fall away into black, the world with it. Alex fills my vision, the resigned expression from dealing with my uptight mother melting into the expression just after the amazement I see every morning. One part tender, one part joy, all of it mine. He laces his fingers in mine, and pulls me closer. Then closer still. Kissing distance. With a motion of his chin he tucks my head to his shoulder and slides both arms around me.

  I melt into him, breathing in the warmth of his skin. I can taste the smell of leather and Alex on my tongue. If he kissed me now, I wouldn’t mind. One arm loosens, then he slides his hand up my sleeve, across my shoulder to my chin. With gentle pressure, Alex guides my face toward his.

  The look on his face is more intimate than any kiss.

  “Have sweet dreams tonight, Emma.”

  They will be now.

  He releases me, takes hold of the door knob, wishes my parents a good evening and then steps onto the porch. Renfield reappears, leaps onto the back of the sofa and watches out the living room window, his tail swishing gently. Alex lifts his hood, then without a backward glance, steps out of the dingy yellow light and the night swallows him whole.

  A shudder runs down my spine when Renfield yowls plaintively. He made the same noise the ni
ght Daniel died. So did I.

  What connection do we all share? Daniel, Renfield , me, and Alex?

  I flick off the porch light, and turn to face my parents. Dad gives me a little smile, then scoops his coffee cup from the table and retreats to the basement. Mom has the same look on her face that she had the day Daniel left after he’d given me his class ring to wear. She’s losing me, she thinks, it’s penned on every line of her face. Her lips turn down, her frustration and sadness cutting at me and filling the void between us.

  I want to say something, make it better somehow.

  “Well,” she says, “he’s not so…intimidating up close. Seems mannerly, too.”

  “He is, Mom.” Might be grabbing at straws with her, but I’ll take what I can get.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” she says, but the angry edge has left her. “Jury’s still out on Alex Franks.”

  Tell me about it.

  Does he like me? Is he just a rebound? Where did the sense of history come from I feel whenever he’s near?

  Despite the questions I can’t wipe the image of his face from my mind. In that moment by the door, he looked like he had kissed me a thousand times, and yet never. He looked like he wanted to, and wanted to prolong the wait.

  He looked like he already knew I was his.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mom’s crabby mood filters through the house after dinner, washing up the stairs, cresting at the second floor. Renfield and I seek escape in my room, where moonlight and shadow dance on my carpet. Faeries flit like dark fey across my quilt when I plug my cell phone into the power cord. It’s becoming a habit to forget to charge it.

  Chill drafts eddy and swirl around my toes where I stand by the window and stare down Seventh Street. Mr. and Mrs. Jones are outside, with a ladder, a flash light, and I’m sure, plenty of cussing. He’s on the ladder propped against the tree, she has the flash light pointed at him, rather than the witch-in-a-tree he seems to be trying to liberate from its oak-bound position. Mrs. Wendle, further down, is stuffing the rotting jack-o’-lanterns into her garbage can. No more leering pumpkins seeing their echo in me.