As if on cue, the MAV shoots past. Carson makes a complete stop, turn signal flashing, before he turns into the school parking lot. Never mind that the road dead ends in a guardrail and there's nowhere else to go. He does the same stop and signal for every turn around the parking lot, including the one into a parking space.
While I watch this, Kailie pauses at the corner of one of the side streets and turns to look at a house, three lots in. It's the same floorplan as mine, with a stucco exterior that's cracking at the corners and has a big gray splotch by the front door, where someone did some kind of repair work, but didn't bother to restore the finish to match the rest of the house. Her gaze is wistful. This is where her sister, Kirsten, lives now.
“You talk to her?” I ask.
“No. My parents would lock me in my room and throw away the key if I did. Just saying her name gets me a lecture.”
“Seriously?”
“You know how they are. They want to control my whole life. At least Kirsten got out.”
I look at my friend in her warm coat, designer jeans, and genuine leather boots. I'm certain Kirsten doesn't have anything like that to wear. “Look,” I say, “she rebelled. You really think she'd tell on you if you went to talk to her? You admit she doesn't talk to your parents.”
She turns away. “My parents would find out. They always do, you know. They've got eyes everywhere.”
We walk on towards campus and there, at the end of the road, leaning against the guardrail with all of the other screwups is Alex. Despite the crowd around him, he looks as if he's all alone. Isolated. Aloof. For once he isn't smoking, but he plays with his lighter, snapping it open and shut, pausing now and then to watch the flame burn. Typical. I always wonder when Pelican Bluffs High School will catch up with the times and not let people bring lighters to school. I'd gladly walk through a metal detector and surrender my nail files if it meant Alex had to leave that stupid lighter at home.
One moment he's staring at the fire, the next he's returning my gaze. He lifts an eyebrow, as if to challenge me to keep staring.
I obligingly look away and follow Kailie across the parking lot, but I have the uneasy sense that he's still staring at me.
I don't see Jean-Pierre until lunch, and he looks past me as if we don't even know each other. It couldn't hurt worse if he walked up and slapped me across the face. He and the football jocks have their own table and they sit and talk and give each other fist bumps as the rest of the school flows around them, watching their antics with a swish of heads turning. We don't have a great athletics program at Pelican Bluffs High, but we do have an amazing football team. It helps that Justin Kreig's dad used to play for the NFL. Jean-Pierre doesn't do any athletics, but I guess the other orchestra and chess club people aren't cool enough for him.
His gaze wanders my direction and I freeze, wondering if I'll get a wink or a smile. But his gaze sweeps right over me. I'm just another face in the crowd. At least I didn't ask Kailie if she knew his phone number. She'd be mocking me right now if she knew. The problem is, I can't just pretend not to notice him, his dark, expressive eyes and infectious laugh. I've liked him for ages, but after kissing him, my attraction's stepped up several notches. I had let myself believe that I might get to kiss him regularly. That's how this usually works, isn't it?
I turn away and try to distract myself with other thoughts. Our cafeteria is a beautiful room. One whole wall is glass, but it's done in little tiny panes, like stained glass without the color. The ceiling is high and punctuated at regular intervals with skylights. The place always smells like grease, regardless of what they're serving. Even when it's pasta, somehow it ends up smelling like grease.
Kailie brings her tray of food over and slides it onto the table. “This food is beyond gross. I know, I know, I should just pack a lunch. Augh.”
I offer her half my sandwich, which she takes and gives me her tater tots in return. They’re already getting cold and disgusting, but I munch on them anyway.
Jean-Pierre's laughter cuts across the rest of the cafeteria chatter and I look at my friend.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, don't look now, but Carson is staring at you.”
I look, of course. It's a reflex, but I swing my gaze past him so that I don't seem to be looking at him specifically. Just taking in more of that beautiful window, I think. Who am I fooling? Kailie is right, though, he's staring right at me, not even trying to hide it.
“He found out you're Mormon, now he wants to add you to the harem,” says my friend.
“I am not Mormon.”
“But you're okay with the harem part?”
Here's how things work with our small horde of Mormons at the school. Carson is the only male. There are three girls who aren't related to him: LaDell, Wendy, and Rachel, and he has them on some kind of rotation. They take turns going with him to school dances, and the two girls without him as a date and his little sister, Chelsey, either go stag or don't go at all. It's beyond weird, and Kailie loves to joke about it.
“He's coming over.” Kailie shoots a withering look over my shoulder, and I know if that doesn't stop him dead in his tracks, nothing will. My best friend's looks are lethal.
Like a shadow in my peripheral vision, Carson steps over the bench and sits at our table. “Hey,” he says.
I turn and smile at him. “Hey.”
“So, did anything else happen with your brother?”
“No, not really. I haven't even gotten an email from him.” His email address is buried somewhere in my pockets full of paper scraps, receipts, and used tissues. It'd take a while for me to find it.
“But he's about to be released?”
“Released?” says Kailie. “What, is a mission like prison?”
“It's just the term we use. Whenever you do any specific job for the Church we refer to that as a calling, and when you finish a calling, that's when you're released.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes glazed over after the third word.
