by Cassie Mae
***
The second the siren goes off, announcing the start of the paintball round, I zip to a pile of barrels and park my butt on the floor behind them, leaving Pete in my dust.
We’re against the ugly sweater ladies, and all of them seem like they’ve spent way too much time with their kids this Christmas season and are ready to let off some steam. One lady even pointed two fingers toward her eyes and then at me, like I better watch my back.
All this because I can’t get a little dirt on me? I’ll dive into a mud pit right now to get rid of this pounding in my chest, the shaking in my fingers, and the sudden urge to run to the nearest bathroom.
I pinch my eyes shut and rest my forehead against my weapon. “Please don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me.”
“We’re on the same team, weirdo.” Pete chuckles from above me, and I feel him slide to the floor, his bulky gear bumping against mine. “You gonna hide out here till the siren rings?”
“Probably,” I squeak. I’ve found my cocoon of safety in the middle of paint war, and parking here until the all clear sounds pretty good to me.
Pete pushes into a crouch, peering over the barrels. The scent of boy body wash floats in the air between us, and a buzz zaps through my fingers. “Ugly Sweater Squad seems to be strategizing,” he says, ducking back down. “You want to wait for them to come to us?”
“I want to leave.”
His signature hyena laugh tumbles out of him, and I give him a hard shove so he doesn’t give away our position.
“Shush, you.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” He plops on his butt, stretching his long legs out. I pat his knee, pushing it so he curls into a tight ball like me.
“They’re going to see your massive feet.”
“Good.”
“You want to lose?”
“I want you to get messy.”
I roll my eyes so hard a tiny headache pounds just over my eyebrows. I take a deep, shaky breath, blowing it out in spurts.
Pete bends his knees. “Where did you learn sign language?”
The question jolts my brain, unplugging my thoughts from impending paintball death and plugging in to my family.
“Huh?”
“Been curious all day.” He grins, his smile pushing against the goggles covering half his face. Pete seems to always have a perma-grin, but they’re all sort of different. This one I don’t see often, and it’s for when he’s not teasing me relentlessly.
I lean against the barrels, grateful they are nailed to the floor and don’t move an inch or make a sound.
“My mom’s deaf.” I keep my voice low. Those ladies will creep near us eventually. “I’ve been signing my whole life.”
His brows lift, and something sparkles behind his light brown eyes. Huh… I’ve always been a blue eyes girl. Hence another reason why Zach is super fine. But Pete’s eyes are pretty, too.
“You never mentioned that.”
“We don’t talk all that much about our families, do we?” I say it smug, teasing. Pete and I know the basics of each other, and I like sparring with him. But he had no idea I came from money until a week ago, and that’s kind of a huge part of why I am the way I am.
“Was that hard?” he asks. “I mean, did you have to interpret a lot for her when you were a kid?”
I shake my head, wincing at what I’m about to say. “Uh… we had an interpreter. Like, she was on the staff.”
“Oh, right.” Pink blossoms in his cheeks, and oh my adorableness. My heart flutters at the fact that maybe he thought I had a normal upbringing for a minute. Or if not normal, at least more of a struggle.
Oh to struggle with something besides my own personality. I’d trade all my money to live a life without fear.
Well… I guess I am paying for that.
“She doesn’t need an interpreter anymore.” I nudge him with my elbow. “She got a cochlear implant when I was twelve and three months.”
He smirks. “I give that accuracy a 9.2. You would’ve gotten higher marks if you had it down to the minute.”
I nudge him again. Harder this time.
“So, what’s a cochlear implant do? Does it cure it?”
“Not entirely, I don’t think. She can speak and hear now without leaning on sign language, but we catch ourselves doing it occasionally out of habit.”
He’s quiet for a second, and I wonder if he hears the Sweater Squad coming. I push my lips together and clutch my paintball gun to my chest.
“Damn, Candace.”
“Huh?”
“I can’t seem to make fun of any of that.”
