Delinquents (Dusty #2)

by Mary Elizabeth Sarah Elizabeth

  “She got mad at me because I was sitting with Oliver.” Leigh half laughs, half yawns, like it’s no big deal. Except, with that motherfucker, it always is.

  I blow on the end of my spliff before taking another hit, fighting the urge to push her feet off me. Baby takes notice of my discomfort and sits up.

  I hate the sleepy purple beneath her eyes.

  “Don’t start,” she defends.

  I laugh. “I didn’t say anything”

  “You don’t have to,” she answers defiantly, suddenly awake. “He’s my friend.”

  “Who you tried to sleep with,” I reply sarcastically and intentionally to hurt her feelings.

  I take one last hit and blow smoke out the window before starting my car. “I have to go.”

  “No.” She shakes her head.

  “Take the blanket with you. I’ll see you later.”

  “Thomas, no.”

  I scoff and sit back, dropping my hands from the wheel. “What?”

  “Don’t be mad at me,” she says.

  She’s so small and wrapped up warm in a blanket that smells like our sex, but this girl is the only person who can cause me to swell with rage so quickly. I want to punch the windshield out. I want to fuck doubt out of her.

  Anybody I touched before Bliss meant zero—they’re nothing, forgettable, and inconsequential. No names, no faces, no feelings. But Oliver, the only other boy she’s ever put her lips on, is a legit option and a constant presence. I can tell by the way she says his name—smooth, with a small lift of her lips.

  “I’m not,” I finally say.

  I hurt you, you hurt me … I love you more. This is what we’ve become.

  So I skip one habit for the other. I go home and cover myself in counterfeit passion.

  Love is saving her from me.

  The continuing detachment between my sister and Bliss is unmistakable. When I get home the next night, Leigh’s sitting on one couch and Becka’s on the other. They’re arguing about school … again.

  “Nothing will change, Becka,” my girl says evenly. “Why do you keep bringing this up?”

  “Because we had a plan!” my sister shouts.

  “No,” Leigh corrects her. “You had a plan.”

  Clipped short by my arrival, the girls try to act like nothing is wrong, but their hurt lingers in the air.

  “How was baseball?” Becka asks, let down by the end of their conversation. She sits back with the remote and absentmindedly flips through the channels.

  I drop my equipment bag and shut the front door. “Fine,” I say, looking between them.

  Baby takes a small glimpse at me and sees the dope sickness. She rolls her eyes, and tears that may or may not belong to me slide down her cheeks.

  Like I don’t have enough to worry about, her look says.

  I haven’t slept in two days and can’t deal with her concern right now. Opening the fridge for a bottle of water, my mother makes me sit down.

  “Eat. You look like shit.” Mom drops a bowl of pasta on the table in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, digging in with my fork. I force myself to take a bite but push my bowl away when Alfredo sauce hits my stomach.

  “You’re not going to eat?” Mom asks.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say. I push my seat back and get up.

  I kiss her on the forehead as I try to pass, but she holds on to my sides and keeps me close in her mother-strong hold.

  “Please, Dusty,” she whispers.

  With unsteady hands, I remove Mom’s fingers from my shirt and walk away. The forkful of food in my stomach makes me ache. I’m nauseous and dizzy, and the slut in my back pocket is the only fucking remedy.

  I’M IN the shower, but I don’t remember climbing the stairs. Hot water beats down on sore muscles and joints, but my skin is so tender it feels like needles. My stomach rolls and my head pounds. With one hand on the shower wall, I bend over and heave.

  Drying myself off hurts more than the water did, so I don’t. I dry heave some more but manage to brush my teeth.

  Just one line. Only enough to make this go away.

  In my room, I can’t find my pants.

  They’re on my bed.

  And this feels exactly like falling.

  “OPEN YOUR eyes.”

  She touches my chest, my arms, and my face.

  “Please, please...” Baby’s crying.

  I open up, and Bliss is above me with tiny little tears wetting her cheeks.

  Those are all mine, I think to myself.

