by Sunniva Dee
I’m brought back by Pandora gasping into consciousness and sitting up in bed. “Ohmigod,” she mumbles, eyes floating to meet mine. I remain sprawled out, waiting.
“Shit.” She shakes her head sluggishly. I realize she’s way worse than I thought. Wow. The last drink she had must have taken its time kicking in. “My stomach,” she says, face already a shade paler, from nausea I’m guessing. “Where’s my phone?”
I check the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s four a.m., and she shouldn’t be calling anyone at this hour. Except—
“I totally ditched my friends!”
True.
An iPhone peeks out of the back pocket of her jeans on the floor. I marvel at how it didn’t fall all the way out when I ripped her clothes off. I lean over, grab it, and hand her the device.
Fumbling, she swears under her breath. “Piece of crap doesn’t work.”
“Gimme.” I turn it on for her. “Who do you want to call? I’ll dial for you.”
She pinches her eyebrows together in an exaggerated frown and tries to glare at me. Only she can’t focus entirely. Yeah, she’s so not good.
“No! I know how to use a phone,” she manages. “Mica—she’s the best. She’ll cover for me.” Her fingers race down her address list while she mouths, “M… mmm. Not Nnnn—starts with Mmm.”
Even senseless, she’s gorgeous.
She must have found Mica under her “M’s,” because she’s waiting, phone to her ear.
“Pandora-honey?” someone gasps out. “The Lord Almighty—we’ve been so scared! What… are you okay? It’s so late!”
Pandora makes a strangled sound in her throat. She covers her phone and hisses, “I. Called. Mom!”
I flop back against the pillow and laugh silently. I won’t make this worse for her, but that is simply hilarious.
“Not funny,” she explains, before she hands me the phone. I stare at her. On the other end, her mother sounds like a witch the way she cackles out never-ending strings of questions.
“Your dad’s about to get in the car and drive to the airport and—
“Why didn’t you call? You were supposed to call from the very first rest stop—every hour, we said, remember—
“Miss Pandora, answer me this minute, or you’ll never—
“Dad says he’ll stop paying your—
“Count the times I’ve called you, okay? COUNT them.”
Wow. Wee-wow.
I rest the phone against my stomach so Mother Dearest can’t hear. “Are you a fifteen-year-old on the run? Or just abnormally overprotected?”
“Overporrtr…” She starts again. “Overprostect…” She growls, frustrated with herself. “The last thing.”
“You want to talk with her?” I say.
“You talk.”
What? Oh, hell no.
“Okay, no. I’m hanging up, then.”
“Please! You don’t understand—they’ll be on their way here!”
The lady’s voice literally buzzes from the speaker and into my skin. It’s ridiculous. Does she ever stop prattling?
“Pandora. Tell her you’re fine, you realized you forgot to call, and wanted to apologize. You’ll call tomorrow because you’re sleepy.”
She hesitates, eyes swimming. “Don’t want to.”
“So… you’d rather they pay you a visit?”
She holds my gaze for four drunken seconds before she reaches out and grabs the phone. A long inhale later, and she’s got it pressed against her ear.
“Mom, ssshhhh. I’m fine. Just realized…” Her lips move, practicing the next words quietly. “I forgot. Soooo sorry.”
Yeah, that was a lot of “soooo.” Well. I curve my index finger over my mouth to hide my amusement.
Another tirade I don’t care to focus on litters out of the speaker. I catch “young lady” and “last warning.”
“Yes…” She stares at me for support, and I mouth, “Soooo sorry.” She doesn’t get that I’m teasing her. Instead, she nods and repeats it, every vowel much longer than the first time. I groan.
The tirade stops dead on the other end.
“Pandora!” her mother barks. “Are you DRUNK?”
That sobers her up. “Oh, geez, Mom, I’m just sleepy,” Pandora says, and she sounds absolutely, one hundred percent lucid. Amazing. “Talk in the morning, ’kay? Love ya.”
