Reunion by Meg Cabot

Clark Kent attire, Michael had turned back into a stammering geek.
    Only I couldn’t help noticing, as he stammered, how nicely he filled out that sweater vest.
    â€œTalk?” He gripped the wheel quite tightly as we sat in what, for Carmel, represented rush-hour traffic: a single tour bus and a Volkswagen filled with surfboards. “W-what about?”
    â€œAbout what happened to you this weekend.”
    Michael turned his head sharply to look at me, then just as quickly turned back to face the road. “W-what do you m-mean?” he asked.
    â€œCome off it, Michael,” I said. I figured there was no point in being gentle with him. It was like a Band-Aid that needed to come off: either you did it with agonizing slowness, or you got it over with, hard and quick. “I know about the accident.”
    The tour bus finally started moving. Michael put his foot on the gas.
    â€œWell,” he said after a minute, a wry smile on his face, though he kept his eyes on the road, “you must not blame me too much, or you wouldn’t have asked for a ride.”
    â€œBlame you for what?” I asked him.
    â€œFour people died in that accident.” Michael picked up a half-empty can of Coke from the cup holder between our seats. “And I’m still alive.” He took a quick swallow and put the can back. “You be the judge.”
    I didn’t like his tone. It wasn’t that it was self-pitying. It was that it wasn’t. He sounded hostile. And he wasn’t stammering anymore, I noticed.
    â€œWell,” I said carefully. Like I mentioned, Father Dominic is the one who’s good at reasoning. I’m more like the muscle of our little mediator family. I knew I was venturing out into deep and troubled waters—if you’ll excuse the pun.
    â€œI read in the paper today that your breath test came back negative for alcohol,” I said cautiously.
    â€œSo?” Michael exploded, startling me a little. “What does that prove?”
    I blinked at him. “Well, that you, at least, weren’t drinking and driving.”
    He seemed to relax a little. He said, “Oh.” Then he asked, tentatively, “Do you want…”
    I looked at him. We were driving along the coastline, and the sun, sinking into the water, had cast everything into either brilliant orange or deep shadow. The light reflecting off the lenses of Michael’s glasses made it impossible to read his expression.
    â€œDo you want to see where it happened?” he asked all in a rush, as if he wanted to get the words out before he changed his mind.
    â€œUm, sure,” I said. “If you feel like you want to show me.”
    â€œI do.” He turned his head to look at me, but once again, I couldn’t read his eyes behind his glasses. “If you don’t mind. It’s weird, but…I really feel like you might understand.”
    Ha! I thought smugly to myself. Take that, Father Dom! All your nagging about how I always hit first and talk later. Well, look at me now!
    â€œWhy did you do it?” Michael asked abruptly, interrupting my self-congratulations.
    I threw a startled glance in his direction. “Do what?” I genuinely hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about.
    â€œGo in,” he said in that same quiet voice, “after me.”
    â€œOh.” I cleared my throat. “That. Well, you see, Michael…”
    â€œNever mind.”
    When I glanced over at him, I saw he was smiling.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.” His voice dropped about an octave. I looked over at him in alarm. “I know.”
    And then he reached across the Coke can, nestled in the cup holder between our seats, and dropped his right hand over my left.
    Oh my God! I felt my stomach lurch all over again, just like it had back down at the beach.
    Because suddenly it was all very clear to me.