Rebel Belle

Page 7

“Yeah,” Ryan said, raising his head, “you are. Or at least you try to be. I mean, I love you, but why do you have to be queen of everything? Why can’t you just . . . chill?”
Last year, my mom took me to see a therapist after she found me making decorations for the Spring Fling at three in the morning. Dr. Greenbaum said that my “obsessive need to overachieve” was due to a “fear of being out of control” and that, like Ryan said, I needed to chill. Only she used some fancy term for “chill” and also suggested I start taking Lexapro to help facilitate said chilling. I managed to get out of the meds by wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt to my next therapy session, where I drew pictures of myself crying in a tornado. That seemed to make Dr. Greenbaum happy and she decided I didn’t need the drugs after all. And the next time I did school stuff in the middle of the night, I just did it in my closet with the door locked. Honestly, what is wrong with this country when striving for excellence means you need antidepressants?
But then I remembered I actually was crazy now.
“Forget it,” I said to Ryan. “I don’t want to fight about this again. I’m just having a really rough night.”
“Are you bummed you missed the crowning ceremony?” he asked, leaning down to pick up my tiara.
Leave it to my Perfect Boyfriend to give me the perfect out. Of course Ryan would assume I was bummed about missing the crowning.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to look more wistful than freaked out. “I know it’s stupid, but . . .”
“Hey,” he said softly, “It’s okay to feel disappointed. Here.” He took the crown and gently placed it back on my head. “Harper Jane Price, I officially crown you Homecoming Queen.” Then he leaned forward and kissed me. It was a sweet, soft kiss, and one for its own sake, and not as a prelude to something else.
That was one of the many great things about Ryan. Just a few minutes ago, we’d been fighting, but once I’d said I was sorry, he was over it. I could be a champion grudge-holder. Briefly, an image of David Stark flickered in my brain, but I pushed it away. David had been nice to me tonight—well, nice for him—so maybe it was time to bury the hatchet. Besides, it was creepy to think about David while I was kissing my boyfriend.
Ryan pulled away, and I smiled at him, laying my hand on his cheek. “You are the greatest boyfriend ever, you know that?”
He shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah.” He scooted closer and kissed me again, but this time, it was definitely a prelude to something else; something I was most definitely not in the mood for.
Gently pushing at his shoulders, I said, “It’s been kind of a crazy night. Can we maybe . . . not?” I hoped I sounded regretful and not irritated.
Ryan sighed, ruffling the hair that flopped over his eyes, but then he turned to me and smiled. “Sure.” Then he glanced down and frowned. “Oh, crap, babe, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He reached out and touched my leg. “Your skirt. I must’ve accidently ripped it.”
I felt the hysterical tears/laughter start to rise again as I looked to where his finger was slowly running up and down the tear in my skirt. The tear I’d made when I’d kicked Dr. DuPont.
But it was impossible to have that tear, since the whole thing had been in my head because I was crazy now.
Right?
But . . . a little voice whispered in my head, if it had all been imaginary, then why did I still have that Pop Rocks feeling in my chest? Why did I still feel a tremor running through all my muscles, like I could tear off Ryan’s car door if I really wanted to?
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I said, trying to sound normal even though all I really wanted to do was run inside the garage and try to lift my dad’s SUV. You know, for scientific purposes.
We made out for another ten minutes or so, but neither my head nor my heart were particularly in it. Ryan could probably sense that, but he didn’t say anything. Finally, he walked me to my door, gave me one last kiss, and then I was breathing a sigh of relief as his taillights disappeared down my drive.
But I didn’t go inside. Instead, I sneaked around the back of the house to the tall wooden fence that surrounded our backyard—if you could call the half-acre of landscaped gardens a “yard.” The fence was eight feet high and covered in thick, thorny pyracantha bushes. Leigh-Anne had dared me to climb it once when I was six. I’d gotten maybe a foot off the ground before the thorns tore up my palms. I still have a thin white scar at the base of my right thumb. Needless to say, I’d never made another attempt to scale the fence.
But now I stood in the dark, my heart pounding in my ears, and a shivery feeling coursing through me.
Just try it, I thought.
It wasn’t real, the larger, more sensible part of my brain screamed. There were no bodies! No collateral damage! Not even a freakin’ paper towel!
I looked down at the tear in my skirt. Sure, it was possible I’d been kicking and punching at thin air because I’d finally gone full-on schizoid. But, I thought, what if . . .
