She catches me off guard and she slips her hand under my dress. Between thighs I clamp together, Becka grabs my precious, untouched middle.
“I told you I wasn’t afraid of your vagina.” She laughs, wiggling her fingers.
LATER THAT evening, the house smells like garlic bread and Mom’s setting the table. I haven’t moved from my spot on the couch since I got home from school. Thomas shows up to pick up his sister as the timer on the oven goes off. While my heart beats in my throat, I let my dad answer the door.
It’s obvious this boy hasn’t left bed all day, with his sleepy red eyes and messy hair hidden under a hat. In basketball shorts and a plain white tee, Dusty walks politely beside the arm of the couch, close enough for me to smell the faint scent of soap on his skin, but distant enough not to cause any suspicion.
Dad pats him on the back as he moves past our guest and toward the recliner. Thomas winces in lingering pain.
“A deer jumped out in front of you?” my father asks, rocking back in his chair, permanent suspicion laced through his tone.
“I’m still kind of sore,” love answers instead of lying to a judge.
“I bet,” Dad replies, straight-faced.
Protective, disgusted with my dad’s blatant distrust and disregard for Thomas, a spark of defiance burns inside of me. Regardless of the circumstances, he’s a kid and he could have died, and Dad’s known the Castors long enough that it should affect him in ways other than doubt.
There’s no justice in being a dick.
“Thomas, I didn’t know you were here.” With a reaction opposite of her other half, my mother carefully wraps the wounded in her arms. “I’m glad you’re okay. You scared us.”
A sucker for warmth, Thomas sinks into her embrace. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“You’re staying for dinner, right?” she asks.
“What did you make?”
“Chicken Parmigiana,” Mom answers, rubbing the back of his shoulder. Her hair is up and messy, and she has her glasses on, making her eyes look larger than normal.
“You made it by yourself? It didn’t come out of a box?”
“No, Thomas. It didn’t come out of a box.” Mom laughs.
He’s the first one at the table and the last one to leave.
AFTER A weekend spent at home, things return to normal come Monday when Thomas comes back to school. I dodge the restrooms between classes, and we both act like we don’t mean anything to each other.
Trading books at my locker, Becka walks up and sighs. “You know that end of the year dance?”
“Yeah,” I say.
A piece of folded up paper falls out from my locker as I pull out my biology book. My heart drops with it, and because my hands are full, my best friend picks it up before I can.
As she unfolds it, she says, “We’re going.”
“Sure,” I agree absentmindedly, reaching for the sheet of notebook paper. She twists away from me and reads what’s written on blue lines.
Her expression is unreadable, and my stomach is full of lead.
Rebecka crumbles up the note and throws it at me. “You’re an idiot.”
I bend down and pick it up as she walks away, quickly flattening out what she was never supposed to see. What I thought was a note from Thomas is only a letter I started but never finished to her about the perks of waterproof mascara.
“I’ll wear a dress to the dance if you let Oliver finger you in the bathroom,” she calls from the end of the hallway.
I’m mortified, but it’s better than being caught.
INSTEAD OF listening to the lesson about the theory of evolution, I search the internet for dresses and updos. By lunch, I’ve decided I want to wear black, and I definitely want my hair up.
“We’re going to the dance as a group. No dates,” Oliver says.
I bite into a sour green apple and nod, swiping through pictures of curls, braids, and twists on my phone.
When the bell rings, I pocket my cell and rush toward French with thoughts of my first school dance twirling through my head. Contemplating shoes, I hear my name called and search the Language Arts hall for the source.
Brandon Miller, a senior guy with a heartbreaker’s reputation, walks my way.
“Did you call me?” I ask, unsure.
“Yep,” he says, smiling like a chump. He’s cute with dark brown hair and light brown eyes, tall and jock-boy fit.
“Do you need something?” I lift my backpack up my shoulder.
“I was wondering if you’re going to the dance this weekend.” Charming, Brandon stands arrogant with an innocent flair—like a player who’s never tasted rejection.
