Delinquents (Dusty #2)

by Mary Elizabeth Sarah Elizabeth

  As I sit at my vanity, his name is on repeat inside me—

  Thomas.

  I pin my bangs back, and I wipe off this morning’s mascara with a cleansing towelette until my eyes are clean from black but still last-night-red.

  Thomas.

  Once my face is concealer free, I stare at myself in the mirror: freckled and blemished and purple and swollen. The new-in-love, fresh-faced child no longer stares back at me. Like my hands, this is the face of a girl who struggles.

  Thomas.

  Breaking the spell, my phone rings, vibrating and singing a tune. It’s not Thomas, but instead of being disappointed, I’m indifferent.

  “Hello,” I answer, impassive.

  “I’m coming to get you,” Becka shouts over music. “Ready to get your party on, Bliss baby?”

  I sit back down at my dressing table. With my phone between my shoulder and ear, I dot foundation onto a sponge and cover war wounds.

  “Sure,” I answer.

  She shrieks happily. “Pack a bag!”

  “Okay,” I say before I hang up.

  Instead of setting the phone down, I set my sponge down. And instead of calling Becka back and telling her I have no desire to be anywhere near her, I call Thomas once more. When I get his voicemail again, I hang up and call Oliver.

  He says my name.

  Like a whisper.

  Like a dream.

  Like a fucking charm.

  “Bliss.”

  I just ask, “Becka wants to go out tonight. Are you?”

  “I want to see you,” he says.

  Circling my brush in blush, I say, “I heard something about Tanner having a party.”

  Oliver clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s what Smitty said.”

  I apply pink to my cheek bones. “I’ll see you there.”

  He’s quiet, awkwardly. He has something to say, but he doesn’t. “Okay.”

  Pussy, the single thought breaks the chant momentarily.

  With my makeup polished perfectly and my hair re-curled, I text Thomas because he hasn’t called me back. I slip my feet into a pair of wedges and don’t bother packing a bag. I have no aim with Becka. I’ll be in the Lincoln by then. I’ll sleep in Dusty’s clothes, on him, under him, beside him.

  As I gather my purse and my phone, checking my hair one last time, I realize I wouldn’t give a shit if I never stepped foot in this room again. It was part of a routine and a path that brought me closer to the desired result: a life with Thomas.

  And I almost missed my cue.

  Downstairs, my dad and grandfather sit in front of the TV. My mother pulls food from the oven, and my grandmother, the first person to notice me, sets the table for dinner.

  “Going somewhere?” she asks kindly, folding a napkin before placing it down.

  Mom drops the pan of enchiladas on the counter, splattering cheese and sauce and green onions and black olives.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she questions, tilting her head, scoping out my clothes and shoes.

  “With Becka,” I answer.

  “Leigh, I made this dinner for you,” she replies harshly.

  With frizzy hair and a dirty apron, she’s acting as if enchiladas are some feat. Like they took all day to make and not an hour.

  Like my very own loaded gun isn’t out there, under the impression I don’t want him.

  “Can we eat now?” I ask, instead of arguing.

  “No,” Mom tosses a dirty spatula in the sink.

  The clink, clink, bang grabs my dad’s attention.

  “What’s going on in here?” Dad asks, deep toned and stern. He has a red stain on his white shirt, from dipping into dinner too early.

  He looks at me, but my changed outfit and purse ring no bells. In his eyes, I could never do anything to disappoint either of them. I’m perfect, idyllic Leighlee Bliss. So blissful. So bliss-filled. I’m a little ray of Bliss.

  Held tight Bliss.

  Secured Bliss.

  She’ll-never-be-too-far-from-home Bliss.

  “Your daughter,” Teri says, giving me a pointed look before turning her eyes to her husband.

  Dad rubs his stomach, briefly flashing his eyes in my direction before staring down his wife’s cooking. “What about her?”

  “She wants to go with Becka,” Mom unties her apron. “But she went out last night.”

  When my father looks at me, he finally notices my hair, my makeup, and my outfit.

