BONE DEEP

by Brooklyn Skye

  Pinched at the brow, her forehead and measured swallows are a sure sign she’s in a lot more pain than she’s letting on. Gently, I take her hand in mine and say, “That I think you’re really brave. For, you know, going through that pain to get rid of your tattoo. I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to do that.”

  Someday, I’ll grow enough balls to tell her.

  I drop off Cambria and when I get home, I walk in to my dad and Wrenn sitting together at the kitchen table, paint brushes in their hands and smiles on their faces. They’re talking about Wrenn’s Wheel, and laughing, and being absurdly normal.

  And there’s a part of me—a grain-of-sand-sized piece of me—that wants to go sit with them. Join their conversation. Laugh with them; it’s been so long since I’ve laughed with my father, but I can still remember it. Like I can remember my name. It was a week before the accident, on one of his days off. He and I went to the park to play basketball. I kicked his ass, and not because he let me. He was trying his hardest, and laughing, and it was…fun.

  “Hey, bud,” Dad says, yanking the thought away like an opened curtain. “Want to help? We’re glazing Wrenn’s last batch.” He holds up his paint brush. I step farther into the room, the word “yes” on my lips, but stop. They look like they’re having fun, and I don’t want to ruin it.

  Instead, I point down the hall. Draw up a smile. “I have homework.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hand me that screw, would ya? The one next to the wheel head.” In the kitchen, Dad’s lying on the floor, Wrenn’s wheel propped over his face. A crisp pair of jeans hangs over his bare feet, a creased T-shirt rests above his belt. Dad’s never been overweight, but by the looks of the muscles in his stomach, he’s been working out in the jail.

  I drop the screw into his hand then pull myself onto the counter. My brain feels like it’s being yanked in two directions. I want to hate him for what he did, for the shithole my life’s become, but then he goes and does something like this—act all normal, like the father I once had.

  He tinkers quietly for a few minutes then scoots out from under the wheel, sits on his feet, and looks at me. “How’s that girlfriend of yours?”

  He means Jess. Last he knew, she and I were pretty involved. But that was before his “accident,” and her accident.

  I find a penny on the counter and spin it on its edge. “Not my girlfriend anymore,” I say, watching the penny instead of him. His expression will change, but whether it’s pity or remorse or disappointment, I’m not sure. And I don’t want to see how my life changing affects him. Or doesn’t.

  “Any others?”

  Yes. The daughter of a woman you killed. Who’s thought about killing herself because of what you took from her.

  “No.” The word glides out like a drop of water. Fluid. Detached. And I don’t look up to see his reaction. Thinking about Cambria, and the hurt he’s caused her, sours my mouth like rotten milk. The penny stalls for a beat of a second then falls.

  “Wrenn told me about one of your professors calling…and all your absences. Do you want to explain what’s been going on at school?”

  “Really, Dad? No, I don’t want to talk about the shitty job I’ve done trying to live this life you created for me.”

  His face hardens. “You haven’t been going to class. School is your responsibility, Krister.”

  Says the man who was irresponsibly texting his girlfriend instead of paying attention to the track ahead of him. I don’t say anything.

  “Wrenn said you quit your glassblowing internship, too.”

  Reflexively, my fingers smooth over the scar on my hand. “Two thousand degree molten glass and a dad in jail didn’t really mix well.” It’s a dig. He knows it. And suddenly I don’t care.

  “Listen, son, I know what happened is affecting you—”

  “What happened? Don’t you mean what you did? Shit like train crashes don’t just happen.”

  His mouth opens. No words come out. My face grows hotter with the feeling that I’m going to explode. So I pounce.

  “And to say it’s affecting me is a fucking understatement. You have no idea what my life is like now. How it feels to be stared at, talked about, pitied. Or attacked when people find out who I am. To hear the words ‘Everything will turn out fine’ when deep down I know pigs will have to fly before anything is fine.” I jump off the counter, hands balled at my sides. “What it’s like to stand here before you and convince myself that I will be nothing like you!” I snatch my hat off the counter, storm out of the room and through the front door, get to the liquor store at the corner and call Ditty.

