Handcuffs

by Bethany Griffin

  “That may have been a little hard on her,” Mom says to Dad. “What with her and West separating so suddenly.” She stands up, but she doesn’t go after Paige, just stands in the doorway and looks up toward Paige’s room. I think she’s feeling sorry. Mom has always favored Paige. Her first child, her golden girl.

  “I’ll go upstairs and talk to her,” I suggest. Anything to get out of here.

  “I told you I didn’t want you to see that boy anymore.” Mom hasn’t forgotten my confession. Of course not.

  “I know.” She doesn’t say anything, so I blurt out, “I’m in love with him.”

  Mom laughs a bitter, ugly laugh.

  “Paige thinks she was in love with West too. Maybe they can work things out, but she’s struggling, lost. Not even done with her first year of college, and she’s twenty. I wish I knew where it went wrong. We’ve always had such high hopes for her and now it’s hard to figure out how she can fix things. Parker, you have to be yourself. Don’t change yourself, don’t remake yourself and let some boy use you.”

  This could be pretty good parenting stuff, but what Mom doesn’t understand is that I am myself when I am with him. I am myself plus more, a new and improved version.

  “Are those people going to buy our house?” I try to change the subject.

  Mom gives me the exasperated look that she usually reserves for Preston. “I doubt it, honey.” She opens the refrigerator.

  31

  I go into Paige’s room to thank her for what she did for me today. There is a two-liter bottle of Pepsi, nearly full, on the nightstand beside a half-full bottle of vodka. In the metal garbage can there is an empty tequila bottle. Wow. A person would have to have destroyed their taste buds to drink like that. I would have had to down the entire Pepsi with just one shot of the vodka. Alcohol makes my stomach want to curl up and die.

  “I didn’t tell on you,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “When I was twelve and you were making out with Brett Sanders. Mom looked out the window and saw you.”

  “Why would Mom look out the window? She never does that.”

  “Yes, she does. She’s always craning her neck to look out when Preston is in the yard. Anyway, I didn’t tell on you.” I turn to leave, and then I stop. “How much did you like Brett Sanders?”

  Paige shrugs. “At the time I liked him a lot. He broke up with me after that. You know, the humiliation and all. The Sanders are a fine upstanding family and all that.”

  “My friend Raye is going out with his brother, Ian.” If it were me dating Ian would Paige respect me? I’ve always wondered that.

  “How come you can’t find yourself a fine outstanding Sanders of your own?” The truth is that I really wanted to go out with Ian Sanders our sophomore year, just because his brother used to go out with Paige. Like some of the magic dust would rub off on me or something. Stupid, huh? I don’t even like Ian very much.

  “What do you mean humiliation?” I ask. “What exactly were you doing?”

  “You don’t want to know. Go on, go to your room, good girl.” She says good like it’s a crime and girl like it’s the world’s worst insult. I am completely tempted to say something that will shock her, to make my big sister look at me differently, but I don’t trust her enough. Does she know what I did today? Does she suspect? No, she’s only thinking about herself. She’s walking all around her room, like it doesn’t fit her right anymore, touching things and moving them around. She turns the sheets back on the bed and says, “Sleeping alone is really weird now.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I just quietly go back to my room and turn down my own sheets. I kind of know how Paige feels. When I look around this room, it doesn’t seem to fit me anymore either. But I want to grow out of my room and my parents’ house, not get forced out of it by the stupid mortgage company. I want to come back here when I have a break from college and remember things that were good, even if there weren’t so many of them.

  I don’t get into bed. I walk over to my desk and spend a couple of hours wasting time, messing around on the computer, not really focusing on anything. Then I put on my purple pajamas from Victoria’s Secret. I kind of hate the way the flannel feels against my skin, and I kind of like it. Warm, comfortable, fuzzy. Is it possible that stubble is already popping out on my legs after having shaved them twice today?

