Facing Us (Kids of the District #1)

by Nicci Harris

  This jealousy thing is new to me, and it’s nothing short of irritating. I rub her beautiful arm, and then turn to walk outside to get some air. My legs move faster than normal, and to a common observer, I probably appear to be rushing away from a fight. Perhaps I am. The fight is in my head, but still.

  He’s kissed her. There is this whole side of her life I know nothing about. How many guys has she been with? How many guys have kissed her? My Liz. My girl. She has this whole past that I hadn’t even contemplated. I bum a cigarette off a friend and find a spot alone. I press the cigarette to my lips and replace carbon dioxide with nicotine. Then I chase the ashy taste I dislike with the bourbon that’s sloshing around in my glass.

  “Hi?”

  I tilt my head in the direction of the voice and rest it on the pillar behind me.

  It’s Willow. Her hair swirls in the wind, and her strut towards me is provocative. Her hips swing like a pendulum and the light from the hall is making her silhouette’s movement way too stimulating to the guy who hasn’t had sex in over a week. There are three of her right now and all three look… good. I try to stabilise myself by gripping the pillar behind me with one hand. “Willow, right?”

  “Konnor, what are you doing outside, all alone?” she purrs.

  “Getting drunk. You?” I mumble.

  She bats her long lashes at me and coos, “Looking for someone to get drunk with.” Willow’s eyes sparkle as a slow sexy smile spreads across her face, and I could spot that look anywhere. That’s the fuck me look.

  I am so drunk. I am so horny. Blesk...

  I straighten and walk away from her, ignoring her when she calls me back. I am way too drunk. I can barely focus on walking straight, let alone anything else. Once I see my Duchess, I begin to stumble in her direction. She smiles at first, then must have noticed the glazed look in my eyes and the irregular rhythm of my feet, because she rushes over to me, wraps her arm around my waist and walks with me outside. She helps me down onto the step before positioning herself beside me with a little sigh.

  She places her hand on my leg and peers at me. “You okay?”

  My elbows meet my knees, my head hangs between my legs, and I focus on breathing. “When did I get so drunk?”

  She giggles and rubs my leg. “You’ve been inhaling drinks since we got here.”

  “Blesk, Duch, I’m freaking out. About Max. About you. About us.”

  “I’m twenty. I’ve kissed boys, Konnor.”

  “How many boys?” I comb my fingers through my hair, and rub my temples, feeling tightness through my forehead.

  I don’t want to know… yes, I do.

  She sighs, her warm breath bringing colour to the crisp air. “Ummm, maybe six.”.”

  “Not me,” I huff before I can stop the words from coming out.

  Don’t talk to her like that, dickhead.

  “I’m sorry, Duch. Sometimes I’m an Arsehole when I’m drunk.”

  There is silence beside me while I stare at the pavement, shuffling the dirt with my sneakers. I’m glad I can’t see her face right now, it seems to undo me, and if I saw even a glimpse of hurt in her eyes in response to my previous tone, I would want to rip my own head off. And I need my head.

  Despite my lack of knowing how to use it sometimes.

  I look up at her. “Duch?”

  Her lips curve up slowly as she asks, “Do you want to kiss me?”

  I hold my breath for a second and then release it in a rush. “God, yes!”

  She moves her head closer to me and her breath hits my lips. The smell of peaches overwhelms my senses. “Like this?” she whispers. “Now?”

  Sitting up I grab her nape, and pull her into me, brushing my mouth along hers. A small gasp escapes her, and she waits, letting me take complete control. Our lips barely touch, but her panting matches mine. I want to kiss her. I also want to remember it.

  You’re too drunk, Konnor.

  I watch her line of sight drop to see my hand entwining with hers, and then I pull her up. I stagger a little. She catches me around the waist, laughing. Then we walk, stumble, stagger, jog, whatever you want to call it, towards the middle of the field that surrounds the hall. It’s damn cold. I pull off my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders, covering the tiny amount of fabric she has over her. As I slump down onto the grass with a loud exhale and pull her down with me, she leans into me with a sigh.

