7
RUBY
“Shit, shit, shit.” I slam my car door and squeal into reverse. I’m so late. Mom is probably already waiting backstage at the pageant, having rushed there straight from her night shift to make sure I don’t screw anything up. And I already have. I need to get there. I need to—
I glance at the clock. It’s eight forty-five a.m., because I overslept because my phone died because it couldn’t charge last night because my mom didn’t pay the electric bill—again—and since we’re out of the coldest months, the electric company can legally cut us off now. Which is just fabulous.
I knew I shouldn’t have picked up that new dance leotard she’d put on layaway. I knew the electric was due—but how do you say that to your mom? How do you even begin to suggest that maybe you know better than she does where to allocate the few bucks you have to your name? How do you tell her that this Miss America pipe dream she has is delusional at best, considering you haven’t made it farther than third runner-up in a pageant since you were ten?
Simple: you don’t.
You swallow it down. Even if you choke on every word. You lend her your body to chase her dreams. And you act grateful for it, because if you don’t she’ll remind you of what she gave up for you every chance she gets.
I plug my phone into the USB charger I installed in my cigarette lighter and hope it boots up fast. There’s a good song on the radio and I turn it up, trying not to notice the clock has ticked over to 8:46. I take a sharp left onto Main Street, my tires squealing a little in the cool morning air. Check-in ends at 9:15, and Parkside Hall—home of the Parkside Beauty Pageant—is a half hour away even in the best traffic conditions. If I miss check-in, I’ll be disqualified despite the fact that we’re already registered and paid.
Okay, breathe. I can make up time on the highway.
I take another hard turn and flick my eyes to the dress rocking precariously on its hanger in the back, praying it doesn’t fall. I don’t have time to stop the car and pick it up, and god knows the wrinkles from spending thirty minutes crumpled on the floor would be enough to lose me the competition.
I’m slowing to a roll at a stop sign when the hanger finally loses its grip on the tiny hook. The dress slides down, and I’m reaching behind me, a futile attempt at averting disaster, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
I slam on my brakes, dramatic even at three miles per hour, and feel a small thump against my bumper. My eyes go wide. I overshot the stop sign. Oh, shit, shit, shit. There’s something on the ground in front of my car. Please don’t let it be a dog. Please just let it be one of those lawn bags of leaves or a garbage can or something that just . . . happened to be in the middle of the road. For no reason. Shit.
I shove open my car door and run around the front just as a very pissed-off-looking Morgan Matthews pushes herself off the ground.
“Oh, thank god!” I yelp. “I thought you were a dog.”
“What the hell, Ruby!” A small trickle of blood drips down the side of her leg. Which is when it hits me, like really hits me, the gravity of what just happened. I just hit a person with my car. Morgan Matthews, to be exact.
“Are you okay?” I take a step forward, but she moves back with a wince.
“Get away from me.” She limps to the sidewalk and drops to the grass. I swear to god she looks like she’s going to cry, and, oh god. Oh, shit. I can’t deal with this.
“I didn’t see you. I swear.”
“I was in the crosswalk! How did you ‘not see me’?” she says, her fingers flying up to make air quotes.
“My gown was falling!” Okay, that’s probably not the best excuse. She glares at me and rubs her hip.
I look at my car and then at her. I really, really, really have to go, but I can’t leave her like this.
“Oh, don’t let me hold you up just because you mowed me down with your stupid car.”
My annoyance at the word “stupid” flares up, but I let it go. Not the time, lizard brain.
“Hang on.” I run and grab a handful of napkins out of the glove compartment and then carry them over to her. “You’re bleeding.”
“Thanks, I noticed.” She snatches them from my hands and dabs at the road rash running up the length of her right thigh.
“Are you okay?” I ask again, only to be met with yet another glare. Yeah, I probably deserve that.
“Just go.” Her voice breaks, and yikes, I’ve never been good with emotions. It’s too uncomfortable; it’s too much. I’m tempted to leave. In fact, every instinct is telling me to do just that; she’s even telling me to do that. Plus, there’s still a chance I can make it to the pageant, small and fleeting as it may be.
But then she sniffles, and it’s like my whole heart clenches up for a second. I drop onto the grass next to her, feeling a little bit like I’m going to throw up. “Look, I’m really fucking sorry, Matthews. Are you . . . Can I take you to the hospital or something?”
“Excuse me if I don’t trust your driving,” she snaps, dabbing at her leg a little more. And I did that to her. It’s my fault. This totally nice new girl is sitting here bleeding because of me, because I screw everything up. And now I’m going to miss my pageant, and my mom’s gonna lose it and . . .
And now it’s me who feels like crying, which absolutely 100 percent cannot happen. I bury my forehead in my hands and take a deep, shaky breath, waiting for the stinging behind my eyes to stop.