Carson still gives her a speculative glance, though, before leaning in and saying to me, “Listen, I'm sorry if I crossed a line, giving you scriptures and stuff.”
“It's all right.”
“I'm really bad at knowing what to say when people ask about my religion, and I guess you didn't really even ask.”
I look up at him.
Those stormy gray eyes are intent. Focused on me.
“It's fine, really.”
“I am not supposed to be this close to you,” says Kailie. “My daddy told me not to talk to weirdo religious people.”
“You're religious people,” Carson retorts.
“Yeah, but I'm not a weirdo.”
“Speak for yourself. What'd you use to put on eye shadow today? A spatula?”
“Is it too over the top and daring for you?” She flutters here eyelashes and her eyelids are a pretty strong shade of purple, I have to admit. She makes it look fabulous.
“Well gee,” says Carson in a monotone. “I find myself overcome with your stunning allure when you do that.”
She blows him a kiss.
He gives me a knowing, tolerant look and gets up to go.
That afternoon, as I pack my things at my locker, Jean-Pierre strides by without even a glance in my direction. I try not to stare after him. Let it go, I think. What's past is past.
Kailie dashes by with a, “I have to get home in ten minutes or else,” hollered over her shoulder. I wave as if everything's fine with me.
At least, I think, this day is pretty much over.
That night, a tap at my window nudges me awake. I roll over and wait for it to come again. It might have just been a dream.
Tap-tap-tap.
I haul myself up to flip the latch, and then lay down again. “Kail,” I say, once the window swings open, “It's Monday night.”
“It's not Kailie.”
My eyes snap open. “Jean-Pierre?”
“Yeah. Can I come in?
”
“Sure.” I roll out of bed and hightail it to the bathroom. “I'll be right back.”
When I return from brushing my teeth and hair, I find him sitting on my bed. He looks up when I sit down next to him, and for a minute I don't know what to say.
“So...” he begins. “You mad at me?”
“No.”
“You seemed kinda mad today at lunch.”
“I didn't think you even saw me.”
“That what made you mad?”
“It hurt my feelings.”
He presses his fingertips together and fidgets a moment. “I know, we didn't really get to talk the other night. I like you, okay? But I'm not into the whole being a couple thing. The last time I had a girlfriend, it was constant drama. Even having a conversation like this, now, I hate this part. I wish we could just skip it.”
“Skip to what?”
He puts his arms around me and pulls me close. His skin is warm, through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He nuzzles my nose and coaxes me in for a kiss. Warmth spreads inside me as we lock lips, but so does confusion. His palms slide over my shirt and he leans against me until we both lie down on my bed. The momentary panic I feel subsides quickly. He doesn't try to take off any of my clothes or anything, just kisses me and holds me close.
When we break off, he says, “This all right?”
I do my best to think straight. He just said he hates discussing relationship stuff, so does this mean I shouldn't admit I'm totally confused? “Um...”
He props himself up on one elbow, mind already wandering elsewhere. “This has been the worst week, and it's only just started. I've got a chess tournament this weekend but I've also got an AP English paper due. I'm stressed. Beyond stressed.”
Stress is something I know how to handle. “Here,” I say. “Lay on your stomach.”
He does and I sit up to dig my thumbs into the flesh between his shoulderblades. He lets out a gasp. “Wow.”
I've given my mom massages for years, ever since she started to get repetitive motion injuries in her shoulders and wrists. I get up onto my knees and throw my weight behind the kneading motion as I force his muscles to unclench, teasing out knots with my fingers. I start with his shoulders and work down to the small of his back, careful not to press on his kidneys. Just as I'm working out the last little knot, he rolls onto his side and pulls me down to lay next to him. Both his hands slide under my shirt as he massages my back, and kisses my lips, pressing his body against mine. His breath on my cheek, the taste of his lips, the feel of his skin against mine, it’s all too much to process.
Now I feel completely out of my depth, and what's worse, I feel like it's my fault our bodies are tangled together. I'm the one who put my hands all over him to make him feel good. “Relax,” he whispers.
But I can't. I didn't even bother to keep the condoms they handed out in health class because they seemed about as useful to me as a guide to Paris written in Greek. Kailie was more than happy to take them off my hands.
Jean-Pierre finally slows things down and shifts to lie next to me again. “You okay?”
I just gulp deep breaths and try to process it all. “Yeah.”
After a few more lingering kisses on the lips, he says, “I'd better get home. I'm pushing my luck, sneaking out twice in one week.” He gets up to put his shoes and jacket back on and leave. As the window bangs shut, my emotions are in a muddle. I just don't know what I'm doing or how any of this is supposed to go.
I get up and dress quickly, then climb out my window. Everything's clear on my street. I don't know if Jean-Pierre drove or walked, but there's no sign of him as I walk past the dark, sleeping houses. I turn the corner, cross to the forest side of the street, and head towards Wilkstone, and even though I think I scan carefully, I don't see Ryan, Alex, and company until it's too late and I'm almost on top of them.
They're all in a runoff ditch just off the road that leads to a culvert that all the local kids like to play in even though it's a death trap. The ditch is deep enough that the sidewalk is chest high for this crowd and when I get close enough to be seen, Ryan leaps up onto the sidewalk. “Hey, hey,” he says.
