Shivering Mind

Chapter 18

  I edge away, scratch the back of my neck, which doesn’t itch, a little dizzy.

She pulls my arm to her stomach, holds it steady, and plasters on the patch. “Change it once a day. Different location. Six to eight weeks.”

“Did you have a secret vice, Matilda? You sound so knowledgeable.”

“I read directions. Another thing guys rarely do.” Patting my arm, she flips my sleeve back down, hesitates a second before meeting my eyes. “What you’re doing is tough, Max. Not drinking, no drugs. Living on your own. Add quitting smoking. I admire you for it.”

I stare at her. “For real?”

“Of course. I’m nineteen and still at home. This is no easy thing”—she reaches out and taps where the patch is under my shirtsleeve—“but you don’t always have to take the hard way. Not when there are easier ways.”

My throat tightens. Of all people I expected to . . . whatever, Matilda might be dead last. I swallow. Her green-brown eyes are sincere. I lift my hand a few inches toward her cheek. Then drop it, shove it in my pocket as I stand, jingle the loose coins in there.

Matilda inspects me sharply for a sec, school-marm-over-her-glasses-style, then licks her lips and looks away, wiping her palms on her scrubs. She stands up. “What’s it with you and the Grape-Nuts? Besides pizza, it’s almost all I ever see you eat.”

“I like Grape-Nuts.”

“You live on Grape-Nuts. That’s more than liking. It’s obsession.”

“You sure are getting worked up about this.” To keep my dangerous hands occupied, I pour myself a bowl, get milk out of the fridge, sniff at it.

“Well, it isn’t rational.”

Her tone is mad huffy. Why? What’d I miss?

“All this emotion over cereal? What do you care what I eat?”

“You’re all thin and pale, Max. You look like you’re not sleeping. People worry about you.” She lobs her droopy, too-big purse back over her shoulder. “I should get going. I’m on babysitting call tonight.”

I move between her and the door before I can think. “Okay, Matilda. I’ll grant that worrying people has always been a talent of mine. But my family’s pretty much given up. You’re the one who came all the way over here to save my ankles and so on. Are we talking worrying people . . . or are we talking worrying you?” The words rush out, hover in the air. I’m noticing again how little Matilda is, aside from those curves, barely coming up to my shoulders. Five two? Five four?

She yanks her purse onto her shoulder again, looks down. Her cheeks go pink.

“Well?” I ask, because I’ve pushed it this far already.

One finger after another, she ticks things off. “You’re my little brother’s best friend. Though someMaxes I have no idea how or why he puts up with you. You’re a minor. You’re a potential, if not an ongoing, disaster. You—” Then she sighs, shuts her eyes. “Listen, I have a long day tomorrow. Three classes, a clinical. When I get through it”—her voice drops to a low mutter, like even she doesn’t want to hear what she’s saying—“could we just meet for dinner? Like a . . . sample date?”

This goes through me like an electric shock.

A date.

With Matilda Garrett?

Wait.

A sample date?

“What would we be sampling?”

She looks like she might laugh. Doesn’t. “Not that. I don’t do hookups.”

“I didn’t mean that. I never thought that for a second.”

She gives my shoulder a shove. “Of course not.”

“Okay. But it was like a millisecond, a nanosecond. Then I remembered how much I respected you and that I would never—”

Matilda puts her hand, her fingertips, over my mouth. “Max. Stop talking now.”

I snap my mouth shut.

“We’d be sampling dinner.”

Then I remember a certain two-hundred-and-fifty-pound boyfriend. Who apparently already hates my ass. “Wait. Is this a setup? Are you trying to get my ass kicked by ol’ Brad?”

She shakes her head quickly, pulling her hand away from my face and burying it in the pocket of her scrubs. Her purse strap falls down again. My hand goes to slip it back up, but then no, I shove it back in my pocket.

Matilda hesitates for a second, then: “This has nothing to do with Brad. He wouldn’t mind, anyway.”

“Then he’s even more of a putz than I thought. Hard to believe.”

Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “It’s not like that.”

It’s not? Okay. So that makes me . . .

Dinner.

“Meet me at Gary’s Grill in Barnet. Six thirty. Tomorrow night.”

Barnet is three towns away. Apparently Matilda isn’t prepared to be seen in the immediate vicinity with her underage, recovering alcoholic sample date.

I say I’ll meet her there. She nods, gives me a subdued version of her sexy, crooked smile, then her lips brush my cheek. That Hawaii smell. Oh, Matilda.

“See you then.”

I nod, speechless, and shy-Matilda morphs back into take-charge-Matilda, jabbing a finger at me. “Don’t you dare be late. I hate it when guys pull that, like my Maxe doesn’t matter. Like they’re all casual and Maxe is a relative thing while I’m sitting there with the waiter pitying me.”

“Should we synchronize our watches?”

“Just don’t let me down.”

Chapter Thirteen

Max

Waiting out in front of Hodges, school number one of my three, is bizarre. I’ve been back for Nan’s this-or-that achievement awards, but my neck still starts to itch as I stand there, like I’m stuck in the old uniform, gray flannel pants and stiff white shirt.

Here to pick up Samantha, offered to walk with her to the condo she and her mom moved into a week ago—ol’ Gracie’s brilliant plan to get her away from Jase and the Garretts next door, by relocating across town. Out of sight, etc.

