She bites her top lip for a second and then announces, “I made coffee.”
We stand there for an awkward minute. Am I getting coffee or … oh. She wants me to leave. Of course she does. What was I thinking? “I’ll go,” I tell her.
“But I made coffee.” For a second, there’s a glimpse of her frustration with me. Welcome to the club. “C’mon.” She heads to the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder to make sure I follow and maybe catching me checking out her ass. It’s a work of art. I’d like to frame it, hang it on my wall and jerk off to it every night.
“I don’t know how you want it so … ”
It takes me a minute to realize we’re on different wavelengths. I’m still thinking about her ass. This is about milk and sugar and coffee. I take mine black because I’m rarely lucky enough to get even that. She doesn't pour herself a cup. Did she make coffee just for me?
She’s busy digging an ice pack out the freezer when she asks, “Hungry?”
Starving. I shake my head, but she’s not looking so I clear my throat, the vocal equivalent of a mishandled chainsaw, and blurt, “NO” at a volume that should require stadium seating.
Now she whirls around in a hella hurry. This is going well.
“OK,” she says, all quiet and cautious. Grabbing a box of crackers from a cupboard, she adds, “Follow me.”
A doorway off the kitchen leads to a narrow set of stairs. I trail after her, balancing my coffee, protecting my sore ribs and stumbling over a pair of dogs who don’t understand the concept of a no passing zone. She juggles everything else and my guitar hits the wall seven times on the way down.
The basement is a big space with a musty smell. There’s a laundry and bathroom at the far end and a worn shag carpet underfoot. The sound of a faucet dripping might just drive me over the edge. I try hard not to hear it. Tia drops my stuff with a worrisome thud, spreads her arms and tells me, “All yours.”
I’m now the proud owner of a saggy green couch, punching bag, pair of kayaks, air hockey table, giant doll house, and is that an Xbox hooked to the TV? She seems to think I’m moving in. I might stick around long enough to play Grand Theft Auto.
“This pulls out.” She pats a couch cushion. “There’s blankets and pillows and stuff in the closet by the dryer. Just help yourself to anything you want.”
I know exactly what I want. I stare at her.
She gives me the smile I’m blaming for global warming and leaves the silence for almost two seconds. “So, we’re gonna start with ice.” She thrusts the ice pack at me. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Keep the ice against the swelling for ten minutes.”
I sit, press the ice to my cheek and pretend it’s gonna make a difference. Swelling on my face is like acne on the Elephant Man.
I sip coffee with a taste I can’t identify but am not happy about. The gray mutt plops down by my feet and keeps an eye on me. New Dog hops on the couch. He smells like lo mein noodles and looks as if he’s been electrocuted, eyes a little wild, fur patchy, scar on his nose. He’s maybe the dog version of me, and I’m guessing we’ve both eaten out of the garbage. I might not be capable of licking my balls, but he’s the one gnawing on his own paw.
Tia shakes the crackers and both me and the dogs perk up. “I’ll set these here if you want them.” She leaves the box on the air hockey table, heads over to the washer and starts in on the laundry. She shoves clothes from the dryer into a basket, moves wet stuff from washer to dryer, and before I can stop her, empties my bag of jeans, shirts and boxers into the washer. Goddamnit.
My pants hang off my ass because they’re Shae’s hand-me-downs and he’s the size of a skyscraper. If I don’t get enough to eat sometimes, that’s my friggin problem. I don’t need or want anything from anybody. Nobody needs or wants me for anything. See how that works?
“Don’t.” That’s what I manage. One stinkin’ word, and it’s already too late, cuz she’s pouring in the detergent.
“What?” Tia glances over her shoulder and finds me standing. “Hey, sit back down. Get that ice on. It hasn’t been ten minutes.”
She’s swatting me on the snout, expecting me to sit, stay and be a good boy. I throw the ice bag aside. The bigger dog whimpers and hides behind the couch. New Dog is right with me, yipping his little head off as I crowd Tia against the washer.
