Bright Before Sunrise

Schmidt

1

Jonah

TIME MOVES SLOWER ON FRIDAY AFTERNOONS

You dropped something.

I totally miss that the girl is talking to me. She’s sat next to me in English for five months and other than her falsely sweet Welcome to Cross Pointe on my first day, the only interactions we’ve had are her indulge-me smiles when she leans across my desk to talk to the girl who sits on the other side of me. One is Jordan and the other is Juliana—I’m not sure who’s who. Both have long, light brown hair and toothpaste-commercial smiles.

She clears her throat and taps my desk with her pencil. Then points to the pink baby sock at my feet. It must have fallen out of my sleeve or the leg of my shorts. Even though all of Sophia’s laundry is washed separately in her organic, hypoallergenic, dye-and-fragrance-free, all-natural, probably-promises-extra-IQ-points detergent, it seems to get everywhere. Especially her socks. She’s just found her feet, and her favorite pastime is freeing them.

It drives my stepfather, Paul, into panics about her catching cold. Even when it’s eighty degrees out. What can I say; the baby is cute and crafty.

I reach down and grab the sock—that little monkey must have managed to kick it into my pocket or stick it down my shirt while I was holding her this morning.

Thanks, I say to Jordan/Juliana.

Is it your daughter’s? It’s so cute. She’s smiling, but there’s something off about the question. Besides the fact that it’s none of her business, she looks too eager, almost hungry for my answer. You’re from Hamilton, right?

What’s that mean? I ask, crushing the sock in my hand. I already know the answer. I’m the new kid from Hamilton. And because I didn’t grow up in Cross Pointe, with nannies and beach homes, I must be a teenage father.

At least she has enough decency to blush when she stammers something about, Well, it’s just—I’ve heard that in Hamilton …

It’s my sister’s. I hate myself for answering. For caring even a little what my Cross Pointe classmates think of me.

Oh. She looks me up and down again, like I’m a new person now that I’m not someone’s baby’s daddy. "But it is true about Hamilton, right? Did a lot of your old classmates have kids? I heard they even have a program where you can bring your babies to class. I can’t even imagine a baby in a classroom."

She draws out imagine into three syllables: im-magine. And ends her statement with this absurd giggle.

I bite my tongue so hard.

She leans over and takes the sock from my hand. I could’ve held on to it, but I’m too shocked by her complete disregard for my personal space. "This is so little! I can’t believe you have a sister who’s a baby."

I wonder what part of my body language or expression makes her think I want to continue this conversation. Does she think I’ve been waiting all semester for her to wake up and notice me? Or maybe she’s just bored because the other half of Jordan/Juliana is absent.

"I just can’t get over it—that’s so much younger than you. Talk about an oops—I bet your parents were shocked. She’s turning her whole body in her seat, leaning toward me; like she’s starving and will feed off whatever information I’ll share about myself. Whole sister, or half?"

When I left for school this morning she was in one piece. I hope no one’s halved her by the time I get home, I say, taking the sock back and shoving it into my pocket. Then I turn around and continue filling out the I-don’t-feel-like-teaching-on-Friday busywork sheet on the themes in the fussy Gothic novel we’re reading.

I hear her exhale in a huff. I’m sure she’s rolling her eyes and getting ready to make some insulting comment about me to someone nearby, but I don’t care.

I am not providing fuel for their gossip. I am not playing any of their Cross Pointe games.

I’m surviving.

Counting down the school days until graduation. Eleven.

Then I’m out of here.

2

Brighton

23 HOURS, 44 MINUTES LEFT

Brighton! Why weren’t you at lunch?

I freeze at the familiar voice. I’d been hoping—just this once, just today—I could make it from my locker to class without being seen, but Jordan latches on to my arm as I walk by the door of Mrs. Watson’s room.

I had to do something for yearbook. The something had been to take a moment just to breathe. The yearbook room had been a convenient place to hide out and do it.

Why didn’t you tell anyone? She tsks like I’m being silly and gives my arm a playful shake. Everyone was looking for you.

Which is why I hid.