“I think so,” I answer, curving my lips.
He steps a little closer. I smile a little higher.
The fool probably thinks I’m grinning because he’s showing me attention, when I’m really smiling because—
“Brandon, how’s it goin’?” Petey leans against the lockers at my right side while Ben leans on my left.
Brandon isn’t fazed until he sees Thomas across from us. Wisely, the heartbreaker puts a little distance between my body space and his.
“Just asking if Leigh’s going to the dance.” Brandon stands tall, not about to be punked by three sophomores.
“Yeah, she’s going,” Petey says. “She’s my date.”
“And mine,” Ben adds.
“What about you, Dusty? Is Bliss your date?” Pete asks over Brandon’s shoulder.
“Yeah, she’s my date,” mad love says with his eyes locked and loaded on the back of Brandon’s head.
How could this guy not know?
Little sisters are off limits.
The confrontation gains a small audience, and Brandon looks around, completely surrounded. Ever the enchanter, he smiles an award-winning smile and says, “See you later, Leighlee,” before he walks away.
So does Thomas, without another word.
I walk to class with Pete’s arm over my shoulder and Ben carrying my books. Valarie’s behind us, and she tries to talk to them, but they ignore her and lecture me on bad boys with bad intent.
“Let us know if he bothers you again,” Petey says. Ben hands me my books, and they go.
In class, Val isn’t pleased.
“You’ll always be their little sister, Leigh,” she says. “It’s not like Brandon Miller would actually want to, like, date you.”
Daisy leans over the desk toward her, and says, “Je te déteste.”
When the bell rings, Valarie doesn’t leave before saying her peace. “It’s funny Thomas said he was your date to the dance when he’s actually going with me.”
I exit the room weighing how badly my grade would suffer if I ditched French for the rest of the year. Dealing with her doesn’t seem worth it, until worth it sneaks up behind me and pulls me through the doorway of an empty classroom. His hand drops from mine, where he interlaces our fingers and holds tight.
“Hey, princess girl,” he says, truly smiling.
“Hey, yourself,” I answer, combating my own smirk.
Safely hidden, I push myself against him and bury my nose in his neck, lifting up on my tippy-toes to be more near.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I shake my head. Thomas opens up the schoolroom door and pulls me in, shutting it behind us. Thick, cream-colored blinds are pulled down, and the air smells like dust. There are a few stacked desks in the center of the room, and a teacher’s desk at the front. An out-of-date chalkboard is clean, and the walls are bare, abandoned.
Lifting me like I weigh nothing at all, Dusty places me onto the rickety wooden desk and says, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to be with you anymore,” I reply, uncertain of myself.
Thomas smirks and vibrant blue eyes burn.
“I’m serious,” I say. “I hate you.”
“Bliss.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
His callousness opens me and spills repressed resentment. �
�I know you were with Clarissa,” I cry. “I know you’ve been with Valarie and Mixie and Katie. Val said you’re going to the dance with her—”
“Shut up, Bliss. It’s a rule.” He tries to sound playful, but his warning undertone is more than obvious.
I slip off of the desk, grateful that my feet are strong and steady, and dust off my dress. I look for my bag, and when I find it, Thomas kicks it across the room.
“Why did you do that?” I ask, kicking his.
“Say you promise.” He holds me in place by my arms and pulls me closer. I try to back away, but he doesn’t let me. “Say you promise, and I’ll think about believing you don’t want me.”
We don’t breathe. We don’t move. We stare.
His hold on my arm is binding, and I’m reminded that his coltish posture isn’t how he feels about what I said. There’s an underlying message in this firm lock: I’m not going anywhere.
“I wasn’t with Clarissa, and I’ve never been with Mixie or Katie,” he says, letting me go.
I’ve been taught that relationships are supposed to be built from trust, but we’re a walking untruth—solely made from love. What kind of person does it make me if I accept words I know are lies? Because I know they are. He’s absolutely honest with me about everything but loyalty.
