Unblemished

by Sara Ella

  But not tonight.

  I clear my throat, start again, this time choosing an oldie Mom used to sing when I was little. I still remember the first time I heard “Smile” by Charlie Chaplin. It was the first day of kindergarten. I didn’t want to go, didn’t understand why I had to be separated from Mom for four whole hours. Then she started singing.

  “I want you to remember these words,” she said. “Sing them until you can’t remember why you were sad to begin with.”

  And I did. Mom couldn’t get me to stop singing after that.

  My voice shakes a little during the first verse since I haven’t warmed up, but when I reach the chorus, the melody comes easily. I’d almost forgotten how much I love this. I close my eyes, letting the lyrics flow, thinking only of Mom and how I’d give anything to see her smile again.

  The thought forces my own lips to curve.

  On the final note I open my eyes.

  My grin fades, and all air flees my lungs.

  Joshua is standing on the inn’s porch. Teeth clenched. His gaze acid. It’s almost as if my eyes float out of my body, watching from above, taking in the whole scene. Ky’s arm around my shoulder. Me wearing his jacket and singing to him, a pastime Joshua and I shared. Something special and so very much our own.

  Oh no. He’s got the wrong idea. I reach out, but Joshua turns his back, strides into the inn’s shadows, and slams the door. The sign rattles on its hinges, echoing the shake of anger beginning to rise in me. What’s his problem? He made it clear he wants nothing to do with me. I just sit there, staring where he stood. I control my urge to move. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it is over. It’s better this way. Easier.

  Don’t feel. Don’t care. Don’t—

  I close my eyes, clamping my lashes against inevitable tears. If it’s easier, why does it feel as if I’ve just attended another funeral?

  TWENTY-TWO

  Wishing

  The turning point came two years and seven months after we met. Or, I should say, my turning point. It surged up on me, a stealth wave sweeping me away.

  “We’re going to get in trouble,” I hiss through nervous laughter. “We could be arrested for breaking and entering.”

  Screech. Bark. Clang.

  I start. Even the everyday hits on Manhattan’s playlist make me jump.

  Joshua smirks. As if doing a magic trick, he waves his hand. With a flourish, a shiny key appears between his thumb and forefinger. “Not if we didn’t break in.”

  I gape. No way. “Where’d you get that?”

  He swings his arms and knocks his fists together, mock innocence lighting his face. “Let’s just say I know a guy who knows a guy who just so happens to be the stage manager.” He releases a hot breath onto the key and rubs it against his plaid shirt. He flips it in the air as if performing the coin toss at the Super Bowl, then catches it on the back of his hand.

  Show-off.

  I quirk one eyebrow and plant my hands on my hips. “Seriously?”

  “It’s the truth.” He’s a horrible liar. “But if you don’t want to go inside—”

  “Oh, I’m going, but if we get caught—”

  “If we get caught, which we won’t, I’ll take full blame as the responsible adult.” Joshua stands at attention, raising three fingers in the air, an overgrown Boy Scout.

  I give him a light shove. How does he make it so easy to be myself around him? “You call breaking into the Gershwin on a school night responsible?”

  His expression turns serious. Is he going to say something about the touch? I’ve been hinting since my seventeenth birthday, trying to show him I want more, that I’m no longer a kid. He never responds to my prodding. Is he ignoring the obvious, or is he just the average clueless guy?

  “You’re on spring break,” he says. “It’s not a school night for you.”

  He’s always teasing. Was it ever not this way? I can’t remember the last time I felt awkward around him. “But you have finals coming up. Shouldn’t you be studying?”

  “It can wait.” One more mischievous grin, and he ducks around the corner, consumed by the alley.

  I take half a step. Pause. Breathe. What will tonight bring? Could I finally get my very first kiss? I look around, absorbing every inch of my surroundings. I don’t want to forget a single thing.

  A woman in outrageously tall wedge-heels drops a cigarette butt, then stomps it out with her clunky toe. She hails a cab and ducks into it, her miniskirt riding up her bronze thigh before she closes the door. I still taste the smoke on the air after she’s gone.

