“Kay, I get it,” said Gwen a little dispirited. “Yeah. You’re right. Jesse’s grungy, but he’s nice.”
“I never said he wasn’t a nice guy.” I buttoned my coat, keeping my gaze on the players practicing drills. “Just not my type.”
“Mary, who is your type?” Dee inflected in a mocking pitch.
“I don’t know for sure.” I wanted to say, ‘Covington, you fool,’ but bit my tongue. “It’s not Jesse.”
My eyes followed Michael as the team executed play after play. Beautiful, tall, lean, and muscular, what’s not to like? His exacting moves were catlike and graceful as he snagged footballs out of the air as if born to do it.
Candy and Steve began to squabble, dragging my attention away.
“Not here, Steve. Wait ‘til later.”
My brother stretched his legs and hopped down the bleachers to the sidelines.
“Where’s he going?” I inquired.
Candy scooted over the bench toward us. “He wants to talk with Covington.”
Trepidation screamed in her eyes. Something was wrong. It didn’t take a brainiac to figure that out. Either by Candy or his buddies had told Stevie about my bruises. Why did he want to talk to Michael instead of me?
“What’d you say to him?” I said, vexed.
“Nothing. He already knew.”
I sprang from the bench. Stevie was known for his hot temper, punching somebody’s lights out, and asking questions later. My brother was too far ahead, and I wouldn’t be able to catch up with him.
Michael can take care of himself, but… What’s Stevie going to say? Despite the possible consequences, I needed to be there, so I picked up the pace.
Michael removed his helmet and jogged to the sidelines to meet my brother. Wet, obsidian hair plastered his forehead and temples, and sweat drained along the contours of his handsome face.
Stevie and Michael were in a heated debate. Pink rushed to the surface of Stevie’s strained face. He pushed Michael in the chest, hurling him backward. Stevie was provoking a fight, but Michael didn’t retaliate. His arms hung limp at his sides as he outwardly refused to be baited.
“Stevie, what are you doing?” I panted, skidding my heels into the dirt.
“Well, man?” My brother asked Michael in a scathing voice, not paying attention to me. “Tell me.” A vein pulsed in his temple.
“Like I said, there’s nothing to tell,” Michael retorted. He straightened his spine, and held his chin steady.
“Did you screw my sister?” Stevie’s words cut like a knife.
Oh-my-God. Oh-my-God. Oh-my-God. I was so totally in deep shit that I wanted to die. What is he implying? That Michael raped me?
Michael didn’t refute his statement.
My gaze deviated from Michael to my brother. Blistering and fearsome, Stevie’s nostrils flared as he balled his fingers into tight fists. I’d seen that facade before, on my father. He was gearing to ram into Michael.
“Stevie. No.” I charged, impeding my brother. “Michael never touched me. Never—” A tiny voice in my head said, Not Michael.
Stevie’s unyielding fists softened, and then he brushed his hands on his jeans.
“Then where’d you get those black and blue marks?” His eyes sparked and not in a good way. “And don’t lie. I know you didn’t fall down Candy’s stairs.”
CHAPTER 9
“I…I…” Blank.
The girls arrived, and Candy wrapped her arm around Stevie. Gwen and Dee moved in, closer, making me feel claustrophobic, their eyes targeting me. The whole disgusting episode coiled barbed wires of incredulity into my cranium. Even Michael, after seeing the bruising, had acted as if he’d been too late. At least that’s what he’d alluded to that morning.
Since the assault, I had managed to store that memory in a tenable sphere inside my brain, but at the moment, it was a tinderbox ready to blow. Once it was out in the open, word would spread faster than a match on kindling. My reputation was spiraling down the proverbial tubes. Kids can be bullies and cruel. I’d be labeled with differing titles—none desirable.
Does it matter?
Hell yes!
It wasn’t my fault. Not my fault! Innocent. Blameless. Some fucker thought he could do that to me just because he was stronger.
