Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  “That was slick,” Becka mumbles, shaking her head. “Fucking idiots.”

  Val shoves something into the top of her bikini and tells Dusty, “Your little sisters are here.”

  He’s posted in front of me, blocking the sun before I have a chance to get up and run away.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says.

  Becka throws sand at him and says, “It’s a free country, Dusty. We can be here if we want.”

  I won’t let him make me feel unwelcome. He’s being a jerk because I saw his little interaction with Valarie and he knows it. Maybe he figures I saw him at Casper’s car, too. Maybe he doesn’t like being put on the spot.

  Then he asks, “Did you invite Oliver and Smitty?”

  Or maybe he doesn’t want to see me with the sweater giver all day.

  “Duh,” Rebecka answers.

  He walks away, shirtless and summer-freckled.

  When I can’t take the heat any longer, Becka and I walk hand-in-hand to the water, tiptoeing in until we’re waist deep. The cool seawater shocks my warmed skin, and I try not to scream like a girl, but when Petey runs from the shore and tackles Rebecka, splashing me in the process, I can’t hold it back.

  The wrestler and my girl go under, and when they come back up, Becka’s shouting about lost sunglasses and a nipple slip.

  “You saw my areola!” Becka laughs. She loves Pete’s flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

  “Shut up,” Petey hisses. He looks over his shoulder for this girl’s brother.

  “Fine, but help me find my glasses and go get an inner tube for me and Bliss.”

  I glide my hands on top of the water line, slowly sinking in until my chest is under. I love to watch these two go at it.

  “Get your own tube, short shit.” Petey scoffs, backing out of the water.

  “Thomas!” Rebecka shouts. “Petey saw my—”

  Tweedledum dives underwater, beginning his all-afternoon hunt for heart-shaped glasses.

  WITH HER shades back over her eyes and a plastic cup filled with rum and soda between us, Becka and I sit side by side in a huge yellow inner tube. The music is getting louder and the commotion rougher. The sun is low in the sky, and I’m loving every heat ray. I dip my toes into the water and lie back, letting the ends of my hair salt-soak.

  “So I have to tell you something,” Becka says, taking a small drink from her cup.

  I lift my Ray-Bans to the top of my head and wait for her to continue. “What?”

  “Well …” she starts. “I spoke to Smitty this morning, and they’ll be here tonight, and Oliver broke up with Erin.”

  “What?” I try to sit up and almost dump us over in the process. Half of her drink spills onto her stomach, washing away in the water. “When?”

  “Last night. He doesn’t love her,” she says nonchalantly, but I know better. My girl is never nonchalant about anything. There’s motive in her pitch.

  “What did you do, Becka?” I ask, slipping my glasses back on and slumping into the tube.

  “Nothing really. Maybe I said he should ask you out … or fingerbang you. Either way, you win.” She shrugs, smiling.

  I roll my eyes.

  Petey secures Becka and me to the shore so we can’t float away, which proves to be a problem when Tanner, a friend of the boys’, runs toward the water with Mixie in his arms. Like she weighs nothing at all, he launches her into waves, and she screams until breaking the surface. A Slut-sized splash soaks me and my girl, and Mixie resurfaces still screaming.

  Rebecka’s drink is ruined, and there are water spots all over my sunnies. Mixie wrings water from her curly brown hair and looks over her skinny shoulder. She laughs at us. So does everyone else. Including Valarie, who’s being carried on Thomas’ back.

  Soaked and pissed, Becka and I drag the inner tube to the sand and drop it. Water drips from my hair, and sand kicks behind my feet as I stalk to my towel while Becka goes to raid Ben’s cooler. I drop to my knees, knowing Dusty and Val’s friendship is something I’m dealing with, but what I’ve seen today is more than I can handle.

  Reaching behind my neck, I untie my bathing suit top and lean back on my elbows, letting the setting sun caress my skin with its delicious sting. This is what he obviously likes, and I can be what Thomas wants.

  He must have some sick sixth sense in regard to my state of undress, because the second I lie back to get comfortable, his form blocks the sun again.