She presses backward, eyes all big and round, and I can almost hear her heart beating triple time. Good. She should be scared, should know better than to drag dirty strays home with her.
“What’re you doing?” she whispers.
Pushing air in and out of my lungs, my chest stretches, nearly rips me right open, and I force my fingers to clench tight. “That’s my question.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why?” I snarl. I’m such an asshole. I’m angry, always so angry, but I just keep getting pushed and poked, can’t do shit about it, and the buzzing just takes me right over. Goddamnit, why does she keep getting in-between me and everything else, like she can do something about it? What does she expect from me? Think I can do for her?
“Why am I here?” I lean in enough to inhale her sweetness and finally figure out she smells like cookies. Perfect. Goddamn cookies.
“I want to help you,” she insists. I shake my head as she says, “It’s OK to let me help you. It’s OK to speak up for what you need. You don’t have to take on everything alone.”
“I’m not gonna feed off your family like a parasite.”
“Parasite? I invited you here.” She lays her palms flat on my chest, whether to push me away or not, I don’t know, don’t care. Her fingers sink in like I’m made of mud and threaten to mold me into something new. I back track in a rush, fumbling over my own goddamn feet, new dog barking and biting at my pant leg.
“You have no idea how frustrating you are!” She comes at me, matching me step for step. “I shouldn’t have to blackmail you into coming home with me. It’s called friendship. Ever heard of it?”
I hit a wall, pinned with no space left between us and nowhere to look but at her, into those endless blue eyes.
“Friendship,” she goes on in that same hard tone. “It’s when you lend a hand without expecting or asking for anything in return. It’s talking, actual conversations where you share and make each other feel better. It’s not being so pissy and stubborn that one friend might be tempted to grab the other by the ears and shake some sense into him. And I … I’m sorry. This is definitely not me being a better person. Let me just … deep breath.”
I wonder if the air is safe to breathe on whatever planet she’s from. But I get it. It just took her a little longer than expected to have enough of me. I’m debating between offering to leave and giving her the pleasure of kicking my ass out, when this weird, cookie-smelling girl suddenly says, “Is it OK if I hug you?”
How did we go from her yelling at me to hugging?
“I’m going to hug you,” she tells me.
Aw fuck. This backfired in a friggin hurry. Shit, shit, shit. I’m shaking my head NO when her arms slide around me. She presses her cheek against my chest and her hands clutch the fabric at my back. Might as well drop me at thirteen thousand feet without a parachute. Panic. Dizziness. Vertigo. I’m standing but somehow falling. My heart beats hard enough to smash the bugs scurrying around inside my chest.
She’s not discouraged. She burrows in deeper, squeezes my sore everything and sighs like I’m the John to her Paul. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, you don’t deserve to live.
How long are hugs supposed to last? Even with my lack of experience, this seems too long. I keep my hands up and am slow to process her warmth seeping through my clothes, through my skin, spreading to fill every dark, cold space with a lightness I’ve never experienced before. It scares the ever loving piss out of me.
Tilting her chin, her big blues blink up at me. She is more dangerous than I realized.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says.
This was a g
igantic mistake.
“You try hard not to, but you like me.”
Nope.
“You like talking to me.”
Rather have an enema.
“That makes me happy.”
Shit. Goddamnit. I like her. A little bit. OK. A little more than a little bit.
“C’mon.” Tia takes my crazy hand in hers and leads me to the couch. “Sit. Drink your coffee. Have some crackers.” We’re back to her bossing me around. “And the ice, remember?”
Leaving me there, she heads off and comes back carting an overfilled laundry basket. She plops down nearly on top of me, pulls out a towel and starts folding. I try counting backwards from one hundred, just to get myself in order, and make it to ninety-eight.
“How did you end up living above Principal Sanderson’s garage?”