  I’m on the floor beside my bed, naked and unheated, and I know this is messed-up. I know I should move, but before I can form a coherent thought or make my body work, my stomach retches. Leigh helps me roll onto my side. It’s a lot of pain and a lot of noise, and I only scare my girl.

  “You’re okay,” she says softly, moving hair away from my face.

  She sits beside me and rubs my back while my empty stomach kicks me from inside.

  I grab for her, and she lets me. She allows me to pull her down and hold her under and does nothing to fight back. Leigh, halfway tucked beneath my weight, hugs me just as strongly as I’m clutching her.

  “Tell me what to do,” she says.

  “It hurts,” I groan between clenched teeth.

  “I know it does,” she whispers, wiping sweat from my forehead.

  With my cheek pressed against her chest, my tears soak through her cotton shirt. I grip and force and overpower and cry. “I need it. I need it.”

  “No more, Thomas,” she pleads so softly with so many tears. “Just try.”

  I’m asking her to get my pants, inside my pockets. “Please find Her,” I whine.

  Leigh doesn’t get up, and she doesn’t hesitate to say no.

  I ask over and over and over again, and I’m being too loud, and I’m hurting her. I literally crawl up her body, scratching and bruising, ignoring her evident pain.

  “Okay. Shh—be quiet.” Leigh tries to move away from me, but I pin her wrists down and slide between her legs.

  “Don’t leave. Don’t leave me!” I’m crying, and my stomach, and my skin … I want to close my eyes.

  “I won’t,” she says. “I would never.”

  WE’RE IN bed and I don’t know how she got me off the floor. I try to open my eyes but the room spins.

  I’m too hot and too cold and crying and itching and uneasy. I want to crawl out of my skin. I feel like every bone in my body was broken and re-set wrong. The rush in my blood hurts. My open pores ache. My teeth are sore. Breathing stings and pangs. Being awake isn’t an option.

  Leigh’s behind me with her chin on my shoulder and her arm over my chest, making this manageable.

  “For me, Thomas,” she whispers in my ear. “Try, for me.”

  I nod, even though I don’t completely know what I’m agreeing to. But as soon as I do, cocaine screams inside me, twisting and pleading her case.

  I DON’T leave my room the next day, but I’m unstill.

  I’m under the covers. I’m on top of the covers. I’m on the floor. I’m in the shower. I’m smoking a cigarette. I’m smoking a bowl. I’m on the phone with Bliss, frustrated. “Why the fuck are you making me do this?”

  I’m calling her back, apologizing.

  I’m in my clothes. I’m out of them. I’m hungry. I can’t even think about eating.

  I feel better.

  I feel so much worse.

  I throw my phone because it won’t stop ringing. I tell my mom to leave me the fuck alone because she won’t stop knocking. I put my phone back together because my girl might be calling.

  I look for Her, because I know She’s here somewhere.

  I come undone and turn dresser drawers upside down and search the pockets of every pair of pants I own. I look through my shoes and my shirts and my hoodies and my backpack. I toss papers and lift my mattress. I’m in the bathroom, and I know—I fucking know: Bliss flushed my slut again.

  I’m on the floor, cr
ying and struggling. I’m alone and gutless. I’m torn. I’m powerless. I’m in love.

  One more time.

  Just one more time and I’m done.

  I look for my phone so I can call Casper. I come up with excuses to give Bliss.

  My phone rings before I dial, and it’s sunny side, and I have nothing—no justification.

  I hear her voice, and it’s almost as good as Her.

  “I’m thinking about you, you know,” she says calmly.

  I cry, but baby doesn’t mention it. She just talks.

  “I wanted to leave school so bad,” she says, this time with a smile in her tone.

  Her voice soothes me.

  “And I’m probably a bad friend, because I hardly said two words to Becka all day.” Leighlee sighs.

  I think I hear a car door close outside, but it’s hard to tell through everything else.

  “Then she tells me she won’t be home tonight,” Leigh says softly. “She has plans.”

