by Angel Lawson
She’s so fucking hot for this.
Gwendolyn marches across the small room and throws open the door, but I clear the room in all of two strides, slamming it shut again with the splay of my palm, pinning her in.
I lean close enough that every inhale bombards my senses with the scent of her hair. “You like it, don’t you?”
“What?” her voice is a whisper.
“Kissing me,” I say, dipping close enough to brush the tip of my nose across her cheek.
“I hate you,” she breathes, but she’s almost there, her eyelids nearly dropping. “I pity you.”
“Yes.” I run my palm down the hot length of her neck, feeling the crazy flutter of her pulse, and then down her collarbone, over the side of her breast, until I rest it on her waist. Her nipples peak, confirming that at the very least, her body doesn’t hate me. Not in the least. “You do hate me. Maybe even you even pity me. But you want something else.” My mouth hovers on the precipice of meeting hers, not kissing her but close enough that it’d take almost no effort at all, just a small push, to take it if she wants. The air gets thicker and thicker with the energy between us, our breaths coming faster, louder. Her eyes flick down to my mouth. That’s not what really seals it, though. I know I win when her hips shift under my grip in a squirm that she tries—and utterly fails—to suppress.
Gwendolyn Adams wants more than a kiss from me.
So much more.
I brush my lips against hers then—gentle at first, little more than a whisper—and then pressing forward harder, coaxing her lips to part for me. I can taste the tremor that runs down her spine, the soft sound she makes, just as clearly as I can the mint on her tongue. I deepen the kiss, licking into her mouth, but as soon as it retreats, her teeth close on my bottom lip in a shock of sting and bitterness. I jerk back with a wounded sound that I won’t admit to making tomorrow, but I’m greeted only with her roguish smirk. Her fingers wind themselves into my hair and, for a long moment, we just stare at one another.
Enemies. Opposites. Forbidden.
This is wrong, so wrong. But every nerve in my body is sparking and pushing, begging me to go in for another kiss, an impulse so strong that I can barely hide how I’m shaking with the liquid hot need for it. One thing is decidedly clear.
I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
Which is exactly why I jolt away from Gwendolyn and shove her roughly aside. Praying that no one sees me exiting the room, I flee, and don’t look back. I don’t dare, because if I do, there’s no telling what will happen.
9
Gwen
Usually, going home is a bit of a respite. I can take off the mask and just be Gwen for a day. That’s a big part of the reason why I don’t do it as often as I could.
Taking the mask off is difficult, sure. There’s always a period where I feel more shut down than I should, like I’m just waking up and still trying to adjust my eyes. Sometimes, I feel my family’s awareness of it, their furtive looks when a joke whizzes by me, or my dragging smile, lagging just a bit behind where it should be. It doesn’t take long, not with Michaela’s hugs, or Brayden’s playful teasing, or the way my mom runs her fingers through the length of my hair. It just slides off like a muck.
But putting the mask back on after a day of feeling comfortable in my own skin—slipping into my carefully controlled state of nothingness—is almost torture.
It’s Sunday and I’d agreed to come home for the day. From the instant I walk in the door, giving Michaela a hug, hip checking Brayden by the refrigerator, and fielding a dozen questions by my mother, what happened the night before looms heavily at the forefront of my mind. Those stiff moments between my state of nothingness and getting back into my own skin are filled with a muted panic that, when the mask comes off, they’ll be able to tell. Do I look like a girl who’s kissed Hamilton Bates, my sworn enemy, twice?
More than once I’ve stopped in front of a reflective surface, searching for the answer. I don’t look any different, and I don’t know how. How can the utter tangle of my insides not be visible in any way? It doesn’t seem right.
Mail from colleges all over the country waits for me on the table by the front door. A new pair of shoes sits next to them, the result of a sale that Debbie couldn’t pass up. Fried chicken crackles in a frying pan in the kitchen—my favorite dinner—one my mother is trying to painstakingly recreate since Debbie’s visiting her own kids today.
Everything is just horrifically normal.
