“Yes,” Luna mutters with her eyes fixed on the carpet.
“I’d pick you up myself, but your father and I have a church meeting,” she continues. “Your phone better show you at home at five ten.”
“I said I understand.” Luna squeezes her eyes shut.
“This is your own fault,” the man, who I assume is her dad, says in an icy tone. “You did this to yourself by making the wrong choices, choices that have embarrassed this family. Think about that while you’re here. Think about what a terrible person you are, how much you screw up all the time, and where that’s going to get you in life. Nowhere. That’s where. Losers always stay losers, Luna, so stop being one.”
With that, the two of them turn to leave. As they pass by me, the man gives me a nasty look, while the woman’s eyes narrow on me.
“See? That’s the kind people that belong here,” she whispers loud enough for me to hear. “He looks like a troublemaker.”
“I think that’s Gary Sawyer’s son,” the man replies as he shoves open the door. “So that’s no surprise.”
Hearing him talk about my dad that way makes me want to beat his ass. My dad was a good person, who yeah, let me get away with more shit than he should’ve, but he never yelled at me and tried to intimidate me by telling me I’m a bad person.
Getting into a fight with an old dude is the last thing I should be doing, though, so I curl my hands into fists and focus on breathing until the two of them leave the building.
“Goddammit,” Luna curses as she yanks off the sweatshirt and tosses it on the floor. “Why do they have to be my parents? Why? Why? Why?” She stomps on the shirt several times before she notices me standing there. Then her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “What are you doing here?” She sounds choked up.
“Probably for the same reason you’re here.” I point at the circle of fold up chairs in the middle of the room. “For the session.”
“Oh.” She scoops up the sweatshirt from the floor. “How long have you been standing here?”
I pretend to be casual, even though I just witnessed her parents rip into her. “Not too long.”
She assesses me as she ties the shirt around her waist. “You saw them yelling at me, didn’t you?”
I offer her an apologetic shrug. “How’d you know?”
She readjusts the bottom of her tank top that was hidden under the sweatshirt. “Because I know that look on your face. That look means you feel sorry for me. My friend Wynter gets the same look on her face every time she sees my parents get mad at me.” She pauses. “Thanks, though, for trying to lie about it and spare me the embarrassment.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed. They should.”
She eyes me over warily. “Even after the temper tantrum I just threw?”
“I would’ve lost my shit, too, if they were saying all that stuff to me.” I step toward her. “I would’ve yelled at them, though. You handled that better than most people.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She frowns, unconvinced, and then forces a laugh that sounds all kinds of wrong. “I guess you just got a glimpse of what I can be like when I lose games, right?”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what to say. She’s embarrassed, but I don’t want her to feel humiliated. I want her to feel comfortable with me, especially since we’re going to be spending time together while she tutors me.
Her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry you had to see any of that. My parents are just really intense, especially when I’ve messed up.”
“I get it,” I say, though I don’t. Yeah, my mom and dad have gotten pissed off at me when I have gotten into trouble, but they usually just ground me.
“Do you?” she mumbles, staring off into empty space. “Because sometimes I don’t.”
“Everyone’s parents get pissed at them at some point or another,” I tell her in an attempt to make her feel better.
“But does everyone’s parents haul them to a group therapy session because they found makeup and nail polish and worry they’re going to turn into a prostitute?” she challenges then shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You don’t need to hear about my problems.”
“You’re fine, Luna. You can say whatever you want to me. I swear I won’t tell anyone.” I mean it, too. I owe her for what I did to her in tenth grade, and now might be my chance to make up for how horrible I treated her.
Apparently, she doesn’t believe I’m being that genuine because uncomfortable silence stretches between us.
“They really brought you here because they think you’re a prostitute?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“They think makeup leads to prostitution. And nail polish. And stupid, lacy, black panties,” she mumbles with an exhausted sigh.
Black, lacy panties? Is that what she has on under there? My gaze deliberately sweeps over her long legs, hidden by those loose jeans, her narrow waist, her chest, her lips . . . I tear myself from my lustful thoughts as she peers up at me through her eyelashes, looking as innocent as can be.
Okay, how the hell can her parents think she’s going to turn into a prostitute? She’s like the sweetest girl ever.
“You thought I was here because I shoplifted, didn’t you?” she asks, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.
“No,” I lie. That’s exactly what I thought when I first saw her here.
She continues to nervously wring the bottom of her shirt, pulling it high enough that I catch a glimpse of the bottom of her flat stomach. “It should’ve been why.” She swiftly shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I usually don’t ramble this much, especially to complete strangers. I think I’m just stressed out.”
“I’m not really a complete stranger, Luna.” I offer her a lopsided smile that seems to fluster her. “We’ve known each other for practically forever.”
“You kinda of are, though. I mean, up until the thing at . . . Benny’s”—she stares down at her feet again, seeming ashamed,—“we’ve said like maybe ten words to each other, ever since . . . well, you know.”
