My Monster
Page 8
I grab the edges of the desk and push myself back full force, shoving my chair right into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
He crumples to the floor, gasping for air. I whirl to my feet.
"Oh my God, Shawn," I cry with mock worry. "I'm so sorry. That was totally by accident."
I stand there with my hands in my hair, pretending to be helpless as Shawn writhes at my feet. The other students crowd around. A few of them laugh. Eventually, Ray and Jake, Shawn's friends from the basketball team, help him to his feet.
He looks up at me with an outraged expression. Finally, he has enough air to speak. This is it. Shawn's game has gone too far for him, and he's going to want out.
This is gonna be good.
Mr. Lee, our teacher, bustles into the room. Everyone rushes to their seats. The moment is completely ruined.
It's five minutes into class that I notice.
Landon isn't here.
* * *
Landon isn't in English after that, or in AP government and politics or in Italian.
At lunch, I decide to call him. If I want to make plans for the weekend, I'll just have to do it over the phone. Only after I take out my phone, I remember that I don't have his number.
I go over my meager list of contacts in case he added his number to my phone while I was in the bathroom.
-DAD
-DON'T ANSWER
-DON'T ANSWER
-DON'T ANSWER
-DON'T ANSWER
-DON'T ANSWER
This goes on for around fifteen to twenty contacts. It includes several family members I can't stand, a few random guys I made out with over the years, and Shawn Henderson. I don't know why I saved these numbers in this way. I started it when I was a freshman, and now, I can't tell them apart. I know that out of all these people, only Shawn calls me very early in the morning, or very late.
-DR. BROOKS
-DR. KAY
-DR. FRAUN
-ESMERALDA
-GRANDMA HAYA
-GRANDPA SHLOMO
-HOME
-JAMIE
Jamie is the only cousin of mine with whom I have formed an alliance with. His job is to fill me in on family politics and gossip—who's fighting with whom, how late I am allowed to be to any event—and to cover up for me when I leave early during Passover dinner. In return, I don't tell his parents—or the police—that he's selling weed to high-school kids.
-MOM
-PHONE AWAY FROM EAR
This one's my grandmother from Dad's side. She's mostly deaf and tends to scream-talk.
-SUMMERVELL
I have no idea what this last one is.
I assume it's Landon's number. I select it and call.
Someone picks up after one ring. The line is silent. I wait, but nothing.
"Hello?" I say.
More silence, and then: "Good of you to call, Sophie Green," says an unfamiliar yet deep voice that rumbles in my bones like a miniature earthquake.
Goosebumps form on my skin as I'm struck with an overwhelming feeling of foreboding.
And with it, a wave of electric excitement.
"Who is this? How do I have your number?" I ask.
"All you need to know for now is that I am Summervell, and I have a message for you."
"The fuck does that mean?"
"He won't succeed to convince you, but that will prove to be irrelevant. You will meet your fate either way. Remember this, Sophie Green, when you make your decision."
I can't take it anymore. I start to crack up.
I hang up the phone and slap my knees with my palms as I laugh. I wonder who got that contact in there? I wouldn't put it past Ashley Glick.
She really doesn't know how to get to me, but I never knew she was so creative. That was the best crank call of my life.
* * *
For most people, the weekend is the time for catching up on sleep, TV, and homework procrastination. I get all my homework done on Fridays. I do watch some TV with my parents, but the sheer stupidity of ninety-nine percent of what’s on gives me a headache after five minutes.
On weekends, what I like to do is go outside if I can. We have woods behind our house. It's not very big, but it's big enough to give me a few hours of outdoor time. I take with me some books, water, and snacks, and spend as long as I want treading over the matted, leafy ground with the dark green canopy above my head.
Usually Esmeralda comes with me. We barely talk when we're outside since there's a naturally busy silence we both enjoy.
This time, Esmeralda still isn't well enough to go outside, so I go alone.