“People say shit about me,” he deceives a little more. “But that doesn’t mean it’s true.”
I nod reluctantly.
“Do you still hate me?” he asks.
I shake my head, but I say, “You’re no good for me.”
He tilts my chin up. “Well, it’s too late for all that shit.”
Dismissing his sarcasm, I move away and search for my backpack, fearful of becoming so pathetic I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror. It’s one thing to accept lies, but I’d be pitiful to believe them. And if love isn’t as confident as he pretends to be, he should feel worse for being a liar.
I do.
Covered in dirt, my bag’s lodged in the corner of the classroom. I’m wiping away dust bunnies when Thomas grabs it from my hands.
“I’m not going to the dance with V. She asked if I was going. I said sure. That’s all,” he says.
I look up at the ceiling, refusing to meet eyes I’ll drown in.
“Princess girl,” he says softly. “You can’t be upset with me because Valarie’s a cunt.”
My jaw drops and Thomas laughs loudly, filling the room with his beautiful, heartbreaking sound.
“EARTH TO Bliss.” Rebecka snaps her fingers in my face. “Are you daydreaming about cocks? I look like that when I daydream about them, too.”
I blink dry eyes and focus on my best friend.
Since losing her virginity, there’s experience in her expression. She knows things. She’s felt things. Rebecka’s lived more than I have.
And I thought I wanted it, but I’m not sure anymore.
“Seriously, L, what’s going on?” She sits next to me on the curb. It’s Friday, and we’re out front waiting for Tommy to pick us up from school.
“Nothing,” I say, extending my legs, loving the red-blotched burn I’m getting from the sunshine.
After our fight on Monday, Thomas has been surprisingly close in a much-needed-suffocating kind of way, but I know it’s temporary. When his guilt about lying to me subsides, things will go back to normal and it will happen all over again.
It’s killing me.
“You’re lying, and Brandon Miller is looking at you.” Rebecka stands up, dropping her board on the pavement.
“Ignore him,” I say, turning my face toward the impending summer sun.
“I totally saw him and Valarie sucking face,” Becka says, rolling by. “I told Thomas, but he didn’t care.”
There’s no way of knowing if Valarie’s likes Brandon or not, but they’ve been fooling around and it’s weird—he’s generically perfect, and she smells like cigarettes. Despite kissing my worst enemy, heartbreaker boy hasn’t given up on me yet. Ben and Petey chased him away a couple of more times, but Brandon caught me between classes yesterday. Brilliant and tempting, he’s gorgeous and annoying.
“Go to the dance with me,” he asked.
I crossed my arms over my white top and smiled. “I have three dates, remember?”
He rolled his eyes. “What’s up with those guys, anyway?”
“Trust me, Brandon,” I said. “You don’t want to find out.”
When Tommy shows up, my girl and I slip into her car. The concerned mother asks the whereabouts of her only son.
“I don’t know,” Rebecka says.
And I shrug, because neither do I.
Hours later, the moon is out and Becka has her window open, letting in the cool night breeze. We’re in pajamas with facemasks on, shrinking our pores so we’re flawless at the dance tomorrow night. My best girl has her feet in my lap while texting her boy, and I’m painting her toes Bogota Blackberry pink, trying not to think about mine.
But when my phone vibrates, I know it’s him.
“Going potty,” I lie, taking my phone into the bathroom across the hall with me.
Green clay washes away from my face with warm water, and I leave the faucet running while I return Dusty’s call.
“Baby, baby, baby,” he answers, sluggish and evidently high. “What are you doing, strawberry blonde?”
I sink to my bottom and cross my legs. “Getting ready for the dance with your sister.”
“Is that boy taking you?” he asks, unspecific, but I know he means Oliver. Brandon Miller’s asked me to be his date more than once, but it’s the selfless kid who gave me his sweater when I was cold that Thomas fears.
Trouble’s concerned about what I’m doing, but I’m home, safe and sober. He needs to worry about himself, out there, uncontrollable and stoned.
