Cold Kiss Part 1

COLD.

KISS.

AMY GARVEY.

FOR STEPHEN, AS ALWAYS.

KEEP THE TEA AND CUPCAKES COMING, BABE.

PROLOGUE.

I WASN'T THINKING ABOUT FALLING IN LOVE the day I met Danny Greer. I wasn't thinking about anything beyond the paper on the Industrial Revolution I hadn't yet started, and the cool pewter sky above me. I was lying on the top row of the bleachers facing the practice field, watching the clouds skid past, and absently wondering if I could lift myself off the cold metal. Just a few inches. Nothing anyone would notice.

There wasn't much chance of that anyway. A few people were hanging out on the lower rows, seniors mostly, pa.s.sing around a Red Bull and wandering off to smoke in one of their cars. Out on the field Ms. Singer's fifth-period PE cla.s.s was choosing up sides for soccer. No one was paying any attention to me, which suited me just fine.

Jess and Darcia had drawn sixth-period lunch, and I had lunch alone. I didn't mind being out here on the bleachers by myself, which was where I'd be every lunch period until it got too cold. By November I'd probably hole up in the library, hiding a yogurt from Mrs. Gaffney at the table way in the back, behind Technology and Applied Sciences. Until then I was happy to read the clouds and make the leaves dance in scuffling, twisting funnels along the curb.

Or lift myself off the bleachers, even though it hadn't worked so far.

I closed my eyes, concentrating, the ridges of the metal bench digging into my spine through my jacket. The wind had picked up, spreading the familiar scent of earth and dead leaves, but something else, too. Something heavier, thick, almost electric, like a storm in the distance.

I opened my eyes to find someone staring down at me, and almost toppled over.

"I thought you were asleep," the boy said, and straightened up.

"And you thought staring was a good idea?"

"You could have been dead," he offered with a shrug. "You were doing a good imitation of a statue. Or, you know, a dead thing."

I blinked. With the weak autumn light behind him, I couldn't see much more than a rough outline of an angular face, and s.h.a.ggy hair that fell into eyes deep in shadow.

I could just make out his mouth, though. It was wide, full, and right then it was twisted into a smile.

"Thank you," I said without thinking, and watched him bite his bottom lip. The electric thrill vibrating in the air was in my blood now, tingling, and for a moment I felt my spine hover over the metal. A breeze whistled between my back and the bench in the afterthought of s.p.a.ce there.

"You're kind of weird," the boy said, but he was still smiling when he pushed my legs aside and sat down next to me.

That was Danny.

It wasn't love right away, because nothing ever is, no matter what the songs say, but it was the start of it. A beginning in one way, and the end in another. I think that might always be true of love.

We were completely different. Danny was tall, sweet, graceful despite legs that went on forever. I was little, moody, uncoordinated. We didn't like the same music or the same movies. He put onions and mushrooms on his pizza and never wore socks and could sleep through a pipe bomb. I survived on bananas and yogurt and always wore hats and got carsick unless I chewed gum with my headphones on.

It didn't matter. I loved him. I loved him so much that I couldn't see anything else for a while. Danny filled the cracks inside me, blotted out the cold, empty places in the world. It didn't take long before Danny was the only thing that mattered.

Love like that is what they make movies about. It's the thing you're supposed to want, the answer to every question, the song that you're supposed to sing.

But love like that can be too big, too. It can be something you shouldn't be trusted to hold when you're the kind of person who drops the eggs and breaks the remote control.

Love doesn't break easily, I found. But people do.

CHAPTER ONE.

DANNY WAITS FOR ME IN THE LOFT ABOVE Mrs. Petrelli's garage. We've made a kind of nest there against the wall away from the broken window. Two ancient, sour mattresses are stacked in the corner, covered with an old striped sheet I took from my bas.e.m.e.nt. There's a blanket, too, mostly for me, a wooden crate full of books and paper and colored pencils, a couple of pillows, and a box of fat white candles.

We don't see much of each other in the daylight.

Mrs. Petrelli's house is behind mine, and I cut through the ragged hedge that borders our yard to make my way to the garage. Mrs. Petrelli is that indeterminate kind of old-too ancient to work anymore, not that she ever did, as far as I know, but not frail enough to be carted off to a nursing home yet. When Mr. Petrelli died two years ago, she sort of deflated, curling in on herself like a yellowed piece of paper. She doesn't drive anymore, so she never bothers with her garage.