  On the corner two teenagers walk so close together they look like conjoined twins. The boy stops and pulls the girl into him for a spontaneous kiss. I stare unabashedly, replacing the girl’s face with mine, only without the birthmark. I imagine the boy is Joshua, his lips soft, tender. He opens my mouth with his—

  “El, are you coming or not?” Joshua pops his head around the corner.

  Thank goodness it’s dark and he won’t see how my temperature’s changed, how my blood has rushed to my head. “Yeah.”

  The alley is the same as any other, stinking of sewage and alcohol. Half a dozen cigarette butts lie in a pile by a metal door. Joshua sticks the key in the lock, turns it, and pushes down the chrome handle. The door swings toward him.

  A burst of conditioned air batters my face. I hesitate only a second before entering.

  He follows. Tugs the door closed silently.

  “I can’t see anything,” I whisper.

  Click. A flashlight illuminates our path. “Always be prepared.” Joshua steps in front and leads the way.

  Everything is black. Black floor. Black walls. We pass two rolling racks stuffed full of colorful costumes. In one corner a web of cords and wires spills from a box. A mirror leans against one wall, along with a cart containing everything from makeup palettes to eyedrops.

  When we reach the stage, I stop. This is it. Am I really standing here?

  Joshua thrusts the flashlight into my palm. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” His voice is low, his breath hot in my ear.

  The lyrics to “Kiss the Girl” scream across my brain.

  His footsteps dwindle as he flees into darkness.

  I take light steps, angling the flashlight in different directions, exploring this very off-limits first date venue.

  Wait. Is this a date?

  Technically, yes. He picked me up at my door, bought me a tofu dog, and took me to my favorite place in the city, aside from Central Park. Sounds like a date to me.

  Above, a catwalk hovers. Ropes, lights, and metal poles surround it. I shine the beam downstage, toward the orchestra. Surreal. I half expect the Phantom of the Opera to leap from the curtains and whisk me away.

  Flick, flick, flick.

  Blue, purple, and green channels of cool light inundate the stage. I squint against the luster, blinking, letting my eyes adjust. Row upon row of empty cushioned seats slide into focus. They slope upward, the mezzanine leaning over them like an anxious onlooker awaiting a climactic scene. I twirl in slow motion, breathing in the once-in-a-lifetime atmosphere. The stage. The lights. Broadway.

  A backdrop of a giant Ozian clock all green and towering gives me the illusion I’m floating, defying gravity. Sold out within hours, we couldn’t get tickets to the one-night reunion of the original cast of Wicked, but this is so much better. I continue revolving, living in the moment, imagining hundreds of people applauding, begging for an encore.

  When I face downstage again, I spot Joshua, sitting front and center, beaming. Even from this distance, his cerulean eyes invoke a soft gasp from my lips. Has he been watching me this whole time?

  “Sing to me.” His melodic voice echoes. Rises to the rafters.

  I inhale, unable to shroud the chagrin expanding to my ears. I trace a circle on the floor with the toe of my Converse sneaker. “Okay, but on one condition.”

  Joshua laughs, full and deep. “Anything.”

  We both share a passion for musi
c and quickly connected on that note. The roof of my brownstone has become our personal haven. We go up there afternoons and weekends, sharing an iPod, a pair of earbuds connecting us. He teaches me guitar chords, and we practice singing harmonies. Mom always said we sounded like we were born to sing together.

  “Sing with me?” I ask. At his hesitation, I add, “Come on. It’s just like on the roof. Just us.” He brings out a confidence in me I’ve never known.

  He runs his fingers through his recently cut hair, scratches the back of his head. “I can’t say no to you.” He ascends the stairs two at a time and meets me center stage. “What should we sing?”

  I gesture toward the backdrop. “What else?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Should’ve known. I guess all those times you forced me to listen to the Wicked soundtrack are going to pay off.” He takes the flashlight. Sticks it in his back pocket.

  I smile. “Guess so.” I withdraw my iPhone. When I tap the screen, a candid shot of Mom stares up at me. I scroll until I find the duet. The haunting melody drifts through the tinny speaker, and I begin to sway.

