Delinquents (Dusty #2)

by Mary Elizabeth Sarah Elizabeth

  “Say yes,” she says.

  “Yes.” I smile.

  We take the steps hand in hand up to the porch. I keep my eyes away from the swing where Thomas and I first made our rules.

  Becka walks right in and the smell of brewed coffee and Tommy’s perfume sinks right in, giving me goosebumps. Everything is the same, utterly. The placement of the furniture, the pictures on the wall. I expected it to all look different. Be different.

  The only thing out of ordinary is the atmosphere.

  He’s not home, and I can sense his absence here more than I have the entire time he’s been gone, and I want to turn and run. I don’t want to be anywhere near this place. His things. His room. His bed.

  Tommy’s in the kitchen. Her hands are on the island countertop where a mug of coffee steams in front of her.

  “Hey, Mom.” Becka walks in ahead of me. She pulls out a stool across from her mother and sits.

  Tommy’s head lifts up. She walks around the island, takes her daughter in her arms, and hugs her.

  “This is exactly why I didn’t want to come home.” My girl doesn’t mean it. She returns the embrace.

  We move to the dinner table. Tommy brings the coffee pot and three mugs.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Was I supposed to buy him a cake in case he comes home?” she asks, not necessarily looking for an answer.

  “Mom.” Becka groans.

  Her mother continues, “What if he shows up and thinks none of us give a shit about him because I didn’t buy a fucking cake for his birthday?”

  “He’s not coming home.” Her daughter picks at her nail polish.

  “That’s why I didn’t buy one. Your dad wants to toss all of Thomas’s shit out on the lawn.”

  I’m not surprised.

  “He talked to him,” the woman of the house says nonchalantly.

  Mine and Becka’s heads snap up. My girl sits forward and asks, “When?”

  Tommy sips from her mug. “A couple of days ago. Dusty called and your dad answered.”

  “What did he say?” Becka asks.

  “What the fuck does Thomas ever say, Rebecka?” She runs her hand through her damp hair. “He told your dad to mind his own business and hung up.”

  Becka’s shoulders fall. “He called dad to tell him to fuck off?”

  “I don’t know why he called,” my boy’s mom answers sharply.

  Tommy’s aged five years in a month. Her usually perfectly colored hair has roots, and a few grays are showing. She isn’t wearing any makeup, and her manicure is less than stellar.

  There’s dust on the dinner table and dirty dishes in the sink. There are empty wine glasses on the counter, and the trash is full. No one is running up and down the stairs. No one is laughing. Baseball bags aren’t by the front door. The TV isn’t on, even for noise.

  One delinquent changed the dynamic of this entire house.

  “Your dad told him he was going to trace his credit card, and the conversation ended.”

  We head up the stairs, and his bedroom door is closed. Self-preservation isn’t a concern, and I no longer want to run. I think about opening his door to crumble onto his bed. I debate whether or not it would make me feel better or make this that much worse. Touching his sheets. Lying my head on his pillow. Being inside of those walls. Our dividers.

  I go in with Becka and jump on the bed.

  “Does it feel good to be here again, or what?”

  I sit beside her. “Yeah.” Lie.

  “It’s weird without him here, right? I’m not fucking crazy for feeling this way, am I?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Not a lie.

  “DID YOU call Oliver?” My girl lifts her flat black and hot-pink beach cruiser into the trunk of my Rabbit.

  “Yeah,” I slip in behind the wheel and start the car. She tries to shut the trunk, but the bike is too big. “It’s fine. Leave it. I’ll drive slowly,” I call out.

  She jumps in. “Are they there?”

  “Yep.” I put the car in first and drive forward, away from Dusty’s empty parking spot.

  “Do you think Margo is there?”

  I bite on my bottom lip. “Not sure.”

  She nods and sets her elbow on the door, gliding her hand up and down through the wind in waves. “If she is, I’m hitting her over the head with my board.”

  I roll my eyes and turn up the stereo, letting this week’s annoying, can’t-get-it-out-of-your-head pop song play too loudly.