A breathy laugh falls from my lips, and I shake my head at my feet. “You can’t live two seconds without giving me crap?”
“Can you?”
“I can go three.”
His shoulders move in silent laughter, and he checks up over the barrels again.
“Anyone?” I ask.
“Not yet.” He settles back down, his arm pressed against mine. I hope he keeps it there. Being alone is also on my list of fears, and physical contact helps squash that lonely feeling.
“So…” he says, adjusting his gun. “Will I meet her eventually during these lessons?”
“Doubtful.” I pull his leg in after it moves into the danger zone. “My parents are in Texas at the moment.”
“Vacation?”
“No… they live there.”
He jerks back. “Then who lives in that giant farmhouse?”
“No one right now.”
His thoughts push his eyebrows in, his lips getting scrunched. A wrinkle appears above the bridge of his nose. Oh here we go again with another “look.” I’m about to divulge just how much my parents are worth, and he’s going to give me that stupid gawk and a lifetime ban on seeing his apartment.
“Just how many houses do your parents have?” he manages to get out.
I sink lower behind the barrels. “Too many.”
“You were so specific with your twelve and three months.” He smirks, and that’s his teasing smile. Good, I can deal with that look. “Can’t give me a number?”
“Eleven.”
“Which one’s the biggest?”
“They’re all about the same size.”
“Which one’s your favorite?”
A slow smile spreads on my face. I didn’t expect the question or the interest. “Idaho.”
He makes a face, and I punch him.
“It’s a gorgeous place, you butt.”
“I’m sure it is.” He rubs his arm out. “Lots of potatoes.”
“Is that all you know of Idaho?”
“That’s all anyone knows of Idaho.”
“Careful.” I pat my paintball gun. “I’ve got a weapon. Badmouthing my hometown will get you a paintball to the rear.”
“Please,” he says too loudly, and I try to shush him, but he spreads his arms out and doesn’t lower his voice. “I’m begging you to take a shot at me.”
“We’re on the same team, weirdo,” I say, imitating his voice pretty badly.
He chuckles and stands up. I grasp the loose material on his thigh and tug.
“Get down!”
“Shoot me.” He sets his gun aside, leaning it against the barrels. “Go for it.”
“No.”
“Break a rule, Candace.” His smile transforms before my eyes, from teasing and playful to hopeful and excited. “Get messy. Make a mess.”
I shake my head hard, biting on the inside of my cheek. I can’t shoot him. One, we’ll get disqualified. Two, his coveralls were just washed, and watching paint splatter all over the fresh material may put me in a panic induced coma. And three, getting paint on him will in no way help me get Zach. Zach has already seen me dump paint everywhere and it impressed him zero percent.
Pete cocks his head, dropping his arms. They hit his sides with a flop, his coveralls loose on him. “Really? I’m giving you a chance to shoot me, and you’re not gonna take it?”
Ok
ay… his point is incredibly good. If the roles were reversed, I know I’d already be covered in paint from hemline to collar.
Something floods through me, like fresh paint oozing from a brand new bottle. Excitement pumps my heart, and I envision all sorts of playful scenarios that mix art and fun and mess. There’s paint spatter over every inch of the arena. Blue and green and orange and yellow and pink and white and gray all mix together in a permanent memory of teens battling it out, first dates, birthday parties, and ugly sweater parties. Pete suddenly looks completely out of place, standing there without any paint on him.
Pop!
Pete jerks backward, losing his footing for a split second. His eyes burst wide, and I feel mine form perfect circles, too.
A white paint glob that looks very close to bird poop covers his upper right shoulder. His eyes pull from the stain to me.
My finger shakes against the trigger, my weapon aimed right at him. I honestly don’t remember making the decision to do it.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. His proud smile pops onto his face. “You actually shot me.”
“You said I could!” I shout, scrambling to my feet, knowing what’s coming. I grapple for his weapon at the same time he lunges for it.
