Off Limits Collection

by Jane Anthony

  I turn my back to the secretary and twist my fingers in the spiral chord. “Hey, Dad. It’s me.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine. Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be late today.”

  “Where are you going?”

  My brain rolls through all the possible excuses I could come up with. Fast at first, spinning like the wheel on the Price is Right, until it slows down on one, the single thought that flies from my mouth. “I’m sticking around to tutor a student who’s failing math.”

  “What time will you be home?”

  “I’ll be back before dinner.”

  “Okay. You come straight home. No dilly dallying like you did yesterday.”

  “Promise,” I lie, before saying goodbye and hanging up. “Thank you,” I tell the secretary on my way out.

  Anthony grins as I emerge from the school and saunter toward him. “I’m ready.”

  “I’ll call you later, Gabs.” Maribelle links her arm around my neck and pulls me in for a quick hug.

  “K,” I tell my friend, then drop into Anthony’s waiting car.

  This time of day, The Grind is filled with high school kids like me, donning their Z. Cavs and Bugle Boy Jeans, Reebok high tops with unstrapped Velcro. This stupid uniform is a Scarlet Letter. A Saint Mary’s fairy, a goodie-goodie Catholic girl stepping into a public school hang out. Thing is, I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what anybody thinks. I fluff my curls, sauntering into the coffee shop with my head held high.

  Fuck ’em all.

  Tables and chairs line the black-and-white checkerboard floor, a mismatched array of furniture that was most likely a well-thought-out attempt at appearing flea market fantastic.

  We weave through, scanning the space for one that’s empty. A lone table sits in the corner. Anthony takes my hand and escorts me to it, then pulls out a chair for me to sit. “Do you come here a lot after school?” he asks, taking a seat across from me.

  Reaching into my bag, I extract my pack of cigarettes from the secret pocket inside. “Never,” I admit, slipping the filter between my lips and going back for a lighter.

  But Anthony’s hand falls on my wrist. “I got it,” he says, drawing a dark blue Bic from his pocket. The flame bursts from his fingers the way it did that very first night.

  The tip crackles and burns as I lean into it, sucking the smoke into my lungs. “Thanks.” I tip my head back and blow a stream into the air. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “Nah.”

  “Then why the lighter?”

  He peers across the table, pinning me in his dark stare. “I knew you’d need it.”

  My raised fingers hover over my mouth. “You bought a lighter just for me?”

  He shrugs as if my utter shock is uncalled for. “Is that weird?”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “I’m hoping to change that,” he mutters as a woman with a half-shaved head and missing eyebrows approaches our table.

  She stands on her hip, holding a little pad in her black-tipped fingers. “What can I get ya?”

  He plucks one of two menus from between the miniature vase of fake flowers and napkin holder and splits it with his thumbs. “Just a coffee. Black.”

  “Witches Brew.”

  With a curt nod, she spins and stalks away from the table.

  Anthony looks up through thick lashes. “What the hell is that?”

  A smile spreads across my lips. “It’s cinnamon coffee and hot cocoa.”

  “Interesting flavor combo.”

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  He sits back in his chair, threading his hands behind his head. Raven locks graze his shoulders and curl around both ears. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without the ponytail, and I can’t stop myself from wondering how all that thick hair would feel cascading over me as he lays me down.

  “Tell me something about you, Gabriella.”

  The melody of my name sliding off his tongue makes my heart flutter in my chest. It’s like a song, the syllables dancing over his deep baritone in highs and lows. I suck at the end of my cigarette, hoping to smother the feeling with copious amounts of nicotine but find it’s no use. The man has me all tied up in knots.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  I exhale a nervous giggle. “You’re kind of intense, you know that?”

  “Am I?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Life is too short to fuck around.”

