by Jordan Grant
Ian hasn’t given up though. Monday through Friday like clockwork, he hectors me daily, always interjecting naughty words that warm my cheeks and ignite a spark between my legs. He likes to get it over with in the morning and hasn’t destroyed anything else of mine since the notebook-ripping incident. Thank God.
Last week, after Ms. Edmonds complimented me on my interpretation of Troilus’ motives, he spread a rumor that I sleep with my teachers in exchange for good grades. The rumor ended with this poem.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Harlow’s in bed with the Headmistress too.
Pestering me has become like a game to him, and I feel like a freak because I look forward to every turn to play. He’s my secret guilty addiction. Whereas Finn bullying me felt hostile and full of rage, Ian mostly stays to some strange combination of flirtation and pranks.
I try to not think about Ian though because I can’t give in, not to Archie and not to him. Last Friday night, I went to a football game with Raven. We won, certifying the football team’s position in the New York semi-championships. As Raven took a picture for the school newspaper, Ian unstrapped his helmet. He was smiling and laughing, still riding the high of the win. He looked up in the stands, his gaze scrolling over the crowd. When he found me, he stopped searching. He just stood there and stared at me until, like a true weirdo, he blew me a kiss, to which Raven—while fanning herself dramatically—muttered, “Oh. My. Gawd. You better call the fire department, girl. That was freakin’ hot.”
As I step outside, the cool air of autumn nips at my cheeks. The stone walkways are nearly deserted, everyone packed into the dining hall or in class. With the Headmistress preoccupied and no patrolling professors, I run, the soles of my shoes slapping against the concrete.
The scent of fresh-cut grass slides into my nostrils as I dart through a parterre garden formed in the shape of the circle, the bushes sculpted with neat, geometrical precision. A fountain in the center bubbles water into an enormous basin lined with small blue tiles. I continue on, running past beds of blue and white hydrangeas that dot the campus alongside gigantic maple trees.
It is a long, mostly uphill walk to my dorm from the main building, but thanks to my desire to not end up on the bad side of Professor Collins, I am at my building within five minutes. My lungs burn, and I know William would smile if he could see me now. I sort of get what he meant about running being cathartic because my mind has calmed to still water.
As I turn the corner to head to the front doors of the dormitory, I hear her scream. I have seen Molly cry and bore witness to the shit she has to endure, but I have never heard anything like her wail. The sound disturbs the stillness inside my head, and the darkness peeks out from along the edges.
Please, not now.
Molly always takes her lunch in the dorm, so it’s no surprise that she is here, but what surprises me is Finn holding her by the throat against the stone wall. Her books and papers lie scattered everywhere, the screen on her tablet shattered.
“Maybe I should just do to you what you did to Darcy,” Finn growls. He is so red with rage his pink scalp peeks out from under his blonde hair.
“Finn,” Molly pleads, but it’s just a whisper I can barely make out. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
“Words won’t bring him back!” Finn roars, and I am frozen, my feet glued to the ground.
Ian said I saw the world in black and white, but now I am seeing it in brilliant color. I want to help her. I want to stop this. I want to know why she’s apologizing.
The only color left on Molly’s face is her nose, red and snotty from crying. She doesn’t even fight Finn. She just clinches her fists like she is determined to control any defense her body may want to provide. Everything I’ve seen done to her, all the times I have watched her cry, yet she never raises a hand in self-defense. Why does she never fight back?
I know the answer. It is five letters long, one syllable, and weighs more than anything else on earth.
Guilt.
Finn pulls back his fist, a sheath of rage falling over his features. Molly closes her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Stop.” The one word rings out in the air around us, but where did it come from? Because I am still frozen, my lips sealed tight in shock.
Finn’s gaze latches onto Ian as he walks from behind me to stand at my side. He is tall and lean and muscular. I never get to look at him while his attention is elsewhere, because normally when we are this close, his attention is on me. And when his attention is on me, it’s all I can do not to lose myself in the rolling storms of his gaze. This close, I can see a tiny mole, a beauty mark above his left eye.