  Ten minutes later I’m crammed in the jump seat of Ditty’s pickup, inhaling the secondhand smoke that remarkably floats through the gigantic holes in Sam Weatherly’s earlobes before smothering me.

  “Do you want me to drop you off anywhere?” Ditty says with a glance over his shoulder at me. He turns off Fair Drive, the evening sun smearing the grimy windshield. I shrug.

  “Nowhere to go, really. Can I just tag along with you two?” Jesus, when did I turn into such a loser—being a third wheel by choice?

  “Uh…”

  Ditty and Sam share a calculating look. Then Sam peeks back with the cigarette dangling from her lips. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s totally fine, Krister.” Ditty’s hand tightens around the steering wheel. He doesn’t like the idea. Maybe he wanted to be alone with Sam. Maybe he’s still holding a grudge against me for ditching him at Jess’s and stealing his truck.

  We pull up to the movie theater and park. Ditty takes Sam’s hand easily, like it’s something he’s been doing for years, and it hits me that I didn’t even know they were together. Not like that.

  We pay for our tickets to see Arms and Legs, some zombie flick according to Sam, load up on popcorn and chocolate, and make our way to Theater 5. Not many seats are filled, and we head to the top of the dim room where another couple sits. It takes me all of three seconds to recognize the cropped, blond hair and glaring eyes.

  Jess. Sitting next to someone I don’t recognize. Same build as me, and that’s where our similarities stop. His hair’s darker than mine—almost black—and cut all over in different lengths. Pushed every direction, it’s like he couldn’t decide which way to style his hair this morning and just left it. Only, it looks sort of planned. He’s got a gray vest buttoned up over his tight, black T-shirt and a hand on Jess’s bare knee.

  “Who’s that? With Jess?”

  Ditty glances up the stairway, tugging at the collar of his button-up shirt. “Some guy she met in Valenzuela’s class. From New York, I think.” His voice is low, hesitant, most likely wondering how I’ll react. “Name’s Shawn Madden. Hung out with him yesterday at the arcade. A little weird, but he’s all right.”

  Obviously, Shawn doesn’t know who I am or my history with Jess because anyone else from our school would have half a mind to remove his hand from my ex-girlfriend’s knee the moment I enter the room. Preoccupied in conversation with Jess, Shawn nods nonchalantly to Ditty and Sam without so much as a glance at me.

  There was a time when this would’ve bothered me. Now, though, I can’t seem to find the feeling that I care.

  Ditty and Sam shuffle past the happy couple. I follow, making myself bigger and more clumsy than normal. I “accidentally” step on New York’s black boot, bump his knee, apologize with a smile, and then hold my hand out to him.

  “New guy from New York, I’m Krister.”

  His hand is forced to leave Jess’s knee to shake my hand, and I silently laugh to myself. “Shawn Madden,” he says in a smooth, unshaken voice. Beside him, Jess is burning my face and chest with a laser-beam stare. I wink at her and push past to the next open seat opposite Ditty and Sam.

  “Don’t sit,” Jess spouts. I turn. She’s standing, her back to New York and a dirty look plastered on her face. To the new guy she probably sounds cheerful, but there’s a hint of something else. Something harder. “Can I talk to you?” She points to the
end of our row, to the empty aisle of stairs.

  I shrug—indifferent, set my snacks down at my seat and start for the aisle. Her stare scalds my back, and when we get to the end she folds her arms over her stomach, pink nails biting into her skin. “Are you spying on me?” she says in a sharp whisper. A halfhearted laugh bursts from me.

  “Get over yourself, Jess. I didn’t even know you were going to be here.” I could tell her about my dad, the fight we had. She might understand. But I don’t feel like talking about him again. “So,” I say with no amusement at all. “You and New York are a thing now?”

  “His name’s Shawn. And since when does it matter to you what I do or who I’m with? You haven’t cared since—”

  “Don’t you mean who you do?”