  His statement makes me think of my mother. She barely made it past her twenty-fifth birthday. Sometimes I think about what was going through her head in those last days as she clung to life. Was she content? Regretful? I wonder how long it will be before the inevitable end comes knocking on my door next. I feel it simmering in my blood. The silent decay of death festering in my genetic makeup. It’s only a matter of time, but when that day comes, I don’t want any regrets looming over me.

  “I know what you mean.”

  When the waitress returns with our drinks, I’m grateful for the distraction. Anthony’s brings up feelings inside me I’ve worked very hard to slam closed. I can’t bring her back, and I can’t change the impending future.

  The sweet smell of cinnamon and chocolate wafts from my oversized cup. “Have a sip,” I offer, sliding the mug across the table’s shiny surface.

  He takes a small sip, then licks his lips with a husky “mmm” as he sets it back down on the saucer. “That’s really fuckin’ good.” He chuckles.

  “Told ya.” I weave my fingers through the handle and press my hand along the side, letting the warmth soak into my skin. Bringing it to my mouth, I take a swallow before answering his earlier question. “My favorite color is yellow. My favorite band is Bon Jovi. And my dad is a nightmare to live with.”

  Anthony’s cup stops short of his chin. “In what way?”

  “When I said he was strict, I wasn’t kidding. He’s like the gestapo. It’s why I can’t give you my number. If you call the house and he hears your voice . . .” Anxiety wraps itself around my throat. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Knowing my dad is a psycho is only going to scare him off. Maybe that’s for the best.

  “You’re not allowed to date?”

  “I’m barely allowed to leave the house.”

  “Where does he think you are now?”

  “Tutoring.”

  Anthony blows out a long whistle.

  I throw my hands in the air as if slinging confetti. “And I’m a virgin. And I’ve never had a boyfriend. And you’re only the third guy I’ve ever kissed. And you probably never want to see me again after all this, and that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to see me either.”

  “Hey.” He reaches over the table and wraps his thick fingers around my wrist. “Don’t put words into my mouth.”

  The warmth of his hand stops my insane outburst. He’s only touching my arm, but I feel it wrap around my entire body. It snakes up my spine and tickles the base of my skull so much it raises my shoulders.

  “I don’t care about your dad. I don’t care about your past or lack thereof — we all have shit to contend with. None of that matters to me. I still want to see you.”

  “Why?” My voice cracks as I croak out the single word.

  “I like you. You’re spunky and cute, and I think we could have a good time together. That is, if you want to see me again.”

  I swallow hard, the coffee-cocoa concoction churning in my gut. “I do,” I admit on a sigh.

  “Well good,” he says with a lopsided grin that tugs at my heart. “Got a pen?”

  I side-eye him warily as I reach into my bag and pull out a pen. He plucks it from my outstretched fingers, then turns my palm up. “You’re a little rebel, right? If I can’t call you, then you call me.”

  Staring down at the seven little digits etched into the skin, I can’t help but think this is the start of nothing but trouble, but the n
iggling at the base of my spine also tells me he may be the first step to a contented life.

  Chapter Six

  GABRIELLA

  Warm wind rustles my thin cotton top as I round the corner of my street. My shoes clack on the pavement, the sun heating my neck, but none of it registers over the timbre of Anthony’s husky baritone whispering in my ear or the feel of his lips on my skin.

  I pull in a deep sigh and let it out slowly as I open the screen door. “I’m home!” I call, moving to the stairs, but my dad catches me midflight.

  “You’re late.”

  Swallowing the taste of Anthony’s kiss, I hold the old wooden banister for support as the lie I’ve been telling rolls across the sweet flavor. “Tutoring. I told you.”

  “You’ve been tutoring the same student almost every day after school for months.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod. “Public school. You said it yourself. Second-rate education. I’m doing my part for a better tomorrow.”

  Dad offers a wary side-eye. “I think you’ve given that student enough of your time. If he doesn’t know the material by now, he’s a lost cause.”

  “That’s not very Christian of you. Jesus never gave up on the lepers.”