I go alone on Saturday. I go alone on Sunday. These small little excursions into nature—they don't help. This weekend, I'm nothing but a hormone machine. I can't focus on anything else aside from what was going to happen on Thursday, how it didn't happen, and how I need it to happen yesterday. I keep remembering his head between my legs, picturing his body, and imagining what sex is like.
By Sunday evening, I think I'm good. Over the weekend, when the thoughts and the lust were too much to stand, I had to take care of business. I had to do it more times than I'm used to. My wrists hurt, but I think I got it out of my system.
Then at night, it takes me hours to fall asleep. I'm too hot or too cold and constantly too horny. Monday morning finds me all fire and no sense, again.
It's almost a good thing that there's school today. It’s like my uncontrollable desire has turned from fun and thrilling into something painful and taunting. I need to cool down and stop behaving as if I'm a cat in heat.
This is beginning to feel like an obsession, and that's disturbing.
I'm so preoccupied that I don't even care that when I come downstairs for breakfast, Shawn is sitting there eating bagels with my parents. I say nothing. Instead, I inspect my dad's breakfast.
Dad freezes with half a bagel heaped with cream cheese, green olives, and a thick slice of tomato halfway to his mouth.
I don't even have to say anything. I just give him the look, and he hastily puts it away.
I drag my feet to get my cereal.
"You're the loudest family I've ever met," Shawn observes.
Dad laughs. "With these two ladies?" he says, looking between Mom and me. "You'd keep your trap shut too."
"The important thing is that the lesson has been learned," my mom says with an obvious touch of sarcasm.
Dad and I stare at her, surprised. In my whole life, that is the most coherent sentence I've heard my mom say in the morning.
It's due to Shawn's presence. My mom has a soft spot for anything beautiful and male. She'd be sarcastic and chilly toward just about everyone—but attach a pretty face, abs, and good hair to a set of XY chromosomes, and her hidden sweetness will suddenly surface.
I sit myself at the table in the only unoccupied seat—next to Shawn—and eat my breakfast. I continue to say nothing.
"Did you two have a fight?" my dad asks with a grin that indicates that he's pretty sure we didn't.
I shrug, and Shawn reaches over to stroke my back and says, "Of course not."
I find it hard to swallow my food with him touching me. Particularly because he’s male and I’m still so horny, I’ve been reduced to wanting to rip off his clothes. I have to force it down—both my food and the rabid heat burning through my body. I glare at him from the corner of my eye.
Shawn does the “awkwardly taking his hand away” act. "Or maybe we did and she didn't tell me."
"I know what that's like, believe me," says my dad. "Sophie does that to me three times a week. She gets it from her mom. Can you imagine what it's like living with two of them?" Dad is knocked into reality when his brain suddenly catches up with his tongue. He slowly turns his head to meet my mom's glare. Mom is remarkable when she glares. If Darth Vader had eyes we could see, he'd look like a poodle next to her.
I put down my spoon, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and get up. "We're off to school now. Hope you enjoy your funeral,
Dad."
Shawn gets up, dutifully taking my bowl and his plate to the sink. Looks like his boyfriend act has its uses.
"Have fun in school, kids," Dad replies tensely.
Mom sips her coffee and maintains her glare.
* * *
Outside my house, we're met by Esmeralda. Shawn looks her up and down. No, Shawn, she doesn't swing your way.
"You go to our school, right?" he asks her.
Esmeralda gives me one of her looks. "I take it his looks do all the work of attracting the girls."
"No girl has ever listened to a thing that came out of his mouth," I say, stepping up to stand by her and looking at Shawn.
He looks back at me expectantly. "You have friends, Fee?"
"No, dumbass. I have a friend, singular. Esmeralda lives next door. You're taking her to school too."
"You’ve never told me about her," he says, his voice quiet and eyes wide.
Esmeralda snorts and bumps her shoulder to mine. "I'd be shocked, too, if I found out you had an actual friend."
