She wasn’t there? Fuck.
“Shit,” I mutter. Way to mess this one up. Way to jump to conclusions. God, can I be more stupid?
“Look, it’s okay. I can see why...why you might think that about me,” she says, looking away. “With everything that’s happened, it makes some sense.”
“Sorry,” I manage to mumble.
“It’s been a rough few months,” she says, softly. “Nobody knows what it’s like to be me. Or you.”
Someone finally understands. Tongue-tied, I nod in agreement.
“Sit down.” She pats the empty space next to her. “I didn’t mean to yell.”
“I should go. Before someone sees us.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, you can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Because you took the time to travel halfway across town and climb the trellis to my window.” She smiles and arches an eyebrow at me. Sexy. “I’m going to enjoy that because it may never happen again.”
I’d climb the trellis every night if it meant getting a chance to be alone with you like this.
I keep the thought in my head. Instead I say, “I’m sure lots of guys want to climb your trellis.”
Oh man. That did not come out the way I meant. I try to keep a straight face, but when she rolls her eyes and kinda laughs, I grin, unable to help myself and sit down.
“There.” She studies me. “I like it when you smile. You don’t look so...irritated.”
“I haven’t had much to smile about.”
“You used to smile all the time. I remember sitting in our eighth grade algebra class and thinking that. I was on the yearbook committee and we almost voted you Best Smile.”
“Almost?” I can’t believe anyone would vote for me as a Best anything. “What happened?”
“Ben Mahoney moved to town. He sort of charmed us all into voting for him with those straight white teeth of his.” She shrugs. “You should smile more, Stephen. It’s nice to see.”
“I’ll try.” But it’s an empty promise. What have I got to smile about? We are both quiet, letting the night settle around us. The wind rustles in the trees and a few crickets chirp in the yard as the train whistles and roars down the track away from this town. I wish I were on it. “Look, Monica, what are we going to do about this school stuff?”
“You mean the theatre scene?” She pulls her knees to her chin, wrapping her arms around them, and frowns. “It may not matter. My dad is going to try and transfer me out of the class.”
“He was pissed.”
“Yeah. I heard about it all the way home. He doesn’t understand why the counselor would schedule us in any of the same classes. God, he would lose his shit if he knew we were talking right now. He’s still pretty raw about Simone. She was his favorite.” Monica stares straight ahead. “What…what happened to Simone had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t your fault.”
How I want to believe her. Hearing her say it is like getting some sort of absolution from a priest. I didn’t know how badly I needed to be forgiven. Problem is, I don’t know if it’s as simple as that. Jude’s blood runs through me. I’ll never be innocent.
“People like to think we made Jude the way he was,” I say. “That my mom did something to him.”
“That’s not fair to you.”
“But maybe it’s true. Maybe we did do something wrong. I always thought—”
I can’t finish the sentence. Anger and grief threaten to spill out in the most embarrassing form imaginable for me: tears. I already cried earlier under the bleachers like a big baby. What is it about this girl that makes me want to spew out every fucking feeling I’ve ever had?
“Stop.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Everything will be okay.”
Shouldn’t I be comforting her? Shouldn’t I be the rock?
“Why don’t you hate me?” I tense torn between wanting and not wanting to hear her answer. “You should hate me.”
“You didn’t kill Simone.”
“But—”
“But nothing.”
“Your parents…I heard them on the television…with the reporters…”
“My parents aren’t...they aren’t the same people anymore.” She leans in, sliding her arm around me, her side brushing against mine, her voice hesitant and low. The smell of her perfume makes me reckless and suddenly I can’t concentrate. “You’re a kid. You’re not the one responsible for Jude’s actions.”
“Why did you kiss me?” I ask, matching her quiet tone. “I guess you were just caught up in emotion, right? It didn’t really mean anything.”
“Because I like you, Stephen. I have for a while. Since way before…Jude.”
Because I like you.
It’s not what I expected to hear. It makes me feel funny inside, like someone is stirring my guts around and stretching me out thin. How can she like me? I don’t deserve it. I’m related to the worst monster this town has ever seen.
“But you were right, too, back under the bleachers. You said I wanted information about Jude and that’s why I was trying to get close to you. That’s sort of true,” she says. “It’s not why I kissed you, but I do want to know why Jude did it. Don’t you?”
She swivels her head to stare into my eyes, her arm dropping away.
“I mean, how can you wake up every day and not crave answers?” She asks when I don’t respond. I’m distracted by the wind lifting a lock of her hair. Plus I try not to think of Jude and his fucked up motivations if I can help it. “If you don’t know anything about it, fine, but there must be something you can tell me about what he was like those last few days, some clue I can at least pull apart and analyze.”
The notebook. Jude’s Art Bible. There are things I could share.
“Let me think about it,” I whisper and reach up to tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear. It’s as silky to the touch as I knew it would be. “It’s hard for me to talk about him. He broke my family a long time ago.”
There are questions in her eyes at that, but her face is so close to mine. I don’t want to talk about Jude. He shouldn’t get to ruin this moment.