Then, she hangs up. “How’s that, Dominic?” She accentuates it like she’s still learning my name.
“Want my opinion?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Train wreck. Total train wreck. The evil witch will be here tomorrow.”
With my arms under my head on the pillow, I’m on my back, staring at her. I love the way her boobs jiggle when she laughs. My dick’s stirring again at the sight.
“Meanie,” she says, and straddles me. I don’t move my hands from behind my neck but check out her hips grinding on top of me, how she’s pleasuring herself with me growing under her—right where it counts.
“Another go?” I ask, my hand already targeting the night table. The pressure of her core lightens against me while she leans in to suck on my lips. Her hair surrounds us, and I grab a lock to steady her head, guiding her fully to my mouth.
Once my dick’s all wrapped again, she splays out over my hips and I hook into her. We both exhale with relief as she guides herself down until I am deep, so deep, inside of her.
“God, you’re so damn perfect,” I stutter.
4. SECOND MISTAKE
PANDORA
A really freaking hot guy lies next to me on the unfamiliar bed. He’s relaxed in sleep with an arm covering his eyes. From beneath an elbow, a straight nose peaks out, and a full mouth ticks with some dream he’s braving.
This boy—this… man—is naked, all the way naked, and I look away as my heart speeds up.
What have I done?
Please, boy, please don’t wake up.
Ah, shit. I was euphoric last night. Now though, with a roaring hangover playing my nerves like a freaking banjo, I’m having all sorts of second thoughts. First night in a new town and I’m already proving how I can’t live without parental supervision.
The panic rises in me with the echo of Dad’s voice in my head. This is exactly what should not be happening! I want my parents to trust me, to understand that I’m done endangering my future by being irresponsible. I won’t mess up just because they set me free from their Rapunzel tower.
I remember absolutely squat since I got up to dance on the bar counter last night.
Or do I?
Snippets here and there: Me telling him how sexy he is. Him insisting on dropping me off at my apartment to sleep the booze off. Me demanding he take me home instead and begging him to…
Shoot me in the face.
My anxiety is blooming, but my need to throw up has more to do with the hangover, I think. Cringing, I peek at Mr. Sleeping Beauty through the curtain of my hair. He isn’t stirring. I let my gaze trail over his body. Small, dark nipples. Rows of relaxed muscle.
I wish I at least remembered his name.
The few golden hairs on his chest look so soft, my fingers twitch to touch them. All of him is golden, and I—
Don’t know him.
He sighs in his sleep, and I allow my eyes to work their way down his stomach. Dude’s got a full-on six-pack. A swift flashback from last night makes me flush. I groped him. I totally did. Shit!
Stop ogling him.
The craziest, most perfect transition between naked abs and golden happy-trail leads me down. I shouldn’t stare, but it’s morning, early morning, and he’s—
I see him. Him! And I smell us. We—
Stop it.
If only my head weren’t imploding. Crème de menthe. Why? WHY! Then again, I know why. Or more like who: Mica.
>
My phone lies on the nightstand next to him. Did I really escape through the ladies’ room window of that club? Yes, I did. Without telling my friends where I went. And I dragged this boy with me.
He’s not the only one naked. I sit up, cover my breasts as I lean over him. I’m so careful, so quiet when I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
Please, pretty-boy, keep sleeping.
I’m all nerves, I am, and I don’t want to flip. Right now, those pills Shannon teases me with would be good.
I try not to brush against him. As my fingers reach the device, warm arms lace around me, and my heart bounces into my throat. From a logical standpoint, I shouldn’t be jumpy; even if I don’t recall us together, we’ve obviously been in this bed for a while. Intimate. We’ve—
“What’s up?” He’s hoarse. I remember his voice now, and it wasn’t gruff before. This must be his morning voice.
A squealy reply slinks out between my teeth. “Nothing!”
“No?” he asks, and the hum he emits strikes me low in my stomach. He holds me, and I still can’t recall his name—it’s driving me crazy. I’ve never had a one-night stand in my life.