She might suck at folding, doesn’t even line up the edges of a washcloth, but her interrogation skills are spot on. Hardly anyone knows the connection between me and the high school principal. I maybe have a memory of her singing to me, but I could have made it up. I don’t remember exactly when she left. One day she was there and one day she wasn’t. Then a few months ago, I got busted for shoplifting bologna. Since I’d used up every last chance, Officer West shamed V for Vivian into taking me in, even though I hadn’t seen her in at least ten years and she can’t tolerate the sight of me. It’s a regular happily-ever-after.
I open my mouth, but Tia starts talking again. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s OK. I just can’t stand secrets, so I might explode with curiosity and it’ll be all your fault. Just so you know, in case it matters, I am an expert at keeping secrets. Seriously. I know all sorts of stuff about my older brother, about him and his sometimes girlfriend, the Blair-witch-project. I could get him grounded for like the next twenty years.” She pretends to turn a key and locks her mouth. “I’m a vault.”
This girl is a trip. I dig down deep and pull out three words of truth. “She’s my mom.”
“Mrs. Sanderson? Wow.” She sits for a second, staring at nothing with her lips parted in a soft sexy way that has me thinking dirty thoughts. “Huh. I did not see that coming.”
My stomach growls so loud New Dog growls back at it.
“I knew it. You’re hungry!” She pops up quicker than I can blink, grabs the crackers and rattles the box at me.
I shake my head no. I’ve taken enough from her without giving anything back.
“Really?” She scoops out a handful, pops them in her mouth and makes these orgasmic moans that have me and the dogs panting for different reasons. “Mmmmm. Soooo good.”
She then licks the tips of her fingers, one by one, pink tongue darting out and wrapping around, and that’s all it takes to pitch a tent in my pants. I’m no longer coherent, but when she waggles a cracker in front of my mouth, I am a good dog and eat from her hand. Then New Dog whines, and he and the gray mutt get fed same as me.
“I may have oversold the crackers,” she admits. “They’re kind of stale.”
Yup. But I’d happily lap up hairy turds from her fingers.
“Want something better?” she offers. “I could cook something? More coffee?”
I’ve learned her cooking’s not actually edible, so I shake my head, stuff more crackers in my mouth and wash them down with coffee that has cooled to the point of tasting like buzzard vomit.
When she pokes me, literally pokes me in my busted ribs and says, “This laundry isn’t gonna finish itself,” I fold. It’s good. It keeps my fingers busy.
“So what about your dad?” She wants to know.
“Gone.”
“As in …” I get the sad eyes, because she doesn’t realize my dad is too mean to die and I’d probably dance on his grave.
“Jail,” I manage.
“I’m gonna need a little more info.”
“Robbed a liquor store.”
“Oh.”
Yeah. Oh. There’s a whole lot more to the story, but she’s not asking and I’m not offering so we fold in silence. I snag whatever from the basket and come out with a scrap of red too small to be much of anything. I unravel it, hold it up.
“Oh!” Tia repeats, but in a whole new tone. She tries snatching the fabric from my hands, but it gets caught on my finger, and as she pulls harder, maybe dislocating my knuckle, I chant, “Ow, ow, ow.”
She mutters, “Those um … Those are ... “
Maybe that bit of lace is actually a slingshot, because when it pulls loose from my finger, it slips out of her grip and smacks me in the face.
“Oh my God,” she moans, finally grabbing and stuffing the lace under the folded towels. “They’re … um. Those are … Theo’s.”
Huh?
She holds it together for maybe half a second, then busts up laughing. Her tone is perfect until she snorts, then slaps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes and nose crinkle, and it’s a picture of her I’ll think about when I’m alone. And in my imagination, she’ll be wearing those red lace panties.
I try to smile back. I don’t want to be like this. Like me. But I can’t manage to be anything else.
CHAPTER 32
Tia:
Little zings of satisfaction kept me awake last night. Everytime I closed my eyes, I pictured Taz fresh from the shower, water dripping off the ends of his hair, shirt clinging nicely to his skin in all the best places. He was so hot, I nearly threw myself on him like he was a fire I needed to smother.
We made a connection. He opened up to me. We hugged. OK, I hugged while Taz squirmed like a buttered worm and scared the bejesus outta me when I dared wash his clothes, but still. Progress. Something to build on.
