Risk the Fall Read online

  “Huh? Daniel? Oh, I haven’t talked to him since the beginning of the summer.”

  “Really? I heard he was hooking up with Shayna Gillan now.” There was a time when even though Daniel and I were broken up, this would have really bothered me.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me. Here, have some breakfast.” I toss a brown paper bag containing home baked goodness on to her lap.

  “Ugh, what is that?” she says, peeking inside before shoving it back onto my lap.

  “Sopapilla cheesecake bars.”

  “Ugh, nast. Do you know how many calories are in one of those?” Her nose crinkles up in disgust.

  “Yep, I made them. Just take one little bite.”

  “No way, that would kill my diet for the week. I don’t know how you can stand to eat so unhealthily, Quinn.”

  “Come on. Just consider it an amuse-biatch.” I laugh at my own joke- (which I think is hilarious) while she just stares at me (equally) repulsed.

  “Anyway, back to me. Did you even hear a word I said before?” She doesn't bother trying to mask the annoyance in her voice that I dare sidetrack her uber important story.

  “Something about your shoes?” I guess. There’s a reasonably good chance that I’m right.

  “No, but since you brought it up, did you see these gorgeous raffia rose print peep-toes?” She puts one high-heeled shoe on to the dash of my car for me to inspect. “Only two-hundred-fifty dollars! Can you believe it?”

  “Lovely,” I say. And if we’re being honest, all Southern gals know that lovely is a synonym for butt-ass ugly. Tessa knows it, and in turn, she scowls at me.

  Tessa and I are what the tabloids would call, “frenemies.” We’ve known each other since the third grade, when our family moved down the street from hers. Growing up, she and I were practically Siamese twins. We’d walk to and from school every day and race to the ice-cream truck during the summer. Now I only see her when we carpool to school. The rest of her time is spent with her new group of friends, led by my least favorite person alive, Shayna Gillan. I’ve un-affectionately dubbed their posse, “The Skirts” for good reason.

  I used to admire Tessa for her sweet demeanor. It was a trait I knew good and well I would never have. She was always content with herself, even though she was extremely overweight. I wanted to be like that, even at the age of ten. But now, Tessa is about as authentic as Madonna’s British accent.

  She wants you to know every detail about everything she owns and how much it cost her (or her parents). She wasn't always like this. Then again, maybe I just didn't notice it until recently. Last year her mom got remarried and Tessa’s new stepfather is a preacher at one of those mega churches that are bigger than shopping malls. Ever since then, Tessa has changed dramatically in every way. Lately, I go back and forth between being totally pissed off at her for her superficial attitude, and worried that I might need to stage an intervention before she runs off to join the Fellowship of the Sun or something.

  If I hadn't known Tessa for ten years, it’s pretty safe to say that we would not be friends now. The old Tessa cared more about people than how white her teeth are (never white enough, mind you). The old Tessa could finish a sentence without telling you how much something cost. The old Tessa wore pants, (now, it is literally against her religion). And the biggest difference is that the Tessa of yesteryear, was fat. And she didn't get to be a size four by eating fiber-filled bars and running 5K’s. Nope, she got there the old-fashioned way, little packs of diet pills, of course. That, combined with the fact that she’s permanently trying to keep up with, and compete with The Skirts, has turned her bitch-tastically skinny. I don’t even think I’ve seen her eat a real meal in about six months, but she pops those tiny white tablets like they’re Tic Tacs. (Not that I’m judging here, I mean, I may or may not have helped myself to a mild sedative before leaving this morning.) I think that along with losing weight, she lost the filter from her brain to her mouth, and now has a mild case of Tourette’s. As usual, she’s talking a mile a minute, insulting me frequently I'm sure, but I can't keep up.

  It's a shame her attitude is so stank now, because she always had such a pretty face. Ha.

  She is less than thrilled with my lack of enthusiasm over her heaven-sent heels.

  “You know Quinn,” Tessa starts. “Would it really kill you to care a little more about what you look like? I mean, you're pretty and all, but honestly, would it physically hurt you to put a little thought into your outfits?” She takes in my cotton shorts, navy blue hoodie and flip-flops.