I’ve sunk low. I think of Jacob, the boyfriend I had for years. He was the son of the preacher-man at my parents’ church. We bonded because of our strict upbringings. Mom and Dad never suspected someone as well raised as Jacob could corrupt their little princess.
Besides the times I snuck out to hang with Mica and the girls, exploring Jacob’s body was my biggest entertainment. When I left for Deepsilver, we simply hugged goodbye real quick. That’s how deep our feelings ran.
This man I just met rakes his fingers into my hair and guides my mouth to him. He’s got me on top of him, and I recognize the sensation, how I’ve been here before. My body reacts, already responding to him without my consent.
He groans and spreads my legs over him so his hardness connects with my core.
“I gotta call my friend,” I mumble as he kisses me.
“You texted Mica.”
“I did?” I roll off him and hold my phone up to read.
Crazy chicky. Destiny’s so mad.
I grimace at Mica’s reply before scrolling up and reading my barely understandable message to her. Note to self: don’t drink and text.
He’s staring at me, so I shoot him a wary glance. “What?”
“You remember who you called, babe?”
Babe. Not sure I want him to call me that… even though we slept together… Crap! This is so messed up. I want to take off. How do I leave and never look back? How? In my mind, I rummage for solutions from TV shows and movies, because I have no real-life point of reference.
“Who did I call?” I ask.
“Your mom.”
Oh. Fuck. Me.
Last night hits me full force. In one giant flash, I remember every stupid detail. I get up and wrap the sheet around me hastily. As I stand, I’m hit with a wave of nausea. Stumbling, I make my way to what I think is the bathroom, only it’s his walk-in closet. Ah!
“Are you okay?”
The guy has wood—not carpet—in his bedroom. I swallow compulsively, trying not to vomit all over the elegant mahogany floorboards.
My mom. Damn!
“Bathroom!” I plead, my voice coming out strangled.
“You’re sick.” He links an arm around my waist and pulls me through another door where the porcelain throne beckons for me to hurl my guts out.
And I do. The sheet sinks from me while I’m busy delivering green goop. I shudder at the aftertaste in my mouth, and I wish he’d back the hell off. I can’t tell him, because I’m too. Freaking. Sick.
Sure, I deserve total purgatory, and I hurt like the loser I am right now.
“Shhh,” he soothes from behind me. He pulls up the sheet, covering my boobs again, and I’m grateful in the midst of my raging hangover.
“I hate this,” I sob because I’m pitiful and a child.
“Yeah, it sucks, babe.”
“I called my mother, huh?”
“You did. She wasn’t too happy.”
I projectile-vomit.
“What’s your name? Sorry,” I add, but he’s not offended.
“I’m Dominic.”
Ah yes, and Dominic is no high school kid. This guy can handle a girl. I remember that too.
Us in the hallway. The way his eyes burned with desire last night. How he showed me me in the mirror. Despite how sick I am, my cheeks heat with an embarrassment I didn’t experience while I was drunk.
Finally, I decide that short, sweet, and to the point is the best way. Carefully, I shove myself up from the floor. I brush my hair away and meet his gorgeous, hazel eyes. “Thanks for everything, Dominic, and sorry about all of this. I need to go home now.”
5. WEEKEND FUN
PANDORA
I have the best friends in the world. We’ve stuck together through thick and thin—by “thin” meaning some seriously dire times in high school—and here we are in Deepsilver.
The guilt floods me at how I’m ruining our first weekend as free humans, away from the parentals. By the time Dominic drove me to our apartment yesterday, Mica had read my stupid text out loud to the rest of them, and my half-assed message made them even more worried than they before.
Then, I sent Dominic headfirst back to his own pad without introducing him, which sweet Destiny didn’t approve of. Unfortunately, the day never got better, because I couldn’t stop throwing up. Shannon and Destiny took turns keeping my hair out of the bucket I’d suddenly become so fond of, while Mica complained.
