Because I'm Disposable

by Rosie Somers

  God, he was cute.

  I shook my head and slid my backpack off the seat to make room. The bus driver must have been waiting on Link, because the moment he sat, the bus lurched into motion and pulled away from the curb.

  Link settled his backpack in his lap and rested his hands on top. “So, I saw you talking to Mona Fleming at lunch.”

  He’d been watching me? “Yeah?”

  “I, well …” He trailed off, fidgeting with the zipper pull on his bag while he collected his thoughts. “She goes through a lot of friends. That’s all.”

  He was worried about my feelings?

  “At least she shows up when she says we’re going to hang out.” I clamped my mouth shut the second the words were out. I hadn’t meant to say that. I certainly hadn’t meant to use such an antagonistic tone. I hadn’t wanted Link to know how much it’d hurt me when he didn’t show. I turned back to the window.

  “Callie, I’m sorry. I should have called, but I was embarrassed.” He did sound genuinely sorry.

  I didn’t take my eyes off the passing scenery, but asked, “Embarrassed about what?”

  He cleared his throat before answering. “I got grounded.”

  “Grounded?” Parents actually did that?

  He looked shamefully down at his shoes. “I stayed out past my curfew Friday night.”

  “Curfew?” Apparently, normal parents did a lot of things mine didn’t. Of course, I’d probably never had a curfew because I never went out.

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to be in by eleven on the weekends, but I didn’t get home until almost midnight.” He shrugged. “So, my parents grounded me.” He lifted his gaze to look me directly in the eye. “Please don’t be mad at me, Callista.”

  He looked and sounded sincere. I nodded, and he breathed a soft sigh of relief.

  “I’m not grounded anymore. I was thinking maybe I could bring a movie over tonight. You know, if you still want to hang.”

  Want it? No. I craved it.

  Chapter Eight

  Link was so close on the couch his body heat radiated into my skin. The movie had been playing for almost half an hour, and I had no idea what was going on. I was stiff as a board with my hands in my lap, and had been for the entire time. Try as I might, I couldn’t concentrate on anything except Link. Everything about him was distracting, even the way he smelled—like laundry detergent and evergreen—probably his shampoo or something. I was so acutely aware of him, I almost jumped out of my skin when he suddenly raised his arm up and rested it along the back of the couch.

  He was probably just getting comfortable, but if I relaxed back, he’d pretty much have his arm around me. Inch by nerve-racking inch, I lowered my body toward the cushion behind me. A million years later, I was resting awkwardly against the cushion, and Link’s arm was so close it tickled the hair at the crown of my head.

  Link took a deep breath and when he released it, shifted toward me. His arm dropped, and I leaned forward enough to let it fall into place on my shoulders. Was he planning this? This was what the boys always tried when they wanted to make a move on a girl during a movie, right? I didn’t know; no one had ever put the moves on me before.

  Settling in against Link was easy. He was warm and comfortable, and my five-foot-two-inch frame fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. His body relaxed around me, pulling me closer. He rested his chin on my head and inhaled deeply.

  He sighed. “You smell like honey.”

  My stomach flipped over. “It’s my shampoo, I think.” Did that sound as dumb as I thought it did?

  “It’s nice.”

  I tried to bite back a smile, and when I couldn’t, I buried my face in his shirt. Link stiffened. I was suddenly a hundred times more self-conscious than I had been just seconds ago. Had I weirded him out?

  Slowly, so heartbreakingly slowly, I moved my head away from his chest and trailed my gaze across his shirt, up his neck. I snuck a glance at his slightly-parted lips before finally looking him in the eye. His normally bright green eyes reflected pale, almost iridescent in the soft light of the television. His lids shuttered halfway, and he broke eye contact to stare at my lips, then licked his own.

  He was going to kiss me. The realization struck me hard, and I would have sworn the room spun for a second before everything came into sharp focus: his eyes closing, his soft inhale, the way the corners of his lips curved—a hint of a nervous smile.