I always feel wistful and guilty when the family goes all out for me like this. It’s not uncommon for me to feel antsy to get out of here, but tonight seems worse than normal. I don’t discount the weird week I’ve had to be part of the reason.
“Gwen, Gwen.” Michaela taps my arm to get my attention. “After dinner, you should come see my new bedspread, okay?”
I raise an eyebrow at my younger sister. “A new bedspread, huh?”
“Yep.” She gives me a sly grin. “It’s purple with white checks. Mama let me pick it out.”
For a moment, I’m achingly grateful that Michaela’s whole ‘reverse psychology’ schtick is so artless and obvious. The second she’s refined it into something effective, we’re all doomed.
I meet her cunning smile with my own. “Can’t wait.”
What Michaela doesn’t get is that I’m already planning to leave for college next year. That room is already as good as hers.
“We’re home,” Dad calls from the entry by the garage. Micha walks in first, dance bag over his shoulder, the sparkly cape tied around his neck fluttering in his wake.
“Hey, dude,” I say, offering my fist. He bumps it. “How was dance?”
“Good, I guess.” He grabs a handful of nuts off the kitchen table. “Except Gloria is determined to get the solo. Like every year.”
“You think you can beat her?”
“Oh, I know I can. I just need her to back off and stop being so bossy. She thinks she’s the queen.” He rolls his eyes overdramatically. “As if.”
This kid lives for drama, on and off the stage. A good feud will keep him going for months.
“Sweetie,” Mom admonishes, hovering over the stove. Her hair is a braided rope of graying hair down her slim back. “Dance isn’t about competition. It’s about expression, sharing your inner beauty to the world.”
Inwardly, I have to laugh at this. That’s a losing battle. Micha may be even more competitive than I am.
“Yeah, Micha,” I mockingly agree. “There are no rivals in dance.”
His eyes twinkle at me right before he casually drops, “So Gwen, I heard you got detention.”
I narrow my eyes. What a little punk. I try to step on his toe, but he dances out of the way, laughing. “Touché,” I mutter.
“Detention?” my dad asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. “What on earth for?”
Instead of answering, I turn to Micha. “Where did you hear that?”
“Dena Clarke is in my Sunday class.” He shrugs. “Her sister told her.”
“Why is Campbell Clarke talking about me?” I ask, more to myself than Micha. “God, I shouldn’t even be on her radar.”
“Hello, is this thing on?” My dad taps an invisible mic, which makes all of us roll our eyes in unison. “Why did you get detention?”
“She was late,” Michaela answers, happy just to be part of the conversation. “With Hamilton Bates.”
My jaw drops.
She heard, too? Jesus Christ, what kind of gossip train is running down to the middle school?
The room falls ominously silent, everyone’s gaze shifting to me. Even Brayden, who’s now in the living room watching football on the big screen TV, cranes his head around the back of the couch to shoot a questioning gaze at me.
“I was not late with Hamilton,” I explain, his name feeling foreign and abrasive on my tongue. Or maybe it was his tongue that felt abrasive on my tongue. Shit. Conjuring up that image is nothing but trouble. My ears he
at. “We were both late. Separately. To the same class.”
“And what class was this?” Mom asks, tongs dripping grease onto the floor as she stands there all shocked and dismayed.
“Dr. Ross.”
Brayden makes a sharp, sympathetic sound through a mouthful of chips. “God, Dr. Ross. She’s the biggest hard-ass about tardiness,” he explains to my parents.
“Language,” Dad gives my brother a stern look. “Was it just one day of detention?”
“No.” I sigh, slumping dejectedly in my chair. “Five Saturdays in a row. She made an exception for our afterschool activities, but it came with a compromise.”
Mom gives me a long, worried look. “Do you need me to call the dean? I’m sure they can work something out. I know being around Hamilton makes you uncomfortable.”
This is so tempting that it’s almost a physical battle to keep my mouth shut. Being around Hamilton does make me uncomfortable. And angry. And flustered. And hot. And crazy. And super confused. No one person should ever be exposed to as many emotions as Hamilton Bates makes me feel. “No,” I ultimately decide, shoulders dropping, “it’s not a big deal. I don’t want to cause a fuss.”