  “I’m not used to feeling jealous,” I admit, attempting to explain my behaviour. “If a girl doesn’t want me, well, then, whatever.” I smirk at her. “Not that it’s ever happened.”

  “So modest,” she says with a giggle.

  We stare up at the stars sparkling and glistening in the black dome above us. Our breath steams the air and the scent of freshly mowed grass fills my nose. Besides the subtle drumming and murmuring coming from the hall to our side, there is no noise, no presence or person other than us. We share several comfortable moments of silence and listen to the sounds of each other breathing. Her hair is still pinned delicately above her head, and when she turns to stare at me, her eyes are heavy-lidded; she may be a little drunk too. The urge to touch her is too strong. Her neck, and chest are exposed and covered in goose bumps, and I’m crazy in love with that section of her skin.

  Flipping onto my side, I memorise the curves of her torso with my fingers, trailing the beating vein in her neck, towards the dimple where her collarbone meets her chest, and over the fleshy mound where the fabric of her dress meets her breasts. She swallows hard, but lets me study her, touch her. I want to tuck my hand into her bra and squeeze, feeling her nipple tighten in my palm. She quivers beneath my fingers, and I love that I can make her body respond that way. I look up from where my finger lingers on her plump chest, to meet her sexy glistening eyes, and the breath is squeezed from me.

  Fuck.

  I want her so bad.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, smiling coyly, “for today. It was… perfect.”

  Her words fill my heart. “I want every day to be perfect for you,” I say. “But it isn’t over yet.” I roll onto my back and twist my face to look at her, focusing my thoughts to our final promise. “Scream.”

  Her face tightens. “What?”

  “Scream,” I state. “It’s on our list.”

  She looks at me with wide hesitant eyes and shakes her head over and over. “No way.” I chuckle and turn to the sky, then howl excessively loudly up to the moon. She slaps me in the stomach and laughs. Her body vibrates with the sounds of joy.

  “You’re so corny.” She curls onto her side, watching me watching her.

  “Go on, Duch, do it,” I press, pulling her legs off the grass so they drape over me.

  “O… kay,” she mocks in that silly tone I adore. Her hand rests on my chest as she answers my call with a much cuter howl. “Howw Howw Howwwwwwlllll!!!”

  THIRTEEN: Liz

  The girl glares at her reflection, wondering at what age she will be beautiful. She glances at the photo of her mother stuck to the side of her mirror and then back to herself. Her hair is always a nest woven together like barrels of hay, strands dead on the ends. She narrows her eyes, turning to the side to see if she has developed yet. Nothing. With a sigh, she moves towards the mirror and opens her swollen eye up, tightening the skin around the bruise until her face appears slightly less puffy.

  Why can’t I be beautiful?

  Lately the girl has felt strange. Different. She wants to look beautiful, and she wants Kon to say she is, even if she blushes, and tells him he’s gross… she still wants to hear it. When she is at school, she thinks about him. She thinks about him all the time. The girl knows he can’t wait until he is allowed to go to school, too. He loves the idea of learning. With education, he can be anything he wants to be. Not a dog. Anything he wants. When he was six, he pretended he was a firefighter. When he turned seven, he pretended to be an explorer, discovering things all over the world, like untouched mountains and desert scapes. When he was eight, he preten
ded to be a sports star running around under the sun on an oval made of green and gold. Now that he is nine he wants to make sure every kid can learn and be anything they want to be; he wants to be a teacher. The girl wonders what he will want to be next year…

  She watches her bunny slippers slide across the floorboards, their floppy ears bouncing with each step. She giggles. She walks into the old kitchen and begins to make dinner. Three bowls first. Pasta. Cheese. Milk. Butter. The girl knows how to make a meal on a budget even though she is only eight. It has been her responsibility to prepare meals since she could reach the stove. Pasta is only fifty cents a bag and will feed four adults. It lasts a few days. She can get cheese and butter for only five dollars; they last a week. Milk is a luxury. The man at the deli gives her the expired stuff for one dollar, however, she boils it up with the cheese and butter, and never has a problem. Her favourite meal is mac and cheese, and it only costs six dollars and fifty cents to make.

