Delinquents (Dusty #2)

by Mary Elizabeth Sarah Elizabeth

  Looking up, Bliss meets eyes that are drug-dark, but his clothes and skin and hair are clean. Love's high, but he's not stumbling or slurring. He's not calm—there's chaos in his black—but he's composed, collected, and in control. Turning and walking around, he opens his door and follows her into the Lincoln.

  Only then, finally, with the rest of the world shut out, do I finally hear his heart.

  Love? It seeks and pleads, weak as an anemic newborn. Love?

  I all but fall apart as the two of them fold together.

  Love, I whisper soothingly. Love.

  There's no sun to watch go down, but Bliss and Dusty hold on as light fades to dark. They wrap around and press together, surrounding one another while the breeze blows and waves lap outside. His fingers trace her palms and she rests her head over my favorite sound, and for the first time in forever, hours pass too quickly.

  Half in his lap, half curled up with the steering wheel behind her, she shifts a little, trying to work the pins and needles out of her arm. Not wanting to move, she settles back into place, but love knows. Brushing his fingers between her shoulders, our boy looks down as we look up.

  “Let's get in the back,” he says quietly.

  They climb over the bench seat one at a time and lie together, heart to heart as the sky darkens.

  Love, we beat, soft over skinny, and strong together. Love.

  He wraps her closer, loosening the tie from her hair as she curves her leg around his waist. Bending and unbending his fingers through strawberry-blond curls, he commits the feel of her to memory. He slides his thumb along her temple and cheek, and brushing his lips across her forehead, he lets his eyes close in what's Heaven for him.

  In the softest and stillest and most silent part of the night, deep in the sacred solace of shared diastole, I'm calm in our harmony, and I hear love's heart, talking to this boy the way I sometimes talk to Bliss.

  It's just as strangled by addiction as my own name is, and I don't know if Thomas understands it any more than I know if Leigh understands me, but I understand this whisper with searingly sharp clarity.

  I tremble, and her fingers curl into his shirt. His arms bring us closer, but it's no comfort to what I'm hearing.

  Love? Terrified and unbelieving, I'm the one asking now. Love?

  Love, his pulse vows as sincerely as a prisoner can. Love.

  But I hear it.

  In between every stifled beat of my name, I hear Dusty's heart telling him to let us go.

  It’s here.

  The end of the countdown.

  The day our secret isn’t a secret anymore.

  The day we’re not supposed to give a fuck.

  Finally.

  No regrets.

  No second thoughts.

  No reluctance.

  Just go. Just drive.

  Be gone.

  Don’t look back.

  Never look back.

  Runaways.

  “Are you nervous?” the girl behind me asks.

  I look over my shoulder, but not at her face. She’s swearing black flats, and I can’t help but think that they’re not nice enough for this occasion. Meanwhile, my metallic heels sink in the grass.

  I pivot and look forward, dismissing her.

  I ignore everything but the line in front of me.

  Even him.

  Especially him.

  Because, one person at a time, I’m moving closer to my future.

  “My heart is beating so fast,” the girl whispers, trying to keep conversation.

  Thankfully, the line proceeds as more names are called.

  Three more until it’s my turn.

  I take a few more sinking steps.

  Two more.

  I place my hand on the rail and set my right foot on the first stair, finally reaching the stage.

  As I stroll up—ready, smiling, faking—I can hardly feel my heart.

  MOM PUSHES me one way, and Dad pulls me another. Mom wants me to take a picture with these people and those people, and Dad wants to show off his only daughter to the entire Portland judicial system he forced to come watch.

  Grandma’s in my face, touching my cheeks with her cold hands. She’s so proud of me. She knew I’d be great. She remembers the day I was born.

  “You truly are Bliss,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say back.

  Grandpa insists on squeezing my shoulder, like I might forget he’s standing right beside me. He smells like muscle rub and too much cologne. It’s giving me a headache. My father’s father slips me a twenty dollar bill and tells me not to use it all in one place.

  Then he squeezes my shoulder again.

