But Layne was still crying silently, staring out the window, her shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly.
When he came to a red light, he looked over. “Hey.”
She didn’t look. “I said, forget it.”
“I know what you said. Look at me.”
“If I look at you, Simon will know I’m crying.”
The light turned, and he had to look back at the road anyway.
He spoke into the silence, hearing his voice come out rough. “When I said ‘obviously,’ it was because Heather Castelline is a total bitch who’ll only give you the time of day if she needs something from you. Nicky went out with her once, and he spent two days swearing he’d rather cut his balls off than date a girl like her again.”
Layne didn’t say anything.
“She’s the last person who’d criticize me for getting into it with some sophomore tool in the hallway, and she’d be more likely to copy my quiz than to fix the wrong answers. She sure as hell wouldn’t stay after school because her brother was having a good time.”
Layne didn’t speak, but he could swear she was looking at him now.
Gabriel kept his eyes on the road. “It had nothing to do with what you look like.”
She swallowed. “Okay. Whatever.”
“Besides, you could totally have a perfect rack and great legs. I just can’t tell. If you want to flaunt them so I can make final judgment—”
She punched him in the arm.
But now she was smiling.
And blushing.
He had to stop for the next light, and he looked over. Dampness still clung to her cheeks, but she didn’t look like she was plotting to kill him.
When he made the turn into her development, she said, “I can still help you with math.” She paused, her tone nonchalant. “If you want.”
“What, you mean now?”
“Did you understand tonight’s assignment?”
He hadn’t understood an assignment in about five years. His shoulders were already tense. “I’ll be all right.”
“You planning to go home and have your brother do it for you?”
He wasn’t even sure if Nick was home. Gabriel didn’t say anything. He didn’t like that Nick did the work for him, but Layne knowing . . . That, he hated.
He pulled into her driveway and sat there, putting the car in park but not killing the engine. He stared at the pattern his headlights made on the garage, wide circles of light bouncing off the stone façade of her house.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “Tough guy can’t be good at math?”
“Hey.” He swung his head around, his jaw tight.
She didn’t back away, her eyes gleaming in the darkness. “How can you sit there in class every day, pretending to follow along?”
“That’s the easy part.”
She stared back at him. “I don’t think it is.”
He looked back at the garage and didn’t say anything. She was right. It was killing him, but she was right.
Simon reached between the seats and tapped Layne on the shoulder. Gabriel didn’t need to understand sign language to figure out the message.
What’s going on?
Gabriel turned the key and yanked it out of the ignition, reaching over the center console to grab his backpack. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s give it a shot.”
CHAPTER 9
Layne’s house looked like something that should have been featured in a decorating magazine. His own house wasn’t small—they each had their own room, and no one had to fight for a bathroom or anything like that—but this was crazy.
The front hall featured rich hardwood flooring, but just beyond that, every inch of carpeting he could see was white—and it was a lot of inches. Dark wooden furniture, mahogany or something he didn’t know, sat against the walls in a forbidding way. Framed paintings that looked original hung on the walls. The kinds of sofas adults kept for show, not for sitting, sat at angles to the walls. Everything was accented with white: throw pillows, coasters, even a vase of white roses on the hall table.
The place was dead silent.
Simon flashed a quick sign, flung his backpack on the floor, and bolted up the hardwood staircase.
Gabriel wanted to pick up Simon’s backpack and shove it in the front closet. The décor was that intimidating.
“He says he’ll be down in a while,” said Layne. “Come on, we can go in the kitchen.”
Gabriel hesitated at the juncture of hardwood and carpeting before following her. Should he take off his shoes? But she hadn’t.
“Does your mom work, too?” he said. The house had obviously been empty prior to their arrival.
“Well, work is a little strong.” Layne led him around a corner into a huge white kitchen with stainless-steel appliances. Even the granite countertop was white with flecks of silver.
The white was getting a little creepy.
“I know,” said Layne. “It looks like a serial killer should live here, right?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Gabriel. But, really, he would. “What do you mean, work is a little strong?”
“She volunteers. For everything. AIDS benefits, Children’s Hospital in DC, Johns Hopkins, that women’s center downtown—”
“You don’t sound impressed.” He gingerly set his backpack on one of the white chairs, but he wasn’t ready to sit down yet.
“It would be impressive if she actually volunteered in a way that helped people. She helps with benefit functions. She likes to throw big parties where she can look perfect.” Layne flicked an invisible speck of dust off the counter. “Get it?”
Not really. But he nodded.
She pulled the trig book out of her backpack.
Gabriel stared at it, hating that a rectangle of pages glued together could cause such stress. “You’re not going to give me the tour?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You want the tour?”
He shrugged and tried to look expectant.
She shrugged and pushed out of the chair.
The entire house looked like they’d broken into a museum exhibit. Doors whispered open against the carpeting. He only spotted one television, a huge big screen that took up half the wall of one room—but even there, it wasn’t the kind of place where you’d want to kick back and watch the game. It felt like someone had put a TV in there according to a mansion instruction manual. Living room: bay window, white carpeting, white sofa, silver big screen. Even Layne’s dad’s “office” didn’t have a piece of paper out of place.
No photographs on the first floor. Anywhere.
Layne narrated the room titles like a bored tour guide, her voice dispassionate.
“You don’t like your house?” he finally said.
“I’m trying to figure out why you care.” She glanced over her shoulder at him as they started up the stairs. “Or are you just stalling?”
“Yes.”
She stopped halfway up, turning to look at him. “At least you admitted it.”
Gabriel was one step behind her, and it put them on eye level. “I’m trying to figure out how a girl like you could come out of a house like this.”
He watched the fire spark in her eyes, and he held a hand up. “That’s not an insult.”
It cut her anger off at the knees; he could tell. She shut her mouth and looked past him. “Maybe I don’t like perfect.”
“Yeah?” They were almost close enough to share breath. “What do you like, Layne?”
She sure didn’t like being kept off balance; that was clear enough from the way she faltered and fought for words. He wondered if her cheeks would feel warm, if he could gather the nerve to touch her. She’d been so assertive in school when she’d told him off for fighting. If he touched her now, she’d probably push him down the stairs.