"I never tell you anything," I say to Shawn. "Did you really just notice that now?”
"I didn't think you had even one friend," he says, frowning.
I shrug. We get it, you're surprised. I mean, the fact that there is a human being who isn't my parents and whom I actually like surprises me on most days.
"Let's get this over with and get to school," I say.
* * *
Esmeralda sleeps in the back seat, and we barely speak the entire way.
I’m in a terrible situation. I need Landon to be in school today. Otherwise, there’s a real chance that this temporary insanity will drive me to sleep with Shawn just so I can find relief.
"Wear your hair down, Fee," he says to me out of the blue. "Take advantage of my fingers. What's wrong with having a good time?"
"Dream on, Shawn."
"Did you sleep with him?" he suddenly asks. "He's not better than me, Fee. He slept with a lot of girls he doesn't care about. The only difference is that he did it on another continent."
"Are you kidding me? Do you actually think I care about that?"
Shawn takes his eyes off the road to stare at me.
"Shawnie," I say, grabbing his chin to point his face in the direction of the road. "If there was a douchebag Olympics, we both know you'd take the gold medal."
Shawn chuckles. “I knew I was better than him."
* * *
Landon isn't at school today, either. It's pretty fucked up, but there's nothing I can do.
He's not at school on Tuesday.
Not on Wednesday or on Thursday.
By Friday, any worry Shawn might have had about Landon taking me away is completely forgotten. He's extra smug today. He thinks he has this one in the bag.
You see, it's that time of the month.
Today is the third Friday of the month. The time has come again for the Henderson dinner.
* * *
I shake my head, making the long, silver earrings bump against the sides of my neck. The wipers sweep aside curtains of water from the windshield, but it's raining so hard that it looks like we're driving through a tsunami.
"How're things between you and Shawn?" Dad asks. He doesn't want a real answer, of course. He wants the answer a teen gives an adult, which is a shrug of the shoulders combined with a scowl. Since I'm still figuring out how to get out of this ridiculous arrangement with Shawn, I give my dad a real answer.
"I'm not sure," I say. "I feel like I've been pressured into this relationship."
My parents exchange a long glance and then both start laughing. It's hard for them to believe that I’d be pressured into anything.
We park our car behind a gorgeous yellow Porsche. My dad's eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees it.
I get out of the car, opening my umbrella, but it’s like I'm being assaulted by the rain.
Someone comes running out of the Porsche, the rain hammering into his golden hair. "Sophie, it's urgent! We need you!" he cries.
Next to me, my parents huddle under their umbrella, both looking suspiciously at the crazy boy who suddenly appeared. "Mr. and Mrs. Green, we have to borrow Sophie. The calculus grade of five different people depends on her. She has to make it to this study group."
How'd he find me here? Where was he all week? With the rain pelting down on his head, his wet shirt clinging to his chest, he looks lively and better than I remembered, and I find my heart jumping with joy at seeing him again.
I don't ask any of the questions burning through my head. I bring my hand to my hair. "The study group!" I gasp as if I had forgotten about it. I turn to my parents. "I have to go. Say sorry to the Hendersons for me. I promised to help these people, and I forgot."
They don't like this, especially my dad. They can't understand what's going on. I've never missed a Henderson dinner in eight years. But my mom grudgingly agrees. Maybe she knows, deep down, how much I hate these dinners and how unfair it is to force them on me. Or maybe she actually cares about five kids who need a good calculus grade to get into college. I somehow doubt that.
They're right, though. The thought that I'd be pressured into anything is idiotic and has to stop.
And my real ride is finally here.
“But—” Dad says.
I'm already walking with Landon toward his brand-new car. He opens the door for me.
"Sophie!" Dad calls after me.
“Sorry, Daddy, but this is important.” I wave as I duck into the car. Landon plops into the driver's seat beside me and throws me a small towel so I can help with drying his hair. This car is really nice. The seats are black leather, and we're sitting low. I feel as if we're going to be sent rocketing to the moon.