“Drop her, Berkshire,” he says, his words laced with grit.
Finn glares at him. “Stay the fuck out of it!”
Ian smiles, and it reminds me of a cat toying with a mouse. He is sure he will be the victor if this comes to blows, but beyond that, there is amusement.
“You don’t do very well with rules, do you?” Ian stalks forward, his arm nearly touching mine, and something crackles in the air between us. “Let go of her. She’s had enough.”
Finn looks like someone has slapped him, his face reddening even more, but he relaxes his grip. Molly falls to the ground, gasping for air, her fingers at her throat.
“You will pay for this, QB,” Finn growls. “I don’t give a shit what Coach says. Next season, that spot is mine.”
Ian laughs, but he doesn’t look amused. “You’re off the team.”
Finn blanches. He looks like he’s going to throw up.
“For her?” He screams, waving wildly at Molly. “Or is it for this whore?”
Finn lunges for me, but Ian stops him with a single hand. “Don’t act broken up, Finn. You haven’t played since the opener. You’re a benchwarmer, and that’s all you’ll ever be. Now, go the fuck away before I make you even uglier than you already are.”
Finn stares at him, fire in his gaze. I hold my breath. I don’t know what I’ll do if it comes to punches, but he steps away, maneuvering around us and leaves, muttering curses under his breath.
I move to go to Molly, but Ian grabs my arm. It’s like when William borrowed the electric collar my grandparents used to train their dog and said, “Wanna play a game?” A jolt races through me as Ian’s steely gaze latches with mine.
He leans in, and I smell the cinnamon of the gum he likes to chew. Most people would prefer mint, but not him. It fits him, spicy and a little out of the ordinary. “You owe me, Stormy.” His gaze drifts to my lips. “I will cash in that favor soon.”
A whirlwind of questions swirls inside my head, but the first one to fall is, “What are you doing here?”
His thumb and forefinger play with my black lock of hair. Every time he twirls it around his index finger, he brushes my throat with his knuckles.
“You know why I’m here,” he says, and with that he turns on his heel and leaves.
My mind reels with questions for which I have no answers.
It takes a moment before I gather my senses and run to Molly.
17
Harlow
My past visits me in my dreams. It’s as if I am there, living it again, though I can’t control my actions and I can’t change a damn thing.
I’m asleep. I know I am, yet I watch it happen as though I am a moviegoer at my own personal theater.
I stare, helpless, as my feet disappear beneath the water, cool relief in the stifling heat of summer. William sits beside me, but he hasn’t taken off his shoes. He wears frayed blue jeans with holes in the knees and a black running shirt he normally reserves for winter with sleeves down to his wrists. He looks like he is in his own personal oven. He must be sweltering.
“You feel okay?” I ask, looking over at him as we sit on the end of the dock. I run my hand over a weathered board between us, my fingers tracing the cracks in the wood, baked silver by the sun.
William smiles at me, and it’s beautiful
, all white teeth and bubbly effervescence. He is blonde and blue-eyed, and even has that same black streak of hair above his right temple, just like me. He is tan, born to play the part of a beach bum, but even his tan is fading away, just like the rest of him.
“I’m fine, Har,” he says, but the longer I stare at him, the more cracks I see in the plaster of the mask he wears. My heart aches to believe him—I need to believe him like my lungs need air—but a knocking in my gut refuses to be ignored.
“But,” I begin, searching for a question I don’t know how to ask, “you’re not yourself. You are distant.”
My best friend in the entire universe, my twin brother—forever connected by blood and a bond that began before our birth—looks over at me, his gaze haunted by the shadows that have found a home under his eyes.
“I’ll take you to Doc’s tomorrow night,” he says, promising me a trip to the ice cream parlor we have loved since we were children, where they make milkshakes right in front of you and serve them up in tall glasses with mountains of whip cream and brightly colored silly straws. “Sound good?”