“It’s not a fuss, Gwen. You two have a complicated history. I know he’s not always nice to you—not anymore.”
My teeth clench. “Mom, it’s fine.”
She turns back to the kitchen, metal tongs turning the chicken. “Okay, but if he says anything—”
“He won’t.” Mom and Dad both look at me with concern. I sense Brayden paying too much attention, as well. Six months ago, I would have set fire to the school before being alone with Hamilton Bates. Hell, he probably would have, too. I assure them all, “Seriously, it’s fine. We’re both busy and honestly, it’s kind of funny watching him try to perform manual labor. It’s like watching a monkey try to use a screwdriver.”
Michaela honks a laugh at that, and I go about the business of taking the food to the dining room table, feeling better now that they know about the detention. I have plenty weighing on me, and at least that’s one less thing. Luckily, it’s not brought up again during what’s shaping up to be a civil dinner. There’s no talk of Chakras or karmic balance or how eating food grounded in the Earth can help center your mind. Sometimes that ‘woo’ stuff can get really grating, as if our parents make sure we’re so well educated that we can argue with them over the table about how science, like, exists. But conversation this evening mostly revolves around Micha’s upcoming dance performance and Brayden being promoted from sentient toilet scrubber to hesitant apprentice at the garage.
We’re clearing the table when Mom says, “Oh, I talked to Sky this morning. She’s sad she can’t be here but wanted me to tell you she’s doing well. And Michaela, she said to tell you that she got to ride Chestnut today. She sent a picture.”
My sister is meticulously picking out slices of strawberry from her bowl of fruit, strategically avoiding all melon. But at this, her face lights up. “Really?” She hops up from where she’s attentively not helping and runs over to see the phone. Sky’s residential program is on a ranch in Texas and taking care of the horses is part of the therapy. Michaela has been green with envy for months. It probably helps that she has no idea why Sky is even there. “Look, Gwen! Isn’t it so pretty?”
She thrusts the phone at me, the screen showing a photo of a horse with a tan coat and a flowing blonde mane. My eyes skip over the horse and focus on my sister. She’s smiling in the picture, green eyes bright and crinkled in the late fall sun. Her hair is longer now, blonder even, almost matching the horse’s mane. For a moment, I’m struck with a random memory of her sitting on my bed, her hair catching a halo of light from an open window as I braid it so carefully, the way her nose would crinkle with a laugh, the sharp scent of nail polish as she begged me to choose between Lavender Luck and Woman Scorned.
I hand the phone back to my mom. “She looks good. Sky, I mean.” I promise Michaela, “The horse is nice, too.”
Mom smiles, and something in the sadness of her eyes makes me suspect she knows that I was remembering the better times.
But she doesn’t know that I often wonder just how much better those times even were.
“She sounds so good during our phone sessions, too. Really balanced. I think the dry heat really helps her.” Mom and dad have weekly family therapy via video with her. “Next week she’s supposed to have a call with Amanda.”
“Amanda,” I repeat, going still. Amanda is Sky’s birth mother—the one with the boyfriend and the cigarette burns and everything else. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Mom shrugs, spooning the leftover green beans into a container. “You know I’ve always encouraged a relationship between you all and your birth parents.”
I glance over to make sure that Michaela has joined my dad and the boys in the living room. “Yes, I do know that. I also know it doesn’t always turn out for the best.”
Obviously, Brayden’s relationship with his birth mother hadn’t been successful, but there’s also the twins. They were meeting with their birth mother once a month for a long time. It went pretty well until, one day, Micha showed up wearing a skirt, glittery sneakers, and a long stack of plastic bracelets on his arm. His mom threw a complete fit, calling him names, making fun of him, throwing around slurs. The whole thing was awful and probably scarred the poor kid.
“Amanda is clean now—”
“So she says.”
“And is getting her GED.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, she is.”
My mom gives me a look. “Gwen.”
“Mom,” I reply, “it’s like you never learn. There’s a reason these people gave up their kids. At the very best, they don’t want to be parents. At worst, they literally just don’t have what it takes to try. Why can’t you just accept that?”