I thought I’d be fine. Until the moment this morning when we were getting ready to broadcast announcements and I glanced at the first story I was supposed to read and almost burst into tears. I don’t know what I would’ve done if Amelia hadn’t noticed and stepped in with a quick lie: Oh, Brighton, your mascara is smudged! Go, I’ll take your spot— so I could run off to the bathroom, pull myself together, and lecture myself on being ridiculous. So the captain of the baseball team is named Ethan—same name as my dad. This isn’t news to me. It certainly isn’t a valid reason to cry like an idiot during a live broadcast.

Since then, I’d done a fairly decent imitation of fine during my morning classes, but skipping lunch had been necessary.

Sorry. I pluck off my headband, smooth my dark brown hair, then put the band back, using the motions as an excuse to extract my arm from her grip. What did I miss? Do you need something?

Not really. Jordan shrugs, leans toward me with a conspiratorial smile. "But since you weren’t there, you didn’t hear how Natalie wants to have her graduation party the same day as mine! And we both want the yacht club; so one of us will have to use the clubroom instead of the ballroom. I’m sure Natalie is going to have a fit if it’s her—which isn’t fair, why should I have to be the one to settle? Regardless, you’ll come to my party, right?"

I stare at her for a moment; she’s serious. Why don’t you two just throw your parties together? You’ll be inviting all the same people, and that way no one has to choose.

She squeezes my arm again. B, you’re brilliant! This is why you need to be at lunch! I’ll go find Natalie and tell her it was your idea.

She dashes down the hall, and I fight the urge to lean against the lockers and shut my eyes. Not just because I hadn’t slept well last night. Or any of the nights this week. Or because seniors do not need party planning advice from juniors—especially not advice that’s so obvious they should’ve thought of it themselves instead of creating drama or asking people to pick sides.

Except now I’m just being rude. I’m sure they’re already combining their guest lists and moving on to debating invitations, colors, and food—

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you— Jordan is back, standing in front of me and trying so hard to fight a grin. I force myself to look engaged and interested in whatever the new gossip is. Since you weren’t at lunch today, you also missed my big announcement: I got off the Brown waiting list! I’m in!

That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you. Congrats! My last word gets buried in her shoulder as I pull her into a hug. For a few moments I can shake off my exhaustion and be happy for her. "Oh my gosh! How could you possibly not tell me that first thing? You’ve got to be so excited."

Next time come to lunch and you’ll be in the know! She fake-pouts at me. Seriously, I only have two weeks of school left—get underlings to do your yearbook tasks; I don’t want you missing any more lunches.

I promise. And I can do that. It’s only today. Today and tomorrow. If I can just survive the next thirty-six hours, I’ll be able to breathe again. But just thinking about them deflates me, drains all the enthusiasm from my voice. Brown! Wow. I hope Rhode Island is ready for you.

She doesn’t even notice, just laughs and says, Of course they’re not! Okay, gotta get to class, but I’m sure I’ll see you tonight. Later, gator.

I call another weak Congrats after her and head toward my own class.

Hey, Brighton!

Hi, B.

What’s up, Brighton?

The hall seems so crowded. All the people passing by, throwing smiles and greetings at me—each one feels like a minor assault of friendliness. Each one makes me more aware of how many sets of eyes are watching—and how big an audience I’ll have if I let myself fall to pieces.

I twist the ring on my finger. I expected it to provide some comfort today, but mostly it just feels heavy, foreign—a constant reminder of what’s happening tomorrow.

I need to shake this off.

Dad had two favorite sayings: Everything looks better when you’re wearing a smile and Eighty percent of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.

So I’ll pull on a smile and be okay. If I can’t quite achieve okay, at least I’m 80 percent closer to it.

I can fake the rest.

3

Jonah

THAT TIME OF DAY WHEN MY LOCKER FIGHTS BACK

I want to kick it open. Leave a big, ugly dent in the front of the metal door. Ruin the perfection of the bank of shiny green lockers. It would earn me a trip to the principal, who would be shocked and horrified at vandalism in her precious school. But maybe then I could get my books without wrestling the lock every damn time.

Need some help?

I shouldn’t be surprised she came over. I ignore her. Hope she’ll go away. Not likely, but a guy can dream. She was just talking to Jordan/Juliana from English—who probably told her that I’m the father of an illegitimate child. Or, if Jordan/Juliana had believed me, they were gossiping about how weird it is I’m seventeen years older than Sophia.