  “Move,” I say in a dull tone, placing my forearm over my eyes. I don’t want to look at him.

  “Put your top back on, Leighlee.” He doesn’t sound amused, which is actually kind of funny, considering I haven’t been since I arrived.

  “My top is on.” I try to match his impatient manner of speaking.

  “Tie it,” he says.

  “No.”

  “Bliss.” He groans, kneeling beside me.

  He shoves my arm away from my face. I swat at him as he struggles to get me upright. When love captures both of my wrists and takes away my ability to fight, I stare into his black bottomless eyes and resist the burn in mine. My chest rises and falls desperately, and I breathe in and out of my nose, trying to calm down.

  I sit up and Thomas scoots behind me, looping my red nylon ties behind my neck and drawing them into a double knot. The kid helping out his little sister’s friend brushes his finger across the side of my neck and lightly presses his lips to the top of my shoulder.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks quietly.

  “Yeah,” I answer, peeking over my shoulder at him. “I am.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You always are.”

  THE SUN is gone and the bonfire blazes a medley of oranges, reds, and blues. A dehydrated, battered tree branch and other scrap wood crackles and sizzles, popping embers into the air, combining the bushy burning aroma of oak and leaves. I hold out my hand to the intense glow until the ends of my fingers tingle and the tip of my nose heats.

  Thomas is visible through the whipping flames but shadowed by his hood. He sips from a green beer bottle and talks with Ben.

  “I got this for you.” Oliver’s standing next to me as I look up. He holds two sweating beer cans in his hand, one stacked on top of the other.

  It’s uncomfortable to see him, knowing he and Erin aren’t together anymore because of what Becka said. There’s pressure like hope in his sincere gestures and what might be expectations in his soft brown eyes that I’m not ready to accept.

  I pop the tab and ice-cold foam spills over my fingers. Snickering, I shake my hand dry and lick frothy beer from the side of the can without thinking. Bitter liquid is blunt on my tongue and easy on my nerves. After a day under the wearing sun, it’s bliss.

  “Want mine?” Oliver asks. The right side of his mouth curves into an earnest smirk.

  I smile and shake my head, drinking another cold mouthful. As my can gets lighter, my head gets heavier and my eyes lower. I’m giggly, finding humor in everything. And I’m touchy, expressive with my motions.

  The place between malice and denial is stupid.

  Tipsy, I want to be closer to Oliver and his breathy laugh. Sincere expressions are what truth looks like. Soft brown eyes flash adoration.

  But I know Thomas is watching through the flames, and I hope he feels the same heart-smashing burden I felt after an entire day watching him with Valarie. He should know what it’s like to witness the person you love blatantly wanted by another. He can live this side of the secret for five fucking minutes while I pretend not to care.

  Out of curiosity and maliciousness, I lean into Oliver and inhale the smoky scent on his sweater. I die a little. Oliver is the personification of comfort and a piece of my splintered confidence shines.

  Surprised by my closeness, relief drapes his arm over my tense shoulders and whispers, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

  Out of nowhere, glass shatters inside the fire and green shards from a beer bottle scatter in the sand around the blaze
. Liquid fuel feeds the flames, heating them to the point of discomfort.

  Oliver pulls me back. “What the fuck, Castor?”

  Stunned by the unexpected disturbance, every sunburned face and drunk-heavy pair of eyes fall on the only person here with enough power to shift the unruly mood of the entire party.

  Thomas shoves his hood back, showing his colorless face and deep-set, dilated eyes. His lips are pressed in a straight line and his arms are slack at his sides. My boy spits in the sand, wiping his mouth with the top of his hand.

  With the exception of the hushed tones of whispers, the only sounds are from the crashing waves and the crackling fire.

  Until Tanner says, “Don’t do drugs, kids.”

  Dusty’s fist connects with Tanner’s nose in response, dropping the comedian to his back and splitting his face wide open. My out of control secret tugs his hoodie off and throws it to the side, unaware he’s tossed it in the fire. Golden embers swirl into the night and dance within dark smoke and ash, burning out before they land. Gray cotton and stitching light up and scorch beyond repair.

