If I Tell

Copyright

Copyright © 2011 by Janet Gurtler

Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by J. Marison

Cover image © Hans Neleman/Corbis

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gurtler, Janet.

If I tell / by Janet Gurtler.

p. cm.

Summary: Raised by her grandparents, seventeen-year-old Jasmine, the result of a biracial one night stand, has never met her father but has a good relationship with her mother until she sees her mother’s boyfriend kissing Jaz’s best friend.

[1. Secrets—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. Racially mixed people—Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 5. Grandparents—Fiction. 6. Washington (State)—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.G9818If 2011

[Fic]—dc23

2011020272

contents

front cover

title page

copyright

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

acknowledgments

about the author

back cover

For the Mom and Tot group who saved me without knowing it:

Andrea Nicholas, Mydee Littauer, Sherri Barnes, Lara Jensen, Victoria McLeod, and my ever-inspiring friend, Jana Joustra

chapter one

My heart raced as I stumbled down the steps. I needed to make sure I wasn’t having a horrible hallucination, but I really wished that someone had spiked my soda and that drugs were distorting my reality. Like I was witnessing a train wreck, I wanted to look away but couldn’t take my eyes off them.

Two people in a drunken clutch, their arms and legs pressed up against the wall. Two people who had absolutely no right to be locking lips—or any other body parts, for that matter.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The only sound I could manage was an incoherent, panicky mumble. I turned and ran back up the stairs, pushing through a swarm of bodies until I was out of the house.

***

Jaz. My mom’s voice called my name and I jumped, spilling hot decaf mocha on my hand. Normally the fragrance of specialty coffees soothed me, but on this day Grinds smelled pretty much like burnt beans.

Ouch! You okay? Sorry I startled you. It looks like you’re in your own world back there.

I’m fine. My hand stung, but I placed the coffee cup on the counter where the employees of Grinds arranged finished drinks like expensive steaming trophies. Just working on a song in my head, I lied, shaking my scalded hand. This decaf mocha is yours? It’s not your usual caffeine fix.

I know. She reached for the drink. You and your song writing. She half smiled as she took a quick sip, then licked stray foam off her top lip. We’ll sit and chat before we go shopping?

Sure. Talk is cheap. I forced a smile of my own. I should have canceled and told her to go shopping without me. But I had to tell her what I’d seen. How could I not?

Cheaper than this coffee anyway. She turned her head to search the café for an open table. I’ll find a seat. Grab a drink and join me when you’re done, okay?

She sashayed off without waiting for my answer, disappearing into the semi-full coffee shop. Grinds is our town’s attempt to give Starbucks competition. Amber, the owner, hopes coffee will be her own personal lottery since Tadita is so close to Seattle.

I checked the clock. Five minutes until my shift ended. What I really wanted to do was bolt out the back door and jog home. That wouldn’t mean breaking much of a sweat. I could crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head before Mom noticed I’d left Grinds.

Sighing, I checked for new customers. No one approached the front counter with an urgent coffee craving, so I hurried to the back sink and shoved my hand under cold water to soothe the burn from the spilled coffee.

As I ran the water, a tall guy wearing a Grinds getup strolled through the employee door, tying the strings of an apron behind his back. Longish hair as black as charcoal brushed the shoulders of his white T-shirt. Hello, hot. Jackson Morgan, the new boy at Westwind High. Supposedly he’d failed kindergarten and had just gotten out of some school for delinquent boys. For dealing drugs. But I managed to stay composed when he nodded at me.

Hey, Jaz. How’s it going? He sounded amused, as if he’d just remembered a good joke.

Uh. Fine. He knew my name? He was in my English class, but like everyone else, he hadn’t bothered to acknowledge my existence. Until now.

Excellent. A pause. His mouth turned up in a crooked grin, and his eyes sparkled. I’m fine too, by the way. Thanks for asking.

So much for composed. My cheeks burned and I studied my shoes, not sure how to reply. People generally didn’t talk to me much. I never had to worry about what to say back.

I’m just kidding. His voice was soft, almost apologetic, and I glanced up, noticing how nice and straight his teeth were.

I know.

He was looking at me, his eyes narrowed like he was trying to figure something out. I blushed even more at the scrutiny. No need to be shy. I don’t bite.

I was torn between wanting him to leave me alone so I didn’t have to come up with more to say and wanting him to keep talking. He’d already gone deeper than a lot of people did. Most kids at school assumed I was stuck-up. And that was almost better than shy. Shy made me feel like a failure. I took a step back and reached for my bracelet, rubbing the guitar charm Grandpa Joe had given me on my thirteenth birthday, right before he died.

So was that your mom I saw you talking to? Jackson glanced out at the seating area.

My gaze followed his. Yeah. That’s my mom. Bracing myself, I waited for the usual questions people asked when they saw my mom for the first time: Are you adopted? What color is your dad?

Cool, he said. Go ahead and do your thing. I can take care of stuff here. We can catch up later.

He made it sound like a promise. I tried to ignore the fluttering in my stomach. You know what you’re doing?

It came out sounding like I was accusing him of some evil act. God. I was so not good at talking to boys. What I’d wanted to say was thank you for not being a jerk. Thank you for being nice. I filed the feeling. Maybe I could replicate it later in a song.

Nope. He grinned. But hey, I’ll figure it out. Amber trained me. Monkey see, monkey do.

Sorry, I mumbled. I didn’t mean it that way.

He twirled the hoop earring in his left ear. "I can handle it. No problem. Selling a legal drug, you know? Caffeine."

Uh. Yeah. That seemed like a cue for me to say something about the rumors, but I was too chicken to go there.

He grinned again as if he’d read my mind. Hot. Definitely hot. I wondered if working at Grinds was part of his rehab or something.

He glanced toward my mom and I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t slobber over her or say something obnoxious and ruin my impression of him.

Your mom’s pretty young, he said.

It sounded like an observation, not a crush.

She’s pretty blond too, I added.

They say blonds have more fun, he quipped.

She did when she was seventeen.

Mouth. Shut. Please.

He laughed, an interesting baritone sound. Almost musical. That’s how old she was when she had you?

Yup. I lifted my shoulder in a half-shrug.

That’s pretty young. He paused. So? Is she cool?

My mom?

He sounded as if he cared what I thought about her and not the other way around. It surprised me. He surprised me. She’s okay. I rolled my charm in my fingers. I don’t live with her. I frowned. I hadn’t planned to tell him that. I don’t usually advertise my weird family situation so freely. Even though in a town the size of Tadita, everyone pretty much knew already.

I heard.

I waited, but he didn’t say more. It didn’t matter. People talked. They always did. He’d probably heard all the stories about me. Loner. Or loser. Depending on who was doing the telling. From someone at my high school, it had to be loser. So why was he being nice to me?

I live with my grandma too, he said. He gestured his head toward the café. Go talk to your mom. I got it covered.