  I click on the blog. Today there’s just an announcement that one of Marion’s friends, Ellen, was asked to prom by some senior, followed by all of Marion’s friends and readers congratulating Ellen on her good fortune. Yeah, the prom is such a big freaking deal.

  I get out the sketchpad and my yellow pencil. But I can’t draw anything. I take the drawing I did of the front of my dream house, and I fold it back and forth, back and forth, until I can tear it out of my sketchbook. Then I shred it into tiny little pieces and drop them one by one into the pink princess garbage can. What good is a house with an ice-skating rink in the basement if you can’t even make the windows look right?

  So, the thing is, I don’t feel bad about the sex, I feel bad about not feeling bad about the sex. I can’t remember why I didn’t want to in the first place, or what I was waiting for besides that look in his eyes. But in having lost those things, am I forgetting something about myself?

  I watch the clock, and I keep watching even after I lie down and try to go to sleep. It doesn’t seem like I could have slept even a little bit, because every time I see the clock only a few minutes have passed.

  I’m thinking now that distracting a guy from the fact that he’s dating an extortionist is not a valid reason for having sex. I know I brought him here and told him to bring the condoms, but after Paige and the realtor and everything . . . I pull the blankets around me. I don’t know why I tuck them in so tight when I make my bed in the morning. I like them wrapped around me at night.

  I wish we had just laughed and then watched a movie or something.

  Friday morning feels like any other morning. I feel like the exact same Parker, only, my eyes are gritty from not sleeping enough. I walk into school just as the bell rings. Mason, the office aid who helped me after the ice thing happened, is walking toward me.

  “Hey,” I call to him, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” He stops, holding his books in front of him, that pause where you know the person is in a hurry, just stopping to see what you have to say. I had wanted to thank him, had thought about him a couple of times. “I just wanted to thank you—”

  “Hey, Parker, how was yesterday?” Raye interrupts from nowhere, elbowing me in the ribs.

  I turn slightly to say hi, but before I can respond, I see him. I never see him before lunch, yet there he is, sauntering down the hall alone. He sees me but he doesn’t acknowledge me. He doesn’t speak to me. He walks past, a cryptic little smile twisting his lips. I can’t breathe. I feel my face flushing. I want him to speak to me, to greet me, to look happy to see me. I want all of this so badly that it is beyond desire, it is a need.

  As we lose eye contact, the world comes slowly back into focus. I can hear the voices of my fellow students again. I can hear lockers slamming and girls laughing. I feel my eyes tearing up; the frustration of wanting him is too much for me this morning.

  “You had sex with him,” Raye accuses. “Oh, Parker. I was just joking, I didn’t think—”

  “Where did Mason go?” I ask, ignoring Raye’s question.

  “Who?”

  I look around. I didn’t get to really thank him, but he’s gone and I guess it doesn’t matter.

  “Raye, when did we stop talking?” I look at her, at Raye, my best friend. Her dark eyebrows come together. She’s quizzical, but deep down she knows what I’m talking about.

  Raye bites her lip. “Let’s go, the office goons are watching us.” I follow her. I have for three years. When I was little I followed Marion Henessy because she was my neighbor and I thought she was my friend. Raye is a million times better. She’s a real friend. I’m not e
ver going to get dropped again. I can’t take wondering about our friendship when this thing with him is overwhelming me.

  “C’mon. Look normal, not like you saw a ghost.”

  “What?” We walk past where I should’ve turned to go to my class.

  “Your face is white. Just come with me, and don’t cry in the hallway.”

  “I’m not going to cry,” I tell her, even though I’m not completely sure about this.

  We go into the band room. Raye is an aid for Mr. McClusky, the band director. She has no musical talent, so rather than general music student, she gets to be the general music paper grader. There are all kinds of little rooms behind the band room, where they practice instruments or whatever. Raye pulls me into one.

  “Tell me what happened.” She stares at me, her dark eyes intense. It feels great to be the focus of her attention. It feels great to have her here with me.

