“When did that happen?” I haven’t been home long. I definitely would have noticed smoke billowing up into the sky on my drive from the school.
“It’s happening now,” she says. “I was having a late lunch with a co-worker down the street when we saw the smoke. Fire trucks everywhere,” she continues, shaking her head. “It made it impossible to return to the office.”
Of course.
“Was anyone hurt?” I look back to the TV. It looks like a giant fire. I can’t remember a time when the town’s whole fleet of first responders was needed at once, but it looks like today is the day.
My mom hesitates for a couple of seconds before deciding I can handle whatever she is going to say. “They were able to evacuate most of the area, but there was a body found, yes. It’s quite unrecognizable, though, from what I’ve heard. I don’t think there will be any way to determine who it was, unless they have dental records on file. But in a town like this?” She shakes her head and starts a pot of coffee.
I should be more concerned than I am. A normal person would definitely be concerned. But aside from Lindsay and my mom, who do I have to lose?
I flip the TV back to my Saw marathon.
“Oh, fantastic!” Mom says, her voice echoing out from her office about an hour later. She’s been on the phone non-stop since she tasted her first sip of coffee. No doubt calling everyone she knows to hunt down as much information as humanly possible.
Sure enough, a few minutes later she appears hastily tugging her suit jacket back onto her shoulders.
“Drama?” I ask as she drains the remainder of the coffee pot into a travel mug.
She almost doesn’t hear me. “That fire? They’re saying it was arson. I have to go down to the police station.”
“Who do they think started it?”
“No clue. But someone’s going to be in need of one hell of a defense.” Then she is gone with a quick, “Don’t wait up!”
Not that I ever do.
Technically speaking, arson isn’t in Mom’s job description. She owns a small criminal defense practice–granted, the only practice–in town. Her and her associates’ deal mostly will minor convictions, sometimes travelling into the city to deal with slightly larger cases. But before she moved to Stonewall to be with my dad, she was well on her way to becoming a Crown Attorney. The change in direction was a big adjustment, one she’s never fully accepted. Every now and then some huge case surfaces nearby and she manages to get her claws in before anyone can stop her. I swear she would do it for free.
From the outside looking in, someone may think my mom cares about justice and helping those who can’t help themselves. The truth is, she likes a good challenge. She loves the rush of power she gets when she wins a big case. Since she moved to Stonewall, the big cases are few and far between. Arson? It must feel like Christmas morning to her. The only thing better would be a serial killer.
God, what that woman wouldn’t give to have a serial killer stalk the town.
I flip my movie back on and nestle further down into the blankets.
The next morning, Mom is up and out the door before I even open my eyes–if she even bothered coming home at all. A nasty part of me wonders if she would have made an appearance if I were still busy getting high.
My mom’s absence inspires me to eat a normal breakfast at the table for once in my teenage life. I pour myself a bowl of chocolate-filled cereal and read Mom’s paper as I let the sugar fill my body with warmth. By the time I make it to school, I’m downright not-unhappy.
Lindsay slaps a hand to my forehead the second I see her.
“You’re sick,” she says, removing her hand.
My hand naturally drifts to my head. “I’m not warm,” I reply, fixing her with a confused look.
“You were smiling,” she says.
“I had chocolate for breakfast.” I grab a book out of my locker before turning to face her.
Lindsay shakes her head at me, but it doesn’t hide the delight I see dancing in her eyes. It is so easy to make her content. I can’t begin to imagine what that must be like.
“Did you see the news?” Her face grows serious.
“I am the news. Attorney McKenna is on the case. Any new info on the guy?” The paper I read this morning confirmed the marshmallow is likely male, but nothing else was mentioned. Since I haven’t seen my mom, I don’t know what they intentionally left out.
Lindsay shrugs. “I haven’t even heard of anyone missing. Maybe it was a tourist.”
I give her a look that says we don’t get tourists. It would be more likely to be a criminal on the run, a robot, or a space alien than a tourist.
The rest of the day is spent in hushed whispers as students–and most teachers–take guesses at who the mystery marshmallow may be. I’m ninety-nine percent sure the teachers have a pool going.
Lindsay begins tracking absences, her rationale being a dead guy obviously won’t be showing up for school.
“If he’s our age, don’t you think some parent would have noticed by now?”
“Some people have absentee parents,” she replies, flipping through last year’s yearbook. I don’t know if she is referring to herself or to me.
“I’m surprised everyone cares so much.” Marcella looks bored with the conversation. Normally I’m the cold and heartless one, but today she is giving me a run for my money. “Okay, I didn’t mean it like that!” She corrects herself once she sees Lindsay’s face. I’m allowed to be cold. Marcella, apparently, is not. The knowledge gives me a great deal of satisfaction I try my best not to show. “All I meant is, in most places, this wouldn’t even make the headlines. But here, you’d think it was the White House that burned.”
“We don’t experience a lot of tragedy,” I reply. She has a point, but I’m still pleased by my silent victory so I don’t dare take her side. “Death and mystery all in one is a big deal.”
“Was it like this when your dad died?” she asks in the same indifferent tone.