  As I start the first verse to “As Long as You’re Mine,” my cocoon falls away. I spread my vocal wings, testing their strength, belting the notes. I’m no longer the ugly girl from the Upper West Side. I’m the bold and tenacious Elphaba of Oz—and I’m flying.

  Joshua hits his cue flawlessly. He’s the perfect Fiyero. Charming. Funny. Handsome. He holds my gaze, his eyes alight. For a moment I forget we’re only acting. The way he’s looking at me . . . it’s as if he wrote those lines himself. Words meant for my ears alone.

  Our voices intertwine, meld into one. Mom’s right. We do sound like we were born to sing together. And that’s when I know. This boy who moved next door three years ago is more than just a friend.

  So. Much. More.

  Somewhere between our first encounter and becoming friends, he stole my heart. No. Scratch that. I gave it to him.

  And then the magic ends. Poof. I’m out of breath. Gravity triumphs, hauling me to earth.

  “Thank you.” I slip my phone away.

  He’s quiet. I’ve never known him to be speechless. His mouth twitches as his gaze flutters below my nose. Is he looking at my lips? Is he going to—?

  “Hey, you!” A man with a napkin tucked into his white undershirt jogs toward us from the rear of the theater. His overshirt is white, too, unbuttoned, with some sort of patch on the right breast.

  Looks like the security guard isn’t too happy we interrupted his break.

  We bolt for our exit, my heart nearly pulverizing my sternum from the thrill. We don’t stop running until we’re two blocks away, safe within a streetlamp’s yellow blush.

  I bend over, breathing deep, reining in my hysterics. I can hardly see through my tears of laughter. When I straighten, Joshua’s wiping his own eyes, stretching his jaw. One look at each other and the snickers start all over again, lasting the entire cab ride home. The cabbie probably thought we were drunk.

  Best. Night. Ever.

  Once we’re climbing the steps to my front door, the mood shifts. The air grows heavier, the way it gets just before it rains. I hold my breath in hopes of calming the boom, boom, boom resounding from my chest.

  I turn to him, fumbling with my house key like in the movies.

  His Adam’s apple bobs, and he rubs the side of his scruffy cheek.

  “I had so much fun.” Insecurity crawls over my arms, spiraling up to my face. Not now.

  “Me too.” He coughs, moves his left foot down a step.

  I shove my key in the lock, flip it. The dull tick of the dead bolt counts another second closer to our evening’s end.

  “So . . .” I turn the knob, crack the door.

  “So . . . good night.” He jogs down my steps and then crosses to his own. Before he goes inside, he gives me one last crooked smile. Then, as is his custom, he’s gone.

  “I found snacks.” Ky’s voice wrenches me from the memory—dream.

  I suck in a breath, open my eyes. My head rests on a pillow, and little wet spots pepper my sleeve. Did I cry myself to sleep? I roll my neck. Ack. Knots. How did I get back to our room?

  Oh. Right. Ramped up from the nonmoment with Joshua, I stormed inside. Ky must’ve sensed my irritation because he was more than happy to give me some space. I paced the tiny room until my energy drained. Then I curled up on the mattress and waited. And cried. And dreamt.

  The bed gives beneath Ky’s weight. “I found rolls and cheese. It’s not much, but it’ll do till morning.”

  I sit up. He passes me a cheese sandwich, and I bite into it. Yeasty bread almost evaporates on my tongue, the sharp cheese sticking to my teeth. My taste buds throw a party as the much-needed sustenance jives around my mouth. I inhale the thing in two more bites, and before I can ask, Ky hands me another. We eat three each, and by then I’m already full. Funny. I used to eat three monstrous slices of New York pizza and still want more. Did my stomach shrink? I couldn’t handle another nibble now if I tried.

  Ky burps, raps his chest with his fist. “If you’re still hungry—”

  I shake my head, my bangs making my eyelids itch. They’ve grown too long. Need a trim. “I’m so stuffed. All I want is sleep.”