  Was I supposed to close my eyes—that’s what people did when they kissed right? Our lips connected. I clenched my eyelids shut, and my lips parted on a tiny gasp. His kiss was delicate, brushing over me, light as air. For the longest time, he didn’t move, just stayed there like he was waiting for me to do something. Maybe he was.

  I darted my tongue out to dance across his lower lip. Then, his hand was in my hair, and his mouth was hot on mine, pressing insistently. Link’s tongue stole into my mouth to tangle with my own.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, how to kiss him back. Where should I put my hands? Was my breath okay? I set my hands against his chest and hoped my breath was up to par. Link’s kiss was smooth, like he’d been practicing his entire life. Had he?

  He broke the kiss to suck in a shaky breath and pressed his forehead to mine. “Callista,” he whispered against my mouth.

  “Hmm?” I didn’t trust my voice enough to speak.

  Link pulled away enough to scorch me with a heated look. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

  I wanted him to do it again. “Why didn’t you?”

  He brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ears. “I didn’t think you would kiss me back.”

  I blushed and lowered my eyes to his shirt.

  Link cleared his throat. “So, you probably already know this, but my birthday is Sunday. I’m not having like a real party or anything, just my family and stuff. But I was hoping you would come for dinner.”

  I hadn’t expected him to ask me to a family dinner. His birthday dinner, no less. Did that count as a date? I peeked up at him.

  He was watching me expectantly, hopeful.

  “Uh, sure. I guess I can come.”

  He smiled and leaned in for another kiss, but before he had the chance to follow through, Corrine danced into the room.

  “Hey, lovebirds! How’s the movie?”

  I wanted to tell her to leave, but I bit my tongue.

  Link sighed and removed his hand from my hair. “Hey, Corrine.”

  She nodded a casual greeting, then plopped into the armchair—Dad’s chair. I almost choked when her butt connected with the seat, and I waited for the yelling to start. My body went on high alert—pulse racing, muscles tensed to act, ready to defend Corrine, if need be. My father was gone; he wasn’t going to come storming in ready to punish us for invading his space. But the fear was ingrained, inescapable.

  Corrine didn’t notice my moment of panic, but Link certainly did. His eyes bugged, and his head whipped around toward Corrine, then back to me so fast the movement was a blur. Warm fingers settled on my knee in a gesture I could only assume was meant to be comforting. I jumped at the contact, vaulting toward the other end of the couch and out of his reach. His mouth opened in a silent “O” of surprise.

  The exact moment Link comprehended the extent of my panic was obvious. He speared the chair with a scowl before raising a softened version of that scowl to Corrine. When he lifted a shaky hand toward me, I almost took it, almost crawled into his arms and basked in the comfort he offered. But I didn’t want his pity. I squared my shoulders and sat up straight. Trying to affect an air of steely strength I didn’t actually feel.

  Corrine, blissfully oblivious, had tuned into the movie, and only at that moment noticed something was amiss. “Don’t stop on my account! I promise not to pay attention to you two smooching.” And just like that, she returned her attention to the TV. Heat crept into my cheeks, and I looked down at my bare toes.

  Link shifted closer, once again placed a hand on my knee. This time he moved slowly e
nough that the contact wouldn't shock me into bolting. “Will you go for a walk with me?”

  Was I ready for the questions he was sure to ask? I nodded, but took my time getting off the couch and finding my boots. I slipped them on my bare feet, wiggling my toes into the fur lining and wishing I could disappear inside them. I was so small right then, so young and helpless.

  The air outside was brisk. I should have taken the time to grab a sweater. I dug my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and shuffled along next to Link. The road was quiet and mostly dark, save for the occasional circle of light from the sparse street lamps. To my tortured imagination, the scraping whisper of my boots scuffing the pavement sounded like a quiet chanting of “No. No. No. No.” Like my footsteps were warning me to keep my mouth shut, to not give up my dark secrets when Link asked. And he was going to ask; of that I was sure.

  We walked in silence for so long, the tension worked my nerves. But I did nothing to end the silence. Finally, he did.