“This was supposed to be fun, Wifey! You’re freaking boring right now,” she repeated until Shannon cut her off once and for all.
“Mica, you know that hyper-expensive Rolls Royce of a straightening iron you have? It lies really close to my fabric scissors. I promise you they’ll get well acquainted if you don’t quit nagging.”
By Sunday, I muster the courage to call my parents. I texted them yesterday with a lie about how I’d forgotten to charge the phone. I’m taking on the challenge today, though. At least I’m not sick anymore.
“Mom.”
“Dora!”
Fuck, I hate that nickname.
“So what’s up?”
“No, young lady. You tell me ‘what’s up,’” she says, stretching the me out. “I’m all ears.”
My mom is not all ears. She’s all mouth. I start on a long, monotone story about every twist and turn on our way cross country in Mica’s and Shannon’s cars. When I’m at the first hot dog stop, my mom can’t keep her yapper shut any longer.
“How’s your back, honey?”
“Totally fine.”
Lie. It’s killing me.
“Are you taking your ADHD meds?”
“I don’t have ADHD anymore, so nope, I’m not. My strand was Childhood ADHD, Mom. I am done.”
“Dora, listen to me. People can still—”
“Mom, stop!”
There’s shocked silence on the other side while she Pricelines a one-way flight in her head. Then, strangely, she opts to overlook my slipup.
“Have you found a good physiotherapist in town yet?”
“We arrived thirty-six hours ago, Mom.” I rub my face tiredly. With my parents, I tend to take the path of least resistance. Experience shows that I prevail on lies, not confrontations—which is due to my father being who he is.
“Well, young lady—”
“Mother, enough of the ‘young lady,’ okay?”
Mica’s eyebrows disappear under her bangs in surprise at the same time Mom lets out a frustrated puff into the phone. “Dora, remember that, college or not, you do have Scheuermann’s disease.”
“Barely.”
“Pandora Cancemi, chronic diseases need to be kept und
er control—you know that! Massage, exercise…”
“Yes, yes, I exercise.”
“Hot and cold wraps on your back? Did you unpack your heating pad?”
Oh, please, kill me.
“Yes, Mother. The heating pad is by the bed and the painkillers close by just in case.”
“And no overdoing the pills—”
“I don’t! Please—enough already.” I’m so sick of this conversation. “After all these years, I think I know what to do. When was I diagnosed again?” My question was rhetorical, but Mom doesn’t catch the nuance. Mica plops down on my bed, snickering. Crossing her legs, she leans in so the phone wedges in between our heads.
“Hmm,” my mother begins, and I groan inwardly. “Well, we met with Doctor Green when you were eleven. I remember our first visit vividly.”
So do I, Mom—so do I.
“Blah-blah-blah… unnatural curvature of the spine.”
Mica whispers, “Scheuermann can be a very serious illness if not kept from progressing.” And I snort out a laugh. She’s a natural at copying my mother.
“Dora? Are you there? Who are you talking to?”
“Um, Mica. She wants to go out and play.” My comment is snarky. For once Mom acknowledges the humor.
“Um, well, call me later, okay?” She’s definitely smiling on the other end. “And go find a nice playground.”
“Yeah! Smother’s a good one,” Mica says.
Afterward, I’m so relieved. I can’t believe my mother didn’t rip into me for the drunk call two nights ago. I feel a ton lighter. Suddenly, my spirit’s back, and I want to make the best of the weekend.
Mica notices. As soon as I hang up, she squeals “Sightseeing!” pulls me off the mattress, and hops onto my back. Terrible choice, considering the elephant in the room—the infamous Scheuermann.
“She acts like my disease is lethal or something. Every time, it’s like I’m this close to the grave,” I say.
“Bah, she just doesn’t want you to turn all humpback on her. Oh, oh! And be in paralyzing pain for the rest of your life.”
I groan, annoyed that she’s right. “Doesn’t change how frustrating she is.”