Delinquents (Dusty #2)

by Mary Elizabeth Sarah Elizabeth

  “That’s not normal, you know?” I say, holding a half-smoked joint at the corner of my lips.

  I light a match in my right hand and use my left to protect the flame. My eyes squint as trees catch fire, and I inhale, deep … deeper … so fucking deep. I breathe until my lungs are full and burning.

  I exhale.

  “This should be good,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be untouched by this,” I say, spinning my bad habit between my thumb and pointer finger. “It should bother you.”

  She sits up. “That should bother me? That’s never bothered me.”

  I press my lips to burning paper and pull. With my lungs full, I say, “Because I fucked you up.”

  Bliss gets up, and small, precious fingers move around my ankle and slowly up my calf. “I’m good for you, though, right, Thomas?”

  I smoke and nod, dying under her hands. The racing in my head slows down just enough to allow myself to relax. Baby moves her touch under my kneecap now, kneading her fingers, forcing the right side of my mouth to tilt and smile.

  Then, with her lips right below my ear and her body between my knees, she says, “If I made you choose, would it be me?”

  I laugh, blissed out on the weed and my girl. “Yeah,” I say.

  “Good,” she says.

  Then she’s up, and she’s gone.

  And I know.

  I try to catch her ankle, but Leigh knew what she was doing when she was touching me hypnotized. By the time I’m up, she’s already in the bathroom with the door shut and locked. I pound on it, and the wood trembles under my fist. It splinters and deforms, but it does not open.

  “Leigh,” I yell, “don’t fucking do it.”

  The bathroom trash can hits the door from the other side, and she’s opening and closing the cabinets.

  “Open the door!” I cry like a man who’s about to lose everything.

  Then I hear baby open the toilet seat.

  The user in me overrides rationality and my body moves on its own, beating the door until the frame separates from drywall. Chalky pieces of plaster snow down on me, but the lock does not give and the door holds.

  The toilet flushes.

  I wail out like a beast, raspy and scratchy and writhing. “Open the fucking door, Leighlee.”

  Slamming my fist into the fractured barrier between me and my girl, my knuckles split, rupturing old scar tissue and bleeding out between my fingers and down my wrist.

  “Stop!” Baby pleads with terror in her tone.

  I raise my fist to hit again, but she unlocks the door. With my swollen, blood coated hand, I turn the knob and push it open. My girl is in the small space between the toilet and the counter with her chin raised high but her arms out in front of her.

  Bliss screams, pressed against the wall. I step to her and slam the palms of my hands into the flat surface at each side of her head, splintering sandy colored paint and wallboards underneath.

  “What the fuck did you do?” I seethe.

  Baby doesn’t lower her hands. They push against my chest as she stares straight up into my eyes. She refuses to answer, and I hit the wall knocking the mirror from its nail.

  This girl steps into me, and when I don’t back up, she pushes harder, forcing me away from her. Just a step—a step I take right back from her—but she did it, she moved me.

  I smile maliciously through wrongful tears. “You think I can’t get more?”

  She pushes my arm away and stands unbowed, trembling but firm. “I don’t care.”

  I laugh and move away, turning on the sink. I dip my wounded hand under cold water and watch it turn light pink from blood.

  “You’re disgusting.” Bliss walks out of the bathroom.

  “I’M GOING to wear this today,” Leigh says, pulling my dark gray hoodie from its hanger. She brings it to her nose and inhales. “Rebecka won’t be there, and nobody else will know it’s yours.”

  She makes me re-hang the bathroom mirror so she can get ready for school. I sit on my bed afterward and watch love curl her hair. She has mascara and hair spray, and whatever-the-fuck else spread all over the counter. Baby stands on her tiptoes to get a better look at her reflection. At one point, Bliss isn’t paying attention and leaves the curling iron in her hair for too long. Strawberry-blond starts to smoke and Leigh blames me.

  “You’ll be the end of me, Dusty,” she says, smiling through the mirror.