“Hey,” Morgan says, her hand on my arm, “I won’t, like, sue you or call the cops or whatever if that’s what you’re freaking out about.”
I scoff and look at her—just the fact that she thinks my family has anything worth coming after proves how little she knows me. But then I remember the rumors, that she’s suing her old school, her old coach. Maybe that’s just what she does. Once, a credit card company sued Mom and took half her paycheck. Half of not much still felt like a lot of everything.
I lower my head between my legs and feel like I’m going to pass out because I won’t sue you sounds a lot like what someone says when they are going to sue you. I have to find a way to fix this.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking up at her with as much sincerity as I can muster. Because I am sorry. I am. “But you should know if you sue us, you won’t get very far.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow, like it was a dare or a threat, and I can tell she misunderstood.
“I don’t have anything for you to get. That’s all I meant. We don’t even have electricity right now.” I don’t know why I just told her that, and shit, here come the waterworks. I rub at my eyes, and she’s polite enough to pretend she doesn’t notice.
“It’s going to be okay.” She squeezes my shoulder, and I’m not sure if I should lean into it or pull away, but everything I locked in that little box in my brain labeled MORGAN MATTHEWS is suddenly trying to claw its way out.
Morgan lets her arm drop, and I settle my hand in the grass as close to hers as I dare. I try to force out a perfect Miss Congeniality smile, but it falters on my face when our eyes meet. She’s looking at me like she actually cares. Like she actually wants to make it better somehow.
“It’s really not. I’m supposed to be at a pageant in like ten minutes. My mom is gonna kill me, and we really needed to pay some bills with the money she spent on the entry fee. Even if I pick up extra shifts at my pageant coach’s studio, it’s still not going to be enough, and . . . Jesus, fuck, why am I telling you this?” I suck back some snot. “I don’t even tell people I like this.”
She huffs out a laugh. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“I didn’t mean . . . I just don’t really know you. You know?” And you confuse the hell out of me, I almost add. I take a deep breath, pulling myself together as much as I can. “Look, are you sure you don’t you want to call the cops or something? Jail might be better than facing my mom.”
“Do you . . . Can I hug you?”
“What?”
“You’re freaking out. And when I’m freaking out, I always want a h—”
Morgan’s cut off when a police cruiser pulls up next to my car, turning on its flashers and letting out a little whoop whoop of the siren as the driver puts it in park. And of course, it’s Deputy Davis. My elementary school D.A.R.E. officer . . . and also the guy who’s been called to our house on more than one occasion for domestics between my mom and Chuck. Sometimes he takes her; sometimes he takes him. I guess today it’s finally my turn.
“How did I know it was you, Ruby?” he asks as he walks over, puffing out his chest. “We got a call about an accident involving a pedestrian and an ‘old blue sports car.’”
“It’s not a sports car; it’s a—”
“Miss,” he says, cutting me off and turning to Morgan. “Can I get your name? I’ll get some medics on the way for you, and then we can figure out if this is going to be a ticket or a charge for our friend here.”
Oh, god. I was kidding about the whole jail thing. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I grab Morgan’s hand without thinking, squeezing it a little as I try to tamp down the fear. She freezes beside me but then gently squeezes back.
“I’m sorry, Officer, I think you have the wrong idea,” Morgan says, her voice slicing through my panic. “I was running, and I stepped off the curb wrong—Ruby stopped to help me. I’m just lucky she came along. Please don’t call an ambulance. It’s just a scrape, I swear, and you’ll get my parents worried for nothing.”
Deputy Davis looks from her to me, suspicion still clear in his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to at least get checked out?”
“Only if you cover my copay,” she says with a friendly smile. “I really appreciate your help, sir, but this just calls for some Neosporin and a Band-Aid.”
“Do you need a ride home?” he asks, and my jaw almost hits the ground. I knew, theoretically, that some people actually got the “serve” part of “protect and serve.” I’ve just never seen it before.
“I’m giving her one,” I say, feeling suddenly protective. “I know her; we have a class together.”
He takes one long look at both of us and then nods, heading back to his car. I don’t dare breathe until he pulls away.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly. “But thank you.”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Except it is a big deal. It’s a very big deal. Now I owe her. And we’re . . . still holding hands.
I pull my hand away, watching her face. “Why did you?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her cheeks getting a little red, and then we’re both quiet.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” I stand up and hold out my hand.
She hesitates, but then lets me help her up. “It’s fine. I can walk. If you hurry, can you still make the pageant?”
“Nah, I’ll give you a ride. I’ll figure out the pageant thing later,” I say, even though there’s nothing to figure out. It’s too late to make it on time, the money spent now doubly wasted. My stomach churns at the thought of asking Billy for another loan, but I push it down. That’s a problem for future Ruby. Present Ruby needs to get Morgan home.
