The loud, long screech of a car horn shakes me awake just in time for me to stop myself from walking into the crosswalk. I jump back onto the sidewalk and clutch my backpack to my chest.
My heart thuds against the hardbound book inside. This signed special edition copy of Cosmos by Carl Sagan is my most prized possession. I’m giving it to her as a graduation gift. Last week she found out she’s going to be her class Valedictorian.
I wish I could go watch her graduate. But I’d have to ask my mother to drive me all the way to Hofheinz Pavilion. If she knew I’d even met a Wilde, much less spent time with one, she’d raise hell and this small peace I’ve found would be taken from me.
So, I’m taking her my present now. I’ve read it at least a hundred times in the two years since my stepfather brought it home for me. I can recite entire chapters with my eyes closed. But there’s one in particular, about the planet Venus, that made me decide to give this book to Regan.
The transits of Venus - the point in its orbit when it moves between the earth and the sun – only happens once a century. It is the rarest of predictable astronomical phenomena – and one of the most important. Before we had high powered telescopes and the ability to launch satellites into space, scientists used its occurrence to map our entire solar system.
The book has taught me more than planetary order. It helped me understand that even in chaos, there’s order.
When my stepfather died, I read it obsessively to remind myself that there is no such thing as bad timing, or coincidence, or luck. As intelligent as we are, we’re no more important than a speck of stardust compared to the age and size of the universe.
Just like those planets up there - we’re on a collision course with our destiny and everything we do, everyone we meet, shapes that journey and becomes part of it.
Regan has become part of mine.
I wrote an inscription on the inside of the book that says, “You’re my Venus and I’m your Mars.”
It’s simple, but when she reads the book, she’ll understand. She’ll see I’m not some ordinary kid. When I finish school, I’m going to marry her. I used to think I’d never get married, because I didn’t want to leave people behind the way I was. But I’d do it with her.
I gulp down the cool night air to calm my racing heart. The sidewalks here are pristine strips of large red pavers that line the glass fronted stores on the street. The leaves and petals of the hanging plants that give it a small town feel during the day, cast eerie shadows now.
The telltale glow of light from the back of the store makes my heart skip a beat. I’m early, but I wanted to have time to give her my present before we got to work.
I’ve just opened the door and am about to call out for her when a shrill, short scream rips through the quiet of the bakery.
I freeze, my heart beating like a jackhammer. Another scream, this one followed by a man’s rumbling voice scares me into motion. I press the white button on the wall to trigger the silent alarm and tip toe toward the kitchen.
The rush of blood in my ears is so loud, my ears throb. If anything happens to her…I move faster, but soundlessly through the hallway that leads into the kitchen and stop to grab a knife from the wall where they’re mounted.
“Get over here and show me what a slut you are,” the man’s voice isn’t angry. But I’ve heard the boys at school call girls that and I know it’s not something you say to be nice.
“You wish,” she responds in that taunting voice of hers. She doesn’t sound afraid, but her scream when I first walked in is practically ringing in my ear.
I creep to the door and pause to listen for sounds of him coming this way. I don’t hear anything, so I flatten my back to the wall of the dark hallway and move as fast as I can and creep unnoticed into the service area of the restaurant where they’re standing.
His back is to me, Regan is on her knees in front of him and his hand is in her hair, tugging it back and forth. Regan is gagging. He’s saying all sorts of filthy words to her that even Hayes wouldn’t say to anyone. I see red and tighten my grip on the knife handle.
Seeing him hurt her, my girl, makes something in me go solid. All of the crap of this year bubbles up to the surface. I don’t think about what comes next. I just heed my instinct that’s screaming at me to protect her. I rush toward them with the knife poised to strike. I’m fully prepared to take this man’s life to save hers.
Regan’s thick, dark lashes flutter and then her eyes pop open just as I lift the knife. I shake my head, mouth “I’ll stop him,” and watch them go from dazed to terrified as I plunge it into his back.
And then all hell breaks loose.
Chapter 5
Do You Love Him?
Regan
Weston’s howls are interspersed with grunts of pain. He claws desperately at his back to try and grasp the handle of the knife, twisting and turning wildly. In stark contrast. Stone is completely still and silent as he stares in rapt, morbid fascination.
If this nightmare wasn’t happening to me, I would laugh.
The horrifying, manic scream Weston unleashes when he manages to grip the hilt and yank it out, shakes me out of my stupor. I take a cautious step in his direction, “Weston, let me have that,” I nod at the blood tipped chef’s knife in his hand.
He jerks away from my extended arm. He eyes Stone with wild, enraged eyes. “Who the fuck is this kid?” he roars lurches toward him.
I’m afraid he’s going to turn the knife on Stone, but he drops it and reaches around to probe his back. He lifts a trembling bloody stained hand in front of his face and pales.
“Are you okay?” I ask him and reach for him again.
As soon as I touch him, he wrenches away, protecting his injured flank and turning his ire on me. “What the fuck do you think? I got stabbed in the fucking back and I’m bleeding,” he cries.
“We should call 9-1-1,” Stone’s voice is toneless and so cold, it sends a shiver up my spine. I glance at him and gasp at the undisguised malice in his eyes.