  “No,” he states.

  Satisfied with his verdict, my mom hangs up her apron, hands Grandma the plates, and grabs a clean serving utensil from the drawer. My parents talk about marinated chicken and sour cream and using the good wine glasses because tonight is a special occasion.

  Softly but severely, amid their commotion, I say, “I’m going.”

  Dad looks up from the plate Mom is helping him serve. “You’re not,” he answers, dismissively.

  I stand straight. “I am.”

  “Let her go, Thaddeus,” my grandma says. “She looks pretty.”

  Dad shakes his head, but I lift my chin.

  “No, Mom,” he says. “It’s risky on a night like this.”

  Grandma backhands her son on the arm playfully. “Oh, stop. You can trust Leigh.”

  Right on time, headlights from Becka’s Jeep shine through the front window. She honks, and I shift my footing, ready for anything.

  My parents share a look, and when Mom nods, I know I’m free to go. Without a word, I turn and leave. They probably think I’m so excited, like they’re giving me a taste of life. A little dose of freedom. A real teenage experience—two nights in a row.

  Lucky me.

  REBECKA IS lit out of her mind.

  My used-to-be best friend has her hair in a messy ponytail, and her eyeliner and lipstick are smudged. She won’t stop bouncing her knee, and she’s chewing gum with her mouth open, too fast and too loud.

  I feel like I’m sitting next to a stranger.

  Slowing to a stop at a red light, Becka presses her palms into her eyes. “I took some shit, and I’m fucked-up, baby.”

  I sit back and roll my eyes, mentioning nothing when the light turns green, then yellow and back to red. This girl and her mother’s pills are nothing compared to Thomas and cocaine. Becka’s such a fucking girl.

  When the light turns again, I get out of the car and walk around to her side. I open the door and tell her to scoot over.

  “I’m driving,” I say.

  She moves, but her foot gets stuck on the seatbelt, and she bumps her head on the window, and she drops her phone between the seat and the center console.

  “Fuck!” she yells.

  I get in and go.

  The closer we get to the beach, the thicker the air becomes. By the time I park a few houses down from Tanner’s, my curls are limp and my eyeliner’s blurred. My skin is sticky, and my attitude isn’t much better.

  On top of that, this girl is still digging for her phone.

  I move her hands away and help her look. “What did you take, Becka?”

  She sits straight and pulls down her visor, flipping open the mirror. She rubs black pencil out from beneath her eyes and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. Something new in my mom’s cabinet.”

  I have to reach deep down, but with my pointer and middle finger, I manage to secure her phone and pull it out.

  She takes it from me before kissing the screen. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, best friend ever!”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, reaching in the back for my purse.

  Then she says, “I’m waiting for Smitty to call.”

  And I ask, “Smitty-Smitty?”

  She sits up and slips her phone into her back pocket, nodding her head. “I miss him.”

  Out of the Jeep, hand in hand, Rebecka and I head toward Tanner’s house.

  Less crowded than usual, everything else is the same.

  Dolly’s in the corner with her boyfriend. Valarie and Ben are in the
kitchen. Casper and Mixie are kissing in the hallway. Kelly’s taking shots with Tanner and Katie. Oliver is at the keg, and Smitty’s right beside him.

  Everyone’s here except Thomas and Petey.

  I turn to Becka. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  With glossy eyes and a blank expression, she shrugs. “I haven’t talked to him.” And a second later, “There’s Smitty!”

  She tries to pull me, but I walk, and she lets go.

  When I catch up to them, she’s smiling, and he’s smirking. She’s blushing, and he’s arching his eyebrow. She’s sighing, and he’s crossing his arms. She’s turning her head away, and he’s tilting her chin back.

  He knows she’s high, and he hates it. His disappointed eyes say so.

  But she’s a Castor; she doesn’t give a fuck.

  “Beer?” Oliver bids, holding out a cup for me.

