Forbidden

by Lori Adams

  It takes a few minutes before I can force myself to calm down. I swipe my shirt under my nose, and Dad grabs a towel from the floor.

  “Here.”

  I take it and rub my face. I’m mortified and don’t want to look at him. He’s not leaving, so I lower the towel. Dad is watching me expectantly. My chin quivers as I say, “I think I’m in love.” A rush of tears comes down again.

  Dad’s face drops in genuine shock. Obviously, this is the last thing he expected to hear. I know, because it’s the last thing I expected to say. I bury my face in the towel that smells like my shampoo. I cry like an idiot while he watches.

  “But … I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”

  I muffle into the towel, “I’m not. He hates me.” More crying and sniffling.

  “Sophia, I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” Dad says in his stern lecture voice.

  “Does.”

  “Doesn’t.”

  “Does.”

  “Doesn’t.”

  He is being stubborn, so I look up and stare at his blurry image. Dad is grinning. I’m stunned. And then he laughs, and I laugh and drop my hands into my lap. He brushes hair from my eyes and kisses my forehead.

  “Sophia, give it time. If the guy has any brains, he’ll see what a wonderful girl you are and come around.”

  I wipe my eyes and shake my head. “He’s different.”

  “They’re all different,” Dad says with a light chuckle I’m not used to hearing. He starts to rise but I grab his arm.

  “Dad, I mean different different. And I’m different around him.”

  “Of course you are. It’s hormones.” He looks uncomfortable, and I know he wishes Mom were here to handle this. But she’s not, so I push.

  “No, it’s different than that. I get this strange pain in my chest. You know, a hard beating every time he’s around and—”

  “That’s not so different, Sophia. You’re nervous, excited—”

  “Did you feel this way with Mom? Could you sense when she was around even if you couldn’t see her?” I lean forward, eager to hear his answer, but the amusement washes from his face. He returns to his old self again and I sense his retreat. I hold his arm, unwilling to let him go.

  Dad stares into his lap, thinking. “I … we were so young,” he murmurs, and looks at me. “I loved your mother. You know that, don’t you? I would’ve done anything for her.” His voice is halting and uncertain as though he hadn’t been given the opportunity to prove his conviction.

  I smile ruefully and choose my words carefully. “Dad, I’ve done the math. I know … you know …” They were married four months before I was born. Dad nods without looking at me. “Did you want to get married? I mean, did you—”

  “I had no choice!” he blurts out, and then recants, “I mean, yes, I had a choice. We had choices to make but it was never really a choice for me. I accepted at once.” He stops abruptly as though he’s said something wrong. I don’t understand. I want him to explain. I want him to know he doesn’t understand what I mean about Michael and the strange pain. But Dad stands and moves away.

  “I loved your mother,” he declares emphatically with an odd trace of remorse. He turns in the doorway and looks back. “And you’ll find love, too … someday. Just understand something, Sophia. No matter how much you love someone, you can’t make them love you back.”

  And then he gently closes the door, shutting me in with the truth.

  Chapter 25

  Rebel Without a Pause

  It’s eleven thirty by the time I make my way to the Gazette. Like yesterday, the town is slowly coming to life—a sleeping giant waking to find itself crawling with pests. Locals from surrounding towns and tourists are up and at ’em, perusing the Farmer’s Market and the arts and crafts booths. Abigail Monroe is at the podium on the stage making announcements about various club entries and upcoming final competitions. I am worming my way through a mob of tourists who are oohing and ahhing over farm implements contorted into silly frogs with fishing poles, or aluminum alligators with lipstick and high heels. Normally I’d mingle and scrutinize, but all I can think about is Dad’s parting words. It’s the truth, and I translate it into my language, I can’t make Michael love me.

  I have a hole in my gut you could drop the Grand Canyon into. Thoughts rattle and echo because I am hollow, as if all my organs skipped rent and moved out without telling me.

  I look over the list of photo ops Miss Minnie gave me. Nothing seems interesting enough to raise my camera for, so I wander. Sometime later I find myself standing in the pumpkin patch staring at the Tilt-a-Whirl going round and round and round and round. I feel nauseous, like I’ve been doing Windex shots.