“Don’t you fucking call anyone,” Weston hisses through clenched teeth.
“You need a doctor,” I argue, incredulous as he starts to gather the small pile of keys, phone and wallet he’d dumped on the white marble serving counter that runs along the entire front of the bakery.
“And the police,” Stone chimes in.
“Fuck the police,” Weston pushes a lock of blonde hair off his sweat damp forehead.
“Why not? I stabbed you, don’t you want me to pay for it?” Stone asks in a taunting voice. His expression is keen and knowing. His voice is grave and there is not a hint of regret in his expression. If anything, he looks like he’s sorry Weston isn’t dead. There’s no hint of the compassionate kid I’ve gotten to know.
“You’re fucking lucky I don’t like cops. I know some bruisers in juvie hall that would turn your little ass inside out,” Weston growls.
“Weston!” I shoot him a quelling glance over my shoulder.
He looks at me like I grew another head. “Are you seriously yelling at me? The little shit fucking stabbed me.”
“He was scared,” I snap at him and step into his line of sight so he can’t see Stone anymore.
“He doesn’t scare me.” Stone’s voice trembles.
I turn around, cup his face in my hands, and tilt it up until I can look into his eyes. They’re luminous with unshed tears. “Why?” I whisper.
He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything before he presses his lips together like he’s holding back a scream. He swallows hard and he looks into my eyes like his life depends on it.
“I’m fucking bleeding, can you have your little moment later?” Weston groans from behind me.
“He’s just a kid, let me get him sorted,” I say in annoyance over my shoulder, and tense when Weston struggles to his feet.
His face is pale and waxy. Pain etched in lines that crease his forehead and bracket his mouth. He takes a few steps and then slumps into one of t
he chairs.
He needs medical attention. But first I need to get Stone out of here. “Are you ready to go back to school? I’ll take you.”
“I’m not a kid.” Stone stands, arms crossed, glaring at me.
I sigh in frustration. His lack of remorse rankles. I know he’s got the courage of his convictions, but he’s gone too far.
“Yes, you are. And you stabbed someone tonight when you shouldn’t even have been here. You should at least apologize.”
He steps back like I slapped him.
“I thought he was hurting you,” he says, his little hands balled into fists.
“No, not at all. What we were doing is what boys do with girls they like.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” Stone asks and I frown, my brow furrows so deeply that it gives me an instant headache.
“No, honey, I...” I have no idea how to explain this thing between me and Weston.
Weston hefts himself up with a grunt of pain. “We’re fucking and that makes me much more than her titty sucking boyfriend.”
I wish he’d act like people on tv when they got stabbed and pass out, or something. “Shut up,” I snap.
“You shut the fuck up, you bitch,” he grits out, his finger pointing menacingly at me. His face is contorted by outrage as he staggers toward me. I’m not scared of him, but I take an instinctive step back.
“Stop saying bad words to her,” Stone yells.
“What are you, five years old?” Weston taunts, raising the pitch of his voice in a mocking mimic of Stone’s.
“I’m ten and a half,” he levels a contemptuous gaze on Weston. “I’m glad I stabbed you, you dirty mouthed jerk,” And then, he lunges at him with so much force that he manages to drag me forward a few steps before I can stop him.
Weston’s howl of pain before he falls to his knees makes me jump back in surprise. He drops to his side on the floor clutching his balls and moaning in agony.
Stone’s little face is grim, his eyes wide and on glued to Weston’s now prostrate, writhing body. “I kicked him,” he says like he can’t believe it himself.
I reach out to him. He eyes my hand warily, but when I cup his shoulders and pull him into a hug, he comes willingly. He wraps his arms around my waist and hugs me tight.
Even in the midst of this disaster, affection and love overwhelm everything else, and I hug him back. “You don’t have to be afraid,” I murmur into the top of his sweat-dampened hair.
“Like hell. If he’s still here when I get up, I’m gonna skin that fucker alive,” Weston grits out, spittle foams in the corners of his grotesquely contorted mouth.
“I thought he was hurting you,” Stone roars suddenly and pulls away from me with a violent jerk of his little body.
We all jump at the same time when the sound of the emergency vehicle siren rips through the quiet air. They’re closer now.
“You called the cops?” Weston groans and starts to stand, but he slumps back in his chair, pale and sweaty.
“No, I didn’t call anyone.”
I rush to the window and peer out at the long stretch of Wilde Way. In the distance, I see the unmistakable flash of lights. Like the proverbial deer, I’m momentarily frozen by fear even as my mind races to think of how to salvage this.
Stone can’t be caught here. He’ll be expelled. And my grandfather will kill me if he knows I’ve been giving aid and comfort to a Rivers.
“You have to leave.” With my heart in my throat, I grab Stone by the shoulders and turn us toward the back exit. When he digs his heels in and won’t move, I lean down and bring us face to face. “If they find you here, you’ll be in a lot of trouble,” I plead.
The anger and hurt in his eyes so raw and naked, that it steals my breath.
“You lied to me, Regan.” He wrenches out of my hold.
“About what?” I ask, bewildered and anxious at the same time.