  Jackie and Daisy come over and we exchange sincere goodbyes, as if this might be the last time we see each other.

  It might not be.

  We may have the whole summer.

  Mom calls my name again, requesting another captured moment with my fucking French teacher.

  I slip under the arm of my educator and sigh.

  As my mom holds the camera up in front of us, Madame Ancel asks, “In a hurry, young lady?”

  I shake my head, leaning a little. “I just want to get home.”

  The woman who taught me the language of love holds me a little tighter and softly quotes Jane de La Fontaine. “Rien ne sert de courir, il faut partir à point.”

  There’s no sense in running; you just have to leave on time.

  “Smile!” Mom squeals, taking the photograph.

  I see Petey before I see Becka, and I see Lucas and Tommy before I see Dusty, who’s walking at a slower pace with a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. Ben and Valarie are behind him, and further back, Mixie, Kelly and Katie follow.

  Becka has her blue commencement gown, completely unzipped showing the white dress she’s wearing underneath, and her cap in her hand. Her hair is entirely blond again, and she’s wearing a bow, but it’s there because someone told her to wear it.

  I know.

  Her cream-colored wedges are in her hand, leaving her feet bare. Pink-polished, her toes dig into the muddy grass as she walks faster, coming right for me.

  Kicking off my heels, I meet her halfway.

  We collide, and I hide my face in her neck to ignore the boy I know isn't ignoring me. We cling and cry, and I give my attention to the person who should have had it all along.

  “Bliss,” Becka says softly.

  Like old times, she smells like cookies and feels like sticky sweat. I kiss her with wet lips, and I whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  With this girl’s face in the palms of my hands, I see Thomas behind her. He stands back with eyes hidden behind Ray-Bans and hands sunk in pockets.

  His cigarette is gone.

  Beside him, Lucas and Thaddeus are cordial. They gracelessly congratulate one another on raising a high school graduate.

  Tommy cries, but she tries to hide it.

  Ben wipes her eyes with the sleeve of his white button up, ignoring the smudge of makeup it leaves on his cuff.

  At our side, Kelly ignores Petey, and Petey looks uncomfortable being avoided. Valarie wants to leave. Mixie wants to get high, and Katie’s waiting to do whatever the others tell her to.

  “Come on, girls. One more before we leave,” Mom motions for us to move closer and pose.

  Becka and I smile at one another while my unrested heart kind of, sort of buckles. We can stand here all evening and cry. We can say whatever we want, but this friendship has already passed its expiration date, and there’s no going back.

  “It feels like we broke up,” Becka says, wiping my tears away with her thumbs.

  I don’t do the same for her.

  “Don’t break up with me,” she says. “Things can be the same.”

  Lie.

  Catching me off guard, Ben picks me up, and Petey playfully pulls my hair. I cherish them. I love them. Ben and Petey have always been around.

  They're The Boys—my boys.

  When we were littl
e, Dumb and Dumber made Sleeping Beauty cry, and as we got older, they made it known little sisters are off limits, and showed me why three joints are better than one.

  They’re my defenders, my saviors … My friends.

  “Little sister,” Valarie says in passing, running her hand through my hair like she has many times before.

  Then I’m in Tommy’s arms, and I bury myself in her red hair and hold on like she’s my own mother.

  “I’m proud of you, pretty girl,” she whispers.

  From Tommy, I go to Lucas. Tall and dignified, he’s as intimidating as he was the very first time I saw him after his son stole my nail polish all those years ago.

  “Princess,” he greets me like he did then. The attorney slips me some money, and it’s much more than the twenty bucks my grandpa gave me.

  After love’s father kisses the top of my head, there is nowhere to go other than to Thomas.

  I’m not ready for him.

  I probably never was.

  He pulls his hands from his pockets and lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head. As a consequence of the night we spent, his eyes are swollen and red. My boy’s expression is an assortment of unhappiness, denial, and determination. I recognize unpredictability in his posture and volatility in his stare, like he can change the inevitable.