My lips find hers.
Kissing Monica Monroe is like falling down the rabbit hole. Everything melts away—the train whistle, the breeze, crickets. My heart beats in my ears, and as I slip an arm around her waist, she sighs in appreciation.
The sound drives me crazy.
Her hand goes to my face, cradling the side of it as we kiss some more. I don’t want this to end, even though the pervy guy part of me is already thinking about the next steps in this strange little make out session. A car passes by, headlights briefly illuminating us, but we don’t stop to see who it is. I open my eyes a little and see hers are tightly shut.
Her hand creeps beneath the fabric of my shirt and rests on my bare chest. I don’t think anyone outside of my family has ever put their hands on me in such away, and even though it is a simple gesture, it sets me on fire.
I pull away, breathing hard, unable to hide how much she has affected me. Her lips look slightly bruised as if I kissed her roughly, and the rise and fall of her chest as she tries to steady herself is tantalizing.
“Stephen, this is…intense,” she whispers, withdrawing her hand. “You should probably go now.”
“Yeah,” I agree, trying to catch my breath. “I probably should.”
But my legs won’t work. I can’t will them to carry me down the trellis just yet.
“You go in first.” I nod at the open window. “It’s getting late.”
She brushes her lips against mine and crawls through the window. Monica closes it slowly, a dazed look on her face. I hesitate only a moment and then work my way back down to the trellis.
Even though it’s dark and I’m a long way from my side of town, I can’t help but whistle on the journey home as if I don’t have a care in the world.
And for a few minutes that nig
ht, I don’t.
CHAPTER SIX
MONICA
I spy on Stephen as he goes down the street, one of the street lamps casting a soft glow around him. He is different now. A little less mysterious, a little more like a person. I’m not certain, but it appears he has a slight strut to his walk. Perhaps there is a little theatrical nerd inside him just waiting to bust out and sing something from West Side Story as he walks away.
Probably not.
But, man, is my head messed up. If my parents ever found out what just happened…
And what had he been saying? That I’d been to the Taco Shack and harassed his mother? Ridiculous. I would never do that. I may be pissed at Jude, and yes, I can’t help but think Mrs. Valley should have done more to prevent what happened, but those are things I would never in a million years go and tell her. I’m not that brave. I didn’t even know she worked at the Taco Shack.
However, my father did have a cup from there. And that is odd. To my knowledge, it’s not one of his usual places to grab a quick bite.
I’d left the house before my parents. If Daddy went to Taco Shack, it was after I left. Had they both gone? Had my mother finally spouted out every cruel thought she’s ever had about Mrs. Valley?
The questions tumble around. No answers come.
Because I like you…
Had I really admitted that to Stephen? That secret was supposed to stay locked away.
Shame, guilt, pleasure. It all swirls around with everything else in my head. Does he like me? He must—at least, a little. He did kiss me back, and let me tell you, it was amazing. Who has he been kissing? I don’t think he’s ever had a girlfriend so how did he get so savvy with the lip action? Will he kiss me again?
Or did he just feel sorry for me? I mean, I did practically jump him under the bleachers. Maybe he’s suffering from some weird survivor’s guilt and kissing me is a way to alleviate it. That would totally suck. I don’t want to be someone’s pity kiss.
Finally, I drift into an uneasy sleep, plagued by questions with no answers.
****
In the morning, I go downstairs hoping one of my parents will be up. It’s Saturday, but they don’t typically sleep late. Daddy usually putters around the house, getting ready to mow the lawn. Mom is in cleaning mode.
Or at least, that’s how it used to be.
The kitchen is empty. There is no sign either one of them has gotten out of bed. Maybe last night’s memorial was more than they could handle.
There is an empty vodka bottle on the table, which I toss in the trash. While I’m there, I decide to take a peek at what else might be in the trashcan beneath the sink. Maybe I’ll spy boxes or bags from Taco Shack.
But I don’t find any—only another drained vodka bottle and the empty package for a lipstick called Fire in My Pants. I study the empty package a moment, trying to imagine Mom putting it on and kissing my father. The image actually makes me shudder.
I drop the lid of the trash and stare out the kitchen window.
Okay. What are my plans for the day? Get dressed, see what’s on Syfy, listen to my Best of Stephen Sondheim collection, and find an acting scene for Stephen and me.
Maybe we should be looking for a scene together. I sorta remember where he lives. Simone and I had once dropped Jude off at his house. I could always go find him.
Daddy shuffles into the room, yawning, his black hair sticking up in spots.
“Hey, darlin’,” he says, going to the cabinet where we keep the water glasses. “You sleep okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good.” He helps himself to some water from the sink, filling his glass until it stops just at the lip. “Your mother up?”
Uh...shouldn’t he know that? Don’t they share the same bed? There are dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. Is he too whacked out to notice my mother buried under the covers?
“Haven’t seen her,” I say. “I guess she’s sleeping in.”
He stiffens, but sips from the glass.