  Shirtless, I lie back on the bathroom floor and the cool tiles feel so good on my overheated skin. I put Leigh on speaker and place the phone on my stomach and listen.

  “She said she was going to Portland with your parents, and they won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

  I rest my arms at my sides. I close my eyes.

  “So, after school, I called my parents,” Leigh says.

  Tears fall down my temples into my hair.

  “I told them I was staying the night with my best friend,” she whispers.

  My bedroom door opens.

  So do my eyes.

  And she’s here.

  MY EYES are the cleanest blue they’ve been in a year.

  I step over clothes and trash, and I can’t believe I did this to my room again. I put on a pair of boxers and check my phone. Ignoring anyone that isn’t Bliss, I check her messages first.

  Hey, sleep-all-day boy, she sent. I wore your sweater to school. It smells like you.

  It feels like you, says the one after that.

  I can’t wait until it is you.

  I sniff, clearing my still-raw passages, and out of nowhere, longing hits me like a train. My mind turns one-tracked, and I can taste Her in my throat and feel Her in my sinuses. One phone call is all it would take to get the most cravable kind of disgusting.

  I open the top drawer of my night stand and toss my phone in. I smoke and it alleviates some of the urge.

  To drown out cocaine’s calling, I turn up Nirvana. I clean my room. I slip my dresser drawers where they belong and fold every shirt, pair all of my socks, and toss whatever doesn’t fit me anymore into a pile in front of my bedroom door. I go through my closet, and I clean everything out from under my bed. I trash all of the junk from my computer desk and pull my bedding from my mattress.

  I feel lighter once it’s all done, and when I look at the clock, a couple of hours have passed and the craving is nothing but a rustle.

  With an armful of sheets, I finally leave my room. I pass by my sister, who didn’t go to school today. She’s lying on her bed, talking on the phone. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her too-bright smile is a dead fucking give away.

  The girl we’ve been lying to is a liar, too.

  Down in the laundry room, I fill the washing machine with detergent and water and shove my bedclothes in.

  I head to the kitchen and grab an apple from the fruit basket. I still feel like I’m recovering from a really bad hangover, but everything is quieter, slower, and calmer. The urge to run is quiet.

  I bite into the green apple and the sour taste waters my eyes and curves my lips. At the same time, the washing machine begins to make a loud knocking noise.

  “Dammit, Rebecka!” Mom yells, turning toward the laundry room.

  I follow her down the hall since she didn’t see me. I cross my arms and lean against the door frame. Mom opens the washer and the spinning stops. She reaches in and pulls out my dark gray sheets.

  “What the—” she whispers, dropping them back in.

  I clear my throat. With wet hands, she turns and looks.

  She really looks.

  Mom’s shoulders sink, and her defensive posture eases. She was gearing up for a fight, but instead she sees blue eyes.

  “I did some laundry,” I say.

  The left side of her lips lift in a small smile, but she turns away and starts pulling pillow cases and blankets out of the tub. “You can’t put so much in at once.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Mom drops wet bedding in a laundry basket and closes the washer lid. She dries her hands and says, “You didn’t go to school today?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you...” she starts, unsure.

  But before she asks anything I’m not ready to answer, I cut in. “I have some clothes that need to be dropped off at the Goodwill. Can you do that for me?”

  Mom stands tall. “Yes.”

  As the rest of the afternoon and evening pass, the cravings come and go—some stronger than others. I keep myself occupied. I smoke. I clean my bathroom. I make plans with Leighlee, and I talk to my sister.

  “You might not get into a school in California,” I say. I’m lying on her bed, and she’s in front of her mirror, putting Neosporin on her cut-up-from-skating knees.

  Becka rolls her eyes. “I worked too hard not to get into California, Dusty.”

  “Where did you even apply?” I ask.

  “Everywhere,” she says, like a dream.

  The conversation turns to Bliss, and my sister’s unease about my girl really shows.

  “She’s so fucking small-town,” my baby sister says. “And, like, how am I ever supposed to trust her?”

