Part 22 (1/2)

”Emili, I'll miss you,” he said quietly. ”I honestly will.”

”Me, too.” My voice didn't want to work.

He took my arm and leaned toward me. I held my breath. I wanted him to kiss me in the worst way. He cupped my face with his free hand and put his lips to my cheek. His breath on my face was warm.

Our noses were touching. We stared into each other's eyes as if transfixed. Then, he took a step back, leaving his hand on my face.

”Bye, Emili,” he said softly. ”Good luck.”

I pressed my cheek into his hand. It was warm and felt strangely comforting - like coming home after a being away for a long, long time.

He smiled and began walking slowly to the front door. I watched him go out into the cold and close the door behind himself.

Tears came then, and I didn't wipe them off.

During my last two days at Bates, all I wanted was to avoid Lance. I didn't have to worry about Farah because she didn't return. I knew hiding from Lance was a sorry way to spend my time, but I didn't care. Cla.s.s was no problem. It was in the hallway where I had to be careful. I wasn't mad at him anymore, which surprised me. My anger was more directed toward myself. I felt like a fool. The entire time Lance and I were together was one fat tragic lie.

I wondered why he did it. Was he trying to make Farah jealous with me? He would've been better off going after one of the more popular girls. Farah would never be jealous of me. It amazed me he'd even try.

On my last day, I wasn't quick enough. I was heading toward the bathroom when I saw him coming down the hall. He saw me before I could hurry the other way.

His eyes widened and a look of dread pa.s.sed over his face, but he recovered quickly enough. He stretched up to his full height, approached me, and put on a smile. ”Hey, Cecily.”

The name Cecily hung in the air between us. Suddenly, I hated it. Hated it with every cell of my body. I stepped up to him and took a deep breath - this was my moment. ”My name is Emili,” I said, relieved my voice was steady and clear. I proceeded to spell out my name, poking his chest with each letter. ”E-M-I-L-I. You can call me Emili from now on. Got it?”

He flinched and stared. Neither of us moved. The whole school faded away until it was just us, head to head. No one but us existed. And then, a smile broke over his face, a real smile, one full of light.

”Emili,” he repeated. I could hear the respect in his voice. ”Your name is Emili. Got it.”

I gazed into his eyes.

Then it was my turn to stretch up to my full height, which I did with huge pleasure. I nodded at him, pivoted neatly on my heel, and left.

And I knew, oh I knew, he was watching every step I took as I swayed back down the hallway toward my next cla.s.s.

About the Author.

Brenda Maxfield writes novels for young adults. As a high school teacher, she spends most of her waking hours with teenagers. She loves chatting with them and hearing their views on love and life.

Brenda started writing as a child, stories of fairy princesses and talking animals. She has since set aside the princesses and talking animals, writing instead about teens, their heartaches and triumphs - always with a bit of spicy romance thrown in to complicate matters.

Brenda has lived in Honduras, Grand Cayman, and Costa Rica. Presently, she lives in Indiana with her husband. They have two adult children and are grandparents to one precious little guy, special delivery from Africa.

When not writing or teaching, Brenda can be found at her lake cabin with a book in her hand and her dog Lucy on her lap. Stop by and say h.e.l.lo at:Also from Astraea Press:

Chapter One.

Drank way too much punch before I realized it was spiked-right before I pa.s.sed out Sat.u.r.day night...

Coming to in total darkness, my foggy brain ached and my eyes strained. Nothing but the sensation of immense s.p.a.ce. Pinched my forearm to rule out a bizarre dream. Ouch! Final recollection before everything went black: exhausted and still desperately thirsty.

My tentative hands groped enough to establish I was still on the hard plank bench. No telling how long I'd been there - everything hurt when I sat up. Stretched out my arms. ”Ow!” Splinter. Yeah, the fund-raising jail with square wooden bars. But why was I still there?

”Hey!” Ghostly echo. Completely alone in the dark. The Greene County Halloween Festival was obviously long over and the spooky former armory building clearly abandoned.

As I struggled to my feet, I also realized I'd selected a terrible outfit for a jailbreak: low-cut satin blouse almost covering the bustier that threatened to squash my innards. Plus a tight high-hemmed skirt, patterned hose, and one remaining shoe with a four-inch heel. No telling where the other one was. Yeah, I'd had the terribly original notion to come as a s.e.xy witch - including a pointy hat and hand-made broom. Sure wish I'd worn sneakers and a sweatsuit.

So, how on earth did I get left behind? And exactly how would I get out?