Up until the sock thing, the only people who’d acknowledged me today were teachers and the freshman who said excuse me when he bumped into me during lunch. Which is fine. More than fine, it’s my preferred way to pass a day in Cross Pointe. And with fifty-seven minutes standing between me and dismissal, all I want is for my crappy locker to open so I can get my Spanish book.

Sometimes they stick. It’s the same voice, and it’s closer this time.

Did I ask your opinion, Waterford?

Most students in this school couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, but Brighton Waterford can. Which is why she’s standing in front of me with an expectant smile. And why I have a sudden urge to skip Spanish class, just so I can avoid having to get my book or interact with Cross Pointe Barbie.

Here, Jonah, let me.

She reaches for the lock. I’m still jamming the release lever up, but even though the combination is in, it refuses to give.

I can do it, I say through my teeth, but she nudges me out of her way, then hands me her books. I watch her wiggle the lever side to side.

The green door pops open. Of course it does. She’s Brighton Waterford. Even the lockers adore her.

There’s a piece of paper in the mechanism.

I know. The idiot who had it before me kept it propped open.

She slides a thin finger into the space and pries out the paper wad, presents it to me like a gift. It’s a math test from two years ago.

Lots of people do that. It’s not like you need a lock in Cross Pointe.

I scoff, then realize she’s serious. She’s not just spouting Cross Pointe dogma like the Homeowners’ Association or Welcoming Committee. Of course not. No need for locks and no teenage pregnancy. The town’s like a freaking modern Stepford, except robots have more personality than most of the trophy wives here.

Sure, I say as I grab my Spanish book.

"Jonah, no one here is going to steal."

Was that here a dig at my old school? The teens in Cross Pointe may have more zeroes in their bank accounts and less on the odometers of their shiny cars than they do at Hamilton High, but it doesn’t make them better people.

This is the one bit of the school I can claim as mine.

I want it locked.

I slam the locker door.

You’re welcome, she chirps, tugging her books out of my hand.

I ball up the math test and toss it in the trash can across the hall. It’s a dismissal and she gets it, nodding once and flashing me a smile full of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth.

Real quick, may I ask you a question? Apparently she’s not really looking for permission because she rushes on, I was wondering, are you busy Sunday?

Any other guy in this school would be falling over himself right about now—I’ve watched them do it for the past five months. I could understand their attraction to her glossy perfection: long, dark hair and the type of milky skin that begs to be touched—if she wasn’t … Brighton.

I can’t.

But I haven’t even told you the details yet. She laughs like I’m trying to be funny instead of just trying to cut the conversation short. You know the book drive we’ve been having at school?

I shake my head.

Really? She reaches out and taps a fluorescent pink flyer hanging on the wall beside my locker. Well, we’ve been collecting books to send to needy elementary schools. This Sunday we’re sorting and boxing them up.

She pauses. Looks down at her hands. A flash of gold band, flash of green stone—she’s twisting a ring around her finger. It’s huge. And probably real. She looks back up at me.

So, I was thinking … She moves the ring from one finger to the next. I’d really like it if … Will you come?

I can’t, I say again. We’ve had this conversation before—she’s tried to recruit me to count pennies for Build a School in Some Other Country, to seal envelopes for Let’s Write Letters to Senators So They Can Ignore Us, and wrap presents for Care Packages to Last Year’s Seniors, Because Former Students Can’t Pass Finals without Cookies and Fancy Post-its.

In fact, that’s probably how she sees me, as yet another charity case: Integrate the New Student.

I could pick you up.

She’s sliding the ring off again. Clenching it in her fist, then trying it on her other hand.

You’re going to drop that. I don’t know why I care. If she wants to lose a ring worth more than my car, that’s her choice.

What?

I point to her hand.

Oh. She slides the ring back on her finger. If I give you a ride, will you come? Is your address in the school directory?

What, you’re worried my crappy car will ghettoize the library parking lot?

No. Her fingers fly back to the ring. Spinning. That’s not—

I’m not interested.

Oh. Her face flashes to damn! for an instant before she plasters on a yearbook-photo smile and straightens her headband. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in her I’ve-got-it-all-together image, and I kinda feel bad—but then she barrels on and my sympathy is gone. The girl looks like a dream, but she’s got the determination of a pit bull. I’m sick of being her prey. Well, if Sundays are bad for you, is there another day you’re free? I’d really like to—

No, not another time. When are you going to get that I want you to leave me alone? I almost add please, but catch myself.