I pull open the side door, not missing how she winces when she sits down as I cross over to my side of the car.
“I’m in Melbourne Apartments,” she says, and I nod. That’s a really decent apartment complex, right in the center of town. Figures she would live there. She shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.
“You sure you don’t want to at least go to an urgent care?” I hand her another napkin for her leg. “Is the copay really that bad?”
“I can’t risk my brother finding out and telling my parents.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah, he’s been trying to act like super dad or something since I moved in with him. If I end up in urgent care, he’ll flip, and then my parents will flip, and probably my new coach too. And if a doc says I can’t run . . . I can’t risk that. Not this close to the end of the season. Not when we’re still fighting for the waiver.”
“What waiver?”
She frowns. “Long story.”
“But you can barely walk . . .”
Morgan tilts her head. “Doesn’t mean I can’t run.”
“Yeah, it sorta does.”
“I’ve run through worse,” she mumbles, reaching for the stereo, probably to signify the conversation is over. Normally, I would lose it on someone daring to touch my stereo, but for some reason I let her. I tell myself it’s penance for almost killing her.
When we finally get to Melbourne, she directs me to her apartment. It’s more of a town house, really—it even has a garage. I can’t imagine. If I had garage space to mess with my car at home, I don’t think I’d ever leave.
“This is really nice.”
“Thanks,” Morgan says in a casual way that tells me her parents’ house is probably even nicer. “You want to come in? My brother’s at work.”
Definitely not, I think, but the box of feelings inside my brain rattles. I bite my lip before answering, “Yeah, sure,” and turning off my car. She gets out with a tiny grunt, shifting a little extra weight onto the car door. I hate that I caused this, but I also weirdly respect the fact that she’s determined to pretend nothing happened.
Her house is sparsely decorated but clean. You can tell a dude put it together, but also that the dude isn’t a total scumbag. Like there’s a beer bottle on the end table, but it’s on a coaster. There’s a leather sofa to one side, and a huge TV with a couple gaming systems on the other next to a giant autographed picture of Gigi Hadid. I fight the urge to ask her if the picture belongs to her or her brother. There are rumors about her at school, but it’s really none of my business. God knows half the rumors about me aren’t true.
Morgan kicks off her shoes by the door and limps into the room, slumping on the couch with a sigh. I stand awkwardly by the entryway, not sure exactly what to do now that I’m here. I want to be helpful, but . . .
“Want me to get you some ice?” I ask, and she smiles, like I wasn’t the one who just hit her with my goddamn car.
“That’d be great. It’s in the freezer.”
I let out a little laugh. “I figured.”
She drops her head. “Right, yeah.”
I slide off my shoes and head into the kitchen. It’s bigger and nicer than mine, with a sparkling silver faucet and not a single stray crumb on the counter. The fridge is one of those with double doors and a giant slide-out freezer underneath. I open it, just to take a peek, and am met with more fresh produce then I’ve ever seen in my entire life. There’s like a month’s worth of groceries in here.
“Everything okay?” she calls from the living room, and I hear her turn on the TV.
“Yeah, yeah, great.” I slide open the freezer and grab a bag of NOW TOTALLY ORGANIC! flash-frozen peas off the top and then a LaCroix from the fridge door for good measure. A little thrill runs through me as I walk back into the room, because for once, I am not screwing up.
Morgan arches an eyebrow when I sit on the coffee table and hand her the peas.
“For your hip,” I say, like it should be obvious. I’m not sure why it’s not.
She takes it from me and angles herself to rest it across her side. “Thanks.”
I crack open the seltzer and pass it to her. “I figured you might be thirsty after your run.”
She smiles a little wider and reaches for it, which makes the bag of peas slip. I grab them quick and tuck them around her. My hand accidentally catches on the edge of her shirt, my fingertips grazing her soft, warm skin. I linger without realizing it until the sound of her breath catching snaps me out of it.
“Sorry, I just—sorry.”
Morgan clears her throat as I tuck my hands into my pockets. “There’s a new rom-com that just dropped on Netflix. Want to watch? I guess it’s about this girl who—”
I glance at the TV. “I know what it’s about,” I say, grateful for the subject change. “Everly’s obsessed. She has this massive crush on Noah Centineo.”
“Valid choice, but I have to say Madelaine Petsch is more my style.”
Her eyes meet mine when she says that, but I look away, because as much as I want to stay in this strange little bubble where accidentally hitting her with my car leads to us both smiling and watching Netflix, I don’t want to lead her on. I know I can’t have this. Whatever this even is.
Even though I escaped Deputy Davis, I definitely haven’t escaped my mom.
“I have to go,” I say, sounding sadder than I mean to. “Can I get you anything else first, though?”
“You sure you can’t stay?”
“Some other time,” I lie.
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
You can try.