by JB Salsbury
Her shoulders are back, eyes focused, as though all of what just happened didn’t touch her, as though it’s forgotten. “See you tonight.”
Convinced she’s in good hands, I race down the hallway to my locker, which is easy now that most of the school is headed to their first period. After grabbing what I need, I jog down the corridor to class and hit the door just as the final bell rings.
“You’re here.” Carrie’s sitting in the back row, not her usual spot, and nods at the empty seat next to her, my usual spot.
I drop down into it and pay attention as Mr. Miller scribbles instructions for today’s lesson on the board.
Carrie leans over and whispers, “You weren’t at your locker this morning.” Her hair is pulled up today and piled on top of her head, her smooth neck decorated in a thin chain and her lips their usual bubble-gum pink.
“Ran late.”
“Oh, well . . .” She braces her weight on her crossed arms and angles her body toward mine. “I missed you.”
“Miss O’Hare!” Mr. M calls from the front of the class. “Is there something you’d like to share with the entire class?”
She smiles at him and bats her black eyelashes. “Just how much I love the sweater you’re wearing today, Mr. Miller. It compliments your eyes.”
The old man flushes and mumbles a thank you before going on with today’s lesson.
She turns to me and winks. The girl sure knows how to play to a crowd. She’s a walking testament to the power of a hot body and a pretty face—confident, demanding, maybe a little manipulative.
She’s everything Mercy is not.
Milo
“SIT DOWN ALREADY. You’re making me dizzy.” Damian’s on my couch, feet up, forearm behind his head and remote in hand, planted for a long stay.
“Don’t get comfortable, cabron.” I drop an armload of dirty clothes into the hamper. “Carrie’s coming over.”
In eighth period, Carrie made a big deal about not being prepared for the math test we have tomorrow. I swear the girl even conjured fake tears. I don’t need to be a genius to see through her made-up intentions and read the real ones. She begged for my tutoring assistance, and who am I to deny her?
Sure, she’s underage, but she won’t be for much longer.
“No way. Are you kidding me?” He flips through the channels on the TV before landing on ESPN. “First prom, and now she’s chasing you down at your house? What the hell did you do? Cause I know she’s not after you for your money.”
Laughing, I clean off my desk, hang my backpack on the back of a chair, and make my bed. “Who cares? All that matters is that she’s hot and interested.”
“Lucky prick,” Damian says with his arm shoved halfway into a bag of hot Cheetos. “What about Mercy?”
“What about Mercy?”
His eyes dart to mine and narrow, having picked up on the same shitty tone I heard in my own voice. “How is she, ya know, after everything that happened this morning?”
After dealing with Mercy this morning, I was grateful to not see her at lunch. I swung by Ms. Murphy’s class and saw her eating in the classroom. She seemed content, so I pushed her out of my mind for the rest of the day.
“Good, I guess.”
“You guess?”
I shove in my desk chair harder than I need to. “You got something to say, ese, just say it already.”
“Don’t think I need to,” he says as though he’s bored while looking between me and the chair I just assaulted. “Pretty sure I already know.”
I drop onto the couch next to him and run a hand through my hair. “It’s nothing—”
“It sure as shit is not nothing, Milo.” He tosses his bag onto the table, sending a few Cheetos onto the floor, which I swept before he got here.
I’m about to tell him to pick them up, but he beats me to it.
“You were treating Mercy like she was familia this morning. And the day before that, you almost ripped my head off for talking about her. That is far from nothing, homie.”
He’s right. The only problem is I’m just as confused about my response to Mercy as he is.
Damian lifts his chin. “What’s her story, anyway?”
“I don’t know, but my guess is it’s worse than anything my imagination can come up with, and you know I got a vivid imagination.”
“So you feel sorry for her.” He shrugs. “That’s all it is.” He tilts his head as though he’s waiting for me to answer a question he didn’t ask.
“Yeah, and you know, she’s Laura and Chris’s, and I guess, in a way, that makes her family.”