  I want to drive her to school, but we’d have to explain to my parents and Rebecka why her car’s parked on the side of the house. I don’t give a fuck.

  “Tell them,” I say.

  She pulls her curls out from under the borrowed-from-me hoodie hood and says, “We’ve gone this long, what’s another couple of months?”

  Everything.

  When we leave the house behind, she turns one way down the road and I turn the other.

  I’m in class now, slouched in my seat, tapping my pen against my folder. The constant noise annoys the girl sitting beside me. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, flips her hair, and clears her throat while staring at my hands.

  I don’t even know what class I’m sitting in. I was under the assumption I was only doing this until she graduated, but things changed when she sent in an application of her own.

  University of Puget Sound.

  I feel it hanging over our heads, just as looming as our secret.

  Our plans were never concrete and far from practical, but I love the notion of Bliss and me leaving town the day she graduates. Eighteen or not, she’s supposed to be mine after this. That’s been the deal all along.

  She’s ruining it.

  Portland is close enough to be held responsible for the last seven years. It’s close enough for weekend visits and family holidays, and too many fucking expectations. It will be near enough to feel the disappointment of everyone who will be hurt by our lie.

  “Be real,” she keeps telling me. “We can’t just run.”

  I think we can.

  I tap my pen a little louder, a little faster. Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  I sit up straight and clear my throat. The girl next to me gives me a dirty look before pretending to write notes.

  I check my phone. Leigh should be just out of third period, and I have ten minutes before I can leave.

  I’m coming to get you, I text.

  She replies right away: can’t.

  I get up and walk out.

  With an unlit cigarette between my lips and my phone at my ear, I push through the double doors and walk across the lawn toward my car. I can’t be still. I can’t be in that class with that girl and my thoughts.

  “Hello,” love answers.

  “Why can’t I come get you?” I ask, holding my phone between my ear and shoulder to light my smoke.

  “You start baseball today, remember?”

  “Yeah, that.” I smile and blow contaminants into the air.

  “I’ll call you after school,” she says.

  We hang up, I grab my folder, and I head to my next class.

  Whatever it is.

  THE SUN is in my eyes—running, squats, push-ups, and lunges—I finish my last sprint and slow to a walk with my hands on the back of my head.

  “Want to hit a few?” Coach asks me.

  “Whatever,” I answer.

  I trade my hat for my batting helmet and tap the bat against my cleat before I stand in position beside home plate.

  “We’re only practicing, Castor. Go easy,” Coach says from the side. “Keep swinging until I tell you to stop.”

  The pitcher pitches, and I swing and miss. I spit and reposition.

  The pitcher pitches, and I swing a hit.

  The ball flies out somewhere. I don’t give a shit where it went. It’s not here, that’s all that matters. My body tells me to run. That’s how the game is played. Stand, swing, and run. It doesn’t change because the coach tells me not to go. I hit the motherfucker, I’m going. We’re going.

 
; The pitcher pitches, and I swing and hit again.

  I drop the bat and run.

  “Castor, swing again. Swing until I tell you to stop!” Coach yells out.

  I jog back and sweep off home plate with my left foot.

  “Stop hitting so hard, Castor. We’re only practicing your swing. Warm up,” Coach says. “This isn’t the real deal. It’s too early for that shit.”

  The pitcher pitches and I swing and smash the motherfucking ball.

  Because that’s the fucking deal.

  I drop the bat and run, and I make it past first base. But coach steps out from behind the fence and yells, “What part about it’s too early to run do you not understand, Castor?”

  I stop between first and second, breathing too hard, thinking too hard—stuck. I shrug. “I don’t know,” I say, out of breath. “Habit.”

  “Get up to bat,” Coach says, placing his hat back on his head.

  The pitcher pitches and I swing and miss.

  My elbows are high and my knees are bent. I watch the ball until it’s right in front of me. I swing, and I miss.

  “You were swinging too hard before, Castor. Now your swing’s off,” Coach yells. “You’re tired. I told you it was too soon.”