  An arm slips through mine, and the smell of cotton candy wafts over. Bailey tosses aside the naked paper funnel and pulls me away. “Come,” she commands like I am a dog, and I do.

  We head to a picnic table where Bailey shoos away a couple of freshman. They skulk off grumbling about arbitrary senior privileges. We arrange ourselves comfortably on the table, our feet planted on the bench seat. Bailey starts to say something but does a Dracula sneeze into her elbow and sniffles.

  “So, what’s up, teacup?” She sounds like she’s coming down with a cold. I shrug while she mines through her purse for—not a tissue or cough drops—but a pack of gum. Bailey’s homeopathic remedy for anything is sugar.

  She offers me a cube of Bubblicious. We chew, construct bubbles, watch people. I want to tell her about my feelings for Michael but she says, “Hmm, Cap’n Caliente is eyeballing you.” Her voice is muffled behind a giant pink bubble.

  Dante and Vaughn are walking through the park engaged in a rather intense discussion despite all the extraneous activity around them. Dressed impeccably, as usual, and in black, as usual, Dante’s tight-knit shirt fits perfectly around his muscular torso, and Vaughn’s long-sleeved black shirt is buttoned snuggly around his neck and wrists. I wonder if they realize how much attention they attract from girls. Young and old.

  They cut across the lawn heading for us. Dante’s eyes remain hard on me, and Bailey snickers.

  “Well, Miss Scarlet. Ah do believe Rhett is lookin’ at yah lahk he knows what’s undah yah petticoat.”

  I roll my eyes, but think she might be right. Dante has a smoldering look that strips me bare. I feel heat gather in my cheeks as he approaches.

  “Sophia.” He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it, the old habit he forgets to forget. “You look as beautiful as ever.” He flashes a perfect smile, but has no idea how much my fragile ego needs to hear romantic talk just now.

  The guys take seats on either side of us like black bookends propping us up. Dante is a little closer than necessary, but I’m in a funk today so I don’t protest. Feeling sorry for myself, my defenses are not only down but they’ve flopped over like a house of straw.

  I rest my elbow on my knee, my chin in my hand, and watch a line of goats follow Uriel across the park. He has left the petting zoo gate open, and the goats are after the glove in his back pocket. Connie Caulfield is flagging him down in her hot pink shirt, tight pants, and high heels that sink into the grass. Uriel and the goats hang a U-turn and head back to the zoo. Disaster is avoided, and I can hear his tinkling laughter all the way from here.

  Dante is copying my posture and watching me from the corner of his eye until I smile. He laughs and nudges me. “Cheer up, cara mia. I have good news.”

  “What?”

  “Well, Vaughn and I have been released from our Tilt-a-Whirl duties, so I am free to help you take photos.” He puffs out his chest, very proud of this announcement.

  “What’d you guys do?” I am suspicious, and Dante’s mischievous grin says I’m on target.

  Vaughn leans around Bailey and looks at me. “I reconfigured the spinning mechanism to accelerate six times faster than the manufacturer’s speed limit.” His dark eyes flash with amusement when he laughs, and for a moment, I see what attracts Bailey. Vaughn Raider has an
infectious boyish charm, when he keeps his sadistic sense of humor in check.

  “You should’ve heard the little sonsabitches screaming!”

  Ah, there it is.

  “Everyone heard them screaming,” Bailey and I say together.

  “So you see,” Dante says. “I am free to help you take photos.”

  I give him a pointed stare. “You … are going to help me … take photos?”

  “Please do not do that thing where you repeat everything I say into a question.” He makes a pouty face, and I laugh.

  “Sorry. It’s just that, well, do you know anything about photography?”

  “I am happy to learn whatever you are willing to teach me, Sophia.” His voice is low and seductive and carries a dark connotation that has nothing to do with photography. “And then tonight we can do something together. Dinner perhaps? To start?” His shoulder is pressed against mine, and he warms me with the slightest touch. Black hair falls across his forehead and green eyes soften against mine. An inviting smile tugs at his lips.

  Despite his gentle flirting, or maybe because of it, I’m not ready to be alone with Dante. Which makes no sense because he’s been very sweet to me, the perfect gentleman. Unlike Michael. He doesn’t boss me around. Unlike Michael. We’ve never had a disagreement. Unlike Michael.

