BONDED

by S. D. Harrison

  “My face is fine.”

  I try to lose him in the crowd.

  I fail.

  “I didn’t say it isn’t a nice face. I said it’s an annoyed-looking one.”

  Is he flirting with me?

  “Maybe I find you annoying,” I suggest, my lips curving into a slight smile, betraying me. I hope he doesn’t notice. I’m not interested in flirting, especially with him.

  “You find me charming.” He shrugs his obnoxiously large shoulder as though it is a fact. “What was that ice cream yesterday? The chocolate one?”

  You can probably see my blush from space.

  “Chocolate and peanut butter,” I say stiffly, walking up to my locker.

  Why won’t he go away?

  “It was delicious,” he says innocently, his eyes twinkling mischievously. That’s when I realize he knows how much he affects me.

  It’s also when I decide I hate him.

  I give him my most deadly glare. Were there an award for death glares, it would be mine.

  T.K. lifts his eyebrows in surprise, but the suggestive smile he wears doesn’t waver. “Just saying,” he says, winking at me before he turns to walk away.

  He is unfazed.

  But at least he is gone.

  I only have a few moments of peace before I walk into math class to find him sitting in the seat next to mine. I look around for Allie, the girl who usually sits next to me, and find her in T.K.’s old seat. Did he seriously switch seats to sit next to me?

  “Going to try to glare me to death again?” he asks as I take my seat.

  I ignore him.

  I continue to ignore him through the period as he makes jokes about Mr. Okar’s slanted writing and asks why I’m always so grouchy.

  I don’t understand why he feels the need to be so aggravating.

  The only good thing about his pestering is my progressing conviction I was mistaken yesterday when I thought he was the boy from my dreams.

  No, not mistaken–insane. Even my twisted imagination couldn’t conjure up a human this maddening, could it?

  “Why are you being so infuriating?” I ask at the end of class as I toss my textbook in my bag. I’m still having trouble making eye contact with him without a blush consuming my face, but the undying hatred I feel toward him is helping me work through it.

  “Your reactions amuse me,” he says simply, as though I should have known. “There’s not much to do in this place. We all need hobbies.” He smiles, either trying to dazzle or annoy me–I can’t tell which.

  “Well, you’ll need to find a new hobby,” I snap, snatching my bag and marching out of the room. For some reason, his answer bothers me.

  If only he would get hit by a bus, or something large enough to detach the ego from his body.

  ∆∆∆

  I enjoy a nice break throughout English and lunch–T.K. seems to avoid interacting with Marcella whenever he can–but he is back to pissing me off during our free period, sitting next to me and pawing at my copy of King Lear in-between questions I refuse to answer.

  By the end of the day, I’m so frustrated with his existence I no longer blush uncontrollably every time he looks at me.

  The next two days follow the same pattern. Thursday is the only day I’m given a moment of peace, as I’m saved during my free period by my tutoring obligation–not that spending time with Mitch is much better than being pestered by T.K.

  I go through each act of King Lear with Mitch until he actually demonstrates a basic understanding of the content, while I avoid watching T.K. sit at his table three rows over with his feet propped up, seemingly taking a nap. That manages to piss me off, too.

  “I’m going to kill him,” I tell Lindsay as we change into our uniforms before Friday’s tryouts. I have been given the position of Vice Cheer Captain, a position I’m ninety-nine percent sure is a fabrication of Lindsay’s imagination.

  “You could kill him with kisses,” she teases, not understanding how annoyed I am. T.K. is testing not only my self-control, but also my patience, two things most people know better than to play around with. He doesn’t understand the rules.

  “I am so not interested, Linds. Plus that would be awkward since Marcella will officially be on the team in about an hour.”

  The look Lindsay gives me would be comical if I didn’t know her so well. Her eyes roll as far back as they can and she heaves a ridiculous sigh. “We both know you don’t like Marcella, so don’t act like it would be some huge girl-code violation if you dated her brother.”

  “I like Marcella,” I lie. Am I that obvious?