“Yeah...” His voice trails off and he scratches his head, bemused. “Last night was hard on her.”
“I know.”
“You okay?”
“Sure.”
“What were you and that Valley kid talking about?”
Damn. After months of being ignored, now he decides to pay attention to who I’m hanging out with.
“Nothing much.” I shrug. “I told you. We have a class together. Theatre.”
“I’ll be making a call about that on Monday.” He downs his glass of water and sets it hard on the counter. “I can’t believe that happened in the first place.”
“It’s no big deal, Daddy. And I really don’t want you to call anyone. It brings more attention to me and that’s the only beginning Theatre class they offer. If you take me out now, I have to wait a whole other year before I finally get to take something I really like.” I try not to sound whiny, but it doesn’t quite work. “Besides, it’s not like Stephen Valley is going anywhere. I’m going to bump into him from time to time. There’s no way around that.”
“No big deal?” Angry, he shakes his head, not hearing anything else I’ve said. “That kid’s brother shot your sister down like a dog. Then he turned and slaughtered her friends. And for what? Because Simone broke up with him? What a pitiful excuse! You don’t need to be associated with Stephen in anyway.”
“Is that why you were at the Taco Shack last night?” The question comes out more challenging than I mean for it too. “Were you associating with his mother?”
Daddy falls silent, watching me, choosing his words as guilt flashes across his face. “I went in for a soft drink. I didn’t know she worked there.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Doesn’t matter. Her son should stay away from you.”
“Daddy, what Jude did is not Stephen’s fault. He is a separate person.”
“Sometimes insanity or bipolar or whatever crap they’re calling it today can run in the family.”
“Stephen is not any of those things.”
“I don’t care if he is the most sane person in the world. I don’t want you having anything to do with him!”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
“I don’t care!” Daddy slams his hand on the counter, almost knocking his empty glass over. “I mean it, Simone. Stay away from him!”
Simone? Is that who he sees when he looks at me? His namesake?
“I’m not Simone,” I say coldly. “And Stephen is not Jude. And if we are talking about who should stay away from who, then you should stay away from Mrs. Valley. Just leave her alone. She has to live with what her son did.”
I stomp out of the kitchen, holding back tears as I go upstairs to my room and throw on some clothes. I wish I were old enough to drive, to run away from this house. From the window, I see a woman walk by, ear buds on as she gets her exercise. A walk. It’s not my normal thing, but getting out of the house is the goal. I grab my cell phone and ear buds.
Panic At The Disco blares in my ears as I walk the tree lined sidewalks of my neighborhood before eventually crossing the tracks into town. Rockingham has only one main street, which is oh-so-cleverly titled Main Street. There are other streets merging off of it, but the important businesses in town are located there.
It’s not too steamy out yet, but by noon, it will be sweltering. Other people stroll past, taking advantage of the early morning temperatures, too, as they run errands at the hardware store on Main Street or pick up their mail at the post office next door. I get a blast of cool air conditioning as I walk past the automatic sliding glass doors of Rockingham Grocery. The smell of coffee from the Coffee Place is tempting, but I have no money on me.
I pass the dingy motel also located on Main Street, stepping across the deep potholes lining its driveway. The lines of grimy doors have always been a source of speculation for Simone and me. We tried to imagine who in our town would
actually stay there and why. Eventually we realized no one in his or her right mind would stay there.
My mother staggers out from behind one of those doors.
Shocked, I almost drop my phone.
Her coiffed hair is a mess. A big, burly man, buttoning up his shirt follows her out. It’s Coach Mason, the football coach at our school, and he pats my mother affectionately on the butt, making her giggle.
She hasn’t giggled or laughed or smiled in a long time.
Mom wraps herself around Coach Mason, not caring who sees. He pushes her against the car, kissing her in a way I’ve never seen my father do. It is rough, almost mean, but she doesn’t mind.
I stumble away, so stunned I don’t know where I’m going. The world around me turns gray, and I have a sneaking suspicion I am about two seconds away from passing out. Leaning against the wall of the grocery store next to the motel, the sound of their car engine roaring to life sends shivers down my spine. I pray they don’t notice me hovering here on the sidewalk.
My mother is having an affair.
That’s why she bought that ridiculous Fire in My Pants lipstick. I fan myself, trying to get some air circulating. Their car whooshes by, and as it does, the scent of my mother’s Coach perfume trails behind it in the wind. The perfume my father bought her last Christmas. The perfume that always reminds me of her.
Should I call my dad to come get me? Do I walk home? What would I say to him? What reason would I give for needing to be picked up? Everything is out of whack and my stomach hurts.
“You okay?” Derek Andrews face swims into view. He has a huge bruise above his right eye. Must be from the game last night.
“Yeah,” I say, weakly. “Sure.”
“You don’t look okay.” He puts a hand on my shoulder as if trying to steady me. “You sick or something?”
“Yeah.” It’s the only word I can get out. “Yeah.”
“Want a ride home?”
“No. I’m okay. I can make it.” I plop down on the sidewalk. “I just need to sit down first.”
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