I give her a look that would stop the heart of a lion. She has the decency to look embarrassed. Before I do something I’ll regret, I rise and leave, not giving Marcella the chance to apologize.
I hear Lindsay’s hushed voice tell her the Dad Situation is one-hundred percent off-limits. She knows better than to follow me.
Before I know where I’m going, I find myself hidden underneath the alcove under the stairs, my arms wrapped around my chest.
Deep breaths.
In.
Out.
I am fine.
I try to tell myself the comment wasn’t meant maliciously, but it doesn’t change the blinding rage flowing through my veins.
So I punch the wall.
I immediately regret punching the wall.
“Oh my god! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!” I shout, jumping in pain as I clutch my hand.
At least the anger is gone.
“Raye?” a voice calls before Mitch pokes his unwelcome head into my space. “Are you alright?” His voice is more tentative than I’ve ever heard it. I must look awful.
“I’m fine,” I snap. I’m sure the tears in my eyes are giving me away.
“You hurt your hand.” He takes a tentative step closer. His nose looks better today, which doesn’t help his case. I had hoped for a few more weeks of bruises. “Did you hit the wall?” His eyes shift to the stone behind me. I have a feeling it is spotted with my blood.
“I’m fine, Mitch.” I’m unable to make my voice as hostile as I would like.
God, my hand hurts.
“Should I bring you some ice?” If I didn’t know better, I would genuinely believe he is worried about me.
“Go away, Mitch.” I look up at him as I slide to the floor, still clutching my hand. He gives me a nervous look, as though he wants to argue but doesn’t know me well enough to try.
After what feels like hours, he finally gives up and turns to go.
“Holy hell,” I moan once I’m alone.
Punching the wall was a million times worse than punching Mitch. I look down at my hand. The skin is raw and ripped open, and there is fresh blood glistening, mocking my stupidity. I wrap it up poorly in a tensor bandage from my bag and hurry to the library before I’m yelled at for loitering in the halls. The final bell has already rung, and I’m not in the mood to explain why my hand is bandaged or why there is blood on the wall.
When I walk into the library, T.K. is waiting for me inside the doors, a first aid kit in his hand. “Mitch mentioned you were going to need this.” He takes my good hand and pulls me to a table near the back of the room, away from prying eyes.
By prying, I mean Katie.
“Since when are you friends with Mitch?” As if my opinion of either of them could get lower. Naturally, they’re buddy-buddy. To spite me, no doubt.
“We aren’t. Not really. He mentioned it in passing.” He focuses on removing the bandage from my hand, trying to avoid my probing stare. “Did you really hit a wall?” He smirks as he says it, which annoys me to no end.
“Better than your sister’s face.”
T.K. looks up, a strange glint in his eyes. “Not that I wouldn’t love to see Marcella get her ass kicked, but what did she do to upset you?”
“Nothing,” I say flatly, already over it and not interested in going back. When he stops fixing my hand to look at me, I add, “She made a stupid comment, and I lost my temper.”
“Did she say something about your dad?” I flex my hand, forcing back a hiss of pain. T.K. pulls on my fingers, flattening them down against the wooden table. “She doesn’t always think before she speaks,” he says, voice irritated.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
Our eyes meet for a brief moment before he gets back to work, dabbing my ripped skin with disinfectant. I make it my mission not to show how painful it is.
“If you don’t find a better outlet for all your rage, you’re going to end up breaking this hand of yours,” he says, wrapping it in a fresh bandage.
I look down at our hands lightly joined and feel a rush of heat flood my body. I pull my hand back and place it in my lap. T.K. sighs.
“Shouldn’t you be busy finding a new girl to sit on your lap?” My cheeks are still flushed from the contact. I wish I could rip them from my face.
“No, I’m taking a break. Amazingly, I’m not popular with the ladies at the moment.” His eyes glance over his shoulder to where Katie sits with a couple of friends, all of whom are watching us like hawks watch prey.
There isn’t an ounce of remorse on T.K.’s face.
“Yeah, being a cheater isn’t exactly catch material.” My lips curve into a cruel smile.
“Oh well,” he shrugs, like he couldn’t care less. “I have my sights set on a bigger fish, anyway.”
“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows along with the question.
“Oh,” he repeats, leaning forward so we’re breathing the same air. His breath is warm in my mouth.
I tell my body to move, but it is still acting traitorous. In response, it tells me to lean in even closer. My mouth, luckily, is still in my control. “I’m not interested in fooling around with a player.”
“I have no interest in fooling around.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s okay. I have plenty of time to convince you,” he replies, winking.
“Time isn’t going to help you.” I finally convince my body to move backward, away from T.K.’s. Suddenly, it becomes far easier to breathe.
He shrugs, kicking his feet up onto the table, putting an acceptable amount of distance between our bodies. “I guess I’ll have to find something that will.”
We sit in silence, neither of us willing to move and admit defeat. I try extremely hard to focus on my homework, but it isn’t easy with an injured hand and a six-pack of abs less than a foot away.
If I’m going to avoid T.K., it seems I’m going to have to try much, much harder.