  “It just might,” I say. “And frankly, I'm not willing to take that risk.”

  She crosses her arms over her cardigan and exhales sharply.

  “Oh Tessa, come on, I just don't care about the same crap that you do.”

  She starts speed talking again. I do my best to concentrate on my driving and tune her out, but as I pull into the student parking lot, I hear her mumble something else about her shoes.

  “Oh, Christ on a cracker,” I say under my breath.

  “Do not use our Lord’s name in vain!” she huffs as I pull into a parking space.

  Yep, its official, I liked you much better when you were fat.

  I barely put the car in park before she jumps out, adjusts her tailored linen pencil skirt, and storms away from my car.

  For a moment, I just sit there, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. And then I decide I really don't care.

  The school parking lot is nearly full despite the fact that I got here incredibly early for once. Droves of enthusiastic freshmen are huddled together on the front steps, sporting their new duds and nervous smiles.

  It’s only the first day, and I’m already over it. I can't wait to be done with high school. And frankly, this morning’s chat with Tessa doesn’t make me any more eager to be here. Maybe I should make one of those paper chains that you tear off a loop of paper every day until you reach the end. I laugh to myself at the image of paper loops covering every surface of my room. This year won't be as bad as previous years, I guess. I don't have to take a math class, and I have Ben—who looks at me like…

  “Hey, baby.” Ben’s raspy voice startles me. I spin around to face him. Who looks at me like I am perfect.

  “Hey, yourself,” I say, leaning in to him. He wraps a muscular arm around my waist and pulls me in even closer.

  “You look nice,” he says. I know he’s full of shit because, unlike the eager freshmen, I did not put on a dazzling new outfit. My gym shorts and sweatshirt are a testament both to how little I care, and to how late I snuck in from his house last night. If only my damn parents hadn’t been waiting up for me.

  Suddenly, Daniel (my germ-fighting-ex) appears out of nowhere.

  “Hey, sexy,” he says and flashes a freakishly white, toothy grin as he walks behind us. I scowl back at him. Ben laughs. I love that I can always make him laugh.

  Yep, maybe this year won’t be so bad after all.

  “So, you’ve met Sydney and Grant, now you just have to meet Tessa,” Quinn says. I notice that she rolls her eyes when she says Tessa’s name and I laugh.

  We’re back at my house now that the first day at school is over. I still can’t believe that a gorgeous girl like Quinn is in my bedroom. She pulls a pillow off of my bed and clutches it to her chest. I reach over and brush a long piece of hair out of her face.

  Quinn has decent friends. Sydney is a girl my mom would approve of, with her sweet, Southern smile—and Grant is the first guy I’d met today that I hadn’t caught checking Quinn out. But even though they seem close, Quinn isn’t the same with her friends as she is with me. She’s guarded or something. She doesn’t talk about her parents being total dicks. In fact, she paints a picture that the whole family is golden. I really don’t understand it. During lunch, Quinn even acted excited about having to work for her dad; not letting on that it is actually a punishment.

  “So, what’s wrong with Tessa?” I ask. I shut my index finger in my math book t
o mark my page.

  “Oh, you’ll see.” Quinn smirks, and then kisses me lightly. “How can you stand that?” She motions to the heavy book.

  I shrug. “It’s like with you and cooking, I’m just good at it, so I enjoy it.”

  “No, that’s not the same thing at all. Cooking is like a hobby, and math is just…gross.”

  I can’t help but chuckle at her extreme hatred of numbers.

  “Speaking of math, how much time do you have before you have to go?”

  She glances at the oversized watch on her dainty wrist. The heavy metal looks like it should weigh her entire body down.

  She grimaces, “Eff, thanks for reminding me. I’ve got to take off. The douchelord will lose his shit if I’m late.”

