But that’s not fair and I know it. I’ve never picked up a single prejudiced vibe from him. He can be dense sometimes, and self-involved, but he’s never so much as hinted at being racist. In that regard, he’s more like his uncle, Mr. Shackleford, I guess—or at least, I hope.
Because now I’m all in with Arden. And I know it.
Arden’s face is expressionless as he puts the truck in drive. We speed out of the cobblestone driveway and make a hard right, hopefully toward the closest exit of this godforsaken neighborhood.
“You think he’ll press charges? Will he tell Julio what I did?” Dios mio, but my heart palpitates with the thought of it. Adrenaline courses through my body, making me replete with unspent energy. I pop every knuckle I can. My knee bounces uncontrollably.
“No,” Arden says finally. He answers as if I’ve asked him if he wants mayo on his sandwich. Emotionless. Final.
He takes a left, then a right at the next stop sign. He slows to a crawl. This isn’t the way we came in. “Where are we going?” My hands are fidgeting fidgeting fidgeting. I wonder if this is what being on crack feels like.
“Somewhere. Anywhere. Home. I’m taking you home.”
“Do you think he’ll come after us?”
Distracted, he glances at me. “No. No, he won’t. It’s all a mind game, what he just did. He wouldn’t want a public confrontation. It wouldn’t suit his image.”
“Are … are you mad?”
Maybe his dad’s words got to him. Maybe he regrets spending time with me after all. Maybe I’m going to go insane if he doesn’t start talking.
I’m startled out of that line of thought when he slams on the brakes, pulls over on the curb. We’re halfway on the sidewalk. I’m pretty sure the homeowners association here would have a fit.
Arden faces me suddenly. I’m too stunned to stop my mouth from hanging open. His behavior has never been this erratic before. He’s always so self-assured, like he’s found equilibrium in the universe or something. “Mad? At you? You’ve got to be kidding. You think I’m mad at you?”
“Well, I mean, I’m not sure if you noticed, but I pulled a knife on your dad.” I’m ready to defend my actions though. They’re at the tip of my tongue in case this escalates into an argument. In case Arden is losing his mind like I feel I am.
“I have a deranged father and you’re the one apologizing. That’s classic.” He beats his hands against the steering wheel. “It’s me who’s sorry, Carly. I should never have brought you there. He wasn’t supposed to be home.”
I think I might be sick. “Did you … did you bring me there to—” I can’t even say it. Because what if he did bring me there for … for …
“No! I knew you would think that. After all those things he said. God, I’m so sorry, Carly. So, so sorry.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what you’re apologizing for,” I say. No, I yell it. Because I’m a little excitable at the moment. And if he didn’t bring me there for the intimate setting, then what could he possibly have to apologize for?
“Those things he said. The way he insulted you. I knew how he felt about … about…”
“You’re apologizing for your dad,” I say as if I’m coaching a witness at court. “Because he was mean to me. Because of where I come from.”
“Yes.”
“But not because you kissed me?” And then introduced me as your girlfriend? I didn’t imagine that part, did I? I know I’m being vain here, absolutely know it. It’s not that I’m not angry at all. I am. I’m super-offended. I mean, Arden’s father dissed my ethnicity, and therefore my family. Therefore Julio, who is the hardest-working person I know. I should be foaming at the mouth, telling Arden to turn the truck around and let me have another shot at his arrogant dad.
I think of Mama and Papi and the struggles they go through to put food on the table back in Mexico. They basically live in a shed—our trailer is luxurious compared to their little shack. We all work so hard for one another, to make something better for ourselves, for our family. We are people, and Sheriff Moss looks at us like we’re rats. I saw his face. The disgust there when he looked at me. Like his son had just kissed roadkill. How can such a hateful man have persuaded so many people to give him this much power?
I should have attacked him like a rabid dog, on principle. I shouldn’t have been afraid, I should have been ferocious. But then again, wouldn’t that have proven that his opinion of me is true? That I’m a wild animal, incapable of complex human feelings and thoughts and emotions? He would have pointed that out to Arden right away, I know it. No, attacking him is not the way. Losing my temper is not the way. Losing Arden is not the way.
But neither is losing who I am. I’m going to figure this out, I will. The sheriff won’t catch me helpless again.
And I can’t imagine there won’t be an “again,” because Arden and I just kissed. So maybe that’s what I’m asking. If Arden and I are going to be a thing, I’m going to have to learn to deal with his dad a little better than pulling a knife on him every time he opens his mouth.
But that kiss. I can’t forget that kiss. My lips still swelter from that kiss. They’re still swollen with eagerness to do it again. And I’m pretty sure that makes me a bad person. Because I’m full of all this rage about what the sheriff did—what he said—and yet I’m thinking about Arden kissing me.