  The wind whips and tangles our hair while the trunk of the car bumps along the bike. We sing the lyrics in our most out-of-tune voices, and at a stop light, a man and his wife in the car next to us laugh while we get the words wrong and pretend we know what we’re singing.

  Top 40 isn’t usually our thing.

  This is the first time in years that I’ve just been Rebecka Castor’s best friend. I’m Thaddeus and Teri McCloy’s only child. I’m just a girl in a car singing shitty music. I have nowhere to be, nothing to hide, and no secrets in my pocket.

  I’m just Bliss.

  The air smells like salt water and sand as we curve around the mountainside, and in the distance, the ocean looks like diamonds. Wildflowers and shrubs decorate the world around us, and the sky is beautiful, spotless, and pristine. The sun is high, and cars are parked anywhere and everywhere. We pass surfers walking with their boards and paddles under their arm, their destination: the Pacific. We drive by families, tourists, and people riding their bikes, and kids with beach balls.

  Life goes on.

  With both hands on the wheel, I say, “I don’t know what I want to do after high school.”

  She waves me away with a scoff. “So fucking what? We’ll study stupid shit like Botany or Meteorology.”

  I smile. Not a lie.

  “Logic,” I offer.

  Becka laughs loudly. All of her teeth show, and she holds her hands over her stomach. “Yeah, we’ll major in logic since neither of us seem to have any.”

  “Folklore and Mythology!” I say with a giggle.

  My girl stops laughing. “That’s a good one.”

  She’s dead serious.

  I LEAVE my phone in the car.

  “Do you think Smitty will be mad we’re here?” I ask, straddling Becka’s bike.

  She drops her board to the ground and holds it still with her bare foot. She gathers pink and violet together into a ponytail at the top of her head. Her greenish bangs hang over her right eye.

  “Who cares? This isn’t his beach.” She jumps on her skateboard and pushes away. “I don’t see his name on it.”

  I pedal slowly behind skateboard virtuoso. She bends at her knees and holds her arms out at her sides for momentum. Most people move out of her way, but a few complain about her being on the sidewalk.

  We roll down the beach, and my girl spots the corn man and stands straight to point. Her wheel gets caught on a rock.

  Becka glides through the air in a mess of pink and green and purple and screams. She hits the sand with a loud thump, and her board flips end over end until it lands on the other side of the sidewalk. I skid to a halt and jump off the bike.

  “Stop the corn guy!” she yells, holding her wounded elbow.

  “Becka.” I sigh, helping her up.

  She claims her board and jumps right back on. Sand sticks to her knees, and her right elbow drips blood down her forearm into her palm. Instead of going straight to the vendor selling the Mexican corn, I follow her to the same concession stand Oliver bought me fries and a soda at a few weeks ago.

  The girl behind the counter takes one look at us and freezes.

  “Can I have some napkins, please?” Becka turns her arm over to get a better look at her injury.

  I stare at the girl, who’s nodding, and I know she knows who we are.

  The brown-haired, freckle-faced girl watches until we sit at the dirty, been-carved-into plastic table with the cheap red umbrella over it.

  “Awesome.” B
ecka dabs her bloodied wound.

  “That’s her.” I steal one of her brown recycled-paper napkins and help clean off her arm and hand. Some of it won’t come off, so I lick a clean spot of the napkin and rub some more.

  “Who?” Becka pulls her arm out of my grip but keeps her cut covered with her hand.

  I sit back in hard plastic. I shake my head. “The girl at the window is Margo.”

  “Are you kidding, Bliss?” She turns toward me with hysteria behind her eyes.

  I collect the blood-soiled napkins. “I saw her when I was here with Oliver, but he didn’t say anything.”

  “How do you know?” She searches for the one who stole her not-in-a-relationship-boyfriend.

  I’m about to shrug and say that it’s probably not her, but fate is an evil bitch—spiteful like the suffering in my chest left from my boy. They probably work together, fate and suffering, changing expected outcomes and killing teenage dreams, rupturing hearts and hopes.

  Fate steals the disappointment in my chest with suffering and then slaps Rebecka right across the face with it.

  “Let’s go.” My heart is a hummingbird, fluttering nervousness.

  Unaware of our presence, Smitty's suddenly at the window in his orange shorts and white tee, talking to freckle-face.