  Recklessness takes a few steps toward me, and Mom snaps a picture. I keep waiting for my heart to leap, but it gives nothing more than a low thump. Even when he pulls the end of my blond-red curl, its beat remains feeble.

  Love is killing us softly.

  “Congratulations, sunny side.” His straight smile swerves with my hair between his fingers.

  My pulse should be pounding, pumping blood to my cheeks, but it struggles.

  Giving up or giving in … I don’t know yet.

  After a moment, Thomas hasn’t backed away, so I smack his hand and warn him with my own sleepy-swollens. Too close, boy.

  He drops his sunnies back over his eyes, and when he smiles this time, he’s allover hoodlum with awful purpose.

  And still, my heart is thin.

  Thomas leans in, taking my wrist in his hand. “Don’t look at me like that, Bliss. You’re breaking my heart.”

  My pulse drops to a low beat while the rest of my body searches for his smell, his touch, his affection. My senses look for something to pull my heart back up. But as we die, everything slows.

  Thomas smells like laundry detergent or his brand of shampoo. His touch is not much more than a touch, but he’s trying, fighting fate. His affection is lacking, self-satisfying and self-seeking, but it’s still only for me.

  His grip on my wrist is not genuine, but cautionary.

  Stick to the plan, his hold says. Now or never.

  I let the front of my body press against the front of his, expecting to light fire, but it’s only a hum.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  His arms circle around my shoulders, and mine secure around his lower back. I hear my mother’s stupid camera clicking, and Tommy say, “She’s like a sister to him.”

  My boy holds tighter, and so do I.

  “Tell me,” I say like a breath, smiling so no one knows this is torture. “Say it, Thomas.”

  He turns his head into my neck and whispers, “I love you.”

  Digging my fingers into his back is all I can do to keep the earth below my feet. I close my eyes and cling to what we have left, hoping it’s good enough, intending to make sure it is.

  When I drop my arms because we’ve been hugging for too long, Thomas doesn’t let go.

  “We can leave, Bliss,” he says like a prayer.

  I grip onto his sides and try to push him from me, but I can’t get away. His hold on me is reliable and proves failing-hearts faulty.

  “The car’s right there. Just get in,” he whispers like it’s ending him.

  Then his lips are on my neck, and the tiniest pinch of my skin is between his teeth. Before I have a chance to think, my hands pull him closer before shoving him away.

  Like a shot of life, my heart picks up and my cheeks warm as Thomas steps back. His smile dares.

  It says, “Play it off or play it up, girl.”

  I half laugh, overwhelmed. “You’re such a jerk.”

  His smile falls.

  I place my hand over my chest where my heart pulses in spite of me. It pumps blood through my veins and arteries and lungs, keeping me alive, giving me no choice other than to live through this moment, which is everything it was never supposed to be.

  With less enthusiasm and uneasy posture, Mom announces her wishes for a group photo. I want Thomas to put his arm over my shoulders, and I want to put mine around his waist, but he stands emotionless beside his sister.

  Pete stands next to me, so I circle my arms around him instead of his best friend. Ben sneaks between Rebecka and I, and he leans his head on top of hers.

  Mom’s not satisfied.

  “Come on, girls,” she says kindly to Katie, Kelly, Mixie, and Val.

  Awkwardly, the Sluts stand in a row on the other side of Pete.

  “Closer,” Mom says, looking at us through her camera screen.

  My boy shifts impatiently next to his sister, patting his pockets like he does when he’s ill-fitted. As Valarie moves herself between Ben and me, I hold onto Petey as tightly as I can. Kelly moves to his right, and he puts his free arm over her shoulders. When I look up, he grins madly.

  With Katie and Mixie at Thomas’s left, we squeeze in as tightly as possible to fit in the frame.

  With proud parents on one side of the camera and the disparate youth on the other, Mom shouts, “Say cheese!”

  In unison, like an opus, we do.

  And it takes no effort at all.

  After a couple of flashes, we gap and separate, and the moment of simplicity is gone.

