Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  “Thomas,” I say in a shaky voice.

  “I fucked up, right?” he asks, looking down at me with tears still in his eyes. “I fucked up too much?”

  “You couldn’t.” I touch his face and clean off tears. And it’s the truth—my sad reality. He could never do anything to make me leave him.

  “Then what?”

  I can deal with a lot: the drugs, the parties, his absence. But I refuse to give in to this part unless it’s honest, and right now, it’s a huge untruth.

  “Let me touch you,” I whisper, avoiding his questions and slowly pushing my hand between us. “Please, let me.”

  Thomas has me touch myself first, but being physically ready has never been the problem.

  “Imagine this from the inside, birthday girl,” he says, pushing my pointer and middle finger against my sensitive skin.

  My boy keeps his hands between my legs, but I drop mine lower, wrapping it around his length. I have nothing to compare this to, but he’s hard and soft together—flawless—and I’m in love.

  Thomas drops his forehead onto my shoulder and whispers the sweetest everythings while he fucks my hand in long hard strides. His eyes are closed under scrunched eyebrows, and his bottom lip is between teeth. A touch of red colors his cheeks, and trouble’s breaths are sweet over my face.

  He kisses me as he comes, filling the dark room with half-statements of love and forever.

  And when it’s over, my boy is back, pressing his fingertips into the marks he left on my neck.

  “I bet you’ll think twice before you kiss that boy again.”

  “We made a deal, Bliss,” Mom says from behind the steering wheel. “If I let you spend your actual birthday at Becka’s, you’d re-celebrate with me this weekend.”

  “I know,” I say, glancing out the car window. Bare tree branches look sad under the ashen sky, and the late October drizzle dampens everything enough to be annoying. “What do you want to do?”

  The woman who brought me into this world smiles wide, lighting up her plain face. “Let’s have a sleepover.”

  “Really, Mom?” I ask. It’s not the worst idea she’s ever had, but it’s time not spent in my boy’s room.

  It’s been a week since last Friday. Since I kissed Oliver. Since Thomas and I had the biggest fight of our relationship. Since we kissed and marked up. Most of the scratch marks are healed, and the bruises have faded to a yellow-green color, but the hickeys and bite wounds linger.

  I avoid my parents as much as I can and leave my hair down. But I’m constantly paranoid I’ll turn the wrong way and expose my neck, or that my mom will walk into my room while I’m getting dressed.

  I’ve worn a hoodie to school every day this week—I hate it.

  “Really, Leighlee,” she replies, mimicking my sharp tone. “It’ll be fun. We can stay up late.”

  “I guess Becka can come over …” I trail off as the car pulls into the high school parking lot.

  Mom parks her sedan in an open spot instead of dropping me off like she normally does and kills the engine. Releasing her keys into her purse, she runs her fingers through her curls and split ends and straightens out her faded red shirt.

  “You’re coming in?” I open the door and tiny water droplets from above mist my face.

  “I have to update your emergency card information with Grandma’s new number,” she answers.

  I lift my pink backpack over my shoulder and follow slightly behind my mother as she strolls toward the administration office. I’m too big for the purple romper and she has laugh lines, but it feels like the only thing not here is the banana Popsicle. She even tries to hold my hand, but I pretend to not notice and tighten the scarf around my neck.

  Everyone from faculty to students to the odd parent like mine shuffle toward the front of the school, scrolling through their phones, completing that last homework assignments, dreading a classroom full of punk teenagers. The air carries the slight scent of coffee mixed with rain, and my stomach growls, reminding me I forgot breakfast.

  “Hey, little sister.”

  My head snaps to the left, and the Sluts are gathered under the Newport High School signboard. Valarie waves, whipping her hair over her shoulder. I gesture back, but because I don’t watch what’s in front of me, I bump into my mother. Sluts laugh.

  “There are your friends, Bliss,” Mom says. She beckons them over, smiling and pushing her hair behind her ear like she’s one of them.

  The group of delinquents my mom has only met a handful of times heads over, trotting through the wet grass. Valarie hugs me, crushing my diaphragm in the process. I awkwardly hug her back, but the fragrance of pear shampoo I’ve smelled on Thomas makes me sick.

