Fight Or Flight (Tempted Series Generation 2.0)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Thatta boy,” Riggs praises. He turns to me and shoves the money into my jacket pocket. “Mr. Miyagi likes pepperoni on his pizza.”

  “Come on, Karate Kid,” I say, holding up the key ring. “I’m driving.”

  And for the first time in months, I let myself be a normal teenage girl.

  Butterflies and all.

  Ten

  Eric

  I survived three days without getting too close to Brooklyn. I set my alarm to make sure I woke up and showered a half hour before everyone else in the house. I got breakfast on my way to school and avoided dinner with the family by picking up extra hours at Kate’s. Before retiring to the basement, I pack a cooler with snacks too. I even skipped smores and when my crazy father told me to paint the fence while simultaneously waxing his car, I grabbed a paintbrush and a rag and ran outside—no questions asked and let’s be real for a minute, I probably should’ve asked why he had me switching from waxing to painting. At one point I got so confused I painted his car and waxed the fence.

  The point is, I did it all for nothing because I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Joss’ car watching as Brooklyn’s knuckles go white from clutching the steering wheel. It should also be noted that she hasn’t actually started the engine. That’s right, we’re still parked outside the house, not moving, and I’m being attacked by the scent of her perfume or maybe it’s her shampoo. I don’t know, but whatever it is smells delicious.

  I should’ve listened to Danny and called Jade, but the idea of a repeat isn’t as appealing as one would think. It’s actually worrisome if you think about it. I’m seventeen. I should be itching to stick my dick in any and every girl, but every time I look at another girl, my mind wanders back to Brooklyn. Just yesterday Lisa Reynolds slipped me a note in Bio class telling me to meet her in the back of the lunchroom after fifth period and what did I do—I fled the class like my ass was on fire. It’s like I’m broken or something, and I have the raven-haired beauty sitting beside me to thank.

  “I might not have a license and all, but I think you have to start the car and put it in drive for us to move,” I observe.

  She nods but doesn’t start the car. Since we’ve already established I’m an expert at making mistakes, I make another and cover her hand with mine. She turns her head abruptly at my touch and our eyes lock as I slowly loosen her grip on the steering wheel.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I think I’m in shock,” she admits. “In five minutes, I learned two karate moves and with the help of your dad, my mom gifted me her car.”

  As much as I have avoided my new bestie, I’ve also kept tabs on her. Contrary to popular belief you don’t always have to be present to participate and so long as I give Anthony his daily rate of ten dollars, he gives me the scoop on what’s going on with Brooklyn. Aside from our midnight rendezvous, the girl hasn’t truly left her mom’s side since she was discharged from the hospital.

  “You know karate?” I quip.

  When in doubt, pull the humor card.

  It works for my dad.

  But Brooklyn doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t even crack a smile. I can cross comedian off the list of possible side hustles.

  “Wax on, wax off,” she mutters, making the circular motion with one of her hands.

  She’s pretty good and coincidentally, I’m an expert in waxing on and off too—we really make quite the pair.

  It’s a shame we’re friends.

  “You’re a pro,” I tease. “Start the car, Brooklyn.”

  “Right,” she says. “I should do that.”

  I nod and she tears her eyes away from me. She zeroes in on the start button next to the steering wheel and slams her index finger against it. The engine purrs to life and her hand slowly finds the gear shift. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she puts the car into drive and slams her foot against the gas pedal. We take off like we’re gunning for first place in the Indy 500 until she slams her foot against the brake and turns to me.

  “Where am I going?”

  They must be lenient with who they pass and fail in Connecticut because she’s a terrible driver. At this rate, I’m going to get whiplash before we get to the pizzeria. Oh well, it’s not so much of a hardship so long as I get to spend time with her.

  The last three nights have sucked royally, which is crazy when you think about it. I don’t know how I allowed Brooklyn to get so completely under my skin that I crave her, but here I am. Fucking last night I almost crept into her bedroom with a package of cookies. We were out of Oreos but Chips Ahoy would do the trick.

  “Earth to Eric,” she calls.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. What the fuck were we talking about? Oh, right. Her lack of driving skills. The fact that she has a license and I don’t, blows my mind. “When did you get your license?”

  She blinks slowly before narrowing her eyes at me.

  “Six months ago.”

  “And you passed on the first try?”

  “Um…yeah…why?”

  “No reason,” I reply and point my finger straight ahead. “Make a left at the light,” I instruct, bracing my free hand on the dashboard. Holding on for dear life, I watch her switch pedals. This time she surprises me with a much smoother take off and I relax a little. She even puts her turn signal on before making the left—impressive. “You’re going to take this to Bloomingdale Road and then you’re gonna make another left.”

  “Okay, am I going the speed limit?”

  “You’re fine,” I assure her.

  The damn scent of her shampoo, or whatever that is, wafts past my nose and it takes everything in me not to whimper like a lost puppy. I wonder if I’d creep her out if I leaned over and took a whiff.

  Just a little one.

  Her fingers loosen around the wheel and her shoulders seem less tense too. I contemplate opening the window and sticking my head out of it, but her scent is really the least of my troubles. For a little thing, she consumes the entire car and on top of struggling not to sniff her, I can’t seem to take my goddamn eyes off her.