  And yet …

  I elbow Bailey, looking for an excuse. “Didn’t you say we were doing something tonight?”

  “Oh, yeah. I have to ask Casey if his dad still has Rebel Without a Cause.”

  George James runs the only movie theater in town. It’s one of the many places Casey works.

  “This is perfect, no?” Dante says, inviting himself. “We shall take all the photos you like and then walk over to the theater.”

  This is perfect, yes. So why do I feel guilty for not sharing his enthusiasm?

  When I hesitate, Dante says, “The choice is yours, Sophia.” He is somber, with a sadness in his voice that makes me feel like a jerk.

  I force myself to shake off the depressing funk that I know will end with me on the couch surrounded by a buffet of greasy, fattening edibles. I sit up and try to sound perky.

  “Okay, if you’re sure you want to follow me around all day. It’s kinda boring. But then we can see a movie.” I smile, hoping he believes my fake enthusiasm.

  Dante slips his hot hand into mine and squeezes. “Excellent. I have not seen Rebel Without a Cause in … well, never.”

  *

  It is the smallest theater I’ve ever seen. Now I know the definition of quaint. It’s decorated in the opulent, old-fashioned style of the Golden Days of Hollywood—ornate, red velvet curtains with gold piping and tassels, sculpted ceiling, and colorful fresco walls depicting some of the greatest movie scenes of all time. It’s overdone in a classy way, reminding me of El Capitan in LA, on a minuscule scale, of course.

  The regular feature ended twenty minutes ago so the adults have cleared out. The senior class now commandeers the place. The bulk of the red plush-velvet seating runs down the middle of the theater where we staked our claim. When word spread that a senior privilege was in the works, some pesky juniors and sophomores and a few brave freshmen crashed the party. Nobody really cares as long as we seniors grab the best seats.

  Casey is above us, leaning out the projection room window and throwing popcorn in our hair. He’s waiting for the go-ahead to start the movie.

  Bailey is on my left next to Vaughn. Dante is to my right and Wolfgang next to him. The rest are scattered throughout and chatting. Some guys are making obscene noises way beneath their maturity level—then again, maybe not. I can see Rachel and Holden down front, whispering with their heads together. She is animated and happy. I smile on the inside. Must be nice when love loves you back.

  I’m feeling rather pathetic so I settle back and imagine ways to stop the self-loathing remix that is stuck on replay in my head. All day long I looked for Michael at the festival. Not that I could’ve approached him with Dante at my side, but I didn’t even catch a glimpse. Raph and Duffy worked the pony ride, and Michael never showed up.

  “Are we ready yet?” Casey calls down, and we look around to see who is missing. No one we’re willing to wait for, so somebody yells, “Go for it!”

  Bailey told me the Patronus family doesn’t do movies, and it looks like she’s right.

  The theater goes dark, the screen flickers, and the movie starts. We watch in relative silence until Sal Mineo comes on the screen. He reminds me of Dante’s brother, so I say, “Where is Santiago, anyway?”

  “Home,” Dante whispers abruptly. I look at him and then at Wolfgang. They’re completely engrossed as though it’s their first time watching a movie. Somebody throws popcorn and shushes me, so I slouch and stuff enough Junior Mints in my mouth to choke a horse. I’ve seen this movie a dozen times on DVD but tonight—despite the big screen—I’m just not getting into the angst of fifties teenagers, no matter how hot James Dean may be.

  My mind drifts to Michael like a boat constantly knocking against the dock. I want to stop thinking about him. I want to believe I could stop if he’d just tell me what happened yesterday. I want to think that he could satisfy my curiosity and then I’d be done with him. But I know it’s not true. Because even without the odd, mystical connection that I think we have, I would still be in love with him. And that’s what hurts the most. I never thought I’d fall in love with someone who wouldn’t love me back. Now I know what it means when they say Cupid shoots you with an arrow. It hurts! And if I ever see the little shit, I’m gonna take his arrow and spank him with it.