  “What’s up, Mrs. Castor. Lookin’ good.” Val embraces my mom next, and there is nothing awkward about their hug.

  Katie, Kelly, Mixie, and I stand in a semicircle, swapping cautious side looks and shifting our feet uncomfortably.

  “Leighlee, invite your friends to your slumber party tonight,” Mom says out of nowhere.

  My jaw practically hits the concrete, and my stomach lodges itself in my throat. Before I can react, Valarie does.

  “We want to come, little sister. I like to get my slumber on, too.” She looks to her followers for approval, and they all nod as if we weren’t avoiding one another.

  When I don’t reply right away, my life-giver glares with disapproving green eyes and hands on her hips. Before she can point her finger at me, I surrender and force my voice out.

  “Will you please come to my slumber party?” I ask, setting my eyes on Valarie’s symmetrical nose and perfect mouth. I can’t bring myself to look into her dead eyes.

  Turning her entire face from sinister to sweet, Valarie’s lips curve up and she smiles lovingly. I kind of, sort of think she might actually want to spend the night with me.

  After class is over, I see Becka in the hallway and deliver the good news.

  “What do you mean the Sluts are coming?” Rebecka shuts her locker.

  “It’s my mom’s fault. She invited them.” I sink against the lockers to my bottom on the floor.

  “Well, this is going to be pretty fucking epic, don’t you think … little sister?” Becka teases. She sits beside me and leans her head on my shoulder.

  “Yeah, right,” I say, dropping my face into my hands.

  THOMAS’ HICKEYS are a total whodunit. The restrooms fill with chitchat debating which “skank” he was with over the weekend, and boys all over school check their girlfriends to make sure she doesn’t have any battle scars of her own, courtesy of my monster. I’m entertained by the idea that the person who did it is the last person they’ll ever guess.

  Yeah, that’s me all over his neck.

  Yesterday, I snorted when I overheard Clarissa say, “I heard it was some model from Portland.”

  The only thing I model these days are stupid hoodies.

  And I can’t even wear my favorite one.

  “I heard,” Dusty says as I round the side of the mathematics wing, off to the side of the student parking lot.

  “Then save me.”

  Love wraps his arms around me and holds me tight, welcoming me into his scent of vanilla and trouble. “I’ll be there as soon as everyone’s asleep.”

  “You’re not going out tonight?” I ask.

  “Nah.” He sits back on the hood of his Continental and places me between his knees before lighting a cigarette and blowing dense smoke over my shoulder. “I’ll be waiting, strawberry blonde.”

  I lean back against his chest and watch him take a few slow drags between lips I love. He kisses my temple and asks, “What?”

  “Nothing.” I smile. “You’re being different.”

  Thomas flicks his half-smoked cigarette into the bushes along the building and crosses his arms over my chest, keeping us together. “I get tired, you know? And I have to make grades if you want to go to college.”

  I try not to let the small statement get my hopes up, but
it’s hard. Thomas and I talk about leaving Newport, but this the first time he’s mentioned anything about going to school after all of this is over.

  The bell rings, indicating the start of the last class of the day. This is usually when Thomas and I take off if we decide to leave, but we’re staying today. He wants to, and I need to. An afternoon with him on the beach would make the sleepover much more difficult. It’s bad enough I might not see him until tomorrow.

  “I have to go,” I say softly. I move out of his hold and pick my bag up from the ground. “Be there when I need you.”

  He tightens the straps on my backpack and pulls my hair out from under them. “Be my girlfriend.”

  “No.” The right side of my mouth curves into a smirk.

  “How long are you going to make me wait, party girl?”

  I tap my pointer finger against my chin and think about it for a second, then a little more … and a little more.

  Thomas pushes me away playfully. “Get to class before I make you change your mind.”

  “Don’t forget about me tonight,” I say one more time.

  “I won’t, baby. It’s a rule.”

  “BLISS, ANSWER the door.”

  We can’t do this.

  We can’t.

