Is this how she feels?
My mind aches just thinking about it, that she could feel as much pain as I do; connect with it.
I need to text her and ask if she’s okay.
I dig out my phone to do just that.
“Are you high?” Ellis asks as he skates back and forth in front of me. He has a knit cap on, pants, and a long-sleeved shirt. How the hell he’s not sweating balls against this heat is beyond me.
“Nah, I’m just zoning out. It’s hot as hell out here,” I say as I send a text to Lex.
Me: Hey, just wanted to see if you’re doing okay.
Yeah, simple enough, right? I hope so, because I don’t want to let on how I feel about her. Not right after she agreed to do this whole fake dating thing, which might be my chance to finally get her to see me. Well, unless she calls that off now that she’s been arrested.
I frown at the thought, but the frown fades as my phone buzzes in my hand.
Lex: Yeah, I’m fine. I was actually gonna text you and let you know that you don’t need to help me with my car. My brother’s gonna tow it home.
Me: Is he going to fix it?
Lex: No, I’m still planning on doing that.
Me: Want my help still?
When she doesn’t reply right away, a sinking feeling settles in my stomach.
She’s already pulling away from me again.
Lex: I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.
The frown returns to my face. Great. I thought we were making progress today. I guess I was wrong.
“It is hot as hell out here,” Holden comments, sitting down on the picnic table and propping his boot-covered feet on the bench I’m sitting on. He takes a drag off his cigarette, staring off into space. “We should have a party or something and get the hell out of the heat.” He glances at me. “You’re on break or some shit, right?”
“Yeah, for the next week. But school ends soon anyway,” I tell him, stuffing my phone into my pocket and trying to put all thoughts of Lex away. It’s more than complicated.
Why does it seem like she’s blowing me off? Is it just because she’s in trouble? Or did she figure out that I’m stupidly in love with her and is freaking out?
“Cool.” Holden tugs on a baseball hat then hops to his feet.
Sighing, Ellis skids to a stop, kicks his board up, and then tucks it under his arm. “Do we really have to have the party at our place? I hate cleaning up after that shit.”
“Like it’s ever cleaned up anyway,” I joke, standing up and sticking my hands into my pockets.
“True.” Ellis gives a nod. “Still … can’t we just go to a party instead? I don’t feel like having one at our place tonight.”
Holden exhales a cloud of smoke. “I know some people who are having one out in Sunnyvale. It’s far but might be worth it. Some important people are gonna be there.”
He doesn’t flat-out say it, but I wonder if these important people are people he deals with or maybe even deals for.
It makes me a bit nervous, but I’m not going to say that aloud.
“Ellis’s truck is running like shit, though,” I remind them. Plus, I snuck out and, if I’m not in my room later tonight, I’ll be in even more trouble than I already am. The punishment my dad will give me … He’s given me enough already that I know it’ll be bad.
My dad slams his fist against my face so hard that my ears pop, my vision spots, and it feels like the air has been ripped from my lungs.
I can’t breathe.
I fall to the carpet, my hands trembling as I fight back the urge to cry.
“Does it hurt?” my father asks as he moves to stand in front of me.
I want to shake my head. Want to be tough. Don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt me. But, if I do, he’ll make sure to continue hurting me.
When I was younger, I used to cry. It would always be his signal that he’s hurt me enough. The older I got, though, the more it took for him to stop. Now he needs a verbal admittance that he’s breaking me. I don’t know why, if he gets off on the power or just really believes that this is the best way to teach me to obey. If it’s the latter, I think he’d realize by this point that it doesn’t work, since I’m fourteen years old now and still do dumb shit all the time.
Like today when I snuck out of a party that he was having for some business associates. I was supposed to stick around so he could show me off, brag about how great I’m doing in school, and how I’m going to be trying out for the football team. But I hate being his prize. Am tired of it. I don’t want to get straight A’s anymore. And I don’t want to play football. I want to skate. I want to have some fun for once. I want to be a normal kid who isn’t living his life with his father’s shadow constantly hanging over him and telling him what to do.
My dad crouches down beside me. “If you ever embarrass me like that again, it’ll be much worse,” he warns in a low tone. Then he shoves me over just to add emphasis to his point.
That’s when the tears start to fall. I hate that I’m crying. And worse, I hate that he sees it. I hate feeling all the time. I hate my life.
And, while things are still shitty, they haven’t been as bad since I wandered off the path my parents mapped out for me.
The day I stepped off it, I was actually in this park. It was about six months or so ago, when I first met Holden and Ellis.
They were the only people at the skatepark that day, getting high when I showed up. Instead of putting the joint out, they offered it to me. I’d gotten high a few times at parties but never out in the open where anyone could see me, even people who didn’t know my parents. I felt like I was doing something awful, yet I felt free at the same time, if that makes any sense.
After that, I started spending more time with them and less time with the people that my parents wanted me to be friends with. And it always feels good. Well, until I have to go home. Then the darkness consumes my life again.
And when I get home tonight, that darkness is going to reappear in the form of my dad and his fists.