His elbow gets me in the shoulder. My hip pushes into his stomach. We’re a tangle of limbs and laughter as we fight for the gun. Paint pops around us, our weapons going off as we tumble and wrestle.
He smells like paint and mint and amusement and friendship, and my cheeks hurt from smiling, my voice turns sore from squealing.
“Give it!” Pete shouts.
“Never!”
His hand traps my wrist, and my helmet clocks his chin, sending a dull zap of pain through my brain.
“Oy… sorry.” I twirl around to inspect his chin, and lightning strikes in my abdomen.
His face is inches from mine—prime kissing position given anyone else. His goggles flipped off at some point during our wrestling match, and his light brown eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s still got a grip on my wrist, but he’s slowly moving his hand down to meet mine, palm to palm.
“You okay?” Holy cow, when did I get so out of breath?
He winces, moving his jaw with his free hand. “I’ll live. How’s the noggin?”
“If I get a concussion, I’m suing this helmet company,” I tease, and when his laughter escapes him, I get a fresh wave of his minty breath. He must’ve brushed his teeth recently. Maybe after he showered, before he came into work with me.
Oh boy… I haven’t brushed since this morning, and I had tacos for lunch.
I go to step away, but he pulls me back to where I was, his gaze focused on my helmet.
“Did your bony face dent it?” I tease, but it comes out wobbly. I’m not used to standing so close to him. I’m not used to smelling him… enjoying that smell. I’m not used to his hand in mine, making my palm sweaty in a fantastic and confusing way and my heart thud so loud I can barely hear my own internal voice telling me how dorky a person I am.
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. “Those stealthy gals.”
He lets my hand go, and a wave of cold hits my palm. I rub it on my coveralls as he gently unbuckles my helmet and pulls it from my head.
A bright pink paint stain covers the crown of the helmet. Holy crow… when in the world did those sweater moms get me?
“I didn’t even feel that.” I tap a finger to the paint, pulling it away pink. Yep, it’s fresh.
“Do I got pink on my chin?” Pete asks. I boldly grab his face and inspect, doing a thorough job just for the fun of it. A blush appears up and down his neck, flooding his cheeks, and I almost point out that he’s turning pink. But I don’t.
“All clear.”
He takes a deep breath, and before I can get a grasp on myself since I’m flooded with that stupid awesome mint scent, he takes a step back, hoisting up his weapon.
He plucks his goggles from the ground and awkwardly wiggles them on. They hang crooked on his nose, and he tries to stand straight and intimidating.
“I shall avenge you.”
I hold back a laugh as he takes off. A pink splat covers his butt. I guess he’s out too, but I think I’ll let the ol’ gals get a couple more shots in before I let him know.
Pete
“Explain something to me,” I say to Candace, clicking the Zombie Theater door shut for a group of preteens. The place is decked out in Christmas and horror décor; a Zombie Santa takes up half the entryway, and I scoot around his bloody bag of brains to lean against the graveside podium Candace stands behind.
“I’ll try,” she teases, swiveling on the stool she’s perched on. Pink and white paint dot her reddish-brown hair; the white shines under the blacklights in the room.
“So, you don’t like the color white.”
“I already explained that.”
“I know.” I smirk and prop myself up next to her. Our mics have been turned off while the theater’s going, but I still push it up so it’s not sitting just centimeters from my lips.
She follows suit. “Then what do I need to explain?” Her voice is upbeat, blissful almost. She has a smile behind her eyes, and it’s been there since we came out of the paintball zone.
“You also don’t like messes.”
“Uh huh…”
I knock my shoulder into hers. “Seems a bit contradictory, don’t you think?”
She bumps back into me. “No.”
“Explain.”
Her dark brown eyes meet mine, and the playfulness there sends a fresh zap through my gut that hasn’t really left since this morning. I suddenly feel the need to eye her hand resting on the podium, studying her manicured nails that have bits of white paint flecked on them. The corner of my mouth twitches. I like the tiny bit of mess she allowed herself today.