He hums and slumps back to the couch. “You think she’s hot?”
“What did you just say?”
“I’m serious, man. I mean, once you get over how freakin’ weird she looks, she’s . . . I don’t know. She’s good-lookin’. She’s got a body on her too.”
I shake my head even though I’m nodding inside. She is gorgeous—those big eyes a color of blue I’ve never seen before, all that hair, and those full, pouty lips. She ain’t ugly. “I guess.”
“Oh . . . that’s funny.” He chuckles. “You guess. Dude, you’ve always had a thing for white girls—maybe not this white, but still. I think you got the hots for her. Aren’t you even a little curious about what she looks like naked?”
I turn my glare on him. Maybe. “You’re an idiot.”
He slaps his thighs. “I might be an idiot, but you ain’t denying it, so—”
I throw the thing closest to me, which happens to be a baseball, and it slams into his shoulder.
“Ow! What the hell was that for?”
I shrug. “Carrie will be here soon.”
“Fine, I can take a hint.” Standing to leave, he digs his keys out of his pocket, then he redirects himself to grab the Cheetos first and heads for the door. “Have fun with Carrie, you lucky son of a bitch.” He slams the door behind him.
The second he’s gone, I turn to look out my window toward the main house and wonder what Mercy is doing in there right this very second. Dinner is close, and Laura and Chris are working late, but it’s Miguel’s night to cook, so he’s whipping up a big batch of mac and cheese, and I have a pizza coming for my and Carrie’s study session. I hope she likes pepperoni.
I check the time on my phone—almost six thirty. Never having been here before, Carrie will come to the front door of the main house, but with Laura and Chris gone, I don’t trust anyone to answer when she knocks.
I pick up the stray Cheetos left behind by my dickhead cousin and look around, thinking the place is clean enough. I put on a fresh black T-shirt and start toward the house. When I push inside, Miguel is in the kitchen.
“Smells good,” I say.
He has his headphones on, so he ignores me. I go into the living room and see Julian and Mercy watching TV. Julian is on the couch, while Mercy is on her knees, two feet from the television screen.
“Hey,” I say.
Julian whirls around, and Mercy turns more slowly, hesitant, until both of them are looking at me over the back of the couch.
“What’re you watching?”
“Cars. Mercy hasn’t seen any Disney movies before, so I’m making her watch them all.” Julian turns back around.
Yikes. Poor girl. Julian owns almost every Disney movie ever made. This could take a while. I flash a sympathetic smile, but she doesn’t seem to see it or maybe doesn’t care.
“Jules, you finish your homework?”
“Yeah.”
I slide my gaze to Mercy. Her hair is down and falling over her narrow shoulders like a blanket, and I feel her eyes digging into my soul. “How ʼbout you?” I smile, teasing, and she blushes.
“I finished my homework too,” she says shyly.
“Good. Miguel’s cooking dinner. I’ll be out back, studying, but you come get me if . . .” No, I don’t want them out there knocking on my door. “Call me if you need me.”
“’Kay.”
I hear a knock on the
front door. Mercy’s eyes dart toward it.
“It’s cool. I got it,” I say. “And Jules, one movie a night, okay? Don’t overwhelm Mercy with animation—”
Another knock, this one faster and louder. Jeez, cool your shit, woman.
“I know.”
I head to the door, where Carrie is waiting with her books cradled in her arm. “Hey, Milo.”
I take her in, from the tips of her pink-painted toes to her tight tank top that hugs her curves. “Come in.”
She steps cautiously through the doorway as if she’s expecting a rowdy bunch of gangbangers to be waiting just beyond the walls. She scans the living room, and her gaze lands on Julian, but Mercy is no longer there.
“Aw, is this your little brother?”
“Yeah, that’s Julian.”
“Hey, little guy.” She does that finger-wave thing adults do to kids, and Julian curls his upper lip.