Danny's lying on the mattresses when I climb the wobbly pull-down stairs, but he sits up right away. In the darkness, it's startling to watch him, the slow, graceful rise of his upper body, his head turning so he can smile at me.

"You came." He sounds surprised, grateful, and the words twist in my chest, a tight little knot of guilt.

"I always do." I curl up beside him, laying my head on his shoulder. "I always will."

I s.h.i.+ver a little, pressing my cheek into his collarbone. It's getting harder to remember the way Danny used to be. That Danny wouldn't have waited so patiently for me. He would have called, snuck up behind me in the hall at school, and buried his face against my neck. That Danny had ideas, crazy, late-night fantasies strung together like a paper-clip chain. He was going to teach me to sing so I could join his band, and then we would go on the road. Ryan was going to be the one to finance our rock Odyssey, even though Becker was the one with money, because Danny said Ryan was the one with the brains. Danny's charm got under your skin the way a good song got stuck in your head, and after a while you couldn't help humming it.

Then there was the comic strip idea. Danny had pages of drawings of me, and one day I found him redrawing them with broader strokes, bolder outlines, exaggerating my pointed chin and the way my hair spiked up in the front. I thought I looked like a sullen baby chick, but he just shook his head and pulled me onto his lap. "You're going to be a superhero. It'll be awesome. Trust me."

And I did, even though I growled at the picture of me climbing onto a table to shoot actual daggers out of my eyes at a vampire that looked a lot like one of the PE teachers at school. I was short, yeah, but it didn't need to be emphasized. I elbowed him in the side for that. He just laughed.

I trusted Danny with everything, even when he was pulling me up a fire escape in the middle of the night to get to the roof above the movie theater, where you could follow the dark, lazy curves of the train tracks as they headed toward the city. I let him feed me spicy curry for the first time and kiss the heat out of my mouth. I watched in the mirror when he cut my hair one long, sultry afternoon, holding up the fuzzy ends and shaking his head.

And I'd given all of myself in return. Almost, anyway. The one thing I'd kept secret was the only reason he was here now.

"I brought you some more paper." I hand him the drawing tablets I'd bought at the dollar store after school. They're cheap, flimsy, intended for little kids to use with fat crayons and finger paint, but I know he won't care. I could bring him used candy wrappers and wrinkled pieces of the Sunday paper and he would beam at me.

"I needed some." He doesn't look at them, though, just lays them behind him on the bed, and leans in, resting his forehead against mine, the way he has so many times, both then and now. "Thank you."

I know what he wants, and it wasn't so long ago that he wouldn't have had to ask, when I would have climbed into his lap instead of just sitting beside him. Back then, we were attached at the mouth whenever possible.

It's different now. I didn't expect it to be. My mom says I was always that kid, the one who learns the hard way about the glowing red burner on the stove and just how high the monkey bars are when you're falling from them into the damp wood chips on the playground.

I tilt my head up, my mouth brus.h.i.+ng his lightly, and he pulls me closer. "Missed you," he murmurs, lips against my cheek after a second. "Always miss you."

When he finally kisses me, really kisses me, his lips are cool and dry and his arms are tight around me, fingers of one hand tangled in my hair. He tastes like smoke and ashes, the bitter weight of wet earth, but I kiss him back, my palm resting on his cheek.

"Always want you." The words are breathed against my mouth, and I relax into the circle of his arms as he pulls me closer. He'll stop when I tell him to-he'll do anything I tell him to now-but I never say no to kissing.

I have so little to give him. I hadn't considered that-I thought I was giving him everything he could ever want that July night, candlelight hot beneath my palms as I chanted. For once, I didn't think I was being selfish.

I'm wrong a lot. Anyone will tell you.

Anyway, I miss it, the kissing, the comfortable weight of his arm around my shoulders as we walked home from school, the clean smell of his sweat after he'd been playing guitar with Becker and Ryan in Becker's bas.e.m.e.nt, all warm, musky boy. I miss him, too, when I'm away from him all day.

"You remember the first time?" he says. He's laying me down, and the sheet is cold through my sweater, slightly damp in the October night air. His hands are even cooler, smooth and solid as marble, and I s.h.i.+ver when he runs a finger over my cheekbone. "Remember when you kissed me?"