  “Oh, you do not.” She places her hands on her hips. “You’re only tolerating her because you know I like her, which I appreciate, by the way, since you scare most people away. But that doesn’t mean you’re fooling me. She annoys you and you think she’s stuck-up, even though she’s like, the sweetest person ever.”

  Marcella is sweet. Too sweet. Fake sweet. The past week it has driven me close to madness. Her voice is always so warm and pleasant. How can that be natural?

  “I’m being nice, aren’t I?” I counter, ignoring most of what she says.

  “You’re being nice for you, which is one degree above frigid for normal people. I really like her, Raye. Can you please give her a chance? Like, an actual chance, not a fake chance?” Lindsay’s eyes are pleading, and it’s pulling at my singular guilt string.

  I sigh. “Should I smile more?”

  Lindsay rolls her eyes. “Just be nice. Ask her questions. Answer her when she speaks to you instead of saying some lame one-word response. Also, act happy when she makes the team. We’re cheerleaders. Be cheerful. Can you be cheerful?” She pinches my cheek.

  “Rah-rah,” I say lamely, slapping her hand away from my face.

  “Beautiful! Now, it would also probably help if you went on a date with T.K.,” she adds, attempting to be sly.

  Lindsay Cruz is about as sly as a buffalo.

  “No can do. Friends don’t date friends’ brothers.” I smile, shaking a pompom. We don’t use them often, but Lindsay insists we keep them on hand, just in case.

  When we finally head out to the field, we join the two other members of the team. We’re recognizable thanks to our matching purple and gold unitard-mini-skirt ensembles. I always feel like a teen movie when I put it on, but it makes Lindsay happy, so it’s worth it–at least a little.

  I’m both surprised and not surprised at all to see T.K. sitting in the bleachers with Chane. He’s put on a camel colour leather jacket to protect him from the slight chill in the air, making him look badass and–as much as I hate to acknowledge it–sexy. I groan internally and follow Lindsay to stand in front of the group of candidates.

  We kick off tryouts with a routine of our own, which isn’t easy since over half the team has yet to be selected. I didn’t like many of last year’s girls, but I feel oddly exposed up at the front with so few people surrounding me. I gaze to the stands where T.K. is sitting, his hands on his cheeks, watching intently. I sigh and do a high-kick per Lindsay’s instructions.

  Our routine lasts about five minutes and involves a lot of smiling and words I only half-cheer. “Rams! Rams! We’re number one! Rams! Rams! We’ll never be done!” The lines are neither original nor inspiring, but for some reason, no one ever thinks to change them to something more appealing.

  I keep glancing at T.K.; it looks like he’s laughing. Maybe a high-kick to the face would shut him up. The image makes me smile a little, temporarily replacing the fake one I’m wearing. I wonder if I would be able to kick my foot up that high, considering he is a good half-foot taller than I am.

  “Okay, ladies!” Lindsay starts after our cheer is done, shaking me out of my mini-fantasy. “We have tons of room this year for you newbies since most of our original team was made up of last year’s seniors. That means only half of you won’t make the cut, which are way better odds than we had when we tried out!” she says, shaking a pompom in my direction.

 
When Lindsay and I tried out last year, fourteen girls wanted to be on the team, and only three spots were available. I still believe the only reason I was chosen is because the then-captain wanted Lindsay, and she was worried she would turn them down if I weren’t picked, too–which, granted, she probably would have. Lindsay has been enrolled in every kind of dance imaginable since she learned to walk–how her parents afforded it, I have no idea. She is by far the best we have on the team.

  Until Marcella’s turn to tryout comes.

  The way her body moves…it shouldn’t even be possible. Backflips, front flips, things I don’t even know the words for. The small part of me that thought maybe she would be so awful Lindsay wouldn’t be able to rationalize placing her on the team immediately shrivels up and dies.

  “Where did you learn all that?” Lindsay exclaims, obviously impressed. I watch in distaste as she and half of the girls circle around Marcella in excitement and awe.