  I take a practice swing off to the side. I step up to bat. I watch the ball, and I tell myself to be careful, swing lightly, and don’t run.

  This shit is natural. It always has been.

  Bliss always will be.

  The pitcher pitches, and I swing and hit.

  I drop the bat, and I run.

  I’m not one of those people who learns from his mistakes, and there are always consequences when I slow down and walk.

  “You need to do what’s right for this team, Castor.” Coach’s tone and obvious dissatisfaction pulls me off the field. “This isn’t only about you. She’s counting on you to do your part.”

  My heart jump kicks, beating and fighting to keep up with adrenaline. “What?”

  Slowly and sarcastically, coach repeats, “Your team is counting on you to do your part.”

  I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands and take off my hat, tossing it near my glove on the dugout floor. I can’t think straight. I can’t function. I can’t be here with her in my head like this. It’s becoming inescapable.

  I need a line. I need Leigh.

  I need to do what’s right.

  “Got it,” I say dismissively. I sit on the bench and hang my head between my shoulders.

  “Whatever you have going on, kid,” Coach continues, “get it figured out and come back tomorrow. We’ll try again. Fresh start.”

  I head over to Pete’s. He opens the door and offers me his open arms.

  “You’re all clay-dirt dirty, big-time college ball player,” he jokes, letting me by.

  I feel like I haven’t spent much time here lately, but everything is absolutely unchanged. Same dirty carpet, couch, and walls. It smells like bud and booze, with the slightest hint of vomit, courtesy of Rachel. A working TV is set on top of a broken one. An old blanket covers the front window, and Ben’s sitting at the kitchen table, packing a bowl.

  It’s just the three of us, and it’s exactly what I need to clear my mind.

  After a couple of hours with my boys, I’ve finally mellowed out and sunken into the couch beside Ben, who’s in town visiting from school. With a beer between my knees, I have my girl on the phone.

  “Where are you?” she asks, disharmonized and let down.

  “Petey’s,” I answer, undercover-like because we’re still this big fucking hush-hush. Maliciously, I add, “Mom.”

  “It’s my birthday on Saturday. Don’t be gone on my birthday.” Leigh sighs into my ear. It sounds like she might be crying, but it’s the way she always sounds now.

  Love is knowing you did that to her.

  “I’ll be home tonight,” I say.

  “It’s three in the morning, Thomas,” she says.

  “You’re right.” I smirk. “I’ll be home tomorrow after my fresh start.”

  I hang up and slip my phone into my pocket.

  “Family problems, or what, Dusty?” Pete sets his empty bottle on the table we were just taking lines off of, the same table that's been here since we were kids sneaking cigarettes out of his mom's purse.

  “Something like that,” I say.

  He keeps my gaze, and I return his look from earlier. He isn’t so sly, and I’m not so convinced. I could say it right now—you’re fucking my baby sister—but I don’t, because he doesn’t say it either.

  Ben scoots over and sits closer to me, thigh to thigh.

  “I love her, Thomas,” he says, and then he starts to cry. Just like that, fucking waterworks.

  I think my boy’s gone crazy, but I feel same way. It has to be the bowl we smoked earlier. It has to be the drugs. This shit was bound to start killing brain cells eventually.

  I try not to laugh, but when Ben says, “So don’t fuck her, okay?” I lose it.

  Laughing, I fall to my side on Pete’s ugly fucking couch. It smells like dust and cigarettes. Has he been with my sister on this piece of shit? Uncontrollable laughter causes stomach cramps, and I can’t breathe. I laugh until I’m crying, too.

  “I know she’s all slutty and shit,” Ben explains, “but she’s a good person, Dusty. I’m serious.”

  I sit up and wipe my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t fuck Val anymore.” He moves his hand from my knee up to my shoulder. “I love her.”

  Pete takes the bowl from Ben and hits it.

  “Sure,” I say. “Congratulations on that … I guess.”

  I clear my throat and chew over whether or not I should tell him it’s been over a year since I’ve been with Val. It’s been about a year since I’ve been with anyone but Bliss.

