Tigers, Not Daughters - Samantha Mabry Page 0,53

his friends were watching, but he stayed focused on her.

Did his expression soften, or did Jessica just imagine it?

“Alright.” Peter nodded in the direction of the front door. “Sure. After you.”

Rafe had always had a rule against boys in the house, but Jessica didn’t care about rules right then. Besides, her dad wasn’t even home. He was probably out with Norma, spending the night at her not-haunted house. Jessica led Peter through the dimly lit living room, past the flashing television and a sleeping Iridian huddled under that stinky old blanket, and then up to the second floor. On the staircase, Peter slowed to look at the photos in frames that hung on the wall.

“Your mom.”

Peter pointed to a photo of Jessica’s mother. She was sitting in a lawn chair at a pool party, wearing a forest green bikini and large black sunglasses. Her long brown hair was parted down the middle and hung over her shoulders. Jessica was ready for Peter to ask about her, about how much Jessica remembered about her, and Jessica would have to shrug and say not much, which was the disappointing truth.

“She looks like Rosa,” Peter said.

“She does.”

Jessica unlocked and opened the door to her bedroom, realizing too late it was an embarrassing wreck of trash and clothes and dirty sheets. Her face turned hot as Peter did a quick scan, taking in the sorry sight of damp towels tossed into corners and empty tubes of lip gloss and mascara that littered the carpet. Nothing in his expression gave away what he might’ve been thinking until he went to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked out into the night.

“This used to be Ana’s room,” Jessica said.

“I knew that.” Peter let the curtain drop and then turned toward Jessica. “We used to watch her from Hector’s.” He dropped his head and shook it. A blush spread across his cheeks. “That sounds creepy. It was creepy. We were creeps.”

“What did you see?” Jessica asked, genuinely curious.

Peter lifted his head and crinkled his brow.

“When you would watch her,” Jessica clarified. “What would she do?”

“She would sneak out,” Peter replied. “Climb down the tree. A couple hours later, she’d come back and climb up the tree. Most of the time, though, she would just stand here and look out. Not to the street, but to the sky.” He paused. “You don’t do that. Stand at the window and look out.”

Jessica should’ve been angry. Peter was giving her proof of his and the neighborhood’s prying eyes. She wasn’t angry, though. There was a difference, she realized, between being spied on and being noticed. She wanted to be noticed, and Peter had noticed her. It gave her a buzzy, soft-edged feeling her hard self wasn’t used to.

“Did you see her fall?” Jessica asked.

“No. We heard the glass break. And a car drive away.”

“It wasn’t John,” Jessica said automatically. “He said it wasn’t him.”

She winced and then scrubbed a hand across her face. It was like those terrible words had actually stung as they came out of her mouth. She’d always known John was there, even if he denied it. The boy who had tasted and touched every centimeter of Jessica’s skin had seen her sister die and had driven away.

“I’m sorry,” Jessica said. “I’m sorry I just said that.”

“You should stop apologizing,” Peter said.

Jessica snickered. “Well, I’ve got a lot to be sorry for, so . . .”

Peter cracked a smile. It was so small, but so perfect. “You weren’t the one who decided to fight me.”

“All I do is fight you.”

Peter opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a tapping at the window. The sound wasn’t a hollow ping made by thrown stones, but more like a softer thud.

A ripple of fear went all the way down Jessica’s right arm, from her shoulder and out through her fingers. She closed her eyes and waited for the hard cluck of Ana’s laughter.

“The tree?” Peter asked.

Jessica shook her head. “Too far away.”