  He purses his thin lips and narrows his gaze. “I don’t care for your sarcastic tone,” he snaps, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You have your own studies to worry about.”

  “Dad, I’m a senior.”

  Wrinkles form across his dark brows. “And?”

  “I don’t have to study anymore.”

  “The work doesn’t stop just because school does.”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Apparently, it stops when you get shot in the shoulder.”

  A lethal look rolls across his face. He pulls a deep breath into his lungs, his nostrils flaring seconds before he blows it back out.

  Four years ago, 911 took a domestic violence call on my dad’s shift. Officer Donofrio, on the scene. He burst into the house where a man and wife were in the midst of a heated argument. The guy drew his gun, Dad drew his. Simultaneous shots fired.

  Dad was the only one who lived to tell the tale.

  Officer Donofrio. A local hero.

  “It never stops when you’re a parent,” he growls under his breath. “Go get washed up for dinner.”

  Turning away, I stomp up the stairs and plop on my bed. The day he retired was the day my life ended. That single gunshot changed everything. He left the force and glommed onto me like mold. Like, I get it. I do. If he died, I’d become a ward of the state, but couldn’t he have just taken a desk job? Something that gives him a life of his own so he isn’t constantly worried about mine?

  Two quick rings blast through the room. I roll my head toward the shrill cry as the clear-cased phone on my nightstand flashes neon. “Talk to me,” I say upon answering.

  “Jesus, bitch, it’s about time you got home.”

  The sound of Maribelle’s voice brings a smile to my face. “You too? I just got the riot act from my dad. It’s a damn good thing he thinks public school kids are stupid, or I’d be up shit’s creek.”

  “Another fun-filled afternoon with the Big Ragu, huh?”

  I stifle my laughter. “You’re terrible.” Rolling to my stomach, I switch the phone to my opposite ear. “He is, like, the sweetest guy I’ve ever met, Mar. My chest hurts just thinking about him.”

  “How does your crotch feel?”

  “Ew!” I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “You’re so gross.”

  She gasps. “Tell me you’ve spent two months pulling tongue with this guy, and he hasn’t even dipped a finger in the promised land yet.”

  Goose bumps dot my arms. “It’s not like that. We talk and we laugh—”

  “Make out in the secret like refugees.”

  “That too,” I reply with a wistful sigh. “How did you know when you were ready to . . .” Trailing off, I attempt to collect jumbled my thoughts, but Maribelle jumps in for me.

  “Are you thinking about having sex with him?”

  I drop my face into my hand. “I don’t know. I mean . . . maybe? Ugh. I’m so confused.”

  “What happened to ‘waiting for marriage’?” She impersonates my voice, mocking my juvenile plan to hold my virginity as long as humanly possible. I know it sounds silly to someone who dropped her V-card on the merry-go-round in broad daylight, but I just want my first time to be sort of special. “If you wanna do it, go do it.”

  “But how do I know if it’s right?”

  “It’s not that big of a deal, Gabs. Just get it over with.”

  My name bellows under the door. I kick off my shoes, then toe off the ridiculous socks I’m forced to wear before kicking to a sitting position to unbutton my blouse. “It’s kind of a big deal.” Holding the phone against my ear and shoulder, I wriggle out of my pleated skirt and throw on a denim one, hopping around to avoid getting slapped by the cord.

  “It’s just sex. You’re gonna have a lot of it in your lifetime, believe me.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see about that. I gotta go. My dad is calling me to dinner.”

  “What’s he making?”

  I crack open the door and sniff the air. “Smells like garlic. Maybe spaghetti?”

  “Yum. Bitch, I’m coming over. Wait for me.”

  A nervous giggle dies on my tongue as the line clicks silent. I drop the handset onto the base and swipe a Bon Jovi tee off the floor, throwing it over my head as I venture out into the hall and down the stairs.

  “Maribelle’s on her way over,” I say, sauntering into the kitchen.

  My dad chucks a look over his shoulder. “Now?”