  I gladly take his offering and drink most of its contents in a single try. Oliver whistles at my attempt, and when my lungs feel like they’re going to burst, I pull the cup from my lips and wipe them with the back of my hand. When he goes to get me a refill, I push my way through the kitchen and out the back door.

  A bonfire burns and crackles in the center of the yard, surrounded by beach sand and the rest of the party. I sit beside it in a spot by myself, and after a few moments, my cheeks warm, and the tip of my nose stings.

  Oliver approaches and takes a seat in the sand beside me. I peek up and love the fire on his skin, but its reflection off his dark hair is my favorite.

  He elbows me playfully. “What are you looking at?”

  I lean my head on his shoulder. “Nothing.”

  After a few moments, the silence turns awkward, and I can practically see his words taking shape in the smoke in front of us.

  I lift my head. “Out with it, man.”

  Oliver lowers his eyes and shuffles the sand between his knees through his fingers. “We didn’t get to talk at graduation—”

  “I know,” I say quickly. “My mom wanted a picture of us, but—”

  “Bliss, I saw Thomas kiss you.”

  My heart beats.

  It pounds.

  It fights inside my chest cavity and struggles to get through my breast bone.

  “Leigh—”

  Closing my eyes and say, “Oliver, don’t.”

  But he says, “Bliss, I know everything.”

  I cover my mouth with both of my hands and open my eyes. Staring at the sand in disbelief, I shake my head as the world around me begins to crumble.

  Shuffling from the sand, I stand on unsteady feet and Oliver follows. He reaches for my arm, and when I try to shove him away, he pulls me closer. As tears stream down my face, I give this boy one more chance to mean something more.

  This boy sees through my veil and notices dark circles, collar bones, and chipped nail polish. Oliver knew it was Thomas on the other side of the text messages in the middle of class. My skater boy watched me closely when Thomas caught us kissing, and he knew then that deep blushes were only shame and guilt for kissing a boy other than my best friend’s older brother.

  I circle my arms around the back of his neck and run my fingers through his too-busy-skating-to-cut hair. I let him kiss the side of my face. I stand a little closer because I love his warmth. I love his skater boy scent: grass and sun and summer. But there’s nothing more.

  “I have to go,” I mumble, wiping my face on his sleeve.

  I turn away from the boy who let me wear his sweater when we were thirteen and bought me Fun Dip on Valentine’s Day a year later. The person who touched my leg while I slept through a storm. Oliver, who draws me a card every year on my birthday. The only friend I have who lets me lean instead of leaning on me.

  With his kiss on my cheek still warm, burning like a trespass, I say, “Oliver, you can’t tell—”

  Indifferent like I’ve never known, Oliver crosses his arms over his chest before he looks at me, but his eyes skip and lock over my shoulder. His posture changes from jilted to guarded.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my fingers twitch. Blood calls truth’s name as it flows, and joints and muscles, ligaments and tendons, all work together turning me away from the fire toward the house. A chair gets thrown. A girl gets knocked down. Glass breaks. There’s yelling from the door, and an entire group of people trying to hold someone back.

  Love is knowing who it is.

  I know before I hear Petey yell, “Thomas, back the fuck up!”

  I know before I hear Becka ask, “Why do you even care?”

  And I know before Oliver says, “This is what happens when you keep secrets.”

  My eyes meet Thomas’ as soon as the crowd falls apart.

  Go, my heart beats.

  Love takes one more step toward me before Petey and Ben both pull him back by his flannel.

  I turn from my spot in the sand and run toward my boy, hearing the whispers as I push my way through bodies.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Thomas and Leigh?”

  “What?”

  “Really?”

  “No fucking way!”

  Trouble is a shell of the boy he used to be, cocaine-brittle and heart-failing, but love gives us both incomparable strength. He breathes through his nose, working his hardest to get his best boys off his back. He gets one arm free and tries to come forward, but Ben pulls him by the neck of his shirt.

  It rips.

  Petey whispers in his ear, low and smooth under the chaos. “If you love her …” his lips say. “If you love her …”

  But these people want to see Thomas do what Thomas does when he’s crossed, so they instigate.

