“I better go.” I bolt from the pool house and into the night.
If I stayed another minute I might have said yes.
5
Questions
Ellis’ party is still going strong.
Brielle is nowhere to be seen and suspiciously neither is Drake. The disgusting possibilities float through my mind—welcome as a school of dead fish.
“Skyla,” Logan’s deep voice emanates from behind as I peer into the kitchen.
I ignore him briefly as I spy on Brielle and Drake pushed up against the sink. He’s busy raking his hands up and down her back octopus-style, and I find the entire display of mollusk-like affection difficult to watch.
I lean back into the hall filled with disbelief.
“I think we need to talk,” Logan shakes his head when he says it. He looks serious as though a major infraction just occurred.
“Look,” the strange urge to cry infiltrates me, “I just really want to go home.” My knees tremble as I try to steady myself against the wall. The idea of someone else having the same ability more than freaks me out. Especially when it’s a boy I happen to like.
“Let me take you,” he says it soft and gentle as if trying to convince me there’s nothing to fear, as if reading peoples minds, Drake getting it on with the super model next door, were as normal as breathing.
I follow Logan outside, afraid to hold his hand or touch him in general. If he can hear my thoughts that means the deformity that lives in me also lives in him. That it wasn’t some random gift bestowed upon me and my father—that others have this, too.
Maybe I gave it to Logan like a cold or mono? Maybe I have the ability to pass it to the ones I love, or at least those I believe I do.
We make our way down the winding driveway, past the rows of expensive cars and into the great expanse of a deep velvet night.
“So, where we going?” My fingers brush up against him and this time I don’t fight it. I form my hand around his because it feels natural, because I want to.
He stops short and turns to face me. I live across the street. His eyes press into mine.
Can you hear me? I offer it as a test run.
“Yes,” he pushes the word out with great intensity.
“Oh God.”
He hears me. He knows my thoughts. I wiggle out of his grasp.
Can you hear me now? I offer it with all the sarcastic inflection I can muster.
He pulls his cheek up on one side.
“I need to touch you,” he says.
“You’re just like me,” I marvel. All the anger and confusion vanishes like smoke and suddenly I’m thrilled to have Logan Oliver standing before me. Somehow, someway, we found our way to each other.
“And you’re just like me, but prettier.” He leans in slow and sears me with a kiss.
The world shifts, the lavender sky spreads its wings over the two of us like a blessing.
We continue the meandering walk over to his house. It mirrors Ellis’ home in width, but the styling is different, more rambling ranch than Spanish Villa. The lights are all off, and I wait on the porch as he literally pops in and out to grab his keys and wallet. He leads me over to an oversized white truck and helps me climb inside. I text Drake and let him know where I’m headed.
“You really want to go home?” He asks, settling himself in his seat. He sticks the keys in the ignition, and the truck roars to life beneath us.
“Not really,” the thought of hanging out with Mom and Tad is enough to make me fashion a noose out of my hair. “You wanna just drive?”
“Sure, I know just the place to take you.”
Take me? God—it’s probably some dense forest where the locals go to mate.
“I know I’m from L.A. and stuff,” I start, “so you probably think I’ve been everywhere—done everything,” I haven’t dropped in a hole, and that’s something I’d like to do right about now, “but I haven’t, and I don’t plan on it. I’m a… ” I stop shy of formulating the word ‘virgin’ on my lips. We’ve already determined I’m a freak, well, I guess we both are, but still, no point in dissecting the issue.
“I’m glad you haven’t been everywhere,” he says it with a disarming charm that makes me writhe on the inside, “or done everything.” He glances over with a peaceable smile.
We drive for long stretches in silence. A thicket of boiling clouds canopy across the sky like an oversized umbrella. They press into the island, hiding the moon and the stars like a cloak.
“Do you know what it is?” He asks, taking the turnoff marked Devil’s Peak. He pulls into a graveled lot and parks in close to a wooden fence that sits at the edge of the cliff. The moon breaks through and shines its beams down over the water.
“It’s so beautiful,” I breathe. I’m mesmerized by the glistening river of light as it dances in an erratic line over the waves.
“So are you, but you’re evading the question.” He picks up my hand and nestles it in his.
Do you know why you’re like this?
A breath gets caught in my throat.
A picture of my father—his perfect smile blinks through my mind. Lately each time I think of him it feels as though I’ve fallen through a trapdoor.
Another image vies for my attention—a young couple, both filled with elation as they hold up an infant between them.
That’s me in the middle. Logan looks at me intently.
I’m sorry. My heart breaks for him. What happened?
Car accident—so I was told.
“I could do this with my dad.” It frightens me to do this with Logan. “My mom, my sister, they can’t.”
“Gage can’t. Look—I just want you to know I don’t make a habit of touching people and reading their thoughts.”
“I’m impressed.” But not sure I’m buying it.
“Are you?” He pulls my fingers to his lips and kisses them individually. “But you don’t really know why you can do this, do you.” It comes out more a fact than a question.
“No. Will you tell me?”
Logan wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.
I don’t fight him because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Yes, I’ll tell you,” he leans in and brushes his lips against mine, “but not tonight.” He crashes his lips over mine with a hot flurry of kisses.