“Can’t you see that your sister’s upset?” Michael said. “Leave her alone, man.”
“Covington,” Coach Sidney hollered, “get your ass on the field.”
Rigid, albeit unruffled, Michael stood rooted to the spot. He obviously wasn’t going to leave me in my deteriorating condition, even though he didn’t owe me anything. He’d walked into a dark room and had saved me, and he was paying the price to keep quiet—for me.
Coach came storming toward us.
“Go, man.” Stevie spat. “We’ll settle this later.”
Michael’s ocean blue eyes studied me before shoving his helmet on and loping onto the field. The girls drew to me like a magnet. Even Dee entwined her arms over my shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Mary. We’re here for you,” Candy said, giving me a commiserating hug.
They believed Stevie!
“You don’t understand.” Extracting myself from their embrace, I said, “Nothing happened.” Then, an inane fabrication spewed from my mouth. “I really did fall. I was so wasted when I went upstairs to get my coat. The bedroom was dark, and there was a stupid footstool. Like a clod, I tripped, and it got tangled between my legs. I saw stars and passed out.” I strived to sound believable.
“When I came to in Michael’s truck, he promised not to say anything.” Committed to my explanation, I glanced to the girls and my brother. “I didn’t realize I had all these black and blue marks until the next day. So you see—” Peering at Stevie I hoped my duplicitous eyes wouldn’t rat me out. “—Michael’s just being nice, and you’re accusing him of…” I couldn’t say the word.
Stevie pushed his wavy hair from his face and shoulders. “Oh, man.” Seemingly remorseful, he said, “Now I feel like a jerk. Why didn’t you explain before?” He changed from sorry to mad.
“I was too humiliated.”
They appeared satisfied. My manufactured story must’ve worked.
Mom and Dad had gone out, and by eight-thirty, I had Lucy tucked into her crib. My nights were pretty lame. In reality, all my nights were lame.
I’d lowered the volume on our ancient black and white television, and thought of our next-door neighbors brand new set in vivid Technicolor. Languishing on the couch and crunching on cereal, I drained the remnants of milk from the bowl. A noise similar to a small engine whizzing by rattled the window. Stevie was home, an early night for him. Now, if he was sober and drug-free, I’d have it made.
What if he wants more info about my fall? Thoughts of switching off the tube and hurrying to bed crossed my mind, but I didn’t want him coming into my room asking questions. I stayed put and continued to watch the scary movie.
When he stalked to his room minus any stumbling’s or staggering, the anxiety in my chest unraveled, and I could breathe again.
Within a half hour, he materialized, clad in pajamas. Like the typical brother I’d come to love and despise, he yanked my legs off the couch, saying, “Move it.”
Not until the following commercial I asked, “What’d you do tonight?”
“Stopped at Candy’s,” he said, eyes adhered to the television. “We had another fight. I came home. I’m broke.”
Nosey as hell I hankered to delve into his business. However, I hesitated. He might broach another matter I didn’t wish to discuss, so it was better not to press the issue. Candy would probably fill me in. It was pleasant being with him in his clearheaded state.
My heart crunched when the Oldsmobile’s headlights scored the living room wall, as our parents pulled into the driveway. With scarcely fifteen
minutes left in the movie, Stevie and I exchanged glances. We were on the same page. Should we vamoose to our bedrooms or watch the end of the movie? Too late—they came blundering into the house.
From my peripheral vision, I watched my parents while pretending to focus on the movie. I tensed when Dad stamped into the room. Lacking rhyme or reason, he clicked off the television.
“Hey!” Stevie yelped. “We’re watching that.”
“I don’t give a damn.” Dad sported an antagonistic glower. “Go to bed.”
One look at his face, and I knew he had crossed over the sobriety line. He liked having a good time and was a social drinker who laughed and grew meaner with each drink.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?”
I flinched the minute Stevie opened his mouth.
Dad lunged for him, and I vaulted off the couch.
“No. Don’t.”
