She shakes her jet-black hair. "Not anymore."
So now I'm standing here with the drink nobody wants in my hand. I take a sip. Yuck. "Tastes like licorice. I don't know why you ever liked the stuff in the first place."
"Now I drink water. Plain, old water."
This, coming from the girl who used to spike her lemonade with root beer and refused to eat chicken without smothering it with her own concoction of barbeque sauce, ketchup, mustard, and parmesan cheese. Plain water doesn't fit Leah, whether my little sister wants to admit it or not.
I stand beside her and take in the setting. Paradise isn't a large town, but the word "party" brings people out in droves. "Quite a crowd here tonight."
"Yep. Mom went all out," she says.
"Dad didn't try to stop her."
Leah shrugs, then says, "Why would he? She'd still do it her way in the end." A few minutes pass before I hear Leah's voice again. "Did they make you cut your hair like that?"
I run my hand over the prickly buzz cut. "No."
"It makes you look tough."
Should I tell her what her dyed black hair looks like? I briefly consider it, but quickly realize her blackness goes deeper than her hair. Broaching that subject at a party wouldn't be the best course of action.
Leah shuffles her feet. "Brian is having a party tonight at his house."
"Two parties in Paradise in one night? Boy, things sure have changed."
"More than you realize, Caleb. You gonna make an appearance at Brian's?"
"No way." It's shitty enough I have to be gawked at by a bunch of adults. "Why? You going?"
Leah raises her eyebrows and looks right at me. I get it. She's not going either.
"You should probably keep an eye on Mom," Leah says, biting on one of her black-painted nails.
"Why?"
"Because she just picked up a microphone."
As if on cue, a loud, buzzing sound comes from the porch, then our mom's voice bellows through the yard. "Thank you all for coming," she announces with a flair that would make the Queen of England proud. "And for welcoming my son Caleb back with open arms."
Open arms? My own mother won't lay a hand on me unless it's in a public forum. I can't stomach another word. More than I dread that upcoming meeting with my transition counselor, I dread getting up and speaking into that microphone.
Because what I'm itching to say won't be fake or phony.
I duck out the side gate. As I head down to Paradise Park, I untuck the geeky shirt from my too-tight trousers and unbutton each button until the entire shirt is open.
This is the first time I've felt any freedom since I've been home.
I can go where I want and unbutton my shirt as much as I want. I don't have anybody watching me or looking at me or talking to me or gawking at me. How I wish I could rewind the past year and start over. Life doesn't let you do that. You can't erase the past, but I'm going to try and make other people forget it.
I reach the park and gaze at the familiar, old oak tree I climbed when I was a kid. Drew and I once had a contest who could climb the highest. I won, right before the branch I was on snapped and I fell to the ground. I had a cast on my arm for six weeks after that fall, but I didn't care. I'd won.
I look up, trying to locate that broken branch. Is it still here, evidence of that day long ago? Or has the tree gone through enough seasons to erase the past?
An intake of breath takes me by surprise as I circle the tree. Right in front of me, sitting leaning against the trunk of the old oak, is Maggie Armstrong.
Six
Maggie
I notice movement beside me and realize I'm not alone. I snap my head up. There's a guy standing in front of me, one I recognize from my nightmares. He isn't a figment of my imagination, either. It's really him--Caleb Becker in the flesh, looking up as if searching for something important. A big gasping sound automatically escapes from my mouth.
He hears me and quickly focuses on me. He doesn't move, not even when his icy blue eyes connect with mine.
He's grown in the past year. He acted tough back then, but now Caleb has a menacing look about him. His hair is cut short, his shirt is unbuttoned, showing off his muscled chest. That, combined with the tight-fitting pants he's wearing, screams danger.
I can't breathe. I'm paralyzed. With anger. With anxiety. With fear.
We're at an impasse, neither of us speaking. Just staring. I don't even think I'm able to blink. I'm frozen in time.
I've been face to face with him many times, but now everything has changed. He doesn't even look like himself, except for his straight nose and confident stance that has been, and I suppose always will be, Caleb Becker.
"This is awkward," he says, breaking the long silence. His voice is deeper and darker than I remember.
This is not just seeing him out of my bedroom window.
We're alone.
And it's dark.
And it's oh, so different.
Needing to go back to the safety of my bedroom, I try to stand. A hot, shooting pain races down the side of my leg and I wince.
I watch in horror and shock as he steps forward and grabs my elbow.
Oh. My. God. I automatically jerk away from his grip. Memories of being stuck in a hospital bed unable to move crash through my mind as I straighten.
"Don't touch me," I say.
He holds his hands up as if I just said "Stick 'em up."