He asks me things like this all the time now. The first movie we went to (a terrible horror movie that made me laugh so hard, I choked on a piece of popcorn), the first time I met his parents (a Friday in late December, in the close, overheated crush of the drugstore, where everyone was buying bows and foil-wrapped chocolate Santas), the song that was playing on my iPod the first time he called me (the Brobecks' "Visitation of the Ghost").

He likes it when I tell him the stories out loud, and goes still as he listens-too still, silent. His eyes are the only things that move, watching my face, my mouth, as if he's trying to picture what happened so he can hold on to the memories.

I worry that he's trying to remember what those moments felt like, what he felt like then. One day he's going to understand that he's not that boy anymore.

"It was three weeks after we met," I tell him, whispering even though no one can hear us way up here. I twine my fingers in his, holding tight. Even now, his hand is familiar, huge around mine, the long bones of his fingers st.u.r.dy. "We were outside the library, and it was almost dark and really cold. You put your algebra book down on the ledge so you could wrap your scarf around my neck, and I grabbed your hands and pulled you down and kissed you. Right in front of Tommy Gellar and that freak cheerleader he was sleeping with."

It's not romantic the way I tell it, but Danny smiles anyway, and the hard focus in his eyes softens. "You tasted like Juicy Fruit," he says, and rests his forehead against mine. "I remember that."

I do, too. I remember so much more than I tell him, because it makes me hot and uncomfortable to say some things out loud, even now. There was the way I could feel the length of his thigh against mine while we went over his tragic attempt at explaining the symbolism in The Gla.s.s Menagerie. The warm, sort of spicy smell of him in his layered T-s.h.i.+rts. The electric hum beneath my skin when he leaned close to ask me a question and his breath whispered over my cheek.

If I'd wanted to, I could have lifted right out of my chair and touched the ceiling that night, just sitting beside him in the library. And when I kissed him, opened my mouth to taste him, I shut my eyes to find the darkness melted into old gold.

I still have that scarf, tucked away in a torn cardboard box under my bed.

"I would have kissed you, you know," he says, and slides his palm along my ribs, ticking off each one with his thumb. "If you hadn't kissed me first."

I believe him. But in the end, it doesn't really matter. I've always been a step ahead of him, even when I don't know where I'm going, or where I might take him.

The house is dark when I let myself in the back door. It's almost eleven, a school night, and Robin's probably up in her room talking on the phone. I cross through the kitchen and glance into the living room, where my mom is curled on the sofa, lights out and the blue glare of the TV flickering over her face. I freeze for a second-she's usually asleep by now these days, at least since she broke up with Tom.

Her boyfriends never last long. I wonder if they get discouraged when they see the picture of my dad on the mantel. Even though he's been gone for ten years, that picture never moves. Mom says it's there for Robin and me, but I see her looking at it, too.

Memories of Dad are what I couldn't bear to have Danny become-a faded, flickering impression of a stubbled cheek scratching my face when he hugged me, the pine scent of aftershave, the low rumble of his laugh.

"Wren?"

I turn around before she can lift her head, pretending to be heading for the kitchen instead of away from it. I skin off my jacket and toss it toward the tiny stairwell leading down to the bas.e.m.e.nt as she sits up.

"Just getting something to drink," I say, and head into the kitchen without waiting to see if she'll follow. I'm taking a diet soda out of the fridge when she pads in, yawning and pus.h.i.+ng her hair out of her face.

She kisses the back of my head, and I close my eyes, waiting for her to say something. I can still feel the night chill on my clothes, on my skin, but as far as my mother knows I've been up in my room all night.

She pulls away, though, and fills the teakettle with water. I lean against the fridge with my soda, hoping she won't notice if I don't open it.

My mom is good at seeing only what she wants to see. About men, about the hair salon she owns, which only crosses the line into profitable once in a while, about the condition of our house, which she's decided "has character," since that sounds better than "falling down." Right now I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to think about why I might have been out of the house tonight, although I know she can tell I have been. She doesn't always like to examine things too closely, but she's not stupid.

"Want some tea?" she says so suddenly that I jump. She's looking right at me now, and my heart is beating too loud, a steady ba.s.s-drum thump beneath my T-s.h.i.+rt and black hoodie. She sets the kettle on the burner, and it flares to life before she can even reach the k.n.o.b, which is bad news. Mom doesn't usually let me see her do things like that.

"No, thanks," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Tea means sitting at the kitchen table together in the dark, talking, and I can't do that tonight. I can't do that at all anymore, not with Mom, because when she wants to, the one thing she can see right into, down to bone and blood, is me. "I'm going to go to bed, I guess. I have a chemistry test tomorrow."