  Her nostrils flare. “Go to hell, Krister.” Ditty and Sam are entertaining Shawn—distracting him, if I know them the way I think I do. Shawn laughs at something Sam says, covertly stealing a glance at us. At the same time, Jess lets out a low huff. “And I’m not—” She shakes her head, eyes glistening with tears. “God, why am I telling you this? I don’t even care what you think anymore.”

  “You don’t?” The words come out sounding bemused, but the idea is relieving. She’s moving on, which ultimately means there’s no chance of me hurting her anymore.

  “No.” The lights dim and, without another word, she drags her feet back to her seat between New York and Sam. The movie is a blur of gray faces and detached limbs, and I don’t concentrate on any of it because the whole time I’m waiting—and then searching—for some sign within myself that I give a shit.

  After the movie, Ditty drops off Sam and then we head to his studio apartment—through the garden-like courtyard and up the flight of stairs. If I wouldn’t have quit the internship I might have a job by now. And a place of my own.

  “Did you like the movie?” he asks as he makes a path through the strewn-about clothes and splayed-open books from the door to his bed. I shrug.

  “Zombies aren’t really my thing.”

  With about as much grace as a newborn giraffe, he shoves a few dresser drawers closed, not bothering to stuff their contents in first then looks over at me. I sit at his metal desk. It’s surprisingly clean compared to the rest of his room with only a few schoolbooks stacked up on the side and a half-whittled chunk of wood shaped like a pineapple. I have no idea what he’ll make it into.

  “They used to be,” he says, pulling the covers straight on his bed. “Remember last summer when you insisted on going to the LA Film Festival because that chick who played the half-naked zombie in Rule of the Dead was going to be there? And senior year you were one for Halloween.”

  My mind is turning. Sure I remember those things, but not like they’re memories of mine. More like they belonged to a scene on TV or a page in a book. The image of someone telling them to me.

  Ditty collapses onto his bed and tosses a pillow at me. I catch it.

  “You’ve changed.” His tone is controlled. Not accusatory or spiteful or critical. A simple observation.

  I rub my face. “Can we not talk about this tonight?”

  “Why? Because you don’t want to? Well, what if I do?”

  “I don’t care if you do.”

  “And there you go again thinking the world revolves around you and your life.” A line draws across his forehead. “Let me ask you something. When’s the last time you asked about me? About why I’m spending so much time with Sam? Asked how far we’ve gone?”

  “Jesus, Dit, you sound like a girl.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Fine,” I snap, jamming my hand through my hair. “Have you bagged Sam yet?”

  “Fuck you, Ledoux. My point is you’ve been so wrapped up in your feel-sorry-for-me shit you’ve totally forgotten about all of us.” All of us, as in him and Jess. There’s never really been anyone else. “You didn’t even care that Jess has been seeing someone else.”

  Without looking at me, he tosses the folded-up blanket from the end of his bed my way and shuts off the light. It’s dark. And suddenly I’m cold. I curl up on the floor beside the desk, still dressed, and watch as strands of moonlight tangle with the blades of the ceiling fan. Ditty lets out a weighted sigh, and my first thought is that he’s asleep, but then he says with no inflection in his voice at all, “The old Krister would’ve cared.”

  But I’m not him. And I don’t know how to be him.

  I let out a heavy breath. Maybe he’s right—Jess or not, I haven’t exactly made an effort with him lately. “Do you like her? Sam?”

  Even though it’s dark, I can see his eyes open at the sound of my voice. “She’s different. Kinda like one of the guys, but kinda not. Like Jess was.”

  I don’t know if he meant that as a dig or not. I nod, anyway.

  “What about you? Still with that chick from SkyTown?”

  “Cambria, yeah. She’s cool, too.” Even though it seems like there’s so much more to say, we end the conversation there. Guess it’s a start.

  Unable to sleep, I wait until Ditty crashes out then quietly slip out of his apartment. It’s far, but I stroll along the lamp-lit streets until I’m standing in front of Cambria’s house. She didn’t know the old me, and she doesn’t expect me to act like him. It’s the most refreshing thought I’ve had all day.

  Around the side of the house, I spot a window with lace curtains. Considering Cambria’s the only girl living here, I take my chances and tap. When nothing happens, I knock. A moment later, a light switches on and the curtains divide, revealing a stunning face staring back at me.