Her face freezes in a shocked expression. A blush starts at her collarbones and spreads to her hairline.

I swallow my guilt. This is a good reaction. Maybe she’s finally listening to me. Hopefully it’s finally sinking in.

I … She shakes her head slightly. I’m—

Brighton! I love that top. So cute!

And she’s back to normal. Smiling. Done with me and turning toward her fan club: a preppy blond girl walking by with another preppy blond girl. She’s absorbed back into the flow of the hallway, surrounded by people who want those smiles and live and die by her advice.

I pull out my phone so I can text the girl whose smiles I want: Carly.

R we still on 4 tonite? Can’t wait.

4

Brighton

23 HOURS, 41 MINUTES LEFT

Leave me alone is way worse than No. It’s more of an I can’t stand you than an I’m not interested. The raw annoyance in his brown eyes and deep voice add intensity to his rejection. I feel it from the curl of my toes to the fire in my cheeks. It hurts—as much as the places my new sandals have rubbed my feet raw, or the pulse point behind my ear that’s pinched by my headband. But I can’t let it show on my face.

I won’t.

Sarah’s interruption is a welcome distraction. I could hug her and Miranda for buying me a moment to pull myself together.

Thanks. Your shirt is too. Both of yours. Really cute.

They chime, See you later, and keep walking.

My gaze snags on the hallway clock, and I bite my lip. The clock is not my friend today. It keeps moving forward, carving minutes out of the day and cruelly pushing me toward tomorrow.

And I’m not ready.

Each click of the second hand feels like a catch in my breath, each bell that announces another class is over heaps more pounds of pressure on my shoulders.

There’s only a fragile strip of time between me and Mom.

I don’t know if I can do it.

Eighty percent of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.

I take a deep breath and spin back around. Because I should say something, right? Apologize, or let Jonah know that I got his message. Something.

The space in front of his locker is empty. Craning my neck and standing on tiptoe, I catch sight of the top of his head, his disheveled light brown hair passing the entrance to the courtyard. He’s too far away for me to catch up and I doubt he’d appreciate me chasing him. What would I even say?

Brighton!

Hey! Brighton!

The two voices each call out again. Louder. From opposite ends of the hall. I feel like I’m being tugged in both directions, like I should fracture myself into pieces. Whoever I pick, I’m letting the other person down.

B!

Amelia’s nearly at my elbow. Maggie’s farther away, but louder, and much less patient. She’s waving her hand to get my attention. I smile in Amelia’s direction and call Hi toward Maggie.

Amelia reaches me first. Is it the weekend yet?

Not quite. I want to lean my head on her shoulder and confess—if not the harder stuff, at least I could tell her how I just made a fool of myself with Jonah.

She does a little dance. I’m so impatient! And you should see Peter! He said the cutest thing—

Hey, Brighton! Hi, Amelia. Maggie skids to a stop on my other side. "Sorry to butt in, but this is important!"

Amelia responds with an unenthusiastic, Hey.

I focus on the word important and rally some enthusiasm. What’s up?

Maggie waves her phone in my face. I just got the proofs for my senior pictures! I’ve been looking for you all day, Brighton. Why weren’t you at lunch? So tell me, which one do you like?

Important? We must have different definitions of the word. But then again, on any other day I would see this as important too. It’s not her fault.

Let me see.

I’ve just got to pull up the link. Maggie’s fingers fly over the screen of her phone, then she pauses. Oh, since you’re here, you can help too, Amelia. My mom likes the one where I’m leaning against the tree—is she crazy or what? My nose looks deformed, and I practically have a double chin.

She holds her phone toward us: scrolling through photos with the words Emerick Studios watermarked across them. I try to concentrate on the screen, on pictures of her cute round face and brown hair, but she gestures as she speaks; the freckles on her photographed nose blur with the motion.

You’re so prepared. I can’t believe you’ve taken senior photos already—I can’t believe we’re almost seniors. I tip my head to match the angle she’s holding the screen.

I wanted time in case I needed retakes. And I didn’t want to—

Here, give me that. Amelia snatches the phone and holds it steady between us. A moment’s scrutiny later, she taps a picture. Not the tree. This one. She hands it to me.

"That one? Really? How can you like that one? It’s awful.