  Mrs Renalds from two streets over lets the girl take a few cobs of corn during the season from her corn field. Kon loves sweet corn straight from the cob or in mac and cheese. The girl likes making him happy. He is her little secret—she knows something isn’t quite right about their situation. It has been four years since he came to be her brother. Her father told her he was allergic to the sun and if it ever saw him then it would burn him to a crisp. The boy is safe in the cage, under the ground, away from the rays. She is safe, too. And they are together.

  She remains silent and inconspicuous as she slides onto the brown futon and flicks the television on, desperately trying not to disturb the man who is passed out on the recliner with his highball clutched in his hand. She presses the mute button and switches the channel to the nightly news, peering at her father every so often to assess his state. He is snoring loudly. The girl wonders if all men snore. She isn’t allowed to watch the news. Her dad says she has a soft heart and the news will corrupt her. She loves the news. The girl shovels the mac and cheese into her mouth, the sweetness of the corn exploding as she pops the kernels between her molars and watches the inaudible program.

  Suddenly she is rendered frozen, shell-shocked by the images on the television. The girl all but stops breathing, unsure of what she is looking at. Or why her body wants to break apart. Or who she is looking at. Or who… Then she knows.

  His face.

  She blinks at the screen. His face. The girl sits up immediately and, without her conscious consent, her fingers rub the volume key until she can hear the voice speaking. A knot rolls down her throat. Her body tightens as she listens. And stares. At Kon’s face on the television.

  “Nerrock Missing and Beyond is an annual charity event that raises funds to assist with services necessary when a child goes missing, including law assistance and travel,” the voice says.

  “The boy who inspired this affluent event is none other than the famous Deakon Nerrock, son of Dustin and Madeline Nerrock, who went missing four years ago without a trace. Last year, just after the death of Madeline Nerrock, the charity CEO—"

  She still can’t move.

  His face.

  Kon.

  Deakon.

  Missing.

  Why can’t I breathe?

  She tries to suck air in, but something is stopping it. Then the girl realises her hand is tightly clasped over her mouth. She blinks at her brother’s face and slowly unfolds her fingers. Air inflates her lungs in a rush, as she gasps at it. Heaves.

  His isn’t my brother.

  Thud.

  A rough hand slams into the back of her head, her neck wrenches forward, her vision dims, and she hits the floor, face crushed against the carpet. A metallic taste fills her mouth.

  Like a snake suffocating its prey, her father’s hand encircles her ankle, and the carpet burns her cheeks as she is pulled backwards along it. The girl knows what is happening, but she is too dizzy from his face, from the hit, from the truth, to react.

  He isn’t my brother.

  Moments pass as she lies limp, being dragged into her father’s room. Then she remembers what she heard: The truth about who he is and what her father has done. What she has done. A gut-curdling scream crawls up her throat. She begins to fight back. With her voice. With her cries. With her clenched fists and kicking legs. For the first time, she fights. For Kon.

  FOURTEEN: Blesk

  I’ve never watched anyone sleep before. His eyes flicker around under his heavy lids, and his incredible mouth twitches every so often. I gently stroke his cheek then run my fingers through his hair. I study its exact shade. It’s light brown, the perfect kind of brown that flashes natural highlights in the sun. His cheeks are a little stubbly, and I think I like them that way. I use my finger to smooth out the frown he has fallen asleep with, but it quickly forms again. He’s a worrier.

  We are sharing a pillow facing each other, our legs tangled together. We fell asleep talking. He babbled to me about his life, stories of snowboarding trips to Falls Creek, running amuck around The District when he was a teen, camping adventures, Bali holidays, and backpacking around Europe with a mate from New Zealand. I felt a sense of relief knowing his life has flourished.

  He told me about the significance of the places he took me to yesterday, and all about Cassidy and Flick, and how they brought him out of his shell. He shared lessons the wise Ben Slater, his adoptive father, taught him, to help him learn from his past and use it to build strength in himself. He told me his mission is to make me fall in love with him, and that I don’t stand a chance.