I nod, my lips hinting at a smile.
Something doesn’t feel right though. The knocking in my gut dulls but still continues its steady beat. Darkness lurks beneath the surface of this perfect life.
Just as before, in my dream I ignore it. I want to sit here and let the sun wash my worries away. I want the heat of summer to warm my bare shoulders, exposed by the tank top I’m wearing, and add a few more freckles to my skin.
I close my eyes and listen to the caws of the birds as they glide over the pond and the soft breath of the wind whispering over the waves. Without opening my eyes, I grab William’s hand and squeeze it tight.
I hear him sigh, contentment settling deep in his chest as he joins me, letting himself fall for the siren call of summer.
The dream shifts abruptly, cruelly ripping me away from the good memory and propelling me forward.
I am in my room.
William isn’t home yet, and it’s fifteen minutes until midnight. We were supposed to go to Doc’s, and he forgot. My heart stings a little from the hurt. He’s only four minutes older than me, yet we might as well be decades apart.
He must be with his friends because he won’t answer my texts and I stopped leaving voicemails after the third call. Mom and Dad went with our grandparents into the city tonight, so it’s just me and Daisy, our family’s adopted mutt who looks like a cross between a bulldog and a daschund with her squished face and long body. She is asleep against me, snoring as we lay in my bed.
I never do this, but Mom has threatened to revoke not only our cellphones but also our cars and any bit of freedom we have if William and I aren’t home for curfew, which is midnight. I open the Find My Friends app on my iPhone and find his location.
William is 9.7 miles away at Blaze Lahey’s house.
I roll my eyes, peeling myself out of bed. I better go get him. No doubt he’s already drunk, and Mom will kill him when she realizes he’s been going over there again.
Blaze is known for throwing kick-ass parties where the terms “underage” and “cut off” don’t exist. He’s the king of our high school, a sophomore just like us, an all-star baseball player already being recruited by the NBL.
His parents are rich, born into a long line of wealth, and they give him free rein of the house. I guess they decided he might as well have parties at their house rather than somewhere they don’t know and can’t control.
Not that they control much of anything about Blaze. He lives up to his moniker, and no amount of parental guidance could ever extinguish his inner flame.
William has adored Blaze since we were in middle school, when the three of us were inseparable, when we snuck into R-rated movies and played paper football across the aisles in homeroom. He wants to be Blaze, which is crazy, because William and Blaze are cut from the same cloth. Both are popular, smart, and witty, and while I have a tongue that will lash back when provoked, they can make a classroom burst at the seams with laughter at any moment.
I change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, pulling on my running shoes. Not that I ever run, but William swears he will make a runner out of me yet. I don’t think I have seen him miss a run in the past three years, every morning like clockwork.
I grab my phone and my keys and hop in the car. I forget my wallet, but I’m not going far and I have to get to William before my parents realize where he’s holed up. I back my Honda CRV, a gift from my grandparents, out of the garage and down the driveway.
The drive to Blaze’s house takes less than 10 minutes. I don’t turn on the radio, preferring not to disturb the hum of the engine. I see a parking lot of cars overtaking Blaze’s front yard. The music is so loud, it pierces the armor of my car and thumps a steady rhythm inside the hollow of my chest.
The place is so packed I have to park near the freakin’ mailbox.
The house is gigantic, a stuccoed Mediterranean-style mini-mansion, three stories tall and with a balcony overlooking an infinity pool. I have been here before, but in recent years, it has only been to drag William home before our parents find out.
Blaze is a good guy, but there are always people around him. Being near him means you constantly have to put on a show, one kid outdoing the next as they fight for his attention. It is absolutely exhausting to watch, and I prefer to not exist on center stage.