”h.e.l.lo?” I knew it was too tentative, but somehow it seemed yelling into that vast darkness could make me feel even more vulnerable than I already did.

Dilemma.

One of the big festival fund-raisers was to lock up attendees until someone donated enough money to bail them out. At first I was steamed to be imprisoned since I'd spent two weeks working on that stinking event. Then I figured at least I was off my feet for a few minutes. Once I sat down exhaustion took over, plus the spiked punch, of course. But that didn't explain why I was still there in the dark with everybody gone... all alone.

At least I think I'm alone. ”Hey! h.e.l.lo?” Louder. ”Anybody here?”

Silence could be good or bad. But I wished somebody would come turn the lights on and get me out. Plus, I need a restroom. Why did I leave my cell phone locked in the car? Not that there was any point waiting on a rescue. When you wake up behind wooden bars in real life, no handsome stranger comes to your aid.

My forefinger hurt but I couldn't extract a splinter in the dark. Took off my right shoe since I couldn't walk in the dark with one high-heel. Better find the other one. Maybe later. Stood up. Oh, still a bit woozy from that long nap. Fumbled my way from the back of the jail. Straight ahead should get me to the door. Tripped on something. Oh, my other shoe. Thank goodness, those heels were way too expensive to leave behind.

Just a few more steps. Yikes! b.u.mped my head on something hanging from the top of the wooden jail. Maybe a light bulb! Checked. No, just something with a disgusting spider web attached that I didn't want to touch again, or think about, ever. Hate spiders!

One more step. Fingers brushed the bars of the front wall. Good. Door couldn't be far away. Sideways to the left. Nope. Other direction. Ah, door frame. ”Do you remember which way it opens, Kristen?” No, I didn't. And I was talking to myself again. I put both shoes on the floor, reached one hand through the bars, and felt the mechanism. Angle was wrong. In order to flip this latch, my entire forearm (past my elbow) had to get through.

What kind of latch? Metal. I felt a handle... it moved. But the door didn't open. ”What did the latch look like, Kristen?” I asked myself. A freezer door? No. Gate hasp? Nope. It was like those rental trailers. Have to lift something and swing something else to the side, or vice versa. Tried that. Okay, I could lift or swing, but couldn't do both with one hand.

”Hey! Anybody here who can help with this latch before I wet myself?” Multiple echoes. I'd forgotten how big the main armory s.p.a.ce was. When the Tennessee National Guard used it, dozens of cargo trucks fit in there. After the local unit was combined with the battalion in nearby Nashville, Uncle Sam donated the facility to the county. ”Thanks a lot, Sam. Now I'm stuck here.” Needed to stop talking to myself.

Tried the latch again from the other side. Ouch. Tight fit. My left elbow must be thicker. Wished I hadn't drunk all that punch earlier. I should have known somebody spiked it because I'd seen lots of folks got tipsy. But I'd just said, ”Whatever” and drank another cup. That's how I slept through the abandonment by my former friends and the people I'd worked with on the community extravaganza. ”Memo to Kristen,” I muttered, ”don't ever nap in a bustier. It pinches the girls and probably leaves bruises.” Ha. Not that anybody would see them. Wally the Weasel was out of my zip code and my life. n.o.body else in my rented house besides Elvis the neutered feline. Even that cat was probably more romantic than Wally, AKA Walter-who's-now-ancient-history-and-I-hope-he-dies-before-I-ever-see-him-again. Hmm, sounds awful. Not a good time to scare up bad karma with another curse on the Weasel. The last curse I put on Wally had to do with shriveling up his- Okay, it was up to me. If I flipped up that gizmo, the handle pulled the thingy out of the what's-it. Great theory. Still needed two hands. ”Hey! Anybody in this stinking armory who'll let me out?”

What was that noise? Something fell over! Somebody fell over? Better be a ”good” somebody. ”Hey! Over there... out there. Who's there?”

”O-o-ow!” From the left of me somewhere. But what? It must have been near the refreshment area not far from my prison pen. ”Who's here? If you can speak, you'd better say something real quick, 'cause I've got a big ole magnum gun pointed right at your head!” Bluff 'em, Kristen.

”O-o-ow! Stop yelling! My head's about to explode.” Closer. Man's voice. Could be good news... or bad.

”Well, you'd better show yourself. And get some light over here.” Take charge, Kristen.

”I don't know where the stinkin' lights are. And stop yelling.” Closer... I could almost smell him.

”Don't you have a lighter or something? I thought all guys carried lighters.”