He’s a cute kid, but he’s lived through more shit than most boys his age. He can scent pity and insincerity from a mile away, and he’s not a fan of being patronized. “Hi.”
I place my hand on her lower back and guide her toward the kitchen, eyeing my brother as he imitates Carrie behind her back, wiggling his fingers exaggeratedly and crossing his eyes. I shake my head and hold back a laugh.
“Oh!” Carrie stops walking abruptly, and I slam into her back before I realize why.
Mercy is in the kitchen helping Miguel.
I didn’t notice what she was wearing when she was watching TV with Jules. In the bright light of the kitchen and without the couch obstructing the view, I see she’s in a pair of baggy shorts and a tank top that showcases a ton of ivory skin. I follow the length of her long pale legs and hold back a growl when I notice the dark purple that mars her porcelain knees—bruises. I should’ve killed that little fucker who knocked into her this morning.
Carrie tucks in close to me, and I don’t miss the way Mercy’s eyes follow her movement.
Miguel seems oblivious as he stirs macaroni noodles.
“Hi,” Mercy says, surprising me.
“Hello . . . there.” Carrie talks to Mercy with the same condescending tone she used on Julian.
“Carrie.” I step away from her, putting some space between us, and again Mercy seems to notice that too. “This is Mercy. You’ve probably seen her around school.”
“No, actually.” Carrie clears her voice and pats the back of her hair nervously. “I haven’t, but I heard there was a . . . new girl.”
Mercy looks at me, and I try to give her a reassuring smile.
“Where did you come from, anyway?”
I glare at Carrie. What kind of question is that? Like she’s a friggin’ alien or a stray dog?
She doesn’t seem to notice me staring and lifts her brows, waiting. “Hello?” She looks up at me and whispers, “Does she speak English?”
“I was homeschooled.”
Miguel puts down his spoon and turns at the sound of Mercy’s voice. She doesn’t often offer information about her past. All three of us are captivated by what she might say next.
Mercy fidgets with the bowl in her hand, nervously rolling it over and back again. “This is my first time in a traditional school.”
“Homeschooled.” Carrie sucks in through her teeth. “That explains a lot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Miguel’s staring right at Carrie, and if I could pat him on the back for speaking up, I would.
Carrie flashes him her best man-manipulating grin. “Why I’ve never seen her before, duh.”
“I’m not from around here.” Mercy fidgets more with the bowl. “I—” It slips from her hands and shatters on the tile, inches from her feet.
Mercy panics, her eyes fired with worry as if something or someone will appear out of thin air and punish her. She drops in a flash, grasping at pieces.
Miguel and I move at the same time to help her.
“Don’t touch those.”
“I got this.”
We speak in unison, but she ignores us and continues to try to clean the broken ceramic with trembling fingers. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Miguel says in a calm and completely unthreatening voice.
Red blood smears the pieces of broken bowl, and a drop hits the floor. She’s slicing her hands to shit and doesn’t even seem to notice.
I gently grab her wrists. “Mercy.”
Her eyes dart to mine.
“It’s okay.”
“I didn’t mean to.” The words tumble from her lips in a rush.
“I know. It’s all right, Güera.” I smile, and she calms a little. Her perfectly white hands resemble the broken white shards—pale and streaked with blood. “Go wash up, and I’ll clean this.”
She hesitates.
“Go on.”
“Yeah, Mercy. We got this,” Miguel says.
She stands, and when she turns, I catch a flash of dark ink on her bare shoulder where her tank-top strap is shoved aside. I squint. Is that . . . a tattoo?
“Milo, I hate to be a Debbie Downer,” Carrie says from across the kitchen, pulling my eyes away from Mercy’s back, “but I only have a few hours to get all this studying done.”
“Studying,” I say to myself. “Right.” I stand up, and when I look back at Mercy, her hair has moved to cover the ink. Does she have a tattoo on her back? All that soft, pale skin must’ve been a dream canvas for a tattoo artist. My mind reels with what it might be—what words or symbols does she bear, and what does it mean? How old must she have been when she got it? Was she only a kid, like me?