  I run my hand over her leg that’s stretched across my lap. Every time I look at her I’m amazed at how completely out of my league she is. I reach over and rub my thumb across her bottom lip and Quinn parts her lips and kisses it softly. Her eyes are soft and full of want and dare, and I can’t resist pressing my hand against the soft skin of her stomach. She lets out a soft moan and I can’t imagine wanting anything else more than I want Quinn.

  “Are you coming back over when you’re finished tonight?” I try not to sound as eager as I actually am.

  “Maybe,” she says, with a grin. She replaces the pillow against my headboard, and fluffs it lightly before stopping abruptly.

  “Benjamin Shaw! What is this?” she asks. Her eyes are wide as she produces the large, leather-bound book from behind my pillows. A small stack of matte black-and-white prints slip out of the inner flap when she cracks the book open.

  “Oh…” I laugh.

  “Is this what I think it is?” she asks, with a sly grin.

  “I’d forgotten that was back there.” I run my hand through my hair nervously.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” She closes the book quickly, and her smile becomes a thin, straight line.

  I relax my posture, and shake my head. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead.”

  She purses her lips, as if she still isn’t sure I mean it. I’ve never shown anyone this book before. Not Caroline, not even my parents. They may not even know it exists. Sure my mom has seen me with a camera, but I don’t think she knows how much I love it. Photography isn’t a practical thing to do. It’d just be a time waster as far as my parents would be concerned.

  Quinn carefully opens the magnetic clasp again and runs her hand over the first page. Slowly, she turns page after page until she looks up with the most captivating smile I’ve ever seen.

  “You did all of these?” she asks. Her eyes are wide and surprised.

  I nod, nervously.

  “And these ones, too?” She holds up the small stack of black and white photos that has slipped out of the book. The top one on the pile is an image of an old black barn surrounded by barren, snow covered trees near our old house in Kentucky.

  “This is amazing. Why didn’t you tell me about all of this?”

  “I’ve never really shown anyone.” I shrug. “It’s just something to keep my mind occupied anyway.”

  “No, these are like, really, really good.” She flips a few more pages in the book before stopping abruptly. “Who is this?”

  Quinn points to a photo of Caroline. In the photo, her long hair is blowing across her pale face, and her freckles playing hide-and-go-seek under the wild blonde strands. Caroline never even knew I had snapped the picture.

  I rub my cheek, my palm scratching against the stubble.

  “That would be Caroline,” I answer.

  Quinn shifts her weight away from me— I don’t like that. I wrap my arm over her lap and pull her right back.

  “You know you have nothing to worry about, right?”

  “She’s really pretty,” Quinn says.

  “She’s not you.”

  Quinn glances up and her tightly pressed lips morph in to a small smile that slowly creeps across her face.

  “Good answer,” she says. My relief that she isn’t upset is palpable.

  “Now, if you really want to see something embarrassing, check this out.” I reach across her legs and pull open my nightstand drawer. I hesitate with the drawer open for a second, before I grab a small piece of old cloth. The material is unraveling at each end, and the image of a sheep that once decorated the front is now long faded beyond recognition. I only know it was there from its appearance in old photographs.

  “Wait, is that—”

  “Yep, this is my baby blanket.” I laugh. “My grandmother made it for me before I was even born.”

  “And you still have it?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly something you throw away, Quinn.”

  “Okay, I get that. But you sleep with it right here by your bed? Are you scared? Do I need to come and stay over to protect you?”

  I know she isn’t trying to embarrass me; she’s just having a good time. That’s the whole reason I showed it to her. I didn’t want her leaving and have the last thought be about the photograph of Caroline.

  “Please! You, protect me?” I make a muscle before shoving the blanket back into the drawer. Her laughter turns hysterical as I roll on top of her, pinning her to the bed playfully.

  “Of course not, you’re very strong,” she says, with a wink.

  “What, is your baby blanket crammed in a box in your basement or something?”

  “I never had a special baby blanket, or a baby book, or a first curl saved in a sweet little box—or any of that cheesy stuff. My childhood was way better than that,” Quinn says, heavy on the sarcasm.