CHAPTER 13
In the following weeks, I see less of my mom and more of T.K. He is everywhere I go, an unshakable force. Most of the time our conversations are short, to the point, and much of the same. Not that it matters. He still isn’t getting the point.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says nearly every morning as I find my seat in math class. Then he finds some reason to touch me–a light brush of the hand or a nudge of the leg. One day he is even so bold as to push a piece of my hair back behind my ear.
I know what he’s doing. He thinks I’m going to crack, another teenage girl ruled by her hormones. He knows I’m attracted to him, and he is using every bit of knowledge to his advantage.
He is such a jackass.
In-between trying to seduce me with his body, T.K. tries to understand me better, as though I can be charmed so easily by a cute boy taking interest.
He doesn’t know me at all.
But he’s definitely trying.
“What’s your favourite colour?”
“Are you a night owl or an early bird?”
“Were you born with a hostile spoon in your mouth or is that new?”
“Do you prefer pumpkin pie or apple?”
The important questions follow me around the halls, Monday to Friday, without fail. What’s worse, he answers his own questions, insisting he wants me to get to know him as well. It is maddening.
Yet, try as he might, T.K. still doesn’t know the first thing about me if he thinks I will be so easily swayed. Even if we share the same taste in films, music, and literature.
Such shallow things, I tell myself.
My mother, on the other hand, knows me even less than T.K., especially of late. I thought she was absent before, but that pales in comparison to her recent behaviour. I’m convinced she has started sleeping at the office, afraid her cell phone will go out of service one night and she will miss out on an important update in the arson case.
In nearly two weeks, no one has reported any missing persons, and dental records were useless, as the guy’s mouth had been smashed in pretty good before he was charred. Guilt, as my mother calls it. I can tell she’s getting antsy–in the few instances I see her. She’s anxious to move forward with the case, but it’s hard to be a defense attorney when you don’t have a defendant. I hear a lot of nasty comments about the police department floating around town. Mom isn’t the only one obsessed with the case. Everyone wants answers, and they want them yesterday.
It is the last day of school before we’re released for Christmas vacation, so topics quickly change from Marshmallow Boy to vacation destinations and wish lists. Leave it to teenagers to be so self-absorbed.
“You have to come,” Lindsay says, pleading with her puppy eyes. She is trying to convince me to go over to Marcella’s for a sleepover, worried about being alone with her when their relationship is so undefined. Lindsay’s feelings have only intensified for Marcella, and she is starting to think Marcella feels the same way. I have the same feeling, although I have trouble admitting it out loud.
“Do you have any idea how awkward that would be for me?” I look away from her begging stare.
I have so many reasons not to go.
One: Marcella and I have been tense around each other since the wall-hitting incident. I’m sure T.K. told her what her comment resulted in. When she looks at me it is with vague disdain and wariness.
Two: If Marcella does return Lindsay’s feelings, I’ll be a third wheel on their date. I’d rather be shot in the eye by an arrow.
Three: I hate sleepovers.
Four: T.K. will be there, and I don’t want to be trapped in his house with nowhere to go if he decides to try peppering me with more questions and answers. I already know what his top five favourite songs are, his favourite food, and that he had a crush on Barbie when he was a child. The last one was not a shocking revelation.
“It won’t be awkward! Please, Raye? I already told her I would go, and now I’m freaking out. I need you.”
She
knows she has me as soon as she amplifies the power of her puppy eyes. “Thank you!” she says, giving me a victory hug–hers, not mine. “Pick me up at six and we’ll go over together?”
∆∆∆
I arrive at Lindsay’s at half past six, using my inability to find pajamas as an excuse for being late. She tosses her bag in the backseat and gives me a stern you better behave yourself sort of look. I prepare myself for the worst possible night ever.
When we pull into the Knight’s driveway, I’m relieved to see T.K.’s car is absent. At least one problem is resolved.
“Come on in,” Marcella says, offering me a small smile and giving Lindsay a hug.
The house is beautiful on the inside, decorated in dark woods and fabrics, creating a warm, homey feel. It reminds me of one of those historical bed and breakfasts that always show up in Hallmark holiday films.
Chane rushes down the stairs to greet us immediately, and I’m insanely grateful I won’t be a third wheel after all. Her silver hair twinkles from the fire burning in the corner as she usher us into her own personal salon where she has set up manicure supplies and face masks.
“Wow, you went all out,” Lindsay notes, clearly impressed. I know she’s attended her fair share of sleepovers, so I figure the setup must be something special.
“Chane likes all this beauty stuff,” Marcella laughs, waving her hand around the room. “So you can thank her.” That aside, I find it quite difficult to dislike Chane. She’s quiet; genuinely sweet, once you get over the misconception that all French people are rude; and not at all pushy. I’ve wished on more than one occasion she were the older sister. Chane, I can handle. Marcella is something else entirely.
Someone orders a pizza and we all sit around the fire doing each other’s nails and applying seaweed scrubs to our faces. Chane turns on a romantic comedy in the background. It is everything I imagined a sleepover to be.
“I would kill someone to touch abs like that,” Chane says gushing over the male lead. I can’t help but compare him to T.K. It isn’t a fair competition, unfortunately.
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