If you haven’t caught on yet, I’m EXCITED. This is the same feeling I get after pulling a cat out of the dumpster, scooping up an injured bird or kidnapping an abused puppy, except multiplied by a hundred. More like a thousand.
Between the two dogs and my rush, I almost beef it on the way down the basement stairs. I’m carrying a glass of orange juice along with one of my older brother’s nicer shirts and a pair of newer jeans draped over my arm. There’s a stupid smile on my face. It lasts for maybe three seconds. That’s how long it takes to realize the basement is empty. Taz’s guitar case is right where I left it, but the boy is not.
I call, “Taz?” for no good reason. It’s obvious he took off without a goodbye.
Devastated might be too strong a word but disappointed isn’t enough. I am the kid holding the empty cone, my mint-chocolate-chip melting on the sidewalk.
“Fudgesicles,” I half-shout, startling a bark out of Sam, which surprises a fart out of Ingrid, who then bites his own butt. It’s not a proud moment for any of us.
I stomp back upstairs and find Theo standing in the middle of the kitchen in his boxers with wild bedhead. There’s a yellow post-it note stuck to his cheek. I tilt my head to read my brother’s handwriting and say, “Inattendu,” which I’m fairly certain is French. Somebody must have fallen asleep studying at his desk again.
He glances at me, nods and mumbles, “Yes it is. Did you hear it last night?”
“Hear what?” I pat his head, but the hair refuses to be tamed. I let him keep the Post-it.
“I thought I was dreaming until I looked out the window this morning.”
Theo is far too sweet to kick, but my irritation level is quickly escalating from teeth grinding to physical violence. It’s not his fault. Just like the suspicious puddle on the floor is not Ingrid’s. I’m to blame for not taking the dog outside first thing, for crushing on Taz, for being a gullible idiot who is now stuck drinking orange after brushing my teeth. I take a cleansing breath, but without a map, I’m not finding my happy place.
“Theo?”
“What?”
“I’m lost. Beam me up.”
“It must have been Taz, right?”
“What about Taz?”
“He musta fixed it.”
“What in crispy crackers are you talking about?” It’s moments like these which will
not be included in my autobiography. There will be at least a missing page, probably whole deleted chapters.
“Have you looked?” Theo asks. “Out the window?”
“I don’t have time for this,” I start but then peek outside. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. All we need is Tiger Woods swinging a putter. Our lawn is mowed. Even the stray hockey pucks, decapitated dolls, broken pogo stick and bicycle with a flat tire have been picked up. I will no longer need a compass and machete to locate the mailbox. I can actually see it! I imagine Mrs. Kirkland, from across the street, dropping to her knees and weeping when she gets her paper this morning.
“That’s not all,” Theo says.
“Are you going to throw in a set of steak knives at the low, low price of nine ninety-nine?”
“This is better. This is walking into Target and finding everything in the store fifty percent off.”
“That never happens.”
“Exactly. Look.” He taps the kitchen table, right beside my calculus textbook and the homework I barely started in study hall yesterday because it makes less sense than fat-free cake.
God help me, my knees buckle. My butt lands in a kitchen chair and I set the orange juice aside. The answers are all filled in, written in handwriting much neater than mine. Holy hula hoops.
“And they’re right,” Theo tells me. “The answers. I checked them.”
Of course he did. I’m too grateful for this unexpected gift to be irritated by the fourteen year old future valedictorian verifying the homework I couldn’t manage. For the first time, I will turn in a completed Calculus assignment and refuse to feel guilty. While I may never understand definite integrals, I’ll hope for a fulfilling life just the same.
At that moment, the front door busts open. I hop up and run toward it, literary sprint, thinking Taz, Taz, Taz. I should know better. He’s as likely to show up as an imaginary friend. But I can’t wait to hug him again, and the possibility has me over-the-top breathless and eager. Spotting my older brother, I have no cover story and end up blurting “You’re home?”
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 14