  I open the cabinet and pull down an extra plate. “Um . . . and I’ll probably go to her house after dinner, if that’s okay.”

  “Hmph,” he replies, stirring the huge pot of sauce on the stove.

  The savory smells of garlic, onion, tomato, and basil swirl about the tiny kitchen. My stomach churns like the bubbling pots. I sidle up beside him to fish out a noodle, then tip my head back, letting it coil onto my tongue. “C’mon, Dad. It’s Friday night.”

  “Fine,” he concedes with a sigh. “But I want you back by curfew.”

  I lift the forked spoon from the counter and stir the spaghetti. “About that. I’m gonna be eighteen in a couple of weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . um . . . I thought maybe we can reopen the curfew discussion again.”

  His head rotates on his neck like a wise old owl. “Ten o’clock is an adequate curfew for a young girl.”

  My stomach clenches, but I hold back my ire. Attempting to discuss this like a mature adult is the only way I’ll ever get him to see me as one. “I’m not a young girl anymore. In a few weeks, I’ll be old enough to die for my country, but I can’t stay out past the streetlights. It’s not fair.”

  He winces. “We’ll talk about it closer to your birthday.” Which is dad speak for conversation closed.

  Just as well. The doorbell chimes before I have a chance to respond. I yell, “Come in!” from my spot at the stove.

  Maribelle struts onto the yellow and orange linoleum as if she lives here. Heart-shaped sunglasses perch the tip of her nose. She pushes them up and rests them on the lime green scrunchy atop her head. “Greetings and salutations, Donofrios!”

  “Hey, just in time.” I point at my shoulder, silently begging her to adjust the fallen neckline of her cutoff sweatshirt.

  With an understanding nod, she tugs on the fabric to even it. “Smells delicious. Thanks for having me for dinner, Mr. D.”

  “Thanks for inviting yourself,” he quips, then motions to me. “Grab the colander.”

  Doing as I’m told, I grab the colander from the cabinet and rest it in the sink, then take it upon myself to dump the pasta pot. Steam rushes from the metal bowl, leaving droplets of condensation on the window above. I stand back, letting it dissipate before plating three helpings. Dad finishes by adding the sauce, and we all settle down at the
table together.

  Dad, Maribelle, me . . . and the empty place setting he sets for my dead mother.

  Now, before you start ordering up a straitjacket, hear me out. He doesn’t put food on it or include her in the conversation. He’s not that crazy. There isn’t a doll upstairs with her clothes on it or anything. At least, not that I know of. He just feels as though setting a place for her at the dinner table is a way to honor her memory.

  It will also ensure that my dad never gets a date again.

  It’s weird, but, whatever, it makes him feel good. Love makes people do crazy things sometimes. I often wonder what their relationship was like. It’s bizarre, really. We live with her presence haunting every room, yet he refuses to even utter her name.

  “So, what do you girls have planned for tonight?”

  “Oh, we’ll probably rent a movie. Mr. De La Cruz got a new VCR for the den.”

  With a lifted brow, Maribelle looks straight at me as another lie crests across my tongue.

  “That’s nice,” my dad replies, twisting his fork against a spoon to get a nice coil of spaghetti. “Sony?”

  “Top of the line,” she answers. “You’re sleeping over, right?”

  I lift my gaze and lock on Maribelle’s pointed glare seconds before it falls to her plate.

  “You didn’t say anything about a sleepover, Gabriella.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I mumble.

  “I don’t know why you feel the need to keep information from me. If you want to spend the night at your friend’s house, you should be forthcoming with that information instead of pussyfooting around it. If you want me to treat you like an adult, you need to learn to act like one.”

  Heat rolls up my neck and settles into my cheeks. “Yes, sir,” I acquiesce. “So, can I sleep over Maribelle’s tonight then?”

  “No. I’d prefer you home in your own bed.”

  Maribelle pulls her lips together as I recover from the embarrassing display of parental bullshit that went down right in front of her.