Borrowed Courage

Pellets of rain pound the storm door. I know that once I make a run for it, my white Vans will be ruined. I map the least destructive path – down the three steps, over the puddle forming in the center of the walk, past my overly affectionate lab that will appear out of nowhere to greet me before I touch the door of my car. What’s the use? This outfit and hair that I spent the last two hours assembling will never survive to impress anyone. Why even bother?

The invitation was basically an accident anyway. Charlotte was just trying to impress Lance – make him think she is really nice, and forgiving. He had just stopped by my locker to check on me after I missed the Block Club meeting that morning. She swept in and made a big production about how much she loved his new hairstyle, that clean-cut crew look that made it easy to appreciate his green eyes and easy smile.

“My parents are throwing a Sweet Sixteen for me this Friday night. You have to be there, Lance.”

Lance looked over at me and raised his eyebrows. I coughed to stifle a giggle. “Thanks, Charlotte. I will try my best.”

A bit put out by his non-committal answer, Charlotte shifted her backpack higher on her shoulder and angled to leave. “You can come, too, Angel, if you want.” Her walking away showed a depth of sincerity that told me to dismiss the comment altogether, until I felt Lance squeeze my shoulder.

Looking up, I inhaled his cologne and realized he had closed the distance between us. Heat from his bare arm grazing mine made it hard to focus on his tilting lips. “The only way I am going to that party is if you promise you’ll be there.”

“What? Charlotte’s party. No, no, no. I don’t see myself anywhere near that – those people. Thanks, though. You have fun!” I spun to shut the locker and caught a glance in the magnetic mirror. The pink, bulging seam across my cheek affirmed what I said. I could never show my face at that party. Too much history. I leaned to pick up my backpack and left Lance with a silent wave.

Now it’s time to bite the bullet and go. When Lance kept at me all week about the party, I truly felt flattered. Captain of the soccer team, president of Block Club, all-around nice guy – not to mention nice-looking. Girls fall apart trying to get his attention, and here he wants me at Charlotte’s party. I never thought I would step foot into his territory again. Not after what happened on December 19.

“Bye, Mom! I’m headed out. Love you!” With a click and a slam, the race through soaking rain goes as predicted. I bunch my hair and wring it into the floorboard once I slide in and wrench the sedan door shut. “Ugh!” I brush sandy muck off my favorite leggings and look for a napkin to blot my face. The little mirror over the windshield shows my make-up failure. Forget it. There is really no way to disguise that disgusting scar.

My gut tells me to call this off. Get out of the car and go back to hiding in the house like I have been for the last four months. Dad would be raging if he knew I was getting ready to drive myself anywhere. Graduation will come in another six weeks, and I can start a clean slate. New school, new friends, new life where no one has to know the truth engraved on my face.

My ringtone interrupts my logic. It’s Lance. “Hey, Lance. Yes, I’m in my car. This rain has me soaked! I might need to go back in and . . .what? What do you mean?” I glance in my rearview mirror. There he is. My heart skips. “What are you doing here??? Lance?”

The driver’s door jerks open, and I am under an umbrella. Lance pulls me in so our sides meet, and I am shuttled to his passenger door. He opens it and his melting smile and gentle nudge place me in his car. In a wave of emotion, a hot tear slides across the slant of the scar on my cheek until I taste salt on my lips. Lance bolts around the hood, tosses the umbrella in the back, and lurches into the driver’s seat. He rakes a hand to move a few dirty blonde strands out of his eyes, then turns and sees my misery.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” He is stunned. “I thought . . . I thought you would want me . . .”

I hold out my hand to stop his sweet, sweet gushing, and more emotion wrenches me into sobs. Tentative, unsure, he reaches past the console and leans to pull me to him. His heat again, God, I do not deserve . . . to feel this loved, this protected.