There's nothing more than weak moonlight filtered through the window over the sink, and the faint yellow glow of a night-light in the baseboard on the wall behind me, but even so I can see the betrayal in Mom's eyes. She knows I'm lying, not about the test or the tea, but about something.

The blue flame licks higher at the scorched bottom of the kettle, just for a second, hungry and hot, and then she looks away to take a mug down from the cupboard. "All right, babe. Sleep well."

I'm careful not to slam the door to my room, but when I get inside, I let the harsh buzz gathered just beneath my skin flicker out, a quick electric jolt that knocks the pile of books off my desk. Basic Principles of Chemistry falls hardest, pages crushed under its open spine, and I stare at it for a minute. I'm panting, my heart still tripping crazily, and instead of picking it up, I step around it to flop on my bed, a tangle of sheets and blue-striped comforter and clothes.

Across the room, Danny smiles down at me from a framed picture on my dresser. He was being extra goofy that day, making faces at Ryan's camera as we all hung out on Becker's front porch, stealing Ryan's baseball cap and crossing his eyes as he pushed the porch swing into motion with one long bare foot.

"Point that thing at Wren, you loser," he'd said, throwing a pretzel across the porch at Ryan to get his attention. "She's the only one worth looking at."

In that picture, which Ryan printed out for me a week later, Danny's mouth is tilted up on one side in the little smile that was just for me. His whole face softened when he smiled that way, like he'd just remembered this incredible secret.

Some days now I can't look at it. The frame spends a lot of time buried in the bottom drawer with my jeans, because it's the same smile Danny gives me whenever I climb into the loft. Like nothing's changed. Like I'm his secret, and there's nothing he'd rather see than my face.

Sometimes when he sits up to look at me, or when I walk into my room and catch a glimpse of that picture, it's all I can do not to scream. Scream and scream until my throat is shredded and every window shatters and the room goes up in flames.

I've only set something on fire once. It was one of Danny's T-s.h.i.+rts, actually, an ancient gray Clash s.h.i.+rt his sister scored on eBay for his birthday. I'd found it on my bedroom floor right before Ryan called, and I was twisting it in one fist by the time he told me Becker was in the hospital and Danny was dead.

It hissed and sputtered for a second before a hot, angry tongue licked out and burned my wrist. I dropped it on the floor, and the phone with it. Ryan was still talking, a tiny, distant voice.

I don't remember a lot of what happened after that, but the scorch mark is still there, a sooty black circle against the faded oak. Mom's not sure it will ever come out completely, but she never once asked me how it got there.

CHAPTER TWO.

I WASN'T EVEN THIRTEEN YET THE FIRST TIME. It reminded me of a sneeze coming on, that tingling tension when you know it's going to happen and you can't stop it. But this feeling was bigger than that, a vibrating hum just beneath my skin that made me squirm all over.

I was mad at my mother, which was pretty much a daily thing back then. She'd said no to a sleepover at Darcia's because I hadn't finished my social studies project, and in her words, "There's no way I'm going to listen to you whine about it all day tomorrow, when you're rus.h.i.+ng to get it done."

Robin stuck her tongue out at me from across the kitchen table, and I made a face at her before I stood up. "Clear your place, Wren," my mother said, not bothering to glance over her shoulder as she rinsed dishes in the sink.

I didn't even have a chance to mutter, "Do I ever forget?" because the humming was louder now, a hot, angry itch just beneath my skin, and then the lightbulb in the fixture over the kitchen table hissed and exploded in a white arc.

Robin screamed and waved her arms, batting at her hair, brittle pieces of gla.s.s skittering over the table, until my mother cut through the noise. "Stop it! Just sit still."

I had frozen in place, my plate still in my hands, my mouth hanging open. The weird buzz had subsided, leaving behind a kind of dull sting, like the last day of a bad sunburn, but the kitchen was still crackling with electricity.

This, I was pretty sure, was one of those Things We Didn't Talk About. Like where our dad was or why Mom didn't invite Aunt Mari to the house anymore.

Or why, sometimes, even when the electric got shut off because Mom was behind on the bills, she could disappear into the bas.e.m.e.nt and the lights would flare to life. Mom had broken her share of lightbulbs, and once the mirror over the bathroom sink, which cut us all in half diagonally for months before she replaced it.