  I wave and smile like I didn’t just pull a creeper move and wake her up in the middle of the night by playing pat-a-cake with her window. “Greetings from the other side.”

  A wide grin spreads across her face before taking a quick glance over her shoulder. She moves the curtains aside and slides open the window, at the same time straightening her finger over her lips to tell me to be quiet. Watching me remove the screen, she tugs at the hem of her worn U of C T-shirt. I want to tell her she looks beautiful, even with her hair knotted at the top of her head and wrinkly, yellow, cotton shorts. I want to…but I also want to be quiet so my time with her doesn’t end before it starts.

  Without making a sound, I gently prop the screen against the stucco side of the house and climb in, not wasting any time to close the space between us.

  I fling my hat to the floor then grip her face and cover her lips with mine, slipping my tongue into her mouth before she has a chance to whisper my name. Her body presses into me, warm and soft, like my own personal blanket. “Goddamn, I’ve missed you,” I say, sliding my hands down her neck and arms until I reach the small dip in her waist. They fit perfectly there, like the space was made specifically for them.

  She settles her palms on my chest, fingers hooking the collar of my shirt. Skin on skin, not very much, but enough to send a ripple of excitement through me. I tug at her hips, and she steps in between my legs at the same time plunging her tongue deep into my mouth. A tiny groan trickles from her lips along with the words, “I should get you to miss me more often.” Her hands cradle my neck, slender fingers gripping strong to my jaw as her teeth nibble my bottom lip. “I like the way you miss me.”

  My touch slips beneath the edge of her T-shirt and up her bare back. A mischievous glint in her eye brings her gaze to mine as my fingertips scrape the skin where silky material would typically stretch across but doesn’t. Suddenly, my hands itch to touch her…everywhere.

  I shuffle her to the bed: a large queen dotted with a ridiculous number of round, colorful pillows. So much different than the sparseness of her dorm bed. I settle her in the center and crawl up beside her, never once breaking contact with her smooth, flat stomach. She blinks slowly and smiles.

  “If I didn’t know better I’d think you had some sort of surveillance on me…watching to see when I’m having a shitty day so you can come make it better.”

  Better? My hand stills at the waist
band of her shorts.

  “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  Her pinkie slips beneath my shirt and runs a tentative line around my waist, a small, tight smile on her lips. “Just a not-so-good day. Much better now that you’re here.” She tugs the hem of my shirt up and tilts her head. “Off?” Her smile grows wider as my shirt slides up and over my head, but I stop her as she reaches for the button on my jeans.

  “Hang on.” Pulling her with me, I sit up. “Listen, I will stay here and do anything you want for as long as you wish, but…I’m not going to be that guy who distracts you from whatever it is you’re dealing with anymore. I want to be more than that. Your friend. And it would make me really happy if you talked to me.” I slip my fingers between hers and squeeze tight, noticing right in this very moment the guilt and constant struggle of wondering when I should tell her is gone, replaced with the blooming sensation that something in me is changing. I kiss her knuckles then say, “Tell me the not-so-good part of your day?”

  She stares into my eyes for a stretched-out moment, gently scraping her nail over the raised scar on my hand. I imagine I can feel it, little tingles where my skin has gone permanently numb. She gives me a tiny nod with the look of gratitude beaming from her eyes before her gaze flicks to the door and back, and then she whispers, “My brother’s been acting really weird lately. And it’s more than just him not dealing with his grief over my mom. It’s like he’s completely losing himself to his…anger. I guess that’s what you could call it.”

  At the word “anger,” my insides clench. He’s a hockey player, she’s told me this much, which means he’s likely got the temper of a bull. A hot wave flushes over me—if he’s so much as put a finger on her…

  “What’s he doing?” I choke out.

  She shakes her head, lips pinched shut, then leans in and rests her forehead against my collarbone with a stiff chuckle. “Not beating people up anymore, at least.” Her warm breath fans down my chest, hair tickles my chin, and I let out a slow, measured breath. “I don’t know… I’m just worried about him. He’s not the same person he was a year ago.”