  I look over my shoulder where Mom is in the kitchen with a bag of chocolate chips in her hands. She straightened her hair and put on some makeup, excited enough for all of us.

  “Tell them to go away,” Rebecka mumbles, reaching over to pull my thumb out of from between my teeth. “I can’t believe you invited them.”

  “It wasn’t—” I can’t correct her for the millionth time because my mom walks around us and opens the door, inviting Sluts into the house.

  “Loving your hair, Mrs. McCloy.” Valarie playfully elbows my mom as she drops her overnight bag on the floor. “Oh, hey, little sisters.”

  Kelly and Mixie saunter in behind Val, who explains Katie regretfully couldn’t make it. They’re in the clothes they wore to school, only they don’t look as fresh. Mixie has a blemish on her chin, and Kelly has smeared mascara under her eyes. She types away on her phone, but smiles when she’s supposed to and nods whenever my mom says something partway interesting.

  I’m not used to them being so polite and proper. I’m don’t think I’ve heard Valarie speak an entire sentence without using “fuck,” “fucking,” or “fucked,” but she’s temporarily exchanged those for “yes,” “please,” and “thank you.”

  “The fuc—” Becka whispers, as shocked as I am. I cover her mouth and smile for the both of us when Mom turns around with wide-open eyes.

  “They still smell like Slut,” my best friend whispers.

  We pretend to agree when Kelly complements Mom’s Birkenstocks.

  “I’ve always wanted a pair, but they don’t really go with my cheer skirt,” Kelly says, paying more attention to her phone than my mom’s shoes.

  “I’ve always wanted Leighlee to be a cheerleader,” my clueless mother says. “Right, Bliss?”

  I roll my eyes and say, “Right, Mom.”

  Rebecka mimics me in a sarcastic tone, “Right, Mom.”

  I stomp on her foot.

  “You should try out next year, Leigh,” Kelly says with a satisfied smirk.

  Becka laughs out loud. When she notices everyone staring at her, she asks, “Why are you here?”

  “Rebecka!” Mom turns around, taken back by my girl’s brashness.

  “What I meant, Mrs. McCloy, is why is she here, standing in front of the door? Let me help.” She picks up Valarie’s backpack and throws it. The red bag glides in the air and lands halfway up the stairs, only to tumble-tumble-roll all the way back down.

  Becka picks it up again, but I grab it from her hands and hold it tight.

  “I was trying to help,” Rebecka mumbles.

  “Shut up.” I groan.

  “You’re right, Rebecka. Come on in, girls. Are any of your mothers here?” Mom looks out the front door but averts her blank face back inside when she sees the driveway is empty.

  “Our moms?” Mixie asks, head to the side with pursed lips.

  “Your parents didn’t mind if you to stayed the night even though they’ve never met me or my husband?” Mom’s tone is level with disappointment, and she reluctantly shuts the door and locks it.

  I’m beet red. My cheeks are so pink they hurt.

  Mixie kind of laughs. Kelly sort of waits for Valarie to answer, but Valarie looks … sad. Sometimes she loses herself and Valarie’s hard exterior melts away, leaving this solemn seventeen-year-old girl behind.

  “I drove us over.” Valarie twists the ends of her hair between her fingers. “I can call her, but—”

  “Can we eat?” I jump in and say. “I’m the birthday girl and I’m starving.”

  Valarie looks at me with her bottom lip between her perfectly straight teeth and smiles, releasing it.

  Mom takes a deep breath and nods, but her eyes still hold an unhappiness for the girl with too much freedom. There’s nothing worse to my parents than a neglected child. It’s why they’re so strict with me. One day Mom and Dad will take credit for molding the person I become, because they truly believe their parenting style is how every home should be.

  “The world would be a better place if all children had a bedtime,” they used to say.

  How would Valarie have turned out if she had to be in bed at eight o’clock every night? Who would I be if I had parents who didn’t care?

  I don’t know much about Mixie’s household, although I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s worse than Valarie’s. But Kelly, an only child of two distant, well-off parents, might be the most pathetic because she has the world in the palm of her hand but tosses it away because she’s bored.

