The Edge

Chapter 10

"Do you still keep in touch with any of your high school friends?" Luke asks as we pull out of the Hathaways' driveway, interrupting my attempt to brood over the situation at hand. His question shakes me out of my reverie.

"Are you joking?" I scoff, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. "I don't keep in touch with any of those people."

"Had a falling out, did we?"

"Hardly. That would denote that I'd been in possession of friends in the first place, which I most assuredly wasn't. Unfortunately, I can't claim to have been the most, uh, popular chick in high school."

"You were a member of the chess club, weren't you?" he accuses, taking to the subject quickly. "Or were you a band geek?"

"Nothing so cool as that. The problem was that I didn't have my mom around and my dad was a bit clueless about raising teenage girls; the whole...puberty thing...was messy." I flinch at how that must have come across, my fingers tapping rapidly against the rough leather of the steering wheel as recollections from high school clog my thoughts. "It felt weird to be in my body and I didn't know what to do with myself. I might have gone through a certain phase where my personal appearance wasn't quite up to par."

Luke is not at all put off by my discomfort. "Now we're getting somewhere. Keep going?"

"I'd just roll out of bed and throw on whatever I pulled out of the closet first," I admit. "Didn't fool around with makeup or matching outfits or, well, brushing my hair. I wanted to fly under the radar through school and hide behind a book, but all I managed to do was draw negative attention to myself." I squirm at the memories. High school isn't so far in the past that I've completely put it behind me.

"And?"

"I'm not even going to get into the insults I got about my 'weird' looks or the flack they gave me about buzz cutting my hair." Why can't I stop ranting? "And need I explain how obnoxious it is to grow breasts while you're too embarrassed to ask your dad to buy you a bra? I'll never live that one down."

"Truly. I was at a B cup before my dad bought me a bra," he says, deadpan.

I reach up to give myself a little slap to the cheek. Why am I discussing my hygiene issues and pubescent breast development with an almost stranger? Perhaps it's because I think he'll relate somewhat, having experienced the horrors of adolescence in his own way. And I realize that I do want him to relate, because he's interesting if odd, and he's easy to talk to, not to mention look at...

Oh no, not going there. It's been awhile since I've willingly fraternized with anyone in a romantic context, but a guy who used to eat the hearts out of butchered animals probably shouldn't be at the top of the list in my dating pool.

"Sorry. Wes always tells me I talk too much when I'm flustered," I tell him ruefully.

"Don't apologize, this is all very interesting. So, to recap, you passed your time shaving your head and dressing like you were colorblind and completely immune to good taste. No biggy; at least you didn't spend high school convincing everyone you were mentally ill."

"No, I also accomplished that pretty well, if I do say so myself," I declare, on a roll. "When I was young, I used to get these horrendous night terrors. Think nightmares on steroids. I'd wake up screaming and sweating, usually not remembering what I'd been dreaming about, but always overwhelmed by this feeling I was going to die. The dreams didn't stop until I was almost out of high school. Of course, Wes told everyone at school and their unborn children about it, so...years of Freddy Krueger jokes ensued."

Luke gives me an appraising look. "You're right. That's not particularly normal."

"You don't have to sound so pleased about it," I grumble, reddening.