  Marcella actually looks a little impressed herself, as does Chane sitting in the bleachers.

  T.K. is still busy watching me with eyes suggesting horribly inappropriate things–not that I’ve been looking at him.

  “Would you believe it was beginner’s luck?” She’s not nearly as out of breath as she should be.

  “Uh, no,” Lindsay replies. She tosses her arms around Marcella’s shoulders. “Either way, you definitely make the team.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to put up a list or something?” Marcella’s laugh chimes away; she’s pleased she already got her yes.

  Lindsay is supposed to put up a list.

  I roll my eyes and walk over to the water stand set up at the edge of the field. By the time I arrive, T.K. is already waiting, a cup of water in his hand.

  “I have to say,” he says, passing me the water, “I’ve seen peppier cheerleaders at a funeral.”

  “Why would there be cheerleaders at a funeral?” I retort, hesitantly taking the water. I ignore the exchange of sparks that pass between us as our hands brush.

  T.K. pauses for a moment, watching me take my first sip of water before responding. “Maybe it’s a football player’s funeral?” He shakes his head to clear whatever thought was passing through. “Really, though, how did you get pulled into this? I know you and Lindsay are close, but she can’t actually think you’re having fun, can she?”

  I hate the way T.K. is able to read me so easily when most people have such trouble with it. “I don’t mind it,” I shrug, tossing out my empty cup of water.

  “You’re such a liar,” he smiles, getting me another cup. “It’s a good thing I can see through it so easily.”

  I glare at him and take the cup, pretending not to notice his hand lingering on mine a little longer than necessary. “I have a question, though.”

  Doesn’t he have anything better to do?

  “I probably won’t answer it,” I reply, trying to savour the water. I turn toward Lindsay, who is ushering in the next candidate. I wince at how bad the girl is. She has a Taylor Swift song blasting as she attempts what I can only assume is a dance she saw on TV ten years ago.

  “There was one moment out there when you actually smiled. It didn’t last long, but your whole face changed. What were you thinking about?”

  Finally, a question I don’t mind answering. “I was imagining high-kicking you in the face,” I answer sweetly. From the corner of my eye, I notice Lindsay summoning me over, her arms waving over her head as she mouths ‘help!’

  “At least you were thinking about me. I’ll take it,” he calls as I walk away.

  I groan in response; his laughter follows me all the way to centre field.

  ∆∆∆

  “I saw you flirting with the dreamboat again,” Lindsay notes as I drive her home after practice. We found ten girls who are decent enough to complete our team, so she’s in high spirits. “I bet Marcella won’t even care, you know. She must be used to her friends drooling all over him.”

  “Good god, Linds, I’m seriously not interested, okay?” I don’t mean to snap, but the whole T.K. thing is getting on my nerves.

  “If I drop it will you come dress shopping with me on Monday?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

  “You know I don’t even want to go.” I remember the last dance at the end of the previous school year. I had to watch Mitch grind all over Kasey like it was their private room. It hadn’t been fun. It had been borderline traumatic, actually.

  “And you know I’m going to force you anyway. This means you need a dress. Please?” She’s still batting her eyelashes like a giant, dress-obsessed doe.

  “Fine, but you owe me.” I shake my head at her; she always wins–every single time. It’s the mere fact I owe her big time for all my previous drama that I put up with it.

  After I drop Lindsay off, I head home, eager to start my weekend. I’m planning to binge through a new book series and eat copious amounts of brownies, which I baked last night in preparation.

  When I pull into my driveway, my plans change.

  My mom’s Audi is parked neatly in its spot next to two stripped police cars, their lights still flashing red and blue.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What the hell, Mom?” I shout, walking in through the open door. Sitting around our coffee table are three constables, badges shiny and guns nestled into their holsters. Mom is pouring them coffee, completely calm. Only she could remain neutral with half the town’s police force sitting in our living room.

  “There’s been a bit of an incident, sweetheart,” she replies, still dressed in the pinstripe navy suit she wore to work.