  “She’s your best friend, Becka,” I say.

  “Yeah, and best friends aren’t supposed to lie. Best friends aren’t supposed to make plans and ditch those plans.” She shakes her head, and I get it, because Leigh abandoned our plans, too.

  “We were just … supposed to go,” little sister says, tossing the ointment. “But she’s so fucking—good.”

  “You’ve never lied to her?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

  Her cheeks blush. She’s not as good at keeping her secret as Bliss. She can’t look at a person and lie like Leigh can. Rebecka is shifty and nervous, but my girl, she’s a flawless liar.

  “Not the point,” she answers. “But no, not really. Not about this.”

  “Maybe we’re just too different. I mean, it was fine before, but now … it’s just not working out.” She picks up a magazine to keep her hands busy.

  Liar. Her position screams untruth.

  But she’s right. They’re too different.

  A LITTLE after eleven, Leigh calls me to say her parents are in bed.

  On the drive over to her house, I’m accompanied by a nervousness I’m no longer used to. I park down the street, but after I walk away from my car, I walk back and park one block over.

  I don’t remember the side door of her house ever squeaking before, but it does now. I stop, halfway in the kitchen and halfway out, and when I don’t hear anyone, I step in as fast as I can and close the door as quietly as possible.

  I bump into the kitchen table.

  “Fuck,” I whisper, barely catching myself.

  I’m a troubled wreck, and it’s like the walls are closing in. My heart beats in my throat, and my hands sweat. One wrong move and Thaddeus will open his bedroom door and shoot my fucking head off.

  The stairs creak and when the ice-maker drops ice, I almost lose my cool, like I'm some fucking pussy.

  By the time I make it to Leigh’s room, my heart beats loud enough to wake the neighbors.

  Then I see my girl and I’m okay.

  LONG BEFORE her parents are due to wake, I get out of bed. Baby wants to walk me to the door, but her tired heart and too-rested muscles keep her eyes from opening completely.

  “Don’t leave. Stay for my birthday.” she whispers through the dark. She smiles, but the
rest of her remains sunk and sleepy under cozy blankets and sheets that smell like us.

  “Your birthday is tomorrow. I’ll be back for you later,” I say quietly, pulling the comforter over her shoulders, covering where I was just a second before.

  I can hear the rain through the window and smell it through the vent, mixed with dust and the slightest hint of natural gas. Warm, artificial air gets rid of the chill and makes it so homelike in here.

  I walk past the judge’s door and don’t think twice about him and his wife sleeping on the other side. I take the steps down to the living room like I normally do, and I don’t bump into the kitchen table. The side door squeaks, but I’m outside walking around the side of the house before anyone inside would even realize they heard anything at all.

  Love is confident.

  With my hands in my pockets and my hoodie-hood up, I’m drenched by the time I reach my car, unseen and missing my girl like crazy.

  As the day progresses, I go to school, and I go to baseball practice to master my swing—slow and steady. I’m patient, accountable, and still.

  “Practice makes perfect, Castor,” Coach insists.

  “I already was,” I joke.

  He chuckles and pats me on the back. “You damn kids don’t know shit.”

  Bliss calls on my drive home.

  “I’m ready. I’m so ready!” she says. We’ve waited all week to celebrate her birthday together.

  I laugh, driving into Newport’s town limits. “You don’t think it’s too cold, baby? We could—”

  “No!” she shouts. “We’re doing this.”

  Forty minutes later, with a clean hoodie and a Yankees hat tugged over damp hair, I pull up to the front of Leigh’s house as she runs out with her pink pillow and white backpack. She’s wearing my hoodie under her black jacket and a pair of yellow skinnies that aren’t warm enough for how cold it is.

  She gets into the car and tosses her things in the back. My girl kisses me all over my face and whispers, “Drive,” over my lips.

  I take us to the grocery store on the outskirts of town. I don't think it's far enough away to get out of the car together, but my girl can't go all night without sugar. She'll die.