Handcuffs

by Bethany Griffin

  I surreptitiously rip open four sugar packets at once and pour them into the glazed earthenware mug. I tip in one creamer and wonder how many I can use without looking like a lameoid. When I look back at Kyle Henessy his mouth is twitching like he’s trying not to laugh at me.

  “Well, Parker Prescott, it’s neat to see how you’ve grown up. Do you remember when we went to the Bahamas? I guess that was the last time our families went on a trip together, after all the yearly family trips.” He pauses, and I suppose we’re both meant to be reflecting on the Bahamas. Bright sun and open air would be a welcome change from this place. “Look, I’ve been, um, totally over your sister for months. I mean, it’s been nearly a year. In twelve days the legal order will be over. I have other things going on now.” Twelve days! He knows down to the minute when the restraining order will end. This is going to be easier than I thought. He said it fast and nervous, like forcing himself to say he isn’t infatuated with Paige is going to convince me. He can’t even say her name. Obsession is a scary thing.

  “I didn’t come here to talk to you about Paige. You were the one who brought her up.” I don’t want him thinking of me, linking me to his obsession with Paige when he gets the anonymous e-mail asking for money.

  “I know. I know. You came to talk about those pictures, but I already took care of them. So why are we drinking coffee together when we aren’t supposed to be within fifty feet of one another?”

  I take a sip of my coffee. It needs way more sugar and more creamer, too. And chocolate shavings wouldn’t hurt.

  “If you were a different sort of girl I might think you were here because you aren’t allowed to be here. Because I’m a person who is forbidden to you.”

  I don’t want him linking me to the blog, either. Because I’m going to try to get him to take it down so that my life can go back to normal. But not here and now. Later, after I have his money.

  Kyle Henessy’s saying this about being forbidden makes me uncomfortable, but I have to ask. “What sort of girl do you think I am?”

  “Marion says you’re classy. You were always a nice little girl.”

  Marion Henessy says I’m classy? Um, what?

  “That’s not what she says about me on the blog. I mean, have you seen those pictures?” Of course he’s seen them. He took them—right? Still, I can’t help asking and waiting for his response. Here’s a guy who’s in college and making big money, completely removed from the stupid artificial world of high school. What does he think about all this high school drama crap?

  “Yeah, I saw the pictures.”

  Is he blushing? Oh my God, he is totally blushing. Suddenly my stomach clenches up. He must’ve taken the pictures. He saw me in my wet underwear, which means almost naked, without the little black boxes that Marion so thoughtfully inserted. Is he blushing because he watched me, or because he really studied those pictures? I suddenly feel like I ought to get out of this place.

  “So, I have to go. Do you know what time it is? My parents are expecting me home. I’m supposed to be kind of grounded.”

  “Really? What for?” Like it’s any of his business. Like I’m going to tell him that I got grounded for letting my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—handcuff me to my dad’s black leather office chair and then getting caught that way.

  “They don’t like my boyfriend,” I say. Which is true. Let him interpret it how he wants.

  “Parker.” He puts his hand over mine as I start to put a few quarters on the table. “Hey, I’ll pay for the coffee.” He smiles, only now the purple light makes him look truly sinister, and his hand is still on mine. “Don’t let, um, don’t let your parents decide who you are going to date. They don’t have very good judgment. Or that’s how it seems to me.”

  Part of me wants to ask what he means by that; the other part wants to laugh, because either way, he’s paying for the coffee. This encounter is going to cost him big-time. All of me wants to get out of here. I stand up and take three steps, wanting to be sure I can get beyond his reach before I turn and say,

  “Thank you for taking care of the pictures, and for the coffee. The Bahamas, that was a lot of fun, I think.” I walk really fast out into the blinding light of late afternoon. I’m so freaked out and so seriously vision impaired that I bump into a couple walking into the coffee place. I tell them I’m sorry and walk away quickly, reaching into my purse and cursing to myself because I don’t have my sunglasses. Blackmailers really should have sunglasses.

  26

  When I get home the Volkswagen is in the driveway. Somebody, presumably West, has put an ugly yellow bumper sticker on it. I can’t read what it says from here but I’m guessing it says something really stupid. I see West climb out of the car and walk toward the house. He stops and kicks at some rocks, so I catch up and am practically right behind him. He goes up the sidewalk and into the house ahead of me, not bothering to hold the door. It’s like I’m invisible. The door slams about ten seconds before I get there and I have to fumble to open it because I have my stack of books in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I have fourteen missed calls. I don’t have fourteen friends. I snap the cell shut and put it in my pocket so that I can open the door.

  I try to think of something hateful to say to him, but by the time I get through the door, I’m just happy that I have good balance, because my cell phone starts ringing and I almost drop all my books and papers on the floor trying to retrieve it from my pocket and flip it open with one hand. Great, all that effort for a dropped call. I throw my stuff on the couch and head for the refrigerator.

  West walks into the kitchen in front of me. He’s in my way, between me and the bottled water I put in the fridge this morning. He’s standing right by the cabinet looking at the newspaper that Dad left there, and I have to turn sideways to get past him. I bump the counter and bounce off him, kind of with my whole body pressed right against him for a second.