I freeze, and for a moment my thoughts do too.
“You're out late,” he says.
“Let me past.” I keep my voice steady.
“You can get by.” He gestures at the length of sidewalk. “I'm not that fat.”
A couple of the other guys chuckle.
I lift my chin and step out into the street. One step, then another, I give him a wide berth, only to have him lunge at me so suddenly that I scream.
“Whoa,” says one of the other guys, still in the ditch. I can't see his face.
All of them burst out laughing.
“What?” says Ryan. “You think I'm gonna assault you?”
I don't know what I think he'll do. It's a small town. If he had a history of attacking people, I would know. Still, the way he stands, shoulders squared and face obscured by shadow, is terrifying. This is not what I want to see while out by myself.
I edge on my way, keeping my eyes on them, and then as they fade into the darkness, on where I last saw them, until I'm a good distance away, then I turn and walk briskly towards the bright lights of Wilkstone Road. Even though I glance back and therefore know that no one's following me, I'm relieved when I get to Jacksons.
This is how lenient my mother is. I go into the town mini-mart, am seen by the cashier who is not known for her discretion, and yet know I won't get in trouble for it. The freezer case at the back is my target. I shove open the heavy glass lid and reach down to grab two EVOL Burritos of the shredded beef variety; these are the best frozen burritos on the planet, almost better than fresh made.
The cashier doesn't bat an eye at the sight of me out at midnight on a school night, just rings up the burritos and holds out her hand lazily for money. I pay and leave, bending my steps towards The Shack.
By day, The Shack serves fresh made Mexican food at obscene prices to tourists passing through, but come midnight, Hernan Garcia – the youngest son of the family of owners – takes over. He turns the place into a burger joint, basically, though he's willing to get creative. When I step up to the cut-out counter in the side of the wooden shack and put the burritos down, he squints up at me. “Whattaya want me to do with 'em?”
“Deep fryer.”
“How long?”
“They're frozen, so however long that takes. And two orders of fries and two medium Cokes.” The deal is, he'll do stuff like deep fry EVOL Burritos for free provided we buy something else.
He nods, tears the wrappers off the burritos, dumps them into the wire basket and drops the basket into the deep fryer. Then he rings up two orders of fries and two Cokes and I pay him.
Fifteen minutes later I've got the burritos and the two orders of fries in a paper bag and the two Cokes in the crook of my other arm. Now the task is to get to Kailie before the grease soaks through the bag and makes it tear. That is harder than it may sound. I wish I could hug the bag to myself for warmth, as the cold air tonight is the kind that seeps in even through my warm clothes.
That gives me an incentive to walk fast to the Inn, where I go around back to the rain barrel, which stands just under the eaves. It isn't easy to climb up onto it with the bag of food gripped in one fist and two drinks in the crook of the other arm, but I've had practice. Seconds later I'm on the roof of the first story, tapping on Kailie's window.
Her reading light winks on and she slides the window up. At the sight of me her mouth quirks in a sleepy smile. Warm air from her room spills out into the night.
I hold up the bag and she perks up and grins. “You didn't.”
“Yeah.”
“I love you.” She stands back as I climb into her room and we both sit down on the floor and tuck into our greasefest meal.
Her parents are just down the hall, and are pretty light sleepers, so we talk in low voices.
“You are the best,” she
says.
“I need your advice.”
She nods, her eyes on her burrito, which she bites into with a crunch. The deep fryer makes the tortilla into a hard shell, while inside the warm beef and melted cheese and cilantro and salsa are a heavenly mix. “Sure, about what?”
“I'm kind of involved with Jean-Pierre.”
She stops mid-bite, opens her mouth, and pulls the burrito away. “Since when?”
“Friday.”
“Are you serious?”
I nod.
“Um... wow. Okay. Wow.”
It stings that she's that surprised, but I can't get mad at her for being honest. She isn't wrong. “I'm just... I don't know how all this works. He says he doesn't want a girlfriend.”
“Well, sure.”
“What's that mean?”
“That you aren't his girlfriend. Clearly he just wants to mess around.”
“Mess around like, go all the way?”
“Go all the way?” she mocks me. “What are you, in sixth grade?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Better than you do, yeah.”
“What do I do?”
“If you're into him, have fun with it. If you're not, don't bother. What do you need my advice for?”
“So how does this work, then?”
Kailie sets her burrito down, clasps her hands together, and looks at me. “It's simple. If you like making out with him, do it. If you want to sleep with him, do it. If you don't, don't. He moves on. End of story. Seriously, you can't figure this stuff out for yourself?”
I stare at the floor, my cheeks burning. “I barely even know how to kiss.”
“Please...”
“And sex is like, way scary to me.”
“Scary? This is sex we're talking about, right?”
“Yeah-”
“Well it's not scary. End of discussion. What do you want to talk about now?”
Her dismissal feels like she's planted the heel of her hand on my chest and shoved, hard. I went out of my way to be nice, bringing her food, so I don't know why she's lashing out at me with so much condescension. “It's not like you have it all figured out.”
Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand Page 4