When I first met Lance, he was inducting me into the Block Club. I had just transferred to Emerald High from Post Prep, the private school down the road. I remembered him right away -- from around the neighborhood – out at Ice Cream Central, the local hangout on Friday nights for just about everyone in town, or from the times my private school friends and I would pay to see the Emerald boys soccer team play. He stood out, and we would all croon about his toned legs and endless energy on the field. What I loved most, though, was how he always seemed to be smiling out there, even in the toughest games. I wished for even half of his positive energy.

Because I had lettered in girls soccer at Prep, my parents told me to join Block Club at my new school. That was in August, at the beginning of my senior year. By Halloween I had been elected club secretary, so Lance and I got to work together on planning projects and meetings. He was easy to be around and made it easy to forget I was the new girl in a senior class that had been together through school forever.

We never saw each other outside of school until he invited me to a get-together to celebrate the start of Christmas break with some of his friends. I told him I would meet him there. My parents are protective, and I would have to do some manipulating just to convince them to let me go. There had been that incident at Claire’s over the summer. It basically freaked everyone out and was the first time I had an episode without my parents right there. They said I could have drowned, and I could have, but Mr. Wright was ex-Army and took quick action pulling me out and giving me space until the seizure ended.

We still don’t know the triggers, so Mom and Dad stay pretty uptight when I am not under their direct supervision. Doctors think I will outgrow it, and I can still play my sport – but really no one knows I take medicine and am pretty much a ticking bomb. When I was getting ready to leave the house, Dad refused to let me drive. Said weather was moving in, and there was already a black ice warning as the sun and temperatures dropped that evening. I know, though, that he and Mom just do not like me driving at all.

The party that night was lots of fun. Lance stayed close and made sure I knew everyone and felt comfortable. “Hey, you having fun?” he elbowed and whispered while we sat, sunk in, on Ted’s basement couch waiting for our turn to draw and guess again in this Pictionary tournament we were having. “Want something else to drink?” He motioned to the bar in the corner, stocked with sodas across the top. As far as I knew, Lance and I were the only ones not spiking our drinks with Ted’s parents’ liquor stash below in the cabinet.

“Actually, no. I’ve got to use the ladies’ room. Can you tell me where it is?”

“Upstairs and take a left.”

“K. Be right back.” Lance gave my elbow a lift up as I stood and smiled. This guy is unbelievable, I thought. I glanced back at him across the stair railing, and he winked. My insides flipped.

The half bath had a nautical motif, and I washed my hands with what was in the lighthouse pump – some floral scent that overwhelmed and made me want to make a quick exit back to Lance and the others. I rounded the corner and stepped forward to descend . . . when my shoulders jerked. I lost balance, and only know what others tell me after that. My body twisted and contorted in the seconds it took me to land, face first, on the landing below. They said I was still convulsing there as blood spurted from that huge gash on my cheek, ripped open from the brass plate on the bottom step’s edge.

End of party. And, for me, the end to any hope of normal in my senior year at a new school. Disfigurement is one thing, but social ineptitude -- brought on by something completely out of my control – is another. I out right refused to put myself out there to risk another horrifying accident in front of my classmates.

Until tonight. Lance was the one to call my parents, once he dug my cell out of my back pocket. Ted called 911. Lance tried to check on me multiple times during Christmas break, but I just could not talk to him. I looked hideous as scabbing and scarring took hold. I would need more plastic surgery, but not until after soccer season – if I still wanted to play.

Lance brushes his thumb under my eyes and holds firm with his other arm, strong behind me. “Shh. It’s okay, Angel. It’s me. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Turning, I meet his green-eyed gaze. “How? I can’t . . . I don’t know when . . .”

His calloused fingers take soft hold of my tear-soaked chin and pull up. “Hey. We are doing this. You. Me. This party. I don’t want you even thinking about anything, but this.” He tilts his head and draws in to kiss my salty lips, lingering while my heart flutters and my lips push in for more.

“Ok?” He whispers through a sweet smile that refuses to accept anything but my slow nod in affirmation.

Lacing his hand with mine, Lance squeezes his assurance to me. What happened before may or may not happen again. It doesn’t matter. I will never get back my flawless skin, and some people may not look at me the same way. This guy, though, he may be the real deal.