  “If you’re going to stare at me, you can at least talk to me. I’m nervous enough driving this thing as it is.”

  Busted.

  Clearing my throat, I sanction whatever common sense I possess and force myself to stop acting like a total idiot.

  “Why are you nervous?”

  Tightening her hold on the steering wheel, she releases an exasperated sigh.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m driving my mom’s car for one and while it’s not the first time, this seems much different and not just because I’m in a different state, driving on roads I’m not familiar with.”

  “Well, you’ve got a license, so someone thinks you’re capable of the task and your mom wouldn’t have had my dad fix the car for you if she didn’t believe in you too. Just relax.”

  She thinks about that for a second before slicing her eyes to me.

  “I can’t relax when you’re staring at me.”

  “Then maybe you should quit being so pretty.”

  As soon as I hear the words come out of my mouth, I wish I can take them back. Instead, I mutter a curse. Her cheeks flame as they usually do and fuck, I think I like it. Correction, I definitely like it. I like knowing that I have an effect on her. It’s only fair since she’s flipped my universe on its axis in a matter of days.

  “You think I’m pretty?”

  “Is that even a real question?”

  I mean, mirrors don’t lie and even if they did, I think I made it obvious that I thought she was beautiful the night in the garage. Hell, it’s the very reason I’ve been avoiding her. After that stint on the bike, I didn’t trust myself. Not only did I keep staring at her legs, wondering what they would feel like wrapped around me, but I also noticed no one had a talk with her about wearing a bra. My brain shorted while my dick did its own rendition of a Mexican hat dance. Apparently, little Eric didn’t give a shit that Brooklyn was Bones’ daughter or that we were friends. He did
n’t care that she was off-limits and on the verge of becoming legally part of the Montgomery clan.

  Christ.

  What a twisted web.

  Brooklyn diverts her attention back to the street.

  “I haven’t seen much of you since the other night,” she murmurs softly.

  Instead of changing the subject like anyone with a lick of sense would do, I engage.

  “What does that have to do with me thinking you’re pretty?”

  “Nothing…I…just thought…”

  “What?” I press, confirming I have no fucking sense at all. I’m starting to think there is just air up there. Fuck brains.

  The light turns green, and she blows out an exasperated breath.

  “Can we talk about something else?” she pleads.

  Well, in case we weren’t sure, Brooklyn definitely has the brains out of the two of us. But I’m no quitter, and when I’ve got a point to make, I drive that shit home.

  “Sure, but just so you know, you’re an eleven. So how bout them Yankees?”

  A smile ticks the corners of her mouth as she rolls her eyes.

  “I like the Mets.”

  I gasp and touch a hand to my wounded heart.

  “Say it isn’t so.”

  “Oh, but it is.”

  “Well, I guess you had to have one flaw.”

  The pizzeria comes into view and I point to an open spot in front, instructing her to park. We make our way inside the packed restaurant and place our order. The guy behind the counter tells us it’s going to be about a half hour to forty minutes, so we grab a couple of sodas and slide into a booth in the back of the restaurant. Neither of us say anything right away, and I watch as Brooklyn’s eyes dart around the place. It’s like she’s purposely trying to avoid me.

  I don’t like it, not one bit.

  Lifting my ass off the wooden bench, I dig into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a quarter.

  “Heads or tails?”

  That gets her attention and those pretty brown eyes move from the ridiculous chef statue that sits on a pedestal next to bathroom, to me.

  Much better.

  “Why are we flipping a coin?”

  “Because you’d rather stare at that hideous lump of plaster than make conversation with me and I have no idea how to talk to you unless it’s the middle of the night and there’s a sleeve of Oreos involved. Heads or tails?”

  “Tails but how is that going to solve anything?”

  “Tails you get to ask me a question. Heads I get to ask you one.”

  Before she can object or take cover behind the statue, I toss the coin in the air, catch it with my right and flip it onto the top of my left hand.

  “Heads!” I boast, wiggling my eyebrows. Again, she tries not to smile and fails. I crack my knuckles and lean back against the bench. “Alright, let’s start simple. What’s your favorite hobby?”

  Lame, I know. But asking her if she’s got a boyfriend back in Connecticut right out of the gate seems a bit crazy—even for me.

  She cocks her head to the side and contemplates her answer.

  “I don’t have much time for hobbies. I like to read and sometimes I write.” She pauses for a moment. “I wrote for my high school newspaper freshman year. Does your school have a newspaper?”

  “Not that I know of. There is this digital newsletter thing that they post on the website, though. But if you really like to write, they have some other programs you can apply for.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have time for any of that. When I go back to school, I’m going to be so busy trying to make up credits.”

  “How much school have you missed?”

  “Not that much. I didn’t start taking off until the doctors diagnosed her as terminal and even then, my mom forced me to go to school most days. But I’m not going back until…well…you know.”

  Only I could fuck this up. Instead of taking her mind off all her troubles and getting to know her better, I’m about to make her fucking cry in the middle of Sunset Pizzeria—in front of that creepy statue to boot. Desperate to change the subject, I go back to the initial question I wanted to lead with.