  “Really, when did we stop talking, Raye?” I need to fix this gulf that is between us before I say anything else. I need to be sure of something in my life. I want to be sure of several somethings, but right now all my energy is focused on Raye.

  At first I don’t think she is going to say anything.

  Then she says, “When you stopped believing that a guy like Ian Sanders could love me.” I open my mouth to speak, but she grabs my arm. “I know you’re right. I’m glad you’re honest with me, even if it’s just in your eyes and your voice. I’m glad you don’t lie to me. But since you and I both know that I’m living a lie and that my relationship is a lie, well, it doesn’t bear discussing, does it?”

  Have I mentioned that Raye is one of the most perceptive kids at Allenville? She sees things clearly and is close to brilliant. If her family lost all their money and had to move to the projects, this school would still beg her to attend.

  “Raye, it would be nice if Ian loved you, and if you loved him back, but you’re only sixteen. I mean, are we going to get married and stay with these guys forever? This is high school. If you’re happy with him, I’m happy for you. Ian’s hot.” Even though it’s true and Ian is reasonably hot, it’s hard for me to say this out loud. Ian is hot. Sigh.

  “Yeah, but you are in love with your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, whatever, even if he is the world’s biggest jerk.” Is this what she thinks? I mean, obviously I am or I wouldn’t have invited him over yesterday, but saying so would not be cool at this point, and who even knows what’s going to happen, whether things are going to be different between us now.

  “Raye, why didn’t you tell me that he called you in September? Why didn’t you tell me that he was interested in me?”

  “Did he tell you that? I was wondering when he would. Asshole.” She sees the look on my face and her voice gets softer. “Oh, Park. I really didn’t think you’d be interested. He’s so different than the other guys you’ve dated. I just didn’t. It wasn’t much of anything. He called me and he asked how long I had known you. Then he asked a few questions about you, whether you were dating anyone. Even though he was asking about you he seemed disinterested, bored. I guess that’s just the way he is, but it hit me wrong. He sounded like he could care less, and so I didn’t say anything to you, it was just weird. I told him you had just started going out with someone—remember that guy James you went out with twice? He said thanks and that was that. A month later when you were hot and heavy with him I was as surprised as anyone else.”

  Hot and heavy? I guess. After he ran the freakazoids off, he just looked at me and said, “So, you want to have dinner Saturday?” After all that stuff about thawing me, I wasn’t sure quite how to respond. What came out of my mouth was “Yes,” I remember that.

  He leaned forward and wrote his e-mail address on my notebook. It was the first time I smelled the scent that was him, his shampoo, his soap, whatever else makes up a guy’s smell. I felt like I was going to faint.

  He said, “E-mail me and let me know what time to pick you up, directions to your house and stuff. What you like to eat.” It was the first time in my life that I forgot to breathe. Isn’t that sort of thing supposed to happen naturally, where your body just takes over? It doesn’t happen when I’m with him. At the beginning I felt awkwardly moronic having to gasp for breath every minute or so. Now I’m kind of used to it.

  He picked me up at seven. Was wearing black jeans and a Led Zeppelin concert T-shirt with a navy blue corduroy jacket. He came in and met my parents, just walked into the living room where they were watching TV and shook both of their hands. They didn’t know what to make of him. I saw the look that passed between them right before we left. I think they hated him already.

  He took me to a nice place, with candles and a guy playing the violin. I couldn’t eat a thing, I was so nervous. I kept imagining that my sleeve would catch on my tiny glass of Coke and that it would spill everywhere, or that I looked terrible and he was wishing he had never asked me out.

  I guess none of those things showed, because he didn’t treat me like a nervous little girl. I have lots of practice being cool and calm, remember? He treated me like I was beautiful. He kept watching me. He always does that, just looks at me, as if he can’t get enough, as if he could just stare into my eyes forever. Sometimes we talked and sometimes we didn’t. I can’t remember anything we discussed.

  Between the appetizer and the elegant little steaks, he reached over and casually rubbed my hand. Sparks shot through my body.

  “So, you mostly go out with smart guys, huh?” he said.