And I don’t object.
6
Inquisition
In the late afternoon, when I finally manage to roll out of bed, I head downstairs and find my mother in the kitchen.
“You look like death warmed over.” She plucks at my hair as I walk past her on the way to the fridge.
“Gee thanks.” I pull out the O.J. and lean against the island. “You ever miss Daddy?” It comes out childlike, simple.
Her eyes widen then retract as she glances back down at her game of Sudoku. I recognize the small book she purchased at the gas station before leaving L.A.
“Only like crazy,” her voice dips to a guilty whisper. It’s usually an indication that Tad is somewhere in the vicinity. I hate the way my father has become some dirty little secret ever since Tad crashed into our lives. It’s like a sin to acknowledge my father even existed.
I don’t know if it’s the fact I could have easily slept another six hours, or the fact I can’t stand Tad in general but my blood begins to percolate, brewing itself into a perfect hormonal rage.
“It’s OK to talk about him, you know,” I say a little louder than necessary. “I wasn’t exactly hatched from an egg. He put me here.” The idea of my parents copulating sprints through my mind, takes my appetite out along with it.
“Nobody said you were hatched from an egg.” She gives the slight hint of annoyance. “Spare us the attitude. Looks like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed.”
I slam down the carafe in my hand, hard on the counter.
“Do I have to get up on the wrong side of the bed to think about Dad?”
“Skyla.” Mom’s eyes close
heavy with regret.
Already we’ve started this day—this crazy train, down the wrong track.
“Excuse me but I still remember him,” my voice shakes as I deliver the words a little louder than anticipated. Without thinking I walk over and clutch my hands over her bare shoulders. “I miss him.” Tears stream down my cheeks as I dig my nails into her. Can you hear me? Tell me if you can hear me. Explain to me what the hell this is, because he’s dead, and he can’t tell me anything anymore!
“Skyla,” she shrieks, trying to break free from my hold. “Tad…Tad?” She bucks against me in an effort to wrangle away. Tad’s right, she’s going off the deep end because I never took her to therapy. God—what if she’s on drugs?
I let go as if her skin were on fire. She nurses her arms, holds herself tenderly as Tad the step monkey fast approaches.
“That’s it,” he barks. “You’ve gone too far, Skyla,” he reprimands while inspecting my mother’s injuries.
My mother breaks down into heaving sobs. He encapsulates her in his arms as she murmurs something, and he rocks her like soothing a baby.
I don’t hang out to watch the rest of the show. Instead, I speed out the front door and slam it with a bionic force. It goes off like a shotgun blast, ricocheting through the virginal morning air. Birds jet out of the pine branches and fly away from the house. I watch as they trek across the sky, quick as a dart.
I wish I could be that free.
***
Barefoot, with messy hair and no make-up is hardly the first impression you want to make on the parents of your new best friend.
Brielle lets me in, still wiping the sleep from her eyes. She takes in all my I-just-rolled-out-of-bed glory and blinks back surprise.
“Casual,” she nods, “I like that.”
The house is heavy with the sweet woodsy scent of bacon. I haven’t had real bacon since Tad came into our lives and declared pig-fried flesh something akin to an abomination.
A tall blonde with short-cropped hair and a friendly face peers over Brielle’s shoulder.
“You must be Skyla.” She puts out a slender hand, and I shake it.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Darla,” she says giving my hand a firm squeeze. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Oh, that’s OK.” I shake my head. Like it’s not bad enough I’ve come to their door disheveled, I need to eat their food, too.
“I insist.” Brielle threads her arm through mine. “Our friendship isn’t official until you break bread with me—or pancakes.” She winks over at her mom like maybe they’re poison.
Brielle’s house is decorator perfect, all done up in shabby chic. It’s covered with a dozen different toile fabrics, from curtains, to throw pillows. Every square inch has been gift wrapped in repeating patterns. And knick-knacks abound in every nook and cranny, yet it doesn’t feel cluttered. Personally, I’d love it if Mom saw fit to unleash a pastel fabric bomb in the Landon household. I’d be in heaven if my bedroom looked exactly like this right down to the blue chandelier hanging over the center of the dining room table. Tad and Drake however would definitely feel their manhood disintegrating at the speed of light in an atmosphere like this.
“Your dad at work?” I ask Bree while her mother dishes up breakfast.
“Probably. They’re divorced,” she pauses, “I have a sister at Washington State. It’s just me and my mom right now.”
“That’s right. Just us girls,” she sings back with a slight country accent.
I wish my mother were secure enough to live on her own. I tried to talk her out of marrying Tad—being near Tad. Something about him sends a chill up my spine, sharp as razors. But I could never put my finger on why, and thus have never built an adequate case against him. Who am I kidding? She would have married him anyway. I’m the last person on the planet my mother would consult for the color of her pedicure, let alone marriage.
“You have fun at the party last night?” Brielle knocks her knee into mine beneath the table like she’s speaking in code.
“Logan drove me home. Showed me the overlook.” I shrug trying to ignore the fact I’m blushing ten shades of red.