She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and looks at me with kind, loving eyes. “Gwen, I’ve been reading more and more about how the bond between birth mother and child is so important. You all lived and breathed in another woman’s womb. It’s a role I wish belonged to me, but it doesn’t. I want you to feel free to nurture that part of yourself.”
I swear to god, if she breaks into some kind of hippie-mother Earth song or waves incense over my head, I might actually stab her with a dinner fork.
“Don’t you get it?!” My voice is almost at a growl at this point. “Skylar is incapable of making decisions that are in her best interest! Do you think she can even say no to that woman? Did it ever occur to you that she’s a big part of the reason Sky let all that shit happen to her last year?”
She frowns. “You know I don’t like that kind of dirty language. It’s the lowest form of expression.”
“Oh, that?” I laugh in frustration. “That is what upsets you? ‘Shit’ upsets you, not exposing your emotionally and psychologically compromised daughter to the person responsible for her abuse. Maybe we should get the Devils in on the call, too. Some of the Northridge boys even, why not?”
“Gwendolyn!” My mother’s eyes are alight in anger now, too. “That is quite enough!”
I drop the stack of plates I’m holding on the counter. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this. It’s not like you ever listen to me anyway.”
I storm off, stomping up the stairs to the second floor. I pass the long hallway lined with photos of all us kids, years' and years' worth of school and family photos, lifetimes of progress and adjustments captured in time. It’s like it means nothing.
I enter my bedroom, slam and lock the door, and then turn to thrust two middle fingers at it.
How’s that for expression?
It takes me a minute to realize that Michaela really wasn’t kidding. When I do, it interrupts my silent fuming so entirely that it’s like whiplash. She’s seriously taken over my room. The purple bedspread is joined by fuzzy pillows and at least a dozen stuffed animals, including one that I’m pretty sure is a taco in the form of a cat. My books have
been pushed aside for Pop! figurines and the top of my dresser is covered with her hair accessories. It’s not like I’m mad or anything. It’s just jarring. I made the choice to move to the dorms, and how long has she been warning me what would happen if I didn’t come back home?
Still, I sink onto the bed—the same bed I’d had the memory of Sky on before—and feel like something small but fundamental has been pulled out of me.
The outburst with my mom wasn’t exactly unusual. Although the other kids had willingly seen their birth parents when Mom organized it, I’d refused. The idea of letting that kind of toxicity into my life was unappealing—scary, if I was being honest. Why open the door to someone who effectively threw me out? Hamilton was right about that. My mom saw me as garbage. Easily disposable. Why would I want to foster any kind of relationship with someone who thought of me like that? How could that be healthy?
I move to sit in the soft fuzzy chair by the window. There’s a streetlight outside that made this corner perfect for reading after dark. For weeks I’d huddle in the corner, reading books before passing out on a pile of blankets. Mom obviously decided if I was going to fall asleep while reading, I could at least do it in a comfortable chair. It wasn’t as though we had bedtimes or anything. Mom believed in the body’s natural rhythms. If Brayden wanted to go to bed at three a.m. on a school night, no big deal. If Micha fell asleep on the way home from school in Debbie’s car, fine.
Again, maybe Hamilton was right. We’re feral.
That’s the third time I’ve thought about him tonight—probably more, if I’m being honest. Also, if I’m being honest, Hamilton Bates has been on my mind for a long time, way before the last week or even the last year. On a whim I jump up and go to my closet, pushing up on my toes to reach for the shoe box I kept in the top corner. I grab the edge, and pull it toward me, catching it before it tips. Carrying it back to the chair, I sit, crisscrossing my legs and settling it in my lap. I take a deep breath before opening the dusty lid.
Inside are what I used to call my treasures. It’s mostly swim-related; a rainbow array of ribbons, awards, and certificates. There are a few abstract things—mementos from important races, a rock I think I found after winning a big race, the napkin from the diner downtown near the natatorium that has the best milkshakes. I search until I find what I’m looking for—what I think is in this box. It’s possible I made the moment up, but I don’t think so. In my mind, there’s a photograph. Proof. I sort through a stack of pictures until—