  “Smart guys are the only ones who ask me out.” We smiled at each other. I relaxed a bit, though there was still an ache at the pit of my stomach, the nervousness I was so trying to ignore.

  He’s the only guy who has ever taken me out and paid with a credit card. He put the card in the little book they brought and put the tip of the pen in his mouth for a moment, then filled out the total and signed. I saw the tip of his tongue for just a second as he took the pen out of his mouth.

  Then we left. We got back into the Saab and sat. It should’ve been awkward, as nervous as I was, but I don’t remember it being awkward at all.

  “I’d like to get your opinions on a few songs before I take you home, would that be okay?”

  I agreed, though it made me even more nervous when he pulled into the parking lot behind the skating rink that had closed three years earlier. A world-famous make-out spot. He pulled way over to the side, by a line of trees, and turned the key to where the car was neither off nor totally on. He hit a button on the stereo and kind of leaned back, and we listened. He watched my face intently.

  “Creep” by Radiohead.

  “It’s about infatuation and longing,” I said. In a weird way it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard, but some part of me hated it, because I had felt those things, I felt them about him, the longing and the wondering. Knowing I’d never be good enough.

  “And self-loathing,” he said.

  “Yeah, self-loathing. Have you ever felt that way about a girl?” I couldn’t believe I asked him that, and yet, I found I needed to know.

  “Yeah.” Long pause. “Listen to this one.” He played a song by the Ramones, then one by the Clash. He didn’t say anything. I liked his car. It felt exciting and comfortable at the same time. Like good things could happen there, but they weren’t guaranteed. Does that make sense? The car was a good place, being beside him was perfect, and yet it didn’t mean that I would necessarily be happy. But right then, being near him was enough.

  He took me home. He did not kiss me. I was so ready. My body was aching. I almost leaned in for it, but he never made a move.

  “I’d like to take you out again,” he said. Some stupid voice inside my head was yammering that I would always remember this moment, that it was the greatest moment ever, and though I wouldn’t want to admit it, I was so happy that in a way it was.

  “I’d like that.” My voice came out a whisper. When did I get so lame?

  “I might send you some more songs. See what you thin
k about them, since I have your e-mail address. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah.” Absolutely the weirdest date I’ve ever been on. First a fancy white-tablecloth restaurant, then a crash course in his favorite music, and no kiss, even though my heart was hammering its way out of my chest.

  I didn’t even know how to begin telling Raye about it. That same night this guy Ty took her to a pizza place and a horror movie. She was using him to get over Ian, we both knew it. There wasn’t any way I could share the experience with Raye. Telling would diminish it.

  The next weekend I visited the basement for the first time. He put on some music and we lay together, not touching, on his floor on the striped comforter.

  “This is the first time since I got kicked out of Penbrook that I’m glad.”

  “Glad?”

  “That I got kicked out. That I’m here now.”

  “I’m glad you’re here too.” The music swelled, guitars and drums and a throbbing urgent need that I understood at last. He kissed me then. Our mouths came together, and for the first time I understood the magic of kissing, understood the movie-star kiss that lasts for minutes and has to be seen from four different camera angles. Before, there was this awkwardness with various boys, a certain vague feeling that someone wasn’t doing something right. With him, it was crazy intense emotion just rushing through me. Little to no fumbling.

  He never asked me to be his girlfriend. He never introduced me as his girlfriend. Everyone just eventually realized that we had become a couple. Everyone except Kandace Freemont. Marion did a whole page on her blog about it.

  He kept looking at me with that hungry look. When we were alone, when we were in a crowd, when we were in bed, when he slid me over onto his lap as we sat in his car and listened to music. I was always afraid that I would do anything for him. Now I am sure of it.

  “Raye, your bank has a regular ATM, right?” She goes to her bank whenever her dad sends a check to her mom—like for her senior ring or whatever. They have a really complicated custody thing going on. I don’t really understand it, but I need the use of an ATM as quickly as possible.