  He sees Becka staring at him and his new girlfriend and moves away from the food window. Margo disappears from sight, only to reappear when she exits a side door and starts walking toward us.

  A tear falls from the corner of my best friend’s left eye, but it’s not from sadness. She ripples with anger.

  Smitty approaches us, and Rebecka takes a few barefooted steps in his direction and knocks the rescue can out of his hand. His expression is uncharacteristically put off and bothered. He picks up his can and shoves it under his arm.

  “I’m not talking to you about this here,” Smitty says lowly, but loud enough for me to catch.

  “You’re with her? Out in the open, everyone knows … You’re with that girl?” Heartbroken points toward Margo.

  “I have to get back to work.” His eyes meet mine as he tries to walk away. I know he hurts and loves Becka, but being a second choice is not easy.

  Becka pulls on his shirt, and it splits at the neck.

  The sound of stretching and tearing cotton gives me chills. I’ve done that same exact thing many times—pulled and tugged and torn and ripped until love finally faced me.

  Smitty turns, carefully placing his hand on his not-girlfriend’s hurt elbow and guides her from the crowd to the sand. I watch him verbalize with his eyes while she screams and points. She kicks sand and punches him until he holds on to her wrists and speaks so lowly I can’t even read his lips.

  I don’t need to read Becka’s.

  “I fucking hate you,” she sobs. “You’re doing this, not me. Not me, Smitty!”

  He shakes his head.

  Too frustrated to stay quiet, clearly enough for me and everyone else to hear, he says “You’re fucking Petey.”

  Becka smacks him as Margo rushes past me.

  I hurry toward my friend. Smitty tries to keep them apart, but Becka’s unhinged and Margo’s limbs are too long.

  Rebecka manages to get past Smitty and hit Margo in the face, but freckles has at least a foot on her height-wise. No effort at all is made when the brunette pulls her fist back and lunges forward, decking my best friend in the mouth.

  Becka falls on her bottom, and her busted mouth bleeds down her chin, onto her white tee.

  Gasps and screams come from the crowd of people who have circled around us. Down the sidewalk, security guards on their bicycles make their way over. An older man in bright blue swim trunks points in our direction.

  Becka spits blood into the sand. Smitty bends down to her, but she pushes him away as she stands and sprints toward the enemy. I step forward to help, to do something, but my wrist is pulled, and I’m pushed back.

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Oliver says as he runs past me.

  Some grown-ups break up the fight. An old man holds my girl back by her forearm. With a busted lip, she tells him he’s hurting her, but he doesn’t let up.

  If the boys were here, this would never have happened.

  Smitty and Oliver stand with two security guards and Margo. Her hair’s pulled and knotted, and her arms are crossed over her chest. The left strap of her tank top is torn and there’s blood on it. They ask her questions, and she points at Becka but shakes her head.

  Smitty sighs and shrugs and says, “It was a misunderstanding.”

  The man holding my girl finally lets her go when one of the security officers beckons her over.

  “I’m going to kill that bitch,” she mumbles under her breath as we walk.

  “What happened?” Brad, the bicycle security guy asks us.

  While she explains, I notice Margo’s wandered back to her job. The person who must be her boss has met her by the side door and is wiping his hands off on his white apron, looking over at us.

  “What’s your name?” Brad asks me.

  I look away from treasonous boys and toward the fake-cop. “Leighlee McCloy,” I say hesitantly.

  He takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at my face. He has raccoon eyes. “Judge McCloy’s daughter?”

  My shoulders fall. I’m going to be in so much trouble if he tells my dad. “Yes.”

  “Get out of here before I call your dad to come get you,” he says.

  Becka and I straighten up. I smile widely. She squeezes my hand.

  Brad points a finger in my face. “I don’t want to see you here for the rest of the day.”

  We take off running through the sand, past disloyal boys, toward Becka’s skateboard and my bike. I stand up with my feet on the pedals and the salty, sandy air breezing through my strawberry-blond while my bleeding best friend pushes and rolls, pushes and rolls.

  I pedal ahead of her so she can grab the back of my seat. People move out of our way unhesitantly. I look back and she’s smiling.