  “Bros before hos,” he says, and I start to laugh all over again.

  “It’s not like that, Ben,” I guarantee with a smirk.

  When our moment is over, he calls Val and asks her to come over. She’s on her way with Kelly, Mixie, and Katie. When the girls arrive, Valarie sits on Ben’s lap and looks at me with eyes like saucers. She bites on her thumb nail and messes with her hair, and not much has changed about this girl, except now she’s loved.

  I get up for another beer, and Kelly and Petey are in the kitchen. She cries at the table, splotchy faced and brokenhearted, and he leans against the counter that’s covered with old fast-food containers and empty booze bottles, pushing back a piece of linoleum with the toe of his shoe and speaking in low, regretful tones.

  I mutter an apology for interrupting and open the fridge. The handle is loose and the inside is empty, with the exception of beer and a half-gallon of milk.

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Kelly cries. With her elbows on the table, she covers her face with both of her small hands.

  I screw off the top of my brew and toss it in the sink. “You good?” I ask Petey.

  He doesn’t look at me and continues to kick the lifted floor.

  I kind of linger between the kitchen and the living room. I don’t want to sit beside Val and Ben, and I don’t want to listen to Pete call it quits with Kelly, and I definitely don’t need to be near Mixie or Katie. It’s not until my phone starts to ring again that Petey finally turns and gives me his eyes.

  “It’s my sister,” I say, just to see what he does.

  He smiles. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and he’s the only one talking to Becka at this time anymore.

  Then Mixie slides beside me. “You holding?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, glancing down.

  She bats her lashes like it’s pretty, but she looks like what she is: strung out.

  “Want to share?”

  I down the rest of my beer and say, “Sure.”

  Mixie and I walk toward the back of the house, and I feel Pete’s eyes on me the entire time.

  Behind the closed bathroom door, she sits on the edge of the bathtub
and opens her legs, lifting her hot pink stretched cotton dress around her waist. She’s wearing a thong and it’s fucking disgusting.

  “For old time’s sake,” she says with a giggle.

  I separate our lines and keep my eyes to myself. My phone is still ringing.

  “No thanks,” I mumble.

  “Are you sad?” she asks. “Are you sorry because Valarie’s with Ben? Is that why you won’t fuck me?”

  I glance over and she has her finger under lace between her thighs. In a gross attempt for my attention, she moves it over and shows me her run-through pussy. I laugh and lift my eyes to her face, to her dirty hair, to her skinny arms. Mix used to be kind of, sort of beautiful, but that was before she was chewed up and spit out. Youth is absent from her downcast face now, superseded by lowness and rejection.

  I do my lines and leave the rest for her and meet Pete in the kitchen where he’s bagging up the trash that has accumulated this week.

  My phone keeps ringing.

  “What was that about?” I ask, silencing it.

  He uses his arms and sweeps everything off the counter into the bin. “Answer your phone, Thomas.” He kicks the can back against the wall. “Little sisters only call if they need you.”

  THE SUN isn’t up yet, but it peeks between clouds over the east. Streets are empty. Houses are dark, and businesses are closed. I’m the only one at the stop light, waiting for it to turn green, and my phone has finally stopped ringing.

  As I turn onto her street, I slow my speed and flip on the heater. I reach in the back for the blanket I leave in here and drop it on the seat next to me.

  Four houses down, I call her and switch off my headlights. I cruise until the Lincoln is nothing but a quiet rolling rumble and stop in front of the willow tree.

  Leigh runs from the back, barefoot and bare legged. She tugs on the hem of her oversized white sleep shirt covering her most precious parts. My girl tiptoes up to my car and gets in with a rush of cold wind.

  “Oh my gosh, it’s freezing,” she says happily, like I didn’t keep her up all night with my absence.

  Leigh sits across the seat with her feet in my lap and the blanket over her body. I puff on a joint while she tells me that Smitty and Becka don’t talk anymore, and I think about telling her about Pete because I know she knows, but I don’t.