“Overlook?” Darla lays our plates down and takes a seat. “Pretty girl like you? I bet he showed more than the overlook,” she draws the words out suggestively.
My mouth falls open at the sexual implications of it all. God, I hope she means landscape or the shiny blue Pacific. But I bet not. Brielle obviously has one of those ‘special’ moms that thinks sex at sixteen is natural as breathing. I’m pretty sure I’d never in a million years want my mom to convert to Darla’s special brand of parenting philosophy. The thought of my mother talking to me about sex makes me want to stab my eyes out with a fork, gouge even deeper and scramble my brains to prevent the conversation from ever happening.
“He showed me Ellis Harrison’s pool house. It looks like a barn.” It comes out unnatural as though I were lying.
Darla explodes into a fit of laughter. She picks up her plate and heads out of the room like I had chased her out with my sheer stupidity.
“A barn? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” She cries from the other room.
“She’s gone.” Brielle shakes her head in disgust. Maybe she doesn’t appreciate a ‘cool’ mom either.
“So, anyway,” I pat my bacon with a napkin, “that’s what happened. How was your night?”
“Awesome with a capital everything.” She takes a sip of her milk while batting her clumped lashes.
“I hope it was awesome because you had a good time for reasons other than Count Drakeula.” It’s not my fault he comes equipped with sharp pointy teeth—that and the fact I’m not above name-calling.
“Count Drakeula can suck my blood anytime he wishes.”
“You know I’m more than grossed out by this. You should go for Gage. He’s like a Greek god or something.” My stomach pinches with jealousy as if to protest the idea.
“Been there, tried to do that. Besides, he was talking about you last night. It doesn’t faze him at all that Logan practically staked his claim.”
“Me?” Something deep inside me purrs at the thought of Gage the claim jumper interested in me. I’ve never been the center of attention before, and for sure not from boys of this caliber. “It’s hard to believe they don’t already have girlfriends.”
“They really haven’t gone out with anyone since Chloe. They took her death pretty hard. We all did.” The smile bleeds off her face. She traces the rim of her glass with her fingertip as a spontaneous show of tears wobble inside her lids.
There’s so much mystery surrounding Chloe.
“Tell me all about her. I really want to know.”
7
Eulogy
Brielle bleeds words as fast as she can speak them. We head up to her bedroom, which is done up in yet another fit of pink toile. It becomes embarrassingly apparent they’ve safely exceeded their legal limit of both pink and toile in this household. They’re taking this whole, we are women, see our décor thing a bit too far. I’ll have to bring Mia and Melissa up here sometime and watch them swoon. I’m sure as soon as Taddy dearest hears of their newfound lust for a replica bedroom he’ll be on it in one pinky twisted minute. Not only is Melissa a daddy’s girl, but he’s taken Mia under his wing by proxy. I won’t deny the fact I’m insanely jealous. I used to be a daddy’s girl myself, but now there’s no more daddy.
A stream of tears rolls down my cheek as I listen to Brielle ramble on about how great Chloe was. Only my tears aren’t for Chloe and her albeit brief life, in fact, sadly, I sort of feel like I’m actually detesting her by the minute even though it’s totally not cool to detest a dead person. My tears are solely for my father—my father who’s been allocated to a mere whisper in Tad Landon’s glass castle. My father who used to take me to the pier to gaze out at the open night sky and point to the stars saying that’s where we came from, where we really belong.
Brielle chats incessan
tly about her dead BFF as we get ready for cheer, and as we face my parents and I spill an apology about my behavior earlier—lying like spilling oil. She talks as I shower, while I change for practice, and on the way over in the car.
“Anyway, one day I’ll have to show you all the scrapbooks. We used to sit around and piece them together at night. Pretty lame, right?”
“No, I think that’s great you have all those memories laid out to look at. I wish I had something like that of my dad. All our pictures are still floating around on my hard drive.” For so long I could barely think of him. Seeing his pictures in the hall of our old house killed me on an intimate level. I used to wish my mother would cover them up—burn them. And now there aren’t any around. Tad came in and hijacked our lives. We moved, and those are the only things my mother has yet to unpack.
For a moment I consider turning my room into a shrine for my father. That alone might ensure the fact Mom and Tad would never set foot in it. Then again, neither would I.
We pull into the school parking lot covered with the pall of another grey day.
“I like the weather here,” I say, letting the moist film adhere to my face, my open palms, as I drink it in.
“No one likes the weather here, except maybe the vampires.” She knocks into me with her shoulder and gives a wild cackle.
Natalie and Kate catch up with us before we hit the field. Natalie’s stiff curls are pulled back into a bumpy ponytail. Kate looks fresh out of the shower with dripping wet hair, long blonde strands as thick as spaghetti.
Brielle laments the fact practice is so early even though it’s nearly three in the afternoon. “One thing’s for sure,” she brushes up against my shoulder when she says it, “Ellis Harrison knows how to throw a party.”
I avert my gaze in the event she wants to drag this conversation back to the gutter like her mother did and spot Logan from across the field with his hands on his hips. He stands perfectly still as the rest of the football teams runs wild in some well-orchestrated play.
Celestra: Books 1-2 Page 3