When I hear Valarie’s voice in the background, I’ve had enough of him and his bullshit this week. I hang up. Powering off my cell, I stand to my feet and open Becka’s medicine cabinet, knowing I’ll find something to numb the hurt in my heart. An over the counter sleep aid in a red and white bottle seems safe, so I pop a couple.
When we go to bed, I dream about a delinquent with eyes the shade of Heaven.
“READY TO get your dance on, Bliss?” Becka shakes me awake.
It’s easy to hide from the morning’s glare under the blankets, but skater girl’s intensity isn’t easy to avoid.
“Oh, come on you sad, angst-filled teenager. Lighten up. Want to take a shot?” she asks.
I pull the covers below my eyes and nod.
Becka pulls the tequila from her father’s liquor cabinet, and I take a lime out of the fridge, slicing it into fours. She’s pouring us a double when her mom saunters into the kitchen. The epitome of stunning in a red dress and black platform heels, Tommy’s high-class and knows it.
“What are you girls doing?” she asks, grabbing her keys from the counter.
“Leigh’s in a funk,” Rebecka answers, bothered that her mother hasn’t noticed my obvious funk.
“In that case, carry on.” Tommy smiles and winks. “But don’t go overboard.”
Becka and I take three shots and hardly wince. I’m getting better at this stuff.
I soothe myself with a couple Twinkies and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and my best girl doesn’t give me a chance to breathe before she wants to start getting ready.
While she’s in the shower, I turn on my phone.
My boy is madness in text after text, voicemail after voicemail. In one message Thomas swears he’s coming home to kick down Rebecka’s bedroom door, and in the next he’s sorry and he loves me, and please answer, baby.
Clearly, he isn’t sorry enough to actually come home.
Lying back on Becka’s bed, I call him back. He picks up after the first ring.
“I said I was sorry,” he mumbles.
I twirl strands of hair between my fingers and say, “I heard.”
“You tortured me last night, little girl.”<
br />
I don’t have anything to say to that.
“Did you get my voicemails?” he asks, shuffling like he’s getting out of bed. “Ignore the bad ones, but pay extra attention to the ones where I say I love you and need you, and I want you, and please stop breaking my heart.”
His tone is amusing, and I can hear him peeing. “I’m holding my dick, Bliss. Should I stroke it?”
I laugh loudly and it feels good.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he apologizes, sounding genuine.
“Okay,” I say.
“I’ll see you in about an hour,” he tells me.
When Becka gets out of the shower, I get in, washing away the last bits and pieces of my bad mood. Soapsuds flow down my arms and legs, into the drain, while the smell of lavender and lemons spike my giddy nerves. I brush my teeth and think about how Thomas loves me. I think about the voicemails and the text messages he sent last night. I think about how crazy and sporadic they were, and how crazy and sporadic he is. I think about how passionate he is, and I’m crazy for loving him, but I’m passionate, too.
Rinsed and clean, I step out of the shower and look at the shape of my body in the mirror. I’m not one-dimensional anymore. My thighs aren’t skinny, and my hip bones and collarbones don’t show. There’s a nice curve from my lower back to my bottom, and my waist has thickened.
Someone knocks on the door as I’m wrapping myself in a pink towel.
“Hold on.” I quickly brush through soaked strawberry blonde.
There’s another knock.
“What?” I open the door with playful impatience, expecting Becka and finding Thomas.
With sleep lines on his face and messy hair, the boy I love looks tired. He smiles as he rushes in, locking the door behind him. I’m kissed with a mouth that tastes like liquor and toothpaste and lifted up onto the bathroom counter.
Hurried lips move down my throat. I tell him not to leave a mark, and he tells me to shut the fuck up. Thomas presses himself between my legs, and I can feel his nylon basketball shorts pushing against my bare middle. I bite his shoulder to keep from making a noise and circle my arms around his neck while he unwraps my towel.
I shift. I fidget. I close my eyes.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, pushing the pink terry cloth down.
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