I want to apologize to her for the dance, tell her the whole story of what happened, tell her that I didn’t spread that rumor about her, but I’m not sure if that’d be enough. I acted like a dick when I turned her down for the dance. I could’ve just given her an excuse, told her I was busy, but no, I had say no fucking way because I was a cocky shit who wasn’t much better than Logan.
What would my father have done if he knew exactly how bad of a person I was? That I wasn’t the good man he knew? That, when I was at school, I was the opposite?
“So what if we didn’t used to talk? We’re talking now.” I duck my head to catch her eye. “You can say whatever to me. I mean, isn’t that why we’re at this place? To talk about our problems?”
“I guess so.” She stares at me for a heartbeat or two then sits down in one of the chairs and pulls out her phone from the pocket of her sweatshirt.
I watch her mess around with her phone for a bit. Her head is down; her long, brown hair concealing her face; and her shoulders are hunched over. While she’s usually shy, she’s not this timid and offish.
I finally sit down beside her. She doesn’t glance up at me, but I feel her tense as my shoulder brushes hers.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to get her to look up at me.
“Yeah, I’m good.” She clears her throat as she scoots over an inch.
It throws me off a little. Usually, girls move closer to me, not away. I guess I deserve it from her.
Her eyes remain on her phone, her fingers scrolling through texts messages. I try not to read what’s on the screen, but it’s hard not to glance down every once in a while.
Ari: So, if you bring your phone to school tomorrow and give it to me for a couple of hours, I can swap out phones. U can have a backup to take with you and one to leave wherever. That way, your parents can still get a hold of u whenever, but they won’t know where u r. Or they’ll think you’re at wherever your phone is, a
nyway.
Jesus, her parents are way beyond intense. It makes me feel even shittier for the stuff my friends put her through. Not only did she have to suffer through them teasing her, but she had to go home and deal with her parents.
She types a response, thanking Ari at least ten times before she switches to another thread.
Wynter: A new band I found that I think you’ll love. It’s not mix music or anything, but it’s got a good beat to it. Cheer up, girly. We’ve all got your back. Always and forever.
I feel the slightest bit jealous of Luna and her friends and how much they seem to care about each other. Mine have been giving me nothing but shit for getting put on academic probation. I couldn’t even imagine telling them about my other problems.
Luna clicks on an audio file titled “There’s No ‘I’ In Team” by Taking Back Sunday, and a song blasts through the speaker of her phone. She casts a panicked glance around the empty room then at me.
“Is it okay if I listen to this?” she asks. “Because I can turn it off if it’s bothering you.”
“You’re fine. In fact, turn it up.”
She relaxes as she cranks up the music and sings along. Apparently, she already knows the song. I lean back in the chair, stretching out my legs, and tap my fingers to the beat. She smiles at me when she notices my fingers drumming against my knees, and I return her smile. It’s probably the most content I’ve felt in weeks, and part of me wishes the song would keep playing forever so the moment would never have to end.
Like everything else, it does, and eventually the room grows quiet again.
“Does Wynter always send you songs to cheer you up?” I ask.
“How’d you know this was from Wynter?” she questions, setting her phone down on her lap. “Did you read my messages?” She doesn’t seem angry, only curious.
“Sorry. I didn’t really mean to read them. They were just kind of there, you know. Besides, I’m kind of fascinated with your friends.”
“You mean my intimidating friends?” she says with a trace of a smile.
Getting her to smile makes me feel proud, like maybe I’m taking a step in the right direction of getting her to forgive me.
“I’ve decided they’re just intimidating to outsiders. They seem like good friends.”
“They are. They’ve always been there for me when I’ve needed them.”
“It’s good that you have that. I’m kind of jealous of you.”
“Of me?”
I twist in the chair, facing her. “Yeah. I just think it’d be nice to have friends I could tell anything to without worrying about them making fun of me.”
“I don’t tell them everything,” she utters softly. “Not because I think they’d make fun of me or anything—I know they’d never do that. There’s just some things I’m embarrassed of . . . like the thing you saw me do the other day.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about that, especially around me. I really do get it.” More than I want to tell you.
“Why I stole . . . It’s not as simple as you think it is.” Her head angles to the side as a contemplative look crosses her face. “Can I . . . ? Do you care if I . . . ?” She looks away from me. “Never mind.”
“No, go ahead. Say what you’re going to say. The guy who runs this thing is going to be here soon, anyway, and he’s going to ask everyone a shitload of questions.”
She immediately frowns. “Really?”
“But you don’t have to answer all of them if you don’t want to.”
“I wish I didn’t have to talk at all.”
“I think a lot of people here are the same way. It’s hard talking about problems, isn’t it?”
She nods, chewing on her bottom lip, bringing all of my focus to her mouth. Her lips look soft and natural, and I think I prefer the look over Piper’s heavily done lips. Every time we kiss, I end up getting lipstick all over, and it’s a pain in the ass to get off.
“How long have you been coming to these things?” she asks.