  West laughs and gives me that grin. The one every girl in our school dreamed about when he was there starring on the football team and walking through the halls with supreme self-confidence. He has this smile that just won’t stop, and he’s big. He looms.

  I look up at him and catch this weird expression. His eyes kind of widen, and he shakes his head and walks away. I get a nervous feeling deep down. Did he somehow think that I bumped him on purpose? I mean, there’s no way that he thinks I’m coming on to him, right? I remember what Kyle said. But it doesn’t matter. West is my brother-in-law and Kyle is a psychotic stalker.

  My cell phone rings again and I’m glad for the distraction.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Prescott.” How can his voice saying my name make me feel so shivery?

  “Oh, it’s you.” I run upstairs because I want to be alone in my room while I talk to him.

  “Yeah. Me. Were you expecting somebody else?”

  I just laugh and don’t say anything. His voice makes me forget that there is anyone else on this planet, so how could I be expecting a call from anyone else?

  “Parker,” he says, “I can’t stand this much longer.”

  “What?” I think for half a second of all the things I can’t stand. Being so poor, the fact that our school fills six Dumpsters full of garbage every single day, the hostility that is always present when I’m in the same room with my sister, the way my dad suddenly looks old. All these things pass through my head in about three seconds, images more than thoughts. And then there is nothing but his ultrasexy voice.

  “I need some alone time with you. Just seeing you at school isn’t enough. Let’s cut school and spend a few hours together.”

  I have never cut school, but his obvious desire makes all the things that are bothering me evaporate. A day with him is just what I need. All this confusion will go away, because when I am with him he is all I can think about. The other things I’ve been feeling are only withdrawals, only my need for him manifesting itself, right?

  “I have a calculus test tomorrow. But Thursday I think I cou
ld cut.” I think I could, I think I could. I can’t think about my parents finding out or about the consequences, only that he wants to be with me.

  “I don’t think I can wait, Parker.”

  “I can’t miss that test.” I can barely hear my own voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “If they find out we cut it’ll be an unexcused absence. And I won’t be able to take the test at all, and my GPA will go down the tubes.” I realize this is a lame thing to say, and so does he.

  “So?” He knows this is important to me, but it’s just one of those things he blows off. Still, I have this need to explain myself.

  “You know we might be moving and we might move out of the district. If I don’t have the best grades they won’t let me stay at Allenville.” It all falls out of my mouth before I know what’s happening. I don’t want to think about the money problems again. I do not want pity. “Wait until Thursday for me.” I hold my breath. Will he wait? Will he keep wanting me?

  “I’ll try.” He sounds kind of exasperated. I don’t want him to sound that way.

  So I hear myself saying, “Bring condoms.” I want to shock him. I want to keep his attention on me. I want to intrigue him.

  “Yeah?” I can’t tell what he’s thinking from his tone of voice, and I’m starting to regret saying it.

  “I don’t know.” Let him worry about it and try to figure out what I meant, and go over every possible interpretation of the words we exchanged, like I do after every conversation I have with him.

  “Okay, Prescott, Thursday it is.” There’s a world of insinuation in his voice. I don’t say anything because I can’t seem to find my voice. “Parker?” he says. “I always carry condoms. Just in case.” Condoms. More than one. Just in case. Why did I even mention condoms?

  “I just think it would be good if we had some time together, that’s all I’m saying.” I struggle to get this out. Does he know I’m already regretting what I said? Does he care?

  I tell him goodbye and pace back and forth across the room. I can’t draw, can’t study for my calculus test, can’t think of anything to say to Raye.

  Thursday.

  27

  It’s been an hour and I have gotten absolutely nothing done. I cleaned my room a little and opened my textbook, but the practice problems mean nothing to me. In my school notebook, I doodle our initials all intertwined. In seventh grade we did this unit on the medieval period, and one project was making an illuminated manuscript. You know, with all the flowing lines and birds and leaves around the actual words. I remember thinking it was about the coolest thing I had ever seen. I sketch the first letter of his name. Illuminated manuscripts always start with one really big letter and then have normal-sized script. I make a little trailing vine around it. I can see the colors I would like to use, glowing colors, like these paints I had when I was younger. They were called opalescents or something like that.

  I glance around the room. It’s a little bit opalescent too, with all the silvery pink. I’m not ready to leave this room, or this house and all the memories it holds. I can’t stand the thought of my family having to move. If I can just get that two thousand dollars, then everything will be okay. I have to set these accounts up way better than before. The other ones were just for practice.

  I’m working on my secret letter to Kyle, making sure it doesn’t sound like me, has at least three spelling errors, making sure it will convince him that he needs to send me some money and not tell me to go to hell like he pretty much did last time, when my door flies open and hits the wall.

  “Hey, Parker!”

  It isn’t the loud thump or my sister’s voice that makes me jump. It’s my guilty conscience. Paige is standing in my doorway with her hands on her hips.

  “I need you to get all your crap out of my closet.”

  “What?” I hit minimize. Hope she didn’t see Kyle’s name. She isn’t a real fast reader and she wasn’t standing that close, so I’m probably safe.