  Funny, as if I’m an opponent. How could he know that I am? If only he were just Konnor Slater. Yesterday we finished Liz and Deakon’s story together, and I played the part, and it was the most perfect day of my life. Yet when we went to sleep, and I heard him mumble, “I love you, Liz,” as he drifted off, the whole truth of this reality came crashing down on me. He loves Liz. Not me. I don’t want to be loved for another person, especially one I hate.

  If only he loved Blesk, just Blesk. He doesn’t know anything about me: how I go off the deep end, how I can’t handle confrontation . . . how much his presence makes me dislike myself. He looks at me like I’m some kind of mythical creature, and I’m not; I am just plain old Blesk. Blesk, who does more damage than good. When Konnor looks at me, his eyes are unwavering, and there is too much pressure in them. He talks like our forever is set in stone. He is too much and so are his expectations of me. I tried to be who he wants me to be, but I’m not Liz. More than that, I don’t want to be. So, if being with him means being her, then I just . . . can’t.

  Dearest Konnor,

  Being with you is like living in a dream. Every moment we are together I feel like someone else. You are everything I dreamed you’d be, and then some. And most nights I did dream about you. Your life is beautiful and warm, just like you. There is nothing stopping you now from being everything you want to be. How you have taken yourself from that poor boy and turned into this man . . . You are a miracle. You’re my hero boy, Konnor!

  If I could be what my parents wanted me to be, then perhaps I could be with you. If I could be what you want me to be, then I could be with you. But I am none of those things. I am broken inside and I can barely manage to be a complete person. You deserve someone who can flourish with you in your amazing life, with your amazing friends and family. You don’t have to have tragedy in your world anymore, Konnor. You are free of it! You got out! I didn’t, and I will destroy all the progress you have made.

  I am not her. Not anymore. It took me years to break away from her so I could live the remnants of a normal life, and when I am with you, she is all around us. She is in every look you give me. In every smile. You see her. Not me.

  Yesterday was the greatest day of my life, and nothing will ever change that.

  I promise you will thank me one day.

  I’m sorry.

  XO,

  Blesk

  This point in my life right now, as I exit Konnor’s apartment building after
leaving him asleep with a note under his alarm clock, is the lowest. Tears stream out from under my sunglasses as I stride back towards my campus dormitory. Needing something other than the conflict torturing my mind to stimulate me, I call Elise.

  “Wally, my sweet, sweet, crazy, Wally, what’s up?” She answers with a lot of pep and I love her for that.

  Saturday night we spent hours watching chick flicks, including The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I told Elise about the significance of that movie, our movie, and our friendship. She loved it. She has been calling me Wally ever since because according to her I make silly decisions. We also talked a lot about Konnor. She said it was a fairy-tale romance, and that most girls could only ever dream of such a love. And perhaps that’s true. Most great romances are a mixed genre, mystery —and tragedy.

  ✽✽✽

  “I just ended things with Konnor.” Silence. Crickets. I can imagine her face.

  She sighs. “Are you being a Wally, Wally?”

  I hail a taxi and cross the street to meet it in the strip lane, putting my phone momentarily in my pocket. I speak through the window, “St Bernard’s Hospital, please.” He nods and gestures to the backseat.

  “BLESK! DO. NOT. GET. IN. THAT. TAXI!” I hear Elise’s strangely articulate yell coming from my handset.

  Putting the phone back to my ear, I prepare myself for the impending disapproval. “I need to check on him.”

  I hear a displeased huff escape from her. “Not without me. I’m walking out now. I have a class at ten and so do you, so we will be back by then. What the hell? Why would you break things off with Konnor? He adores you!”

  “He’s too good for me. He doesn’t adore me; he adores that little girl. She was pure, and I’m damaged goods, trust me. There is no way—”

  “I know you feel like it was your fault, but it wasn’t. You were a child, Blesk! There is no way it is your fault,” she chimes in with a hint of exasperation.

  “He’s too good for me,' I insist. "I am a complete head case. I swear, I’m protecting him. He will realise one day when it’s too late that I’ve been a drain on his life.” A sigh filled with pain and regret escapes me. “Just like I was for Er—”