  “He hurt you.” It wasn’t a question. And I didn’t answer. Link had already deduced my father’s true nature on his own. “How often did he …?” He made a nondescript waving gesture with his hand as his question trailed off.

  “Often enough,” I replied.

  Link’s hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist at his side. We walked for almost half a block before he spoke again. “The time you broke your wrist—that wasn’t a basketball thing, was it?”

  I shook my head, but kept my mouth shut.

  “Last year, you didn’t get that black eye at a concert.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “And a few weeks ago, when you fell and cracked your ribs?” He stopped walking.

  I stopped too, but refused to take my eyes off the blacktop. “You know about that?”

  “Our moms talk.” His voice was barely audible. “Were those the only times?”

  Tears pricked the corner of my eyes, and I lifted my head to stare out into the night, at the cookie-cutter houses, probably filled with cookie-cutter families. But I knew firsthand the secrets all-American families kept. “No.” I turned around and started a slow amble home. Link followed, keeping pace with me.

  I took my time gathering my thoughts, working up the courage to share what he already suspected. “I don’t remember when it started. I think maybe I was too young to remember. Or maybe I blocked it out.

  “It didn’t really get bad until a few years ago, I don’t know, seventh grade maybe. When Grandma Harris had her stroke and he lost that job at the factory for taking too much time off. That’s when he started trying to hurt Corri, too.” My voice sounded fragile, like a strong breeze would break it, would break me, but I kept talking. “I tried my best to make sure we stayed out of his way, did what he expected. Most of the time, it worked. But, sometimes …” My voice trailed off and so did my thoughts, drifting away to the last time my father had hurt me.

  My brain rattled inside my skull as I hit the dining room wall and slid down. My thoughts were foggy for a few minutes, and I was helpless to defend myself when he charged me again. He lifted me by my upper arms and tossed me like a ragdoll, pinning me against the eighties, floral wallpaper. “Didn’t I tell you to have dinner ready when I woke up from my nap?” His face was barely inches from mine, and his words rumbled through me.

  “Yes, father,” I used my softest, most submissive voice and avoided looking him in the eye.

  “Well, get it done!” He yanked hard on my arm, sending me sprawling toward the dining table. The edge caught me just above my waist, and pain spiked through me. The impact knocked the air out of my lungs; I couldn’t get another breath in. My whole right side throbbed, every pulse beat sending new waves of pain cascading through my body. I crumpled to the floor with my left arm cradled against my ribcage protectively.

  Dear God, please don’t let him kick me, I prayed. His attacks always left me vulnerable to more pain, and his booted foot was so close to my injured side.

  Tears welled in my eyes, and I squeezed them tightly shut to stave off the flood fighting to escape. The sole of his shoe whispered across the wood floor. I tensed, prepared for a new onslaught of agony.

  “Oh my God, what happened?”

  I’d never been so happy to hear my mother’s voice as I was at that moment. I opened my eyes, but didn’t move. My father stepped away from me, then toward the living room. “The clumsy girl fell and hurt herself.” His answer was calm, guiltless.

  When I looked up, my mother was on the floor between us, hovering over me. “Is that true, Callie? Did you fall?” She looked and sounded so concerned I almost considered telling her the truth. Then my father shifted his weight, and the rustle of movement made her flinch, left her trembling the tiniest bit—and I knew she wouldn’t confront him, wouldn’t protect me.

  “Yes,” I tried to get up, but only made it to a sitting position before the pain was too much. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”

  “Callie, are you okay?” Link’s hand on my shoulder pulled me out of my memory. I’d stopped walking and was now standing in the middle of the street.

  “I’m fine,” I answered and rubbed at those freshly-healed ribs, trying to rub away the memory of the pain. He pulled me into a hug, resting his chin on my head. I wasn’t fine, but in that moment, wrapped in Link’s arms, I finally started to believe I would be.