  My parents care too much. Valarie’s don’t care enough. Kelly’s are afraid to displease her, and the Castors lead with guilty consciences. We’re all completely different and screwed-up in our own ways.

  “Who wants hummus?” Mom calls out as she walks ahead of us toward the kitchen.

  “Hummus. Yummy.” Kelly snorts.

  “Is it good?” Valarie asks. She follows my mom right away.

  Becka, Mixie, and I stare at each other, and when it becomes apparent that we don’t have a single thing to say, Mixie shrugs and follows her friend into the kitchen. Kelly goes after her.

  “Maybe they have weed.” Rebecka kicks Valarie’s bag.

  I grab her hand and pull her with me to the kitchen. “Will you stop? You’re not making this any easier.”

  “Fine, but I don’t have to like it,” she says.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  I’m about to say fine again, but I’m cut off and shut silent when I hear Valarie say, “This is the best hummus ever!”

  Two hours later, all we’ve done is eat hummus with pita chips and hang out with Teri in the living room. Mean Girls is on a commercial break, and the air is thick with the stinging scent of nail polish and acetone. My toes are covered in a thick, clumpy coat of neon green lacquer thanks to my best friend who’s living out her worst nightmare in a house full of Sluts.

  “Can we go upstairs?” she asks for the tenth time in the last half hour.

  “Rebecka,” Mom chastises in a passive voice. “I know you don’t like doing this kind of thing, but Bliss does.”

  I look at pouty and miserable and wink. “Yeah, Rebecka, I do.”

  Kelly’s cell chimes with another text message, and Mixie blows on her wet, multicolored fingernails. Their hair is away from their faces in tight French braids, and Valarie sits with her legs crossed at my mother’s feet. Her dark hair pulls and maneuvers between fingers that have done the same to my curls so many times before.

  “So your dad stayed in California, Valarie?” Mom asks, weaving her hair into an intricate design.

  “Yep,” she answers. Valarie sits up straight, but I notice how she leans into my mother’s touch, like she’s desperate for sincere, physical affecti
on. “My mom thought the school systems were shady, so we moved here. Dad couldn’t really move because of his job, but I’ll probably go back after I graduate. They’re divorced, but it’s not really like that, you know?”

  My mom nods, parting more of Valarie’s beautiful hair with her pinky finger. Judging by the straight set of my mother’s mouth and the worry wrinkles between her eyebrows, she doesn’t believe the liar sitting in front of her. But she doesn’t know Valarie’s the product of an alcoholic and a drug abuser. When her career criminal father was arrested for a probation violation, his daughter and wife got away while they could.

  I share a heavy look with Kelly and Mixie while their friend continues on as if every word that comes out of her mouth isn’t a boldfaced lie.

  “Have you been to California, Mrs. McCloy?” she asks.

  PAINTED AND braided, we head up to my bedroom. Becka and I are in bed, ready to end this night, but the Sluts have other plans.

  “We’re not going to bed yet, little sisters. This party is just getting started,” Val says. She holds up a bottle of liquor.

  One shot, two shots, three shots … four.

  We drink straight from the vodka bottle, taking baby sips from a warm can of soda as a chaser. It’s all I had in my room, and there is no way I’m going back downstairs.

  “I can’t believe we’re drinking in a Judge’s house,” Mixie says between swigs. “It’s risky.”

  I can’t believe we are either, but something had to happen. And if they’re not ready for bed, I’m not staying sober. It loosens Becka up. She actually talks to Kelly.

  “Pete talks so much shit about you. Why do you stay with him?” she asks. Her cheeks are tinted pink and her eyes are woozy red.

  Petey’s Slut shrugs and reaches for the bottle. “I don’t know. I love him, and it’s not that bad when it’s the two of us.”

  Val scoffs. I laugh, because … I don’t know. I’m drunk.

  “Kelly, Pete’s a jerk.” Val plays with the ends of her braids, but her eyes are on her girl, daring her to disagree.

  “Like you have any room to talk, look at you and Thomas,” Kelly argues.