I don’t want to go home.
I don’t want to deal with this anymore.
“You good with that?” Holden asks as he takes a drag off his cigarette, smoke circling the air and making the heat smell like cigarettes.
I blink from the memory, realizing he’s talking to me. “Um … What?”
Holden narrows his eyes at me as he asks, “Have you been smoking already?”
“Nah, not yet. I’m planning on it later, though.” I pat my pocket where my joint is hidden.
He bobs his head up and down. “I said, maybe we can get your car so we can hit up that party. It could be fun. And you could meet some new people.”
I should say no. If I don’t go home, I’ll be in even more trouble than I already am. Plus, the people he knows can be sketchy as hell. I’m not sure if I’m ready to get that far into this new world I’ve been tiptoeing around.
But I don’t want to go home.
To the fists.
To the insults.
To the punishments.
“Yeah. If we go to Blaine’s now, I should be able to pick it up,” I say, knowing more than likely that agreeing to go is going to come back to bite me in the ass.
“Cool,” Holden says with a nod. Then the three of us start toward Ellis’s truck.
As we walk away, I flick a glance at the spray-painted words one last time, feeling that connection to them again.
Lost.
I feel so lost sometimes.
Drifting in a sea of agony.
And honestly, I’m wondering, if I don’t come up for air soon, I’ll end up drowning in it.
Twelve
Alexis
After the whole arresting incident, no one really talks to me. The next morning, though, Loki knocks on my bedroom door to give me the details of my punishment.
“I talked to the store owner. You’ll start painting the building on Friday.”
I sit up in be
d, glancing at the clock and noting how earlier it is. “Okay,” I tell him, also noting the button-down shirt and slacks he’s wearing. “Where are you going so earlier? And all dressed up?”
“I have a meeting,” is all he says.
I wonder if it has to do with Social Services. I just about ask but, as if sensing where my thoughts are heading, he talks over me.
“I want you to start working at the store a couple hours a day starting in the next week or so.” He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “And before you start arguing, I want to remind you that you got arrested again last night for vandalism.”
I comb my fingers through my hair. “So, working at the store is my punishment?”
He wavers, fiddling with his tie. “For now.”
“Okay … That’s kind of vague.”
“I know. I’m taking this one step at a time. If you do well with working at the store and painting the building, then maybe that’ll be it.” He pushes away from the doorframe, straightening. “But, if you’re a pain in the ass about it, I’ll tack on more.”
Coming from the guy who used to help me and Zhara sneak out of the house so we could go play night tag with the neighborhood kids. And that’s only one example of how Loki used to help us break the rules.
Becoming a dad has made him hardcore strict. Well, maybe not hardcore strict, but still …
“So, make sure to keep that in mind when you feel like rebelling,” he adds, his gaze sweeping the bare walls of my room. They used to be covered in my artwork, but I took them all down the day my art teacher told me that my work was shit. Maybe I would’ve put them back up if my mom and I had gone out for that ice cream. Maybe she would’ve convinced me that I was good, that my work did have meaning. But, who knows if she would’ve told the truth? Parents always lie to their kids to make them feel better. Besides, she never got a chance to tell me, so what does it even matter?
None of this does.
“Lex,” Loki says, and the hesitancy in his voice lets me know I’m not going to like the direction of where this conversation is going. “This whole graffiti thing”—he rubs his hand across his face, glancing at my walls again—“it’s not about your art, is it? I mean, I know you haven’t painted since Mom and Dad died, so I’m wondering”—he shifts his weight—“if this is some sort of replacement for you not painting anymore.”
His words are too close to the truth and strike a deep nerve, located in the center of my heart, amongst all those thorns. The strike makes them tighten and pierce my heart, making it hard to breathe and fueling me with frustration.
“No, it’s not about anything,” I lie. “I just do it because I’m bored and because I don’t care.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard. “I know this has been hard on you, but it’s been hard on everyone. And we’re all doing whatever we can just to make it through it but, if you keep shutting everyone out like this, that pain you’re carrying around is always going to be there. It’s not going to heal.”
I hate where this conversation is going. I can’t deal with it.
I can’t deal with anything. Because dealing with one thing could lead to dealing with everything and that could release a whole floodgate of emotion. And what I’ve been keeping bottled up behind that floodgate is a tsunami of pain that could rip me apart. Even if I tried to deal—decided to tell him everything—all that would lead to is more problems for my family. And my family can’t deal with any more problems.
My mask flips back onto my face as I shove everything I’m feeling down.
I become the Nothing Alexis.
“If everyone is going through it, then why do you only spend time lecturing me?” I ask Loki in an indifferent tone. “Why not focus on them instead?”
“I do,” he says with a frown. “You’re just never around to see it. Plus, Nik and Zhara are dealing with this differently than you are. And Anna did.”
“You mean, their way of dealing with it is easier on you?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you think.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I can tell he’s thinking that Nik and Zhara are the easier ones. And now Anna has cleaned up her act. Sort of anyway. With Jessa out of the picture, that only leaves me. The little shit who’s always bringing trouble into this family.