  Chapter Nine

  The opulence inside Link’s house made me feel like an outsider the moment I stepped in. Everything was pristine, shiny, and new, from the dark wood floor to the perfectly level picture frames lined precisely along the foyer wall. A console table on the opposite wall was topped with an antiquated, stained-glass lamp and backed by a large mirror with a scrollwork frame. No dust on the table top, no smudges on the mirror.

  The dark banister bracing the path up the stairs was buffed to a sheen and wasn’t missing a single bright, white spindle. The steps themselves weren’t even scuffed from foot traffic. If I’d known Link’s house was so nice, I might not have let him into mine, with its poor-man’s wear and tear, threadbare carpet, and Goodwill curtains.

  “Callie, how sweet of you to come!” Link’s mother swept into the room like something straight out of Elegant Home magazine, in grey slacks and a fitted, purple blouse so crisp it could have been pressed five minutes ago. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, and a double strand of pearls hung from her slender neck. Matching pearls sat on each of her earlobes. Her makeup was as pristine and fresh as her house. Even her patent leather peep-toes looked freshly shined.

  Mrs. Devaux was everything my mother wasn’t.

  “Thank you for having me,” I mumbled at the floor. I was suddenly sorely underdressed in my blue jeans and black hoodie.

  “No one else is here yet. Come on, I’ll show you my room.” Link placed a hand at the small of my back and gently urged me toward the stairs. I couldn’t climb them fast enough.

  Link’s bedroom was exactly what I would have expected. Well, maybe a tiny bit tidier than I would expect of a sixteen-year-old boy. It was sparsely furnished, with a dresser-mirror-combo and a desk along the wall next to the door and a big bed pressed into the far corner. And the bed was made—which was more than I could say of my own room—with a blue and green plaid comforter laid out over it. A bean bag chair and a storage trunk were parked at the foot of the bed.

  Dark blue curtains blocked any natural light filtering in through the windows, but the desk lamp was on to make up for the lack. Link entered first, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of his bed. Was he hoping I would join him?

  My stomach immediately knotted like a pretzel. There was something too intimate about the idea of sitting next to Link on his bed. So instead, I moved to his dresser and examined the personal items there: a comb, bottle of cologne, worn leather wallet, smartphone, and a silver ashtray filled with loose change instead of cigarette butts and topped with a set of car keys. I looped my index finger through the key ring and lifted. I
dangled the keys, turning them over, looking them over, then set it back down.

  In the back corner, behind everything else, was a small, framed picture of Link and his family. I picked it up to examine it closer. His parents were seated together, hugging, looking so in love. Link stood behind his mother, and his sister, Lisa, was behind Mr. Devaux. They were relaxed, with a natural happiness about them. Mr. Devaux had probably never raised a hand to either of his children, ever.

  “You’ve never asked me why I tried to kill myself.” I set the picture back down on his dresser and made eye contact with his reflection.

  “It’s never come up.” He met my gaze dead on, but his expression was unreadable.

  “You’re not even curious?”

  Still no reaction. The boy would make a killing at poker. Finally, he asked, “Do you want me to know?”

  My stomach flipped. I might not be able to tell what he was thinking, but he apparently could read me like a book. I sighed and continued my slow perusal of his room. When I finished with the dresser, I moved to the desk, cluttered with homework and random papers—so typically teenage. Just like the rest of his room. With my back still to Link, I worked up the nerve to tell the one secret I’d sworn I would never give voice to. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

  “And that bothers you.” He wasn’t asking.

  I nodded.

  “It doesn’t make you a bad person,” he told me with certainty. “I can’t even begin to imagine what life was like with him, Callie. But, if it’s half as bad as I think it was, I can’t imagine you’d feel much other than relief.”

  “Jackie Forrester has been telling people I killed him.” I turned to face Link. He might as well have been a statue, perched on the corner of his bed, watching me with a blank expression.

  “Jackie Forrester is an idiot.”

  “You don’t think I did it?” I suddenly wanted more than anything for Link to believe in me.

  “No.” He stood and closed the distance between us, not stopping until we were almost pressed together. He set his palms on the desk behind me and leaned so close his breath brushed my forehead. “I know you didn’t do it.”