  “That’s your girl, bro?”

  “He was kissing your chick, Dusty?”

  “I thought little sisters were off limits.”

  Near love, the circle tightens as Oliver heads for him, and I get elbowed in the chest, pushed back, and pulled away. I don’t catch my footing and fall into the side of the house, scraping my arm on stucco. I try to run back into the cluster of people, but nimble arms circle around my waist and turn me from the struggle.

  Pushing down on arms without caring whose they are, I kick my legs and scream, “Let me go!”

  “Leigh,” a voice I know well whispers in my ear. “Stop.”

  I dig my fingernails into Valarie’s hands, and elbow and squirm and stomp and yell, but the girl who had Thomas first does not waver.

  I watch the crowd move and move and move.

  I watch Oliver step up and reach for my boy.

  I watch Ben and Pete release Thomas.

  And I watch love and confusion fall to the ground.

  Through legs and arms and spaces between people, I watch my boy inflict and endure pain. For every blow he gives, he takes. But there’s years of anger in his fists—years of watching me be with Oliver, years of me saying no, and years of drugs, hiding, disappointment, anger, hurt, and neglect.

  The party responds to each hit, each kick, each cut lip and busted nose. But in true Dusty form, after a few minutes, it gets frightening. Girls scream, but not a single one of them is louder than Rebecka. My boy’s boys exchange looks, wondering if they should break it up.

  Tanner kind of, sort of moves forward like he might, but he knows better firsthand.

  I turn in Valarie’s arms. “Val, please! Let me go.”

  Her eyes shift from my face to the fight, and she releases me and takes a step back. I run for Dusty, and this time people let me through.

  Oliver struggles beneath my boy, bruised and bleeding. His knuckles are raw, and the neck of his shirt is ripped. His shoes skid and push and dig into the concrete underneath him, trying to gain leverage, but Thomas is ruthless. He’ll bleed to death before he gives up.

  Cocaine has Dusty’s back.

  Finally on his feet, Oliver pulls his torn shirt off and throws it to the side. “Come on, motherfucker.”

  Dusty’s blood-coated, and his eyes are wild. He s
pits and wipes his cut lip with the back of his hand before rushing Oliver. They collide and fall into the sand around the fire pit. Embers and smoke and ash swirl together above the flame while the party instinctively follows.

  Ben, Pete, and Smitty finally jump in and pin Thomas to the ground, giving Oliver a chance to get up.

  The fight is over, but the party’s shocked. This is usually the part where Thomas says or does something to ease our anxiety, but that’s not happening this time. He thrashes and struggles in the sand to get free. Tears run from his eyes into his bloody hair, and this is reality. This is my boy’s life. This is my life.

  This is truth.

  This is our deal.

  People love Dusty’s invincibility. He’s a king, and when they’re around him, they feel like royalty, too. His swagger gets girls wet, and all of these boys want to be just like him.

  Thomas Castor will never fall.

  Thomas Castor will be forever young.

  But this is what drugs have done to love.

  Indestructible Thomas Castor is being held to the ground, crying like a child, fighting off his best friends, begging for his freedom.

  Is that what kings are made of?

  “Pete,” broken and addicted groans, his tone thick with tears. “Get the fuck off.”

  In the corner of the yard, Oliver’s shirtless and raging, throwing lawn chairs and shoving the ones who hold him back. He paces, tearing up the lawn in madness.

  “Get the fuck up!” Oliver shouts. “Come on, motherfucker. You want to bruise somebody, bruise me!”

  I stand in the pathway between love and friendship.

  Based between two different worlds, over the yelling and the struggling and the crying, I notice everyone’s eyes are suspicious and questioning.

  Val, with my scratch marks down her arms, stares at the person she thought she loved before looking over at me with questioning eyes. Tanner rubs the raised skin on his eyebrow.

  Smitty, struggling to remain in front of his friend, stares at me while Oliver shouts, “He busted her fucking headlights,” and points at Thomas. “Remember? At the beach? When Bliss was crying?”