Provoking Dad when he’d been drinking had always been Stevie’s downfall. My brother couldn’t keep his pie hole shut and accepted the challenge.
Dad knotted his fingers into my brother’s gangly hair and yanked him to his feet. Stevie attempted to thwart him by clasping his hands over my father’s wrists.
“Will! Not tonight, please.” Mom weeble-woobled against the doorframe.
“You fucker,” Stevie cursed, antagonizing Dad even further. “Get your hands off me.”
“You disrespectful freak,” Dad grated out, grinding his teeth.
It appeared to be a test of strength with them fumbling about the room.
“When will you ever learn?”
They bumped into the console television and rolled over to the hi-fi.
“Stop it,” I screamed.
Grunts and cussing fled from their mouths as they smashed into the hutch, knocking the knickknacks from the shelves. Mom wasn’t any help. Her hands covered her mouth, her eyes watering. Dad and Stevie held each other at arm’s length. I foolhardily scurried between them and was shoved back and forth like a pinball.
Bracing a hand on my father’s chest and one hand on Stevie’s, I hollered again. “Stop fighting. Stop.” The overpowering stench of alcohol, sweat, and tension made me queasy.
Dad’s bitter face melted like an ice cream cone in the heat of summer. His drunken expression was replaced by a visage of pure exhaustion, mouth downturned, and his eyes lost their malice. His inflexible fingers that had been entangled in Stevie’s hair relaxed, and his arms slumped to his sides. He seemed confused as if wondering how it had all started.
Dad ambled to the kitchen toward Mom. And, for once, Stevie slouched to his bedroom devoid of vomiting another word.
After checking on Lucy, I crawled beneath my comforter and cried.
CHAPTER 10
I inspected my complexion within an inch of my bedroom mirror prior to banishing my freckles with foundation. Why does Michael like those tiny dots? Deciding to forego their expulsion I patted the concealer on the healing bruises instead.
Breakfast was a cold bowl of corn flakes, and Lucy, generally docile in the mornings, turned into an oatmeal flinging banshee. I left the house scraping oatmeal from my eyebrow and cheek, and then felt a glop on my chin. Due to the dreary, dank morning, my hair was doomed. As a substitute for waiting for the bus in the mist and having my hair morph into a beast, I reversed and went back inside to ask Stevie for a ride to school.
I found him rooted under the covers, and it appeared as if he had no intention of rising. I shook his shoulders. “Stevie…. Steve, wake up. You’ll be late. Can you give me a ride?”
“No,” he grumbled and rolled over. “I’m not going.”
“You have to go. You’ve already missed a ton.” I tried convincing him. “What about Candy? Aren’t you picking her up?”
“I told her to find a ride.” The pillow muffled his voice. “I’m quitting school.”
“You can’t quit. You’ll get drafted if you quit.”
“Who the hell cares?” His arms wrestled the pillow over his head.
“I care.”
He snorted.
I burst from the house, running along the driveway to witness the bus chugging down the street. “Wait! Stop!” Waving and flagging my arms like an idiot, I raced after it.
The bus driver either didn’t notice or didn’t want to notice me.
“What a dipshit.” I stomped my foot on the sidewalk.
I heard my name, and looked across the street. Michael roosted on the hood of a rusty pick-up truck, watching me make a fool of myself. His awesome grin had my heart humming a joyful tune.
“Need a ride?” His long legs glided to the ground, and his boots clunked on the asphalt. As if he didn’t expect me to respond, he sauntered to the passenger door and cracked it open.
Bookless, due to finishing my homework during detention, I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets and tried to walk with dignity. In the warm interior, soft music filtered through the speakers as Michael arranged himself behind the steering wheel. Despite the early morning chill, he was coatless, wearing a maroon sweater. And, for the first time, I noticed a tattoo on his left wrist.
“You have tattoos?”
“Stars.”
“Symbolic or do you just like stars?”
He pressed the gas pedal and banked right. A drizzle coated the windshield, and he switched on the wipers.