“A few weeks.” Should I say anything about why I’m here? Fuck it. She’s going to find out sooner or later. “I was caught stealing from Mountain Ridge Grocery, and the owner—Larry—said he wouldn’t press charges just as long as I came here.”
Her eyes widen in astonishment. “You were caught stealing?”
“It was really stupid. I don’t know why I thought I could get away with it. My shirt looked so bulky.”
“What’d you take?” she asks, mildly curious.
I pick at a tiny hole in the knee of my jeans. “Soda, chips, and a steak.”
She seems unfazed by my confession, which makes me wonder just how many times she has stolen.
“Is it . . . ? Was it the first time you ever stole?”
I nod. “What about you? Was that day at Benny’s your first time?”
She shakes her head with her lips fused.
“I’m sure you have a good reason for doing it, though,” I add.
She looks sad and regretful. “I think you think too highly of me. Everyone does. I’m not as good of a person as everyone thinks I am.”
“Or maybe you just don’t see yourself clearly because of other stuff.”
“What kind of other stuff?”
“I don’t know, like things your parents have said to you.” That my friends and I used to say to you. Why can’t I say it aloud? Just say, I’m sorry.
She opens and flexes her fingers as she stares down at the scars on her hands.
I open my mouth to apologize, but I can’t figure out the right words or if there are any right words. A simple sorry doesn’t feel right, not after all the stuff we did to her, the things we said. Logan even spread a rumor that her body was covered with the same scars she has on her hands. He never explained how he would possibly be able to know that, but no one cared. They only believed it.
“What happened?” I ask, grazing my fingers along her palm.
She shivers as her hand trembles.
“Sorry,” I quickly apologize, pulling away. “Do they hurt?”
“No, they’re just a little sensitive.” She stretches out her fingers. “Our house caught on fire when I was four, and I was stuck in my room for a while. I got them when I was crawling across the floor, trying to get out. There are a couple on my knees, too, but they’re really hard to see.”
“Holy shit! That had to be scary.”
“I can’t really remember what happened that well. Sometimes, when I’m asleep, I can remember crawling across the floor and someone scooping me up, but that’s about all.”
I reach out and trace my fingers along the scars again. “Did it hurt? I mean, when your hands were burned?”
“Yeah, it did. That part, I do remember.” She shudders from my touch again, but this time, I don’t pull away.
It’s not like I’ve never touched a girl like this before. I used to flirt a lot and was known as a touchy, feely kind of guy. Usually, girls flirted back. But Luna remains still, staring at my hands with a combination of fascination and tension.
I stroke her palm, wondering how long she’ll let me touch her like this before she pulls away. Hopefully, not for a while because I find the movement comforting, like we’re connecting somehow. Or maybe it’s because I’m having an actual, real conversation.
I ask, “How’d the fire start?”
She rips her gaze off my fingers on her palm. “From what my parents say, someone started a fire in the fireplace that spread through the house.”
My jaw drops to my knees. “So it was started intentionally?”
“That’s the story. The police never did find out who did it, though.”
“You say that like you don’t buy the whole story.”
“Sometimes I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know . . .” Her forehead furrows. “When I dream about what happened, I can sometimes remember being carried out of the house. The thing is, my parents say a fireman rescued me, but I swear it feel
s like I knew the person . . . I felt so safe in their arms . . .” She shakes her head. “But anyway, I’m probably just remembering things wrong because I was so little.”
I trace the tip of my finger down one of the longer, angular scars. “Have you ever told your parents about it?”
She nods. “They’re the ones who told me I’m probably remembering wrong. They said there was no way I could possibly remember something that happened when I was four years old and that I should just be glad the fireman pulled me out of the house. They do that a lot, though—try to tell me how I think.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “Have they always been that way? So . . . intense?”
“Pretty much.” She rotates in her seat so we’re both facing inward and our knees are only inches apart. “One of the first memories I have is of them collecting all my toys, bagging them up, and throwing them in the trash can. Then I got this big lecture on how I was too old to play with toys, and it was time to grow up and start learning to behave properly. I was five when she did that.”
“You were five? That’s fucking crazy. My younger sister’s eleven, and she still has a toy box and everything.”
“That’s just one of the many stories where I felt like I had to grow up too fast.” Her expression unexpectedly fills with worry. “I’m sorry for yammering your ear off. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this. I don’t usually talk about it with anyone except my friends, and that’s only because they’ve seen my parents do . . .” She flicks her wrist, motioning behind us where her parents reamed into her moments ago. “Well, what you saw them do.”
“I told you that you could talk to me. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. Besides, I like listening to you talk.” I like having an actual conversation that carries depth.
“Really? Why? My stories are so . . .”
“Real? Honest?”
“I was going to go with messed up.”
“Still, they’re real. I haven’t had a real conversation in a long time.” Since my father died. “Whenever I’m with my friends, they always want to talk about sports or who they screwed around with at last weekend’s party. And Piper . . . All she wants to talk about is the dance and what party we’re going to hit up—” I stop myself as Luna’s demeanor shifts. “Are you okay?”
Confessions of a Kleptomaniac Page 7