  He stands, and crumbs tumble from his lap in a mini rockslide. Then he crosses to the rocker and drags it along the floor toward the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like?” He sits on the rocker, leans back, and props his feet up, boots and all, on the mattress. “Guarding you. In case you didn’t notice, sitting on the opposite end of the room didn’t quite cut it last time.”

  I scoot over, slip off my boots, and slide beneath the blanket. “Just don’t kick me in the face with your big feet, okay?” Yesterday the comment would’ve been meant as a jab. Tonight it feels more like a joke from one friend to another.

  Friends? Maybe.

  “I make no promises.” Without another word he closes his eyes.

  I turn on my side and study him, Joshua’s opposite. Joshua always has a clean and finished look about him, even when he needs a shave, which is most of the time. Ky, on the other hand, is a mess with his blond hair curling out at his car-door ears, dirt caked underneath his fingernails, myriad pimples dotting his skin. There’s something so relatable and real about him. I can’t look away.

  Long after his breathing slows, I’m still wide awake. I can feel him, smell him. I touch the bandage wrapped around my palm, unravel it. There’s a scar but no pain. Ky did that.

  The ache of Joshua’s rejection is an open sore yet to heal. I’ve spent so much time wishing for something more with him. Maybe it’s time I stop wishing, start healing. Then, someday, there’ll be nothing left but a scar like the one on my palm.

  A scar. But no pain.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Wounds

  Second Day, Third Month, Third year of Father’s Jasyn’s Reign

  It has been just over three years since the king and queen disappeared. Guardians have searched the provinces over, and still no sign of Aidan or his bride. My heart hurts to imagine them in pain. Or worse, dead. At first Father seemed to hurt for them too. For an entire year after the disappearance he rarely came out of his room. Refused to converse with anyone. Now a thirst for control consumes him. He cares only for the Void and its power. Thank the Verity I have found comfort in a companion.

  Thank the Verity for Tiernan Archer.

  The day of the disappearance, Tiernan found me weeping in the library. He offered me his handkerchief. I realized then that I loved him before I knew his name, I loved him more with each kind word he spoke. With every beat of my heart growing louder as he gazed at me with understanding eyes. We have remained friends these three years. But today . . . today will be different. Because today I turn sixteen. I am no longer a girl but a woman. Today I will tell him how I truly feel . . .

  I stir. Shiver. Did I kick the covers off? I blink awake. Must’ve dozed
off while reading when I couldn’t get to sleep. Where’s the journal? I search for it with my free hand.

  My free hand?

  First I feel it. Skin on skin. Callused fingers curled over my smooth ones. Then I peek across the bed at the still-sleeping boy. So peaceful. Innocent. An unexpected stint of hesitation. Ky’s hand is warm, and I don’t want to let go.

  Move.

  I . . .

  Get up.

  I force myself to pull away, the fire of Ky’s touch lingering on my skin when I do. He’s still in the rocker, back arched, arms and head resting on the bed’s edge. Somehow, as we slept, my hand found his. Or did his find mine? I can’t ask him. He’s still asleep, oblivious to my dilemma.

  I flex my bandaged hand. It’s sore, but I won’t need the Illusoden again, probably didn’t need it last night. The stuff wears off too quickly anyway. Better save it for an emergency.

  Beyond the window pink streaks an indigo sky, ushering in the dawn and melting into the mountain we passed on our journey. I roll over. The journal lies akimbo on the floor, half of it hidden beneath the bed. I leave it. Don my boots. Creep out the door. Resolve pushes me forward. Joshua’s going to listen to what I have to say. Here goes nothing.

  Muffled voices waft up from the first floor. I breathe on my palm, then inhale. Cheese breath. Nice. I’m in desperate need of a mint. And a shower. Please let there be a shower.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I find Lark in her youthful form whispering to Grizz. They halt the moment they notice me. Lark stiffens. Grizz clears his throat, then stares with intent at the open book on the counter. No echoed greetings today. Is he using his Calling now, committing to memory every word on those pages?

  “Good morning.” Lark smiles, takes me gently by the arm, and leads me down the hall to a quaint washroom complete with indoor plumbing and fresh towels.

  Bingo.