“Milo!” Carrie snaps, but she’s smiling. “Can we get started?”
Miguel mumbles, “Go ahead. I’ll clean up.”
Mercy’s hands are dripping wet, and the blood wells again on her pale skin. Something about it makes me uneasy. Seeing blood on her is just wrong.
“Help her with her hands,” I tell Miguel, who nods and reaches for paper towels.
I hold eye contact with Mercy for as long as I can as I usher Carrie out the door.
STUDYING.
Right. No way is Carrie picking up any of these concepts with her hand gradually moving up my thigh. Hell, even I’m having a hard time concentrating.
Not much time has passed since we ate pizza—if you can call what Carrie did eating. After she pulled off all the pepperoni and used fifteen napkins to soak up the grease, she picked at the cheese and claimed to be full. Who does that?
We were two minutes into our study session on the couch when she made a move. It was subtle at first, her knuckles brushing against my thigh, but as time passed, she became bolder, which leads us to where we are now—side by side with her hand just inches from my dick. Moving us to the bed would be extremely easy. I’d have her stripped down in minutes . . . if not for her age.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
“So you’re saying”—her fingers crawl dangerously higher—“that the function of x over y is the coefficient.”
I groan when her nails bite into the fabric of my shorts. “I’m finding it hard to focus with your hand on the move.”
She sticks out her lower lip, but nothing is innocent about it. She knows exactly what she came here to do, and it has nothing to do with precalc. “You don’t like it?”
I reach down and pry her fingers off. “You know we can’t do this.”
I’m finding it hard not to accept what Carrie’s offering. Sitting on my couch, her legs tempting and curled up to mine, her shoulder leaning close, she smells intoxicatingly sweet and delicious.
“Why not?”
I lift a brow in her direction. Don’t make me say it again.
Her seductive smile turns sour. “Since when did you become such a goody-two-shoes?”
Since my mom went missing and the safety of my little brothers was forced into my hands.
“I can’t risk getting busted for statutory rape.”
“No one
will ever find out.” She nuzzles up to my neck, running the tip of her nose against my tattoo, the one Mercy always stares at.
I drop my head to one side and groan when she brushes her lips against it, her sweet tongue darting out and licking up to nip at my ear.
She whispers, “We can at least kiss though, right?”
Do I trust her to keep whatever happens on this couch to herself? If I’m honest? No. But a kiss? I already screwed myself when I kissed her at Frank’s party. One more can’t hurt. Maybe it’ll help to put out the fire she’s been stoking beneath my skin.
I turn and capture her lips. They’re warm and tacky with gloss, and although she smells like bubblegum, the gunk on her lips tastes bitter. Her tongue pushes inside my mouth, and she hooks a leg over my thigh, rubbing against me. I still her hips by gripping her hard, but she gasps into my mouth and picks up speed. Talk about zero to eighty—this girl lights up faster than a wildfire. I fork my fingers into her hair, grab tight, and break the kiss.
“This isn’t going to lead anywhere good, Carrie.”
Something tells me that’s the point, though. She knew kissing would be hard to turn back from.
She bites her bottom lip, and I wonder if she can taste the nasty crap she wears on her mouth. “I’ll make it good for you. I promise.”
It’s like the girl has never heard the word no before. I push her leg off mine and stand to send a clearer message. “Not tonight.”
“You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.” I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and hand it to her, hoping the cold drink will cool her down.
She takes it without opening it and stares at me. “You know . . . I’m not a virgin.”
Shocking.
“Okay.” What does she expect me to do with that not-new information? Drop to her feet and worship her been-around-the-block ass?
Her eyes narrow. “What I mean is you don’t have to be worried about that. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I can see that.” The thigh humping was a dead giveaway, but I decide to keep that to myself. “You’re hot, Carrie, but not worth getting arrested for. A couple more weeks, and your age won’t be a problem.”