  “Do you have a boyfriend back in Connecticut?”

  Her gaze snaps back to mine.

  “Shit, that was blunt,” I mutter, scrambling to find an explanation for the sudden case of word vomit. “I saw you starting to get upset and wanted to change the subject.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s a random question and I should point out that it’s not your turn to ask.”

  “Who said anything about taking turns?” I joke.

  “It’s not fair if you’re the one asking all the questions.”

  “You still didn’t answer mine.”

  “And you still haven’t given me a chance to ask mine.”

  “Fine, go. But we’re coming back to this.”

  She leans back and crosses her arms against her chest. A small smirk toys at her lips as she cocks her head to the side.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend either,” she quips.

  It’s the first time she’s really made any attempt at a joke, and the smile on my face is instant. I know it’s a long way off and so much is going to happen to her in the next few weeks, but I can’t wait to make her laugh. I want to see her smile on a regular basis. I want to look into her eyes and see humor, not grief.

  She was right the other night when she called me a fucking poet. That Shakespeare dude hasn’t got a thing on me. I guess this is what happens when you find a girl you really like. You lose your mind and become a romantic.

  Her eyes meet mine through the fringe of her lashes.

  “No boyfriend,” she whispers.

  “That’s probably a good thing.”

  “Why is that?”

  Because it saves me the trouble of making you forget him.

  By some miracle of God, I have enough sense not to say that out loud. Instead, I go with a more generic response.

  “Long distance relationships seem like a lot of work.”

  She lets that play around in her head for a moment.

  “But if it’s love is it really work?”

  “Ah, so you’re a romantic too.” I wink so she knows I’m teasing. “I, myself, am more of a realist.”

  Or at least I was until she dropped into my life. Now, I don’t know what I am, but it sounds good and Brooklyn seems to buy it.

  “If my mom was here, she’d say that’s because you haven’t been bitten by the love bug.”

  “The love bug, huh?” I ask, mildly amused. “Tell me more.”

  She giggles, and it’s confirmed.

  I want to make her happy.

  I want to make her laugh.

  I want to own all her smiles.

  Every last one.

  Houston, we have a fucking problem.

  “Now you’re mocking me.”

  My face grows serious and I shake my head.

  “I assure you I am one hundred percent not mocking you.”

  She eyes me skeptically for a moment before saying, “Fine, but it’s my turn to ask a question now.”

  I honestly don’t know whose turn it is. I’m just enjoying the easiness of the conversation. She can ask me ten questions. Twenty. As many as she wants. We can forget all about the pizza and sit here in this booth until they throw us out.

  “Where do you see yourself in five years?” she asks, folding her hands on top of the table.

  Okay, I take it back.

  Couldn’t she have asked if I prefer boxers or briefs or maybe what color they are?

  Stalling, I bite the inside of my cheek and contemplate my answer. Until recently, I’ve never really felt a dire need to be anything. Like, when I sat down with the high school college advisor and he asked what I wanted to major in, I told him I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to be a lawyer or a teacher. I had absolutely no desire to be a fucking doctor and don’t
even get me started on finance. Numbers give me hives.

  My advisor wouldn’t let it go, though. According to him, if I wanted to be accepted to a decent college, I should include a major and speak of my dreams in my admissions essay. Meanwhile, I was perfectly fine going to a community college. Fuck Harvard and screw Yale.

  But the more thought I gave my future, the more I reverted to my past. I was born from sacrifice and that right has never stopped following me. They say when you survive an awful tragedy it’s your duty to make your life count for something. Punching a timecard doesn’t quite meet the mark, but serving my country…well, that seems like an honor. It feels like I’m accepting my destiny.

  I just haven’t told a soul other than my recruiter.

  Not my college advisor, and certainly not my parents.

  My mother would lose her shit if she knew I was enlisting after graduation.

  But as I lift my chin and stare into Brooklyn’s eyes, I suddenly have the urge to confess my deepest secret—that I want to honor her dad’s sacrifice by making one of my own.

  “In five years I see myself as a staff sergeant in the United States Army.”

  Eleven

  Brooklyn

  I tried to ignore the stabbing pain I instantly felt in the center of my chest when Eric shared his five-year plan with me at the pizzeria, but hours later I still feel the ache every time I recall the look in his eye when he confessed his desire to join the Army.

  Most kids our age have no idea what they want out of life. Take me for instance, one day I think I want to be a journalist, the next I want to be a scientist and discover the cure for cancer. Odds are I’ll probably be neither of those things and work in a bank or something like that. But, as goofy as the ‘Karate Kid’ is and trust me when I say, he’s goofy, he was completely serious when he said he wanted to be a soldier. He was also serious when he made me swear not to tell anyone. Apparently, he wasn’t ready to share his dreams with his family.

  For a brief moment, it elated me that he trusted me enough to share such a big secret. But the more he revealed, the more bothered I became by his decision to enlist. For example, he told me he had already spoken with a recruiter and I nearly cried. Hand to God, I felt tears sting my eyes.