His chest is heaving, and his lip is trembling. He blinks and squeezes his eyes closed sending tears spilling out of the corners of them.
The sight of this sweet, thoughtful, sensitive soul who I’ve grown to care about over the last few months, crying because of something I did, intentionally or not, hurt him brings tears to my eyes.
“Everything was perfect until you ruined it. I love you, but you like him. Even I can tell he’s a bad man. I wish I’d never met you.”
The force of his outburst hits me square in the solar plexus and I have no clue how to respond to what he just said.
Stone, on the other hand, has no problem saying what he thinks. He glances at Weston, and his lip curls in disgust.
“I should have let him choke you to death with his penis,” he growls and then turns and sprints for the backdoor.
Dismayed, I start after him, but the flashing lights and screeching sirens outside the bakery, stop me mid-stride. So, I let him go.
But as I turn back to deal with Weston and disaster that’s bubbling over in the bakery, I have a terrible feeling that I’ll never see that little boy again.
At that thought, my heart breaks, too.
One Year Later
PALESTINE, EAST TEXAS
Chapter 6
Palestine
Regan
“Reggie, are you sure you know where you’re going? We’re in the middle of nowhere.” My friend Matty peers futilely out of her window at the fathomless dark. while we zip down the winding back roads. that were that cut through the dark forest.
“We’re in Jerusalem, Texas and the people who live here would be pretty offended to hear you call this little pearl, nowhere,” I drawl in an exaggerated twang.
“A pearl? Wow, the dark must hide all its charm,” Matty, quips dryly.
“And the machete wielding mad- men,” Jack chimes in from the back seat.
“You two are such city girls, you’d think you’d never been out in the country before.” I chide, tongue in cheek. I haven’t even been camping before. I think these woods are creepy as hell.
“So are you, your $1000 cowboy boots don’t make you an expert, okay?” I can hear Matty’s eye roll without looking at her.
“No, but they’ll sure make me feel like one if we run out gas and have to walk. Good luck running from coyotes in those four-inch Manolo's—hey,” I yelp and arch away when her fingers dance over my ribs to tickle me.
“Are there really coyotes out here? Do they eat people?” Jack asks, nervously.
I groan with exaggerated impatience “Calm your tits, tricks, we’ve got plenty of gas and I know where I’m going. I promised you an adventure and I’m delivering. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
Matilda and Jacqueline, aka Matty and Jack are my best friends from freshman year. We all had internships at Wilde World this summer. They’ve been staying with me at my family’s house this week. And we’ve been having the time of our lives. My mother seemed to have mellowed and except for her horror over the way I wore my hair, she barely had a word to say about anything.
Growing up, Houston’s humid summers made my hair impossibly frizzy and my mother would drag me to the African hair braider on West Alabama to get my hair braided every week. In the fall and winter when the air was dryer and cool, we spent Saturdays getting our hair rolled, blown out and then pressed with a flat iron.
It was an ordeal. But in Tina Wilde’s eyes, an unruly coiffure was a sign of internal disorder. One of the things I looked forward to most about leaving home was autonomy over my own hair.
In the weeks before I left for SMU, I spent hours reading Black hair blogs. i learned my hair was considered a 3C texture and figured out which products were best for it and went down to Solid Gold on W. Bellfort to buy them.
Before I left, we spent half the day at the beauty salon getting it pin straight, the way she liked it.
The first thing I did after she dropped me off on campus was wash my hair. I walked out of my room and headed to orientation with it loose and free for the first time in as long as I could remember.
> I stopped to ask someone for directions. She gave them to me and when I said, “Thank you” the girl responded with, “What are you?”
I laughed and answered, “An Aquarius,” tongue in cheek because it was such a vague question.
She gave me an impatient sigh and spoke in a slow, deliberate tone. “Are you, like…Dominican, or something?”
“Nope, I’m from Texas.” My ignorance was feigned, but only because I wasn’t sure how to answer.
If she’d asked who I was, the answer would have rolled off my tongue. I’m Regan Naomi Wilde - daughter, sister, dreamer, womanist, ally, writer, reader, rebel.
But what I was? I’d never given much thought to. In Houston, my family’s history is practically local lore and even though my grandfather is Irish, we were raised by our mother and have always thought of ourselves as Biracial Black people.
Over the course of my first week on campus, I found myself being asked that question, “What are you?” repeatedly. The response to my ambiguous and vague answers was, almost universally, disappointment. And it only made me feel more alone than ever.
One night, I stared at myself in the mirror and tried to see what stood out the most. But all I saw was a near perfect blending of both parts of my heritage.
My eyes are the same deep dark brown as the famously rich soil in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica where my mother spent her childhood.
The spray of freckles on my left cheek are a gift from my maternal grandmother who was born in the town of Letterkenny, Ireland.
In the summer my skin drinks in the sun and turns deep brown. By the end of winter, I’m so pale Tyson calls me Casper.
I joined the Caribbean Student Union and the Irish American Student Coalition to try to figure out where I might fit. I found things and people I loved in both organizations, but I realized that no matter what I called myself, my resting bitch face was a universal language that made friendships hard to cultivate, no matter where I was.
The Rivals Page 69