  “Mom was always in and out of rehab when Carter and I were young. We spent most of our time being shuttled back and forth between random family members because my dad was always working.” She stares at her fingernails, a nervous habit I’ve seen her do frequently when she talks about herself.

  “What about Mason?” I ask.

  “Oh, things have calmed down a lot since he was born. Mom did all that stuff for him— he is the golden child after all.” She bites her bottom lip as if she’s contemplating whether she has shared too much with me or not.

  I decide not to press. I pull the blanket back out of its hiding place. “So, do you think I’m a total douche for this?”

  “No,” she says. She kisses my ear before she whispers in it. “You know you’re not at all what I expected when I first saw you.”

  I laugh quietly and pull back to look at her beautiful, olive face.

  “So, is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” I ask.

  “Definitely a good thing.” She burrows up against my chest. “You’re so much better.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting when I met Quinn, but one thing is certain to me now. I’m totally falling in love with this girl.

  Dad’s office is on the top floor of an obnoxious, all glass building. He has two beyond ancient partners, and one of their decrepit wives was channeling her inner Martha Stewart when the lobby was decorated. Gold tassels and heavy floral fabrics are abundant, and I’m seriously considering bringing an EpiPen with me next time, in the event that I should have an allergic reaction to its gaudiness.

  The receptionist, Ms. Mary Mack (she is dressed all in black too, I kid you not!) tells me that Dad is wrapping up an interview and will be with me in a few minutes. My dad is hiring a new secretary—again. He makes his way through at least three every year. I can understand why they fail to stick around—with him being the world’s biggest prick and all—Dad has this way of looking at you that screams, “I am superior and you are a fucking imbecile”.

  “Well, it was very nice to meet you. You will definitely be hearing from me,” Dad says to a blonde chick as he opens his office door. I’d call her a lady, but no lady wears pleather for any occasion—especially a job interview. She can't be more than a couple of years older than me, but Dad is looking her up and down in a sleazy guy way. Either pleather-lover doesn't notice, or she doesn't care. Regardless, I throw up in
my mouth a little. He walks her to the glass doors and then turns to me.

  “Are you ready to crunch some numbers, kiddo?” he says to me in his fake, fatherly voice.

  I force a laugh for Ms. Mary’s sake. Dad and I both smile our matching faux father-daughter grins, and I march obediently behind him in to his office. As soon as the door clicks shut behind us, his smiling face transforms in to “the look” and he motions to my clothes.

  “Jesus Christ, Quinn, you couldn't have worn something a little nicer? This is a professional office,” Dad says.

  I stare blankly at him. Or at least I let him think I’m staring at him. I’m actually looking at a small piece of beige paint that is peeling just to the right of his head. I'm surprised he hasn't noticed it yet, he will freak the fuck out when he does. Arguing with him about my clothes will do me no good, trust me, I've tried, so I remain silent.

  Dad’s office is immaculate, like in a creepy Sleeping with the Enemy way. His paintings and diplomas are all hung at precisely the same level, in identical teakwood frames. There is literally no clutter in the entire room. The wastebasket is empty. The windows overlooking the city are clear of all finger prints or smudge marks. Everything has a perfect, well thought out, specific place. The inbox on Dad’s desk is empty. Not because the firm doesn't have a lot of work, but because he is just so damn efficient. All of his pencils and pens are laid out on a small tray on the desk and each one is turned the same way, grouped by brand, and probably in some complex, and specific order that I would never understand. I bet it would physically hurt him if I reached over and rearranged them. I contemplate this, and smile.

  “What would you like me to do, Daddy?” I ask him. I can tell he recognizes my condescending tone by the glare he shoots back at me while pressing a button on his phone.

  “Mark, it's Lee, can you come to my office, please,” he says into the intercom.

  “Yes sir,” a deep male voice answers. I tap my fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair, wondering who the hell Mark is.

  There’s a knock as the door simultaneously opens. I’ve never quite understood this concept. Why bother knocking if you’re just going to let yourself in anyway? You wouldn't exactly have enough warning to hide an indiscretion when someone is knocking and opening at the same time.