I walk the long drive up to the house, the lights built into the concrete leading the way. I pass a couple practically doing it on the hood of a black muscle car. The guy has lost his shirt somewhere, and the girl’s pants are around her ankles. I avert my gaze quickly, blushing. It doesn’t surprise me though. Blaze’s parties are always raunchy.
I walk up the steps and swing open the double doors. I am greeted by the smell of beer and sex and warm bodies. A platinum and glass chandelier sprinkles a million tiny suns down onto the marble floor.
Ollie? Ollie…Crap. I don’t even remember his last name. Ollie, our resident high school stoner, smokes a joint in the den to my left, passing it around to his friends on the couch. Smoke clouds the room and hangs in front of their red-eyed faces. They are so high, I doubt any of them will be able to tell me where William is.
I hear Blaze’s laugh, loud and boisterous like he doesn’t have a care in the world, probably because he doesn’t. Giggles quickly follow, which is to be expected. I step over crushed red solo cups and a puddle of what I hope is beer as I leave the foyer and walk into the kitchen.
Blaze spots me immediately, which isn’t surprising given he is ridiculously tall even at sixteen years old. A mop of dirty blonde hair falls into his eyes, and he brushes it away with one large hand.
“Harley!” he calls, framing his hands around his mouth like he is shouting at me from across a field and not his kitchen.
Oh, no. He’s drunk. He only ever calls me that when he’s drunk, though he used to call me that All. The. Time. Well, until Bryson Wells quipped that he always wanted to ride a Harley. Welcome to watching my first fistfight.
“C’mon over,” Blaze adds.
I elbow my way past his admirers. I would say excuse me, but there’s no way they would hear me over the music, and, even if they did, I just want to get this over with, get William, and go home.
I choke on someone’s perfume—the overwhelming scent of orange blossoms—and a platinum blonde who looks like real-life Barbie gives me the evil eye and tries to spill her beer on me. She’s too drunk though, and it sloshes all over her feet, resulting in a shriek I hear even over the thump of the base.
I keep moving.
When I emerge from his groupies, Blaze snatches me and squeezes me tight, squishing my face against his barrel of a chest. I laugh. He is definitely drunk. Blaze only ever hugs me when he’s drunk, which is funny because he is not one for holding back his physical affection for anyone of the opposite sex.
“I am sooooooo glad you’re here!” I roll my eyes as I peel myself off him, but I f
ind myself laughing at his ridiculous grin nevertheless. He raises an eyebrow at me, his green eyes glinting. “Dance with me.” He does a ridiculous little shake to the beat.
“Rain check?” I half-shout.
He leans in close and ducks his head so that our noses are nearly touching. “One of these days,” he murmurs, “I’m going to cash in those rain checks, and you better be ready, Weathersby.”
“Blaze,” I groan in embarrassment, tilting my head back in an effort to further my second eye roll as a blush warms my cheeks. He always does this to me. I deflect quickly, not wanting to encourage his attention, which would no doubt result in one of his admirers landing a stiletto in my spine. “Where is William? Our parents will murder us both.”
Blaze pouts, his lip sticking out dramatically from his handsome face. He acts as though I have wounded his soul, broken his heart, and denied his hand in marriage all in one fell swoop. But I know the truth.
As soon as I leave, he will find a pretty distraction to keep him company for one and only one night. His M.O. is like a skipping record that plays on repeat every Monday following one of his parties.
Blaze jerks his head toward the stairs.
“Second floor, take a left. I saw him head that way with Everly about an hour ago.”
I sigh, and Blaze places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. He knows how I feel about Everly. I think he even agrees with me, though I know the last time he tried to talk with William about Everly, it resulted in the two of them not speaking for over a month. He hasn’t brought her up since.
Everly is, in my humble opinion, the worst thing that ever happened to my brother. He loves her—I know he does—and that’s the only reason I put up with her shit. She is controlling, already trying to convince him not to go to NYU like we both dreamed because she wants him to stay here with her at the local college. The girl spends more time partying than at school and her GPA reflects it.