  My boy’s back muscles flex and move under sun-loved skin. His stomach tightens and relaxes with each deep breath he takes and exhales. Squared up, Dusty advances and everyone stumbles back, tripping over each other to get out of madness’ path.

  Unlike Brandon Miller, and despite the dense red blood rushing from his nose and mouth, Tanner stands up, prepared to fight back.

  I try to run forward, unsure what I’ll do, but Oliver captures my elbow and holds me back.

  “There’s glass in the sand, Leigh,” he says, keeping a firm grip on my arm.

  I pull free. He can’t hold me back. He isn’t Thomas.

  Tanner’s face is swollen, but his fists are swift. He punches Dusty in the ribs, and then again in the side of the head. Thomas laughs as his left eye bloats, and he circles his opponent like a predator pursuing prey.

  His right fist slams into Tanner’s chest, forcing the air from his lungs in an audible rush.

  I stare into the frightened faces of the people watching the fight, awed and shaken. As Tanner recovers and jams his shoulder into Dusty’s torso, Valarie covers her opened mouth with hands that shiver.

  Ben and Petey stand back, oohing and cringing with sympathetic pain every time a blow is thrown. But that’s the extent of their involvement.

  “Do something,” I yell, kicking sand at them.

  Pete dusts glassy sand granules from his arm, indifferent about my panic.

  “It’s a boy thing, little sister,” he says, recoiling as Thomas and Tanner collide in front of the fire.

  I’d forgotten Rebecka had taken a walk with Smitty until I see her in a dead sprint, coming up shore faster than I’ve seen her move—ever.

  “Get off my brother!” she screams, running past us. Becka’s green-painted bare toes dig into the sand and kick up behind her.

  She jumps on Tanner’s back and hits him over and over in the back of his beaten-bloody head. He tries to shrug off the five-foot-nothing psychopath, but she claws into him and bites the side of his face.

  Petey and Ben grab at her, but one of them gets a sole in the mouth and the other gets a fingernail in the eye. And underneath Tanner, Thomas laughs like he isn’t getting his face punched in.

  “You’re all insane,” I say, lifting my weather-filthy hair into a ponytail and going in for my girl.

  She elbows me in the chin, but I’m able to yank Becka off once she realizes it’s me and not one of the boys. We fall into the sand in a fit of tipsy giggles as Smitty pulls her to her feet.

  I lie on the beach and watch Rebecka explain herself in gestures and motions, until Smitty gets frustrated and says, “Are you dense?”

  Oliver’s calloused and charcoal stained hand reaches for me, helping me to my feet. Rebecka’s intrusion has a sobering effect on the speechless crowd of drunk teenagers and screaming Sluts. They’re not so tightly circled around the fighters, and some are leaving.

  Tanner scrambles upright and crawls on all fours before he catches his footing.

  “It’s cool, Dusty,” he says. The loser in this fight holds his hands up defensively.

  Thomas is amped. He wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his lips with the back of his thumb and beckons Tanner forward.

  The brutality my boy unleashes on Tanner is wrecked. With an abrupt power he didn’t possess before, there’s no sign that he’s going to stop until one of them is unconscious. Blood coats my fighter’s fists and streams down his arms. It gushes from the cut above his eyebrow and drips down his chin from the gash on his mouth. He’s a complete stranger, lost in the abyss of unguided rage and effective cruelty.

  “Oh my God.” I breathe out.

  Petey and Ben eventually overpower Dusty and keep him from killing Tanner. Removed from reality, Thomas tries to fight them, too, before he grasps that he’s about to hurt the ones he loves. Truly unrecognizable, smeared in blood from his elbows to the tips of his fingers, my boy’s upper lip is fat and busted open, and his right eye is swollen shut.

  “I’m bleeding.” Thomas rubs his nose and looks at Pete. “We should swim, right?”

  Nobody moves at first, but Petey forces normality and picks up Kelly. He tosses her over his shoulder and she screams, but that sounds strained.

  Thomas jogs toward me, truly frightening.