“One star for each person I know that got killed in Nam.” Scratching the tattoo like a memory that bothered him, his lips rolled into his mouth. One red, white, and blue star was larger than all the rest. I counted four stars. So sad. I’d heard of boys enlisting, but thankfully, I hadn’t known anyone who’d died.
“So what’d you tell everyone?” he said as if I should know what he was talking about.
“Err…” I’d been in the process of wondering how he’d found out where I lived. He had to have asked someone.
So fan-freaking-tastic.
The severity of his expression gave me reason to pause, dampening my spirit. Then, feeling suddenly ashamed of what my brother had insinuated, heat stole across my face. Excavating my cold hands from my pockets, I covered my cheeks to cool the burn.
“Actually, you helped by telling Ms. Bloome I fell down the stairs.”
I proceeded to expand on my cock-and-bull story, but Michael never once turned to look at me.
“Steve felt pretty bad about accusing you,” I added.
“Yeah. Your brother called me late last night and said we’re cool.” Releasing a hand off the steering wheel, he swept hair from his face, appearing annoyed.
“He did?” I voiced, sounding offbeat.
“I wanted to warn you before we got to school. Bloome’s on the warpath.” Featuring a sullen and firm jawline, he navigated the truck through a congested intersection. He shot me a flash of strikingly blue eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Coach called me into his office after practice last night. Bloome and Coach met with the principal yesterday. She’s throwing all kinds of bullshit.” His cheekbone twitched as he clamped his teeth together. “Sorry, I meant accusations.”
So utterly absorbed in him, I inclined on the passenger door and crossed one leg over the other. I liked the way his glossy hair shifted with the slightest movement. It had a habit of feathering over his forehead and getting stuck in his eyelashes.
“Are you listening? Does this bother you at all?”
It was way too early to concentrate on serious things, mainly because I was too thunderstruck by being driven to school in Covington’s truck. How many girls have sat where I’m sitting?
For his sake, I tried to focus. “Sorry. You said something about accusations?”
He compressed his lips into a tight line, then said, “The teachers know about Putnam’s yearly bash. It wasn’t a big secret. He’s one of those
academics who can do no wrong. Ass kisser.” His chest swelled then exhaled a profound breath.
My morning bed head didn’t appreciate being filled with controversy. As far as I was concerned, missing the bus was the best thing to happen, which started the day on a high note. I’d buried the party memories.
“Bloome told the principal about your beat up body. She says you’re lying or scared to tell the truth because you’re being threatened or you’re protecting somebody.”
“They can’t prove anything,” I said, truly gullible, “can they?” The skin on my arms bristled as I repositioned myself on the seat, now frazzled. “Why did Coach tell you this?”
He swerved the truck to avoid a stalled car in the middle of the road.
“Michael, what’s going on?”
“Coach informed me that Bloome discovered you weren’t conscious when I carried you from Putnam’s. He asked me straightforward if I—” He loosened and re-gripped his hold on the steering wheel. “If I hurt you.”
“Coach Sidney actually said that?” My head dropped into my hands, and I was shocked that something so heinously wrong might become public knowledge.
“He was explicit.” A humorless chuckle jangled his throat, and he jerked his head to fling hair from his face.
“What did you tell him?”
“I stuck to the story that you fell at Candy’s. Bloome thinks I’m terrorizing you. She has a weird aversion to men.” He looked troubled as his mouth flattened against his teeth. “Thinks we’re sexual deviants.”
“Then why’d you goad her with that remark yesterday?”
“Because I’m a deviant sex addict and said what I was thinking.” His eyes narrowed and an accommodating smirk decorated his face. “Rumor’s will fly once you step out of my truck.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes and no.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you even know anything about me?” he said.
Less than a half of a mile up the road, I saw the school on the horizon, and without regard to being tardy, he veered to the side of the road. He let the engine idle, and swinging his arm to rest on the top of the seat, he peered into the eyes.
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