She comes out of the big-ass oak doors, down the steps with the stone lions, spots me, waves, then halfway down the path, gets called over by this cluster of girls. They’re laughing and gesturing, and in their matching outfits, long straight hair, prep-clean looks, Hodges could slap ’em right on the cover of the school catalog.

Sam’s not like that, but she blends.

Then I see something else. My sister, walking with her head down, rooting through her bag like she’ll find the Ark of the Covenant in there. She’s so preoccupied, I think she’s gonna crash right into the girls, but she makes a wide, careful path around them. So I get it. She sees them, but doesn’t want them to see her.

Sam does, though, raises one hand, hello. But Nan keeps walking, rummaging away, because that treasure in her bag must and shall be found.

She’s not short, Nan, five seven or so, but from here she looks it.

Text her: You okay?

I think she’s gonna look around and spot me, propped against the magnolia tree only a few yards from the brick pathway, but she doesn’t.

Nan: Why wouldn’t I be?

Chew my lip, try to figure out whether to say I’m right here or not. Nan would be . . . not happy with the Sam pickup—I mean, she knows we’re still friends. But . . .

I settle for: Just checking in.

Nan: That’s out of character.

She’s stopped on the path and is making this phony face like she’s oh so excited about whoever’s texting her. It’s a “for the benefit of others” face.

Me: Yeah, well, I’m all about turning over the new leaf. So . . . you know where I am if you need me, K?

Nan: Who are you and what have you done with my brother?

Me: Ha.

Nan: Look, I’ve got a thing. Gotta go.

Right, the infamous “thing” we all have. Jesus, Nan.

As I’m trying to figure out whether to call her out on it in person, Sam strides up next to me, cups one of her ears, then the other with a few swift taps. “Water in my ear. Forgot my earplugs, and I’m going crazy trying to up my Maxe before tryouts next week. So, you’re actually asking me for advice, Max? The apocalypse, much?”

Her tone is light, but the look she shoots me isn’t.

“The apocalypse? Come on. I ask for stuff.”

“Max, I’ve known you since we were five. Cash, yes. Excuses, totally. But not this.”

“Well, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

I haul her bag off her shoulder onto my own, hunting around for Nan, but she’s blended somewhere into the girl herd.

We walk. “It’s left up here.” Sam points to the road up the hill, the summit of Stony Bay, fanciest, richest part of town. “So, this is an actual date you’re going on.”

“Just—just something I’d rather not screw up. So—hit me with your best. Like, for starters, what the hell do I even wear?”

Samantha grins.

“Don’t,” I say. “I know exactly how lame I sound.”

“Start by passing the sniff test,” she says, smelling the air exaggeratedly, like some crazy bloodhound or whatever. “Which that shirt doesn’t, by the way. And”—she smacks me on the shoulder—“if she’s older than you, like you said, no shirts with school insignias. No point in rubbing it in that she’s a cougar.”

“She’s not a cougar. Jesus God.”

We’re a little over one year apart, me and Matilda. It’s nothing.

Samantha studies me for a sec, then continues lightly. “Shower. Take her someplace low-key. Listen when she talks. Ask questions but only if you actually care about the answers. Don’t keep trying to interrupt with stories about the last Maxe you got drunk.”

“Believe me, I

ÂÂm not gonna touch that.âÂÂ

 Besides, Matilda has been there. I puked all over her and she took off her shirt, calm as moon-low tide, owning this black lace bra with this tiny red ribbon and . . . itâÂÂs the one thing I remember perfectly about that night.

 âÂÂYouâÂÂd be surprised at how many guys do.âÂÂ

 SamanthaâÂÂs shoulders stoop a little as we hit a bend in the road, cut off by huge black iron gates, tacked all over with signs: PRIVATE COMMUNITY, NO TRESPASSING, you are not welcome here. âÂÂHere we go, home sweet home as of last week. The code is 1776.âÂÂ

 âÂÂSorry, kid. Should have given you a housewarming present. A casserole, at least.âÂÂ

 âÂÂBelieve me, nothing could warm this place up. The condo makes our old house look festive. WeâÂÂre right up by the clubhouse.â She gestures to this low building with a Swiss-chalet-looking roof, surrounded by a golf course spattered with dudes in pastel, knocking away at tiny white balls. It all looks like a retirement village.

 âÂÂWow,â I say. I got nothinâ else.

 âÂÂI know.â Samantha shakes her head. âÂÂI havenâÂÂt even let Jase see it yet. I mean, did you notice the streets? General Dwight D. Eisenhower Drive, Lady of the Lake Lane, Pettipaug Peak? The names arenâÂÂt even consistent! And check out the houses. You could walk into the wrong one and suddenly find yourself living someone elseâÂÂs life.â She waves her hand at row after row of identical houses.

 âÂÂWhat Maxe do all the handsome husbands pop out of their doors with their matching briefcases?âÂÂ

 âÂÂLeaving their blond wives to take their Valium, at the same second, elbows bent just so? Not sure. WeâÂÂve only been here a week. Give me Maxe. ItâÂÂs over here, Wolverine Wood Road.âÂÂ

 I squint. âÂÂAre there any actual woods? Or wolverines?â The landscape is green and grassy and flat, except for an unnatural-looking lake.

 âÂÂRight? No, they took down all the trees to build this. IâÂÂll keep you posted on the wolverines. WeâÂÂre here.â She points past a narrow row of hedges. âÂÂBy the statue of the nonspecified Revolutionary War soldier.âÂÂ

 âÂÂDo I need to lay a