“That’s not what I think at all,” he tries to assure me. “I worry all the time about how quiet Nik’s gotten. And Zhara … she’s covering up her feelings by pretending everything’s okay, and I know that’s not healthy. And one day, I’m worried she’s going to break. And Jessa …” He shakes his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “She barely calls home anymore.”
I don’t know what to say. I feel like he’s letting out stuff that he’s been bottling up for a while now. I’m not sure if he even realizes he’s doing it.
“I’m sorry,” he quickly says. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”
I want to tell him that it’s okay. A year ago, I would’ve been there for him. But now, all I do is sit here while he turns around and leaves the room. I just let him walk away with all those problems on his shoulders.
“You’re such a good kid,” my mom used to tell me. “A little bit wild, but I like that about you.”
“Really?” I always replied. “Because most parents don’t like their kids being wild.”
“Yes, really.” She pats my head. “You’ve always been my little wild child, but you have a big heart, so I’ve never been too concerned. You might get in a little bit of trouble sometimes, but your ability to care is what always pulls you back from doing anything too crazy. And I don’t ever want you to lose that about yourself. Don’t ever lose your big heart, Alexis.”
As I sit on my bed, remembering my mom’s words, I feel the thorns in my chest again. It’s all I feel anymore, and I’m starting to wonder if my heart is gone. If, like our front yard, my chest has been taken over with wilting thorns.
Loki is barely home all day, busying himself with whatever he was doing this morning. The house stays pretty quiet, but the soundlessness starts to fester in me. I want to pick up a can of spray paint and leave—that’s what I’d usually do—but Milo’s words of warning have me deciding to lay low for a while. Not that I’m promising not to do it ever again. I’m just taking a break.
I haven’t heard from West or Masie today, but Blaine does send me a text.
Blaine: Hey, can we talk?
That’s all he says.
I don’t reply. Instead, I busy myself with playing the guitar, something I’m okay at, but not great, which makes it easier to play because there aren’t any expectations. Zhara can play, too, but she’s way better than me. Not that anyone has actually seen her play. We just hear her through the walls.
After my fingers get numb, I decide to rearrange my closet, needing to stay busy. Usually, I do that by getting in trouble—vandalizing, sometimes getting high. But, with my car not working and with everything else going on, cleaning the closet is my only option right now.
A lot of the stuff inside it are old clothes that belonged to me during the Before, including the pink shirt I wore the day Jay touched me. It’s worn and has a tear in the hem that I think Jay might have put there. I should’ve thrown it away that day. I don’t know I didn’t.
Instead of throwing it away now, I tug at the tear and slowly rip up the shirt until nothing but pieces is left. Then I toss those pieces in the trash, part of me hoping the memories will go away with them.
They don’t.
“You’re so fucking ugly,” he whispers as I choke on my necklace. “You should feel lucky that I’m touching you.”
Stop!
Smashing my lips together, I decide to give all the rest of my old clothes away, knowing I’ll never wear them again.
After I pile them into a bag, I return to my closet and grab a box. Inside are photos of me, Blaine, Masie, and West, back when we were kids and everything wasn’t
so complicated.
Blaine was one of the first friends I ever made. We bonded over coloring. He was impressed with how well I could stay in the lines. But what really sealed our friendship was when I shoved down a kid at recess for trying to kiss me and Blaine lied for me so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I knew then that he had my back. And I always had his. Until now anyway.
Things started to change the older we got. I became friends with Masie, and he became friends with West. While we all hung out together, I started hanging out with Masie more, and he did the same with West. But as our friendship changed, I started seeing and feeling differently toward him. When he flirted with girls, I felt jealous. And when I didn’t spend a lot of time with him, I found myself missing him. It took me a while, and a conversation with Masie, to realize I was falling in love with him. Or, at least, that’s what I believed.
As I sit here, sifting through the photos, I remember what it felt like to feel that way toward him; how whenever he put his arm around me or smiled, I felt butterflies in my stomach. I also realize those butterflies haven’t been there in a while.
Since my parents died. Since Jay.
Since the old Alexis died.
I also haven’t smiled in a very long time. Or felt much of anything. Well, except for yesterday.
Pressing my lips together, I tuck the photos back into the box then stick them on the top shelf where I won’t have to acknowledge their existence. Then I move on to the next box in my closet.
The moment I look inside, I frown.
My old paintings. And lying on top is the last one I ever painted. The one my teacher told me was generic and unreal. When I had finished it, and before I turned it in, I had thought it was my best work to date. Looking at it now—the bright colors, the perfect, flawless lines—I can see what my teacher meant.
“It looks like a freakin’ paint by numbers painting. I should just throw all this away,” I mutter. “It’s not even who I am anymore.”
But I can’t seem to bring myself to do it, so I end up kicking the box underneath my bed where it’s out of sight, but annoyingly, not out of mind.
Signed with a Kiss: A Novel (Signed with a Kiss Series Book 1) Page 9