I was done thinking. I slipped off my pink, teacher-killing heels, threw them over the fence, and felt my muscles tense.
And then I jumped.
Chapter 5
I grabbed the top of the fence, my hands tangled in the pyracantha bushes, my feet dangling off the ground. Okay, so far, no proof of my superhero-ness. Sure, it had been a great jump, but I was a cheerleader; jumping was not new to me. At least I’d missed the thorns this time.
I took a deep breath. Whatever happened next meant I’d know for sure whether or not what had happened tonight was real. Either way, I figured, life was about to get pretty different.
Slowly, I curled my legs up to my chest and lowered my forehead to the top of the fence. Then I pulled with all the strength in my arms until the top of my head was resting on the gate. My arms didn’t even tremble as they held all my body weight.
I uncurled my legs and pushed until I had both arms fully extended and both legs straight up in the air. My dress fell down over my head, so if any of our neighbors were up and about, they saw more than just me going all Russian gymnast on our fence.
Then I brought my feet down to rest on the top of the fence by my hands, so I was basically doing the world’s most extreme backbend, a move I’d never been very good at despite all of my years of cheerleading. But now I did it with no problem, feeling like my body was almost out of my control, the same way I’d felt fighting Dr. DuPont. Planting my feet, I let go of the fence with my hands and pulled my torso up so that I was standing, looking down into the garden, my dress falling back down around my knees.
“Well,” I murmured, “that answers that.” But just for good measure, I did a front flip off the top of the fence.
I landed in our pool, which was kind of bad planning on my part. I’d jumped just a little too hard and overshot the small patch of grass between the fence and the ridiculously huge expanse of aqua water. Of course, on the bright side, I’d also missed slamming into the concrete patio.
I came up out of the super chilly water not even caring that my new, really expensive dress was ruined. There was a huge smile on my face.
I was a superhero.
“HARPER JANE!”
The smile fell from my face instantly. Oh, crap.
Mom stood just inside the back door, wearing a robe and pajamas. She would’ve had to have been right in the kitchen to have made it outside so quickly, but Mom had never waited up for me before. Why did it have to be the one night I was diving off the fence?
But Mom must’ve missed that part of the show because all she said was, “What on Earth are you doing in the pool?”
As I hoisted myself up the ladder, Mom came rushing down the steps of the deck, her bare feet slapping on the wood. “I’m fine,” I told her, climbing out of the chilly water.
“You clearly are not,” she fired back, whipping off her robe and throwing it around my shoulders. “You’re practically blue, and your dress is ruined. Have you lost your mind?”
“No,” I said, pulling the lapels of the robe closer around me. It was warm and smelled like Lancôme lotion and coffee. “I just decided to come in through the back door so I wouldn’t bother you and Daddy. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I tripped.” I gave her what I hoped was a sheepish smile and nodded toward my heels which, thankfully, had landed on the pool deck. “Stupid new shoes, you know how it is.”
But Mom wasn’t an idiot. She frowned at me. “And what, you just . . . didn’t see the pool?”
I glanced over at it, noticing that all the underwater lights were on. It gleamed like a giant turquoise jewel in the darkness of the backyard. There was no way anyone could miss it.
“Mom—”
But she already had me by the shoulders, turning me to face her. “Harper, have you been drinking?”
“No,” I said, reaching up to squeeze one of her hands for emphasis. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I promise.”
Mom watched me for a long time. There were new wrinkles around her eyes, and in the dim, greenish light of the pool, she looked almost sickly. All the euphoria that had just been coursing through me seemed to drain out. I had almost been killed tonight. I pictured Mom, sitting at the kitchen table in her robe, waiting for me when I was never coming home, and suddenly, the whole superhero thing didn’t seem so great.
“I’m fine,” I told her again, reaching out to hug her before remembering that I was soaking wet. “Just . . . distracted and clumsy.”
I wasn’t sure how convinced she was, but she finally smiled and tucked a piece of wet hair behind my ear. “Okay. But you might want to work on that, or Mary Beth won’t be the only one taking out an entire row of debutantes.”
Relieved, I laughed. “She’ll get better.”
Mom and I walked back into the house, and I saw that the coffee pot was on and nearly empty. “How long have you been up?” I asked. It wasn’t even midnight yet, and that was my curfew. “Awhile,” was all Mom said, but then, from the doorway, I heard Dad say, “She hasn’t been to bed yet.”