  When the movie finally ends, we shuffle out and stroll along the sidewalk. Only a few have seen Rebel before. Those who haven’t start critiquing it. Wolfgang and Vaughn have been talking nonstop since the movie let out. Wolfgang is fascinated by the chicken race when Buzz’s sleeve gets caught on the door handle and he can’t jump out before the car plunges over the cliff. Vaughn likes the knife fights.

  We meander and window-shop and eventually stop next to the exotic cars parked sideways along the curb. Rachel and Holden are the first to say good night, as they drift off toward her house. Bailey and Duffy are waiting for me because we’re walking home together, so I say good-bye to Dante and am about to head over when he catches my arm and pulls me against him.

  “Can we not go for a drive?” he says, flashing a smile. Before I can answer, the door of the Lamborghini lifts like a silent black wing.

  “I don’t know, Dante. It’s kind of late.” It’s a lame excuse but I don’t have a legitimate reason not to go. What I really want to do is crawl under my covers and die for a while. Pity, party of one?

  “But Wolfgang has an excellent idea,” Dante coaxes in a smooth tone. I look at Wolfgang and he gives me a dark grin.

  “We need some real excitement in this town, don’t we, Sophia?” he asks like he thinks I’m bored here. Like I’m the Fast and the Furious type when actually I’m more of the Slow and the Slightly Perturbed kinda girl.

  Wolfgang spins his key fob around his finger, running low on patience, I presume. Really I’m surprised he sat still long enough to watch a movie.

  Dante slips an arm around my waist and gestures to the car. Bailey gives me a thumbs-up, so I sigh and mumble, “Yeah, okay.” Dante helps me inside before I change my mind.

  I slide into the cockpit-like seat, and the door instantly closes, as though it’s eager to block my escape. Everything is smooth Italian, and hand-stitched. It smells of leather and cinnamon. Dante maneuvers behind the wheel and his door shuts, entombing us together. I feel like a pilot in a jet so I snap on the seat belt. Dante laughs but I don’t get it.

  He pushes the start button and the engine roars to life. Then he taps a button on the glowing panel. “I believe I am finally mastering this thing.”

  I don’t know if he means the Lambo or cars in general. So many times I have sensed that modern things are lost on him.

  His hand hovers near the panel, waiting
, and then grinding guitars from AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blast from the speakers. He flashes a smile and grabs the gearshift. We accelerate at once, and I’m jerked backward against the seat. We shoot down the road and turn smoothly like we’re on rails. Okay, so he has the driving part down. I’m in a cocoon of black leather and glowing dials. It’s beautiful and powerful and intimidating.

  As we head out of town, I motion to turn down the music so we can talk. Dante just grins and accelerates. I hang on. We bypass the access road to the highway, and I get a twinge of uneasiness. Dante forks to the right, heading down an unfamiliar road. When he checks the rearview mirror, I realize Wolfgang and Vaughn are close behind in the Bugatti Veyron.

  My uneasiness is sprouting roots because Dante is driving a hundred miles an hour. We speed deeper into the black night, miles out of town, before he finally shifts down. I’m breathing like a scared rabbit, my nails digging into the edges of the soft leather seat. That wasn’t so bad. I glance over and force a tight smile.

  Dante’s eyes are shining greenish yellow from the dashboard lights, and he lays a hot hand on my knee and squeezes. The music dies down. I want to ask what we’re doing here but Wolfgang pulls up next to us. The dark country road is pitch-black but for our headlights. We’re on a precipice, and I can’t see the bottom of the sloping road ahead. Dante looks over at Wolfgang. The engines rev, and I get an inkling of what they’re up to.

  “Dante, what’s going on?”

  “Ready for some real excitement, cara?”

  I shake my head vigorously, and he laughs at my blatant apprehension. Music swells around me. It’s “Hell Yeah” by Rev Theory and it’s rising up to meet my raging heartbeat. Dante pops the clutch, making the car rock back and forth in rhythm with the beat. There is a feral look in his eyes and he sings along with the opening lyrics, and then laughs at my terror.

  The engine roars, the music blares, and the car shoots off like a jet on a tarmac. My head snaps back and my lungs slam against my spine. I think my scream went backwards down my throat and turned into a demented laugh. My fingernails become part of the smooth European leather.