  “I need you to move all of your stupid shorts and tank tops out of my closet.”

  “You mean my summer wardrobe?” She still has her hands on her hips, and she looks a lot like Mom, if Mom were thin and gorgeous.

  “Yes, Princess Parker. I need you to move your ‘summer wardrobe’ out of my closet, so that I can put my things in there.”

  “Why do you need to put things in your old closet? Are you moving back in?” I follow her three feet down the hall. Her old room isn’t far from mine. So much for privacy. Going back to sharing a bathroom with the beauty queen and all her beauty products does not sound much like progress to me.

  A wine cooler is open and sweating on her dresser. Fuzziest Navel or something like that. I don’t say anything about it, though Mom and Dad won’t like it. She sits on her bed, grabs the bottle, and downs about half while I’m pulling my short-sleeved shirts out of her closet. I feel uncomfortable because she’s staring at me, and I’ve felt her scorn before, her contempt for having a younger sister so gawky and different from her. She takes a drink and shakes her head sadly.

  Paige’s room is all purple, dark purple and antique furniture that my grandma gave her when she moved to Florida. It’s mahogany or something and is almost black. Maybe I should’ve snagged her furniture when I had the chance. Mine is all white with pink and gold accents. So girly and demure. Paige’s room has some character, at least.

  “I’m just going to stay here on some nights. School nights, Monday through Thursday, for right now.”

  “Why?” She and West just live a few blocks away, why does she need to move back into our house? She looks at me hard, but her voice is quiet when she answers.

  “West and I are having some disagreements about college.”

  “Is staying here part-time supposed to help that?”

  I try to make my voice soft too, because Paige looks sad. She takes a long swig from the bottle in her hand before she says, “It’s the only way. The only thing I can think of to do. Mom and Dad say that they’d be happy to have me. They don’t want to hear anything bad, so it’s hard to talk to them.” Great, even though Paige is married and supposed to be a grown-up, Mom and Dad want her to move back in so that they can bask in her golden perfection. I’m surprised they don’t give her and West all three of the bedrooms and move me and Preston into the garage.

  I mean, her life is close to perfect, she and West are playing house in their cute little apartment, and she goes to classes a couple of times a week. Why does she have to live here?

  Paige frowns at me and I try to remember why my parents have always favored her over me. Because I’m uninteresting and dull? Because she was vivacious and alive and I was just a boring old ice princess? Could I have turned out any differently? We do have the same genes, after all.

  I remember when I was eleven and I wanted Paige to teach me to do the electric slide because we were having this dance in the middle-school gym. I was all excited about that dance, practically jumping up and down.

  “Parker, you might as well ask Mom to teach you, the electric slide is as old as Mom and Dad!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Mom taught it to me.” She laughed and grabbed me by the shoulders and she tried to fold me into the dance, but I don’t bend right, and I don’t hear rhythm, so I couldn’t do it. She tried to show me and I stumbled to follow, but I couldn’t keep up with her. “No, Parker, step, step, clap, count one, two, three, four. You forgot to slide, that’s the whole point. Now step to the right. Oh my God, that’s my toe!” We ended up lying on the bed giggling because our toes were all mashed up and because I couldn’t master the electric slide. I was, undoubtedly, the only person in the universe who just couldn’t follow the steps.

  Paige downs the rest of the wine cooler and drops it into the little oval metal garbage can that sits beside her bed. It chinks against another bottle. Those things come in four-packs. Bartles and Jaymes or whatever.

  “Guys love watching TV more than anything else i
n the world. They do something for ten minutes, then sit down to stare at the screen for twenty. Get ready. A guy won’t even want to have sex if something good is on TV.” Is Paige jealous of the television? Is she that conceited that everything has to be about her? I’ll bet most of what she’s saying isn’t even true. “Sex is overrated, you know,” she tells me.

  The khaki shorts fall out of my hands. How does she know my mind keeps coming back to sex, no matter what else I try to think about?

  “Really?” I lean down to pick them up.

  “Really.”

  I’ll bet Mom paid her to say that to me. Though if anyone ought to know, it’s Paige. Her reputation around school isn’t just for being pretty and popular. She was also supposed to be, um, well broken-in. Easy. Guys still whisper her name with awe, and girls roll their eyes. She was way hotter than any of the girls in our class, even Zara. The kind of girl who can get away with slutty behavior and not get talked about too much.

  “Did Mom and Dad ask you to tell me that?”

  “Nope, I just thought I’d pass on some big-sisterly advice.” She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and makes a face as if something tastes bad, but she doesn’t even slur her words. I wonder how much she drinks and how often.

  I go into my room and close the door. I close it too hard, and Paige probably thinks I’m slamming it, though I never slam doors. Paige is definitely the door slammer in our family.

  My drawing pad is sticking out from under my bed. I nudge it out of sight with my toe and adjust the dust ruffle. I feel terrible thinking that my sister is across the hall again and we’re still so far apart.

  I sit down and work on my blackmail letter—I better not call it that, my threatening letter to scare Kyle—in between working on homework. Raye IMs me to talk about Ian for a while.