  “Clearly,” I note dryly. For her to show up home so early there must be a nuclear warhead buried in our backyard. “What the hell happened?”

  She sighs, as though she doesn’t want to tell me. It’s the smallest of the officers, a man with shaggy blonde hair pulled back in a low bun and bright blue eyes that hurt to look at who finally acknowledges my question. He’s young, fresh out of school, and the friendliest looking of the three. “I’m afraid there’s been a break-in, miss. The alarm was triggered about an hour ago, but when we arrived there was no one in sight.”

  “Well, did they take anything?” I don’t notice anything out of its usual place, except for the appearance of my mother while the sun is still bright in the sky.

  “Not that I can tell,” Mom replies, shrugging as though she isn’t concerned. I can’t tell if it’s an act or not. “Some things have obviously been moved around, but nothing seems to be missing.” The way she says ‘moved around’ fills my body with dread.

  “I’m going upstairs.”

  I grab the plate of fresh brownies off the counter before heading up the stairs. My mom makes a motion as if to try to stop me, but my face gives her pause. I’m not in the mood for this.

  When I’m halfway up the stairs I hear Mom say, “Well, thank you for your time, officers, but I must get back to the office.” I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did.

  I want to cry when I see my bedroom.

  I’m usually pretty good–okay, flawless–about keeping it neat and organized, but it looks as though I haven’t cleaned in a decade. The contents of my closet are strewn across the floor along with the inhabitants of my wall of bookcases. The covers have been ripped off my bed, and my curtains have partially fallen off of their rod. In the middle of the room, my small garbage can has been emptied on one of my area rugs.

  “So much for my peaceful weekend,” I mumble, tossing the brownies on my desk and collapsing on my now unmade bed. The urge to break something consumes me, but there isn’t anything left unscathed.

  ∆∆∆

  It takes all of Saturday and half of Sunday to fix the mess in my room–and Mom’s, because heaven forbid she take a day off to help me fix everything.

  To make matters worse, news has spread by the time I arrive at school on Monday morning; everyone wants to know what happened and who did it and if my mom has sent anyone to prison yet.

  Dram
a-hungry savages.

  “I called you a thousand times!” Lindsay hisses at me, wrapping her arms around my waist in an oxygen-cutting-off hug. “Why didn’t you call me back? You could have been dead! I would have come right over; you know...if I could drive. What the hell, Raye?”

  I roll my eyes at her dramatic greeting. “I’m alive, see?” I extract myself from her hug and do a spin. I’m mocking her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “The jackass messed up our phone lines. My mom thinks they thought they were dismantling an alarm system but hit the phones instead.” I didn’t mind the lack of ringing all weekend.

  “This is why you need a cell phone!”

  I roll my eyes again. There is no point in having a cell phone if there’s only one person you call.

  “I’m fine, Linds,” I say as Marcella and T.K. walk up. My locker is getting crowded. Since when did I become the hub of social gatherings?

  I’m mildly surprised when Marcella hugs me and mumbles she’s glad I’m okay into my hair. “Lindsay told me what happened. You must have been so scared!”

  “I wasn’t there when it happened,” I say, trying not to let the annoyance seep into my voice. “It was the weekend spent cleaning up the trashed house that sucked.”

  T.K. is watching me with his eyes narrowed in confusion, maybe trying to figure out if I’m lying again. I turn back to my locker to grab my books and am saved from more questions by the bell chiming loudly overhead. Lindsay and Marcella say goodbye, leaving me alone with T.K.

  “Walk you to class?” he asks, creating the illusion of giving me a choice. “I’m impressed you’re handling this so well. If our house was robbed, Chane and Marcella would be in hysterics.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” I say stiffly, earning myself another questioning look. “Besides, I don’t think you can call it a robbery. Nothing was taken.”

  The robbers were idiots, really. Rather than take the thousands of dollars worth of jewellery and crap my mother has accumulated over the years, they simply chose to destroy everything they could touch.

  “They didn’t take anything?”