  “Thomas, no. I have my sweater—” But it’s too late. He swoops me up in one swift motion and with me over his shoulder like Petey has Kelly.

  He gives me bloody kisses under water.

  “Are you ready for this?” my dad asks.

  With my hand on the door handle, I look up at the building which seconds as the battleground to my inner peace, and smile.

  “This will be good, Dad,” I say.

  I lean over the center console and kiss the judge’s cheek before I step out of his Buick, beginning the first day of my sophomore year.

  Things will not be the same this time around. I’ve mastered what Thomas and I have, and my performance is flawless.

  I’m ready.

  “Wash it off, Leighlee.”

  This is one of those times where I want to pull my hair out in both hands and scream, “I’m fifteen years old. I’ll wear this much makeup if I want to!”

  My mom can’t appreciate what a little blush and mascara can do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. It’s eye shadow. I don’t look bad. It’s lipstick. I don’t look overdone. I look older. I look as pretty as I should on my birthday.

  “I’m only going to Becka’s,” I say, feeling the weight of the forbidden mascara on my eyelashes.

  “Wash your face or you’re not going anywhere.” Mom drops her threadbare purse and ring of keys on the coffee table. She sits and her khaki-colored trench coat bunches around her angry form.

  “Mom—” This is a battle I lost the day I was born into this family.

  It’s one of the reasons I need the freedom the Castors offer me in their home, even if it’s only for the weekend. I’m given the opportunity to grow and make mistakes under their care while my parents monitor my sugar intake and screen the music I listen to.

  They’re also a huge reason why Thomas and I need to remain a secret.

  No boys until I’m seventeen. Dad thinks they’re a distraction, and Mom insists they’re only after one thing.

  “My daughter won’t be one of those girls,” she says whenever the topic of boyfriends comes up.

  Under the impression that they’re defending me from the evils of the world, my life-givers won’t give me the chance to show them the responsibility I’m capable of. Instead, they’ve cornered me into slowly becoming what they fear most: corrupt.

  If they learn what I’m all about—one half of love, ditched school days, nights in a boy’s bed—I’d lose what stolen independence I’ve taken.

  That’s not something I can risk.

  So I wash my face.

  But I stash my compact in my purse, because fu
ck her.

  RED-LIPPED, in holey boyfriend jeans and Smitty’s “Free the West Memphis Three” shirt, my girl helps me adjust my blue tube top while I reapply my makeup.

  “Bra or no bra,” I ask, observing myself in the full-length mirror.

  Becka looks over my shoulder, down at my chest. “Ditch the bra. If Oliver makes your nipples hard, I want to see.”

  Lucas and Tommy are out of town for the weekend, and Thomas didn’t come home after baseball practice. My boy said he would be here, but after a couple of shots, I’m not worried about it. And as Smitty, Oliver, Jackie, Laura, and her boyfriend Chris show up, I keep my phone close but my pals closer.

  Rich crescendos, thundering bass, and a catchy verse we sing between loud laughter and conversation is the soundtrack to my night. Forfeiting the traditional birthday cake, Becka stacks Twinkies on a plate and sticks a few candles on top. There are no decorations. The entire house is dark with the exception of the chandelier hanging above the Castors’ kitchen table, and Tommy’s showy appliances are better than any streamers or ribbons would have been.

  Seeing them is proof I’m out of the confines of my house.

  A little woozy, I sip the strong cocktail Oliver mixed for me and ask, “Should my first kiss happen during a game of spin the bottle?”

  “You’re fifteen, Leighlee. It’s time,” Laura says from across the oak table we’re circled around.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Rebecka teases. Mounted on my lap, my best friend looks over her shoulder and sticks her tongue out at me.

  To my right, Oliver looks at me, too. I gift him with my eyes, and briefly glance into his willing brown ones, but turn away when guilt gnaws a hole in the center of my chest.

  “Are you really that worried about it? It’s a kiss,” Becka says. She turns on my lap to straddle my hips.

  “Kind of—” I start, but then my best friend takes my face in her hands and kisses me.