“You probably noticed that my fear of getting messy is at a level blue while the absence of color is at a measly orange.”
“Still don’t get why you’re afraid of both.” I pull my hand away from hers, shaking the temptation to tap the flecks of paint on her hands away. “If you saw something white, wouldn’t you make a mess of it?”
“Not a mess. A purposeful display of life, maybe. Like how a blank canvas needs a flawless painting.”
“Flawless, huh?”
“Well…” She pulls at the inside of her lip. She does that a lot. Never realized how adorable I find it. “I guess I’ll get used to the idea of imperfection.”
“Probably a good idea.” My fingertips move of their own accord, tapping the white paint flecks on her knuckles. “Imperfections are everywhere.”
A small gasp slips through her lips, and she starts rubbing at the paint with a fury. I chuckle at her sudden panic.
“Stop.” I pull her hands in mine. It’s purely to stop her and not because I want to hold her hand. Sure. “It’s cute.”
“It’ll come off, right?”
“In the next wash or two, yeah.” Paintball ammo is water-based; she’s gotta know that.
I ease my hands back, but she snatches my left wrist. Her eyes skate over the pink and white paint spatter covering my palm, and my eyes skate over her face—the pull of her brows, the frayed hair spilling from her Troublemakers cap, and that damn freckle.
A lump forms in my throat, and I force a swallow around it.
“You’ll probably need ten washes,” she teases, releasing my hand… and me from whatever trance that was.
“Good thing pink is my color.”
She knocks my shoulder with hers, and a round of screams sound through the Zombie Zone. I lift my eyes to the screens hanging above the theater entrance. They’ve gotten to the big boss zombie. I hop from my stool and get ready to let them out while Candace preps the next group.
We’ve got a good groove going here. Candace and I have worked with each other enough to know who’s best where, and since she’s a stickler for the rules, she’s got the introduction to the theater rules memorize
d, while I usually wing it and forget something important. I’m much better with letting them in and out, announcing the high-score and giving the winner a ticket for a free ice cream at the snack shop.
We weren’t even supposed to work together today… or any day this week minus tomorrow. But she switched her schedule around so we’ve spent every day together since Wednesday. I’ve been pulling doubles to keep some of my weekend open for her lessons, so I’m pretty much dead on my feet.
But the six hours I get with her on the clock haven’t been so bad. Entertaining at the very least, and hilarious at the very most.
The red light that indicates zombie killing is a go flashes, telling me that it’s time to pop in and get the theater cleared out. I pull my mic back into place.
“Good job, survivalists,” I say, my enhanced voice booming over all the laughter and chatter. Smiles adorn most of the faces, including the high-scorer—a preteen girl the size of Demi with a grin just as large. “You defeated the big bad Zombie Santa before he could deliver a gruesome Christmas. Yeah!”
I high-five a kid in the front row, and cheers and laughter fill the room. It’s a good group.
“Should we see who our top scorer is?” I say, taking a few steps back from the screen. The reel plays back the last thirty seconds of the game. When the zombie crashes to the ground, a snapshot of the girl fills the screen.
A few defeated groans echo around me, but they are cut short with the booming cheers from the girl’s friends—or from what it looks like, siblings. An older brother and sister, leaning over their seats to wrap her up in a hug. Shock and excitement fill her big eyes, and I’m a damn softy, wishing suddenly I had Demi and Mad in here, too.
“Congratulations, survivor,” I say, walking to the second row, second seat in. I reach over her brother and hand the free ice cream ticket, and with the look on her face, it’s like I handed her the key to the city. “Enjoy the spoils.”
Her brother squeezes her tight—he’s gotta be fifteen, sixteen at the most. I finish addressing the group as a whole, instructing them on how to holster their guns and how to exit in an orderly fashion out the left side of the theater. But my brain is on the winner and her siblings, and I wonder if they’ve got good parents out there waiting for them. If maybe their parents paid for them to be here. If they don’t have to worry about holiday presents, rent, bills, groceries…