  With only a couple of feet between us—twenty-four inches that feel like five hundred eternities—Thomas shakes his head with a sad half smirk, keeping his eyes away from me.

  When Pete asks him if he wants to take off, I watch him walk out of my direction and get into his Lincoln.

  And I watch him drive away, without me.

  “HANG OUT with me, like we used to. Spend the night. Spend the weekend,” Rebecka says before we leave this school for the last time. “It’s only right we’re together. You’re still my best friend.”

  “Maybe I’ll call you after dinner,” I say, unable to meet her eyes.

  “You better,” she says.

  I stare out the window on the short drive home, watching the same shade of green pass—the same shades of mud and wet and moss and gray. My dad has music on low, but nothing registers. Nothing is distinct. Everything is flat, fixed, and bland.

  Until Dad pulls the car into the driveway and asks, “What the hell was that, Leighlee?”

  Settling back into my role is seamless, but not facile. With years of experience, I sit up straight and force my voice out.

  “What?” I ask.

  He meets my gaze through the rearview mirror. “Thomas,” he says.

  “It was nothing.”

  “We don’t like it,” Mom chimes in, with implication in her tone.

  With my hand on the door handle and my stare on the back of my mother’s head, I say with a little more aggression than I should, “There’s nothing for you not to like. I’m his …”

  “Little sister.” Dad finishes my sentence, cynically.

  Grandma knocks on the car window, ending the conversation for now.

  I SIT at the kitchen table picking blueberries out of a muffin I have no intention of eating, in my graduation gown I have no will to take off. My nail polish is marred, and my cuticles are inflamed. I roll my wrist and extend my fingers and think, these are the hands of a desperate girl.

  “It’s not Leigh I don’t trust,” my dad says, opening and shutting the fridge.

  I breathe though my nose and sit back, pushing my mother’s homemade effort toward the center of t
he table.

  “She’s a seventeen-year-old girl, Thad,” his mother replies, winking at me, taking my side.

  Like I care. Like anything being said matters

  “He kissed her because he knew he could. He took advantage of her.” Dad opens a bottle of water. “And she’s going to college—then what?”

  They’re fucking ignorant.

  I know exactly how to survive on my own.

  Thomas taught me about drugs and villains and everything else my parents keep in the dark. I’ve seen assaults and witnessed drug deals—I know the pusher. I can roll a joint with my eyes closed. I know the difference between kush and ditch weed, and what cocaine looks like.

  I roll with criminals and addicts and sluts and alcoholics. I know a girl who had an abortion, and I know a whole group of girls who have fucked for drugs.

  My boyfriend is white trash.

  So are all of my friends.

  And I’m just like them, but in prettier dresses.

  Because of them, I’ll be fine.

  With Thomas, I will be fine.

  Mom grates cheese for the enchiladas, the meal she thinks is my favorite.

  “Maybe she can live here for another year and go somewhere closer,” she suggests, like I’m not in the room.

  A month ago, she framed my acceptance letter to Puget Sound, and now she’s acting like my opinion doesn’t matter.

  When Dad agrees and suggests they buy me a new car so I can commute, I finally say, “Do you think I’ve never been kissed?”

  Grandma laughs, but Mom scowls, and Dad warns, “Leighlee.”

  Excusing myself from the table, I walk away from this sorry excuse of a graduation party and head upstairs. What I really wanted was my friends to come over, with music and food and laughs and some sort of truth, but Dad shot the idea down.

  “How would that look?” he said. ”What would the neighbors say?”

  It was easier to act like I wanted enchiladas.

  In my room, I dig through my purse for my cell phone. While it rings my boy, I open my closet door and search through hangers for something to wear.

  My call goes to voicemail.

  “Dusty.” I sigh and hang up.

  After lying on my bed until the sun goes down, I pull a red cotton and lace dress over my head and brush my hair over my shoulder. I rescue pink Jadeite from under my bed where I threw it months ago and fasten it around my neck where it belongs.