The motor roars like a tiger, and we're off into the dark, wet night.
* * *
This car is wasted on Landon. He remains firmly within the speed limit. I can feel the engine longing to propel us forward, like a big beast that's sitting crouched beneath our feet. But Landon keeps it at bay. I nearly leap out of the gripping leather seat in frustration.
"What do you need a car like this for?" is the first question I ask him. Out of all the things I could've asked him, that's the thing I want to know.
"I don't," he replies, turning on his blinker when he makes a turn. Oh boy, what will I do? I've gone on a wild race into the night in a Porsche with a responsible driver. "This is my uncle's idea of a car. He thinks it looks good on me."
I won't argue with that one. Landon looks extraordinary, better than I remembered. Maybe it's the effects of the rain. I can't explain it. It looks like he somehow got his hair styled and is an actual man and not just a boy from school.
The button-up dress shirt he's wearing sits snugly on his wide chest and shoulders. The rainwater is making it see-through, and that sight is making various parts of my body insane.
"Where've you been?" I ask as searing-hot images burn through my imagination.
"Recovering," he answers.
You know how it is when it's easy to tell that someone is lying to you, but you kind of don't care enough for it to bother you? I don't usually pay enough attention to other people to see these things, but I see it when he does it. He purposely gives me a half truth and is gearing up to tell me a full-out lie.
I decide not to ask him. All I actually care about is for us to continue where we stopped. What's bothering me right now is that I realize it's impossible. No matter how little I want us to get to know each other, we have to start over.
I don't know whether I can stand another burger joint and tours of his bedroom. Pretty soon, he'll stop being a stranger to me, and all these things I'm feeling about him will disappear forever. I'll find myself with all this sexual desire and nothing to pine over.
These thoughts are knocked out of my mind when Landon takes another turn. "Are we driving into the city?" I ask.
"Yes," he answers, grinning. "My uncle acknowledges that he disturbed a very crucial moment
for us, and this is compensation."
"And what is 'this'?"
"It's a surprise."
"Are you sure it isn't wasted effort?"
He laughs. "With you? I'm not sure about anything."
"Am I that cryptic?"
"You're crystal clear. You want to sleep with me, but you don't actually like me or even want to know me."
Oh, wow. Bullseye. I didn't think he could discern so much. Most boys won't notice how they're being seduced. All they care about is the final score. "You almost sound hurt about it," I say.
"That's because I am hurt."
"For real?" I didn't think we knew each other well enough for him to get insulted by me, or that I even did anything to warrant this.
He grins and looks at me from the corner of his eye. "I'm hurt enough to want to win you over. Whenever you look at me like all you see is flesh, I just want to rip you away from where you're comfortable so I can watch you come undone."
The root of my spine tingles as his voice tears a big hole in my conscious thoughts. I shift my weight around to try to curb the almost painful tightness I'm feeling right now. "Being hurt is your excuse to talk dirty?"
"You call that talking dirty? Wait until you see what I'm really like," he says, his voice rumbling in his throat.
* * *
Four words—the Four Seasons Hotel. They are expecting us. A smiling young man in a crisp tailored suit and perfect hair greets us by name after the valet takes Landon's car away. He introduces himself as Francis, the butler.
Yes, that's right, a butler. Apparently, they are actual people who work an actual job. I always believed that, like the French maid, they were mythological creatures created by manga.
We're escorted through the glittering golden lobby that smells like fancy dreams to a private elevator that closes silently and takes us up, up, up . . .
Landon grasps my hand. I don't say anything. I'm a tourist in Narnia, and the view isn't so bad. I wish I had a fancier dress on. I'm dressed up for dinner at the Hendersons, which is as dressed up as I get. At least I'm not wearing jeans. But my Betsy Johnson dress and the old but classic Burberry jacket that I borrowed from my mom somehow look shabby here.