  I swerve but correct myself. “Your tooth is chipped again!”

  “What?” She holds onto the cruiser seat with one hand and touches her mouth with the other. “No!” she yells with a smile, all chipped and swollen and bloody-ruby under tangled emerald bangs.

  My beat-up girl rolls off the curb and kick-pushes toward the car. By the time I get there, she’s in the front seat, checking out her grill.

  “I can’t believe this happened, Leigh,” she whines, kicking her feet.

  I laugh and unlock the trunk, trying to figure out how to fit the bike in.

  “Becka—” I call when Tanner comes out of nowhere and takes the cruiser from me.

  “Need some help?” he asks.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a few steps back.

  Tanner maneuvers the bike into my trunk even better than Becka did the first time. He’s wearing a hat, but his blond hair sticks out from beneath it, sun-bleached and sea-thirsty.

  He has a scar on his eyebrow where Dusty hit him last year.

  “Good?” he asks, closing the trunk as much as he can.

  “Thanks, Tanner,” I say. I smile as I open the driver’s side door.

  Becka turns in her seat. “Hey, have you seen my brother around?”

  I close my eyes and take a breath.

  “Nah,” he replies, lifting his hat and running his fingers through beachy blond hair. “I saw Pete at the gas station with Ben, though.”

  My girl practically stands in the seat. “Petey? He’s back in Newport?”

  Tanner laughs. “I guess.”

  “Thomas wasn’t with him?” My heart pounds hard and fast. I can feel it in the tips of my teeth.

  “I haven’t seen Castor in a while.” He steps away from the car. I open the door with heavy arms while Becka flips onto her butt and types away on her phone.

  “Come to my house tonight.” I shake my head, about to decline when he says, “I’m having a party. Cruise by. Free beer.”


  “We’ll be there,” Becka speaks up from inside the car.

  “Sweet,” he says before jogging off.

  I slip into the car and stick the key into the ignition. “Really?”

  She shrugs. “We can ask around about my brother.”

  I shift into reverse and sigh. “Where to?”

  “Let’s get ready at my house.” she answers, back to typing on her phone. “Your mom is starting to freak me out.”

  THE STREET Tanner lives on is bumper-to-bumper parked and stuffed, and there’s no missing which house is his. Small, red, lit up, and loud, his home overflows with a crowd. There are people all over his lawn and in the street. They barely move out of the way so I can roll by.

  I look for the Lincoln, but don’t see it.

  Ben’s Benz is here. So is Valarie’s piece of shit Sentra.

  “Park on the fucking sidewalk.” Becka laughs.

  I find a spot at the end of the block as my girl digs through her purse. She presents an orange prescription bottle and shakes a few pink pills into the palm of her hand.

  “They’re my mom’s. She has anxiety or whatever,” she says, dry swallowing.

  I lock the doors and meet my girl on the sidewalk. She has a bottle of her dad’s rum in one hand and holds her other out for me. My heels tap on the concrete. It’s uneven in places, but I’m good in heels. The humidity in the air from the sea being so close dampens my skin and flattens the little bit of curl in my hair, but it feels nice.

  I’m nervous.

  Two houses down from the party, Becka stops and screws off the top to the bottle, tossing it over her shoulder. She takes a larger-than-her swig and passes it to me. I sip.

  I recognize a few people on the lawn and smile, but I don’t stop to talk. Heavy beats and low-slick lyrics fill the stifled air. Inside the house smells like spilled beer and burning bud. People are too closely crowded, and I have to push my way through.

  “Do you see anyone?” she yells over the music.

  I look over my shoulder to find her eyes already hooded over and high-slanted. She’s smiling like an idiot and looks more like her brother than ever before. She passes me the bottle. I swallow a mouthful.

  Stopping in the middle of what must be Tanner’s living room, I look around. This is the youth of the nation: torrid, displaced, slutty, and drunk. It’s the same people doing the same thing every weekend, promising themselves they won’t grow up to be like their parents and swearing that one line won’t change shit. This person fucks that person, only to sleep with their best friend next weekend. Disease spreads, physically and mentally. Their laughs are corroded and their skin is melting.