BONDED

by S. D. Harrison

  “Someone talking about me?”

  Think of the devil and the devil shall appear.

  “Ew. No. Go away, T.K.,” Chane says, flopping onto her stomach and grabbing another slice of pizza. She makes it look elegant.

  “Hey,” he says, directing his eyes toward me. He starts laughing. “Nice face. You look like a swamp monster. A hot swamp monster, but still.”

  I groan. I’m still wearing the face mask. Perfect.

  “I thought this was a girls-only sleepover.” A tall, willowy man with heavy grey facial hair appears, placing his hand on T.K.’s shoulder.

  “It is. Make him leave!” Chane orders, waving her hand in the air, not bothering to turn around.

  “Lindsay, Raye, this is our Uncle, Markus,” Marcella says.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you both,” he replies, his eyes focusing on me more than Lindsay. For some reason, I can’t make myself look away. His eyes are a bright blue, the colour of the afternoon sky, and his smile is simultaneously warm and intimidating.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Knight,” Lindsay says. I nod my head once in agreement.

  “Well, T.K., we should leave them to their celebration, don’t you think?” Mr. Knight says, still fixing me with his contradictory smile.

  “Sure. Sweet dreams, Swampy,” T.K. says, giving me a huge grin. I narrow my eyes at him as he leaves. I knew this was a mistake.

  As soon as they leave, Lindsay asks if Markus minds us spending the night. “He seemed...unimpressed.” She snatches a pillow off the floor and clutches it to her chest. I admire her for avoiding more colourful language. I wouldn’t have been so kind.

  “He doesn’t mind,” Marcella answers, hesitating only slightly. “He’s not used to company. He and T.K. will probably watch some god-awful movie later. He won’t even notice we’re here.”

  “What about Darien?” Lindsay takes a bite of a piece of liquorice, still looking toward the door Markus exited from.

  “Yeah, I feel like I haven’t seen him in ages,” I add. He and T.K. seemed so close when school started; I’m a little surprised not to see him tagging along.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Marcella turns toward the TV, not interested in the conversation. She’s never liked talking about her family; it seems Lindsay isn’t an exception. “Darien’s in Europe. Our parents pulled him out for the rest of the school year. He was having some trouble adjusting here. T.K. was his only friend. They thought he might like to spend time studying abroad, like Chane did.”

  “Oh, I’m so jealous! I’ve always wanted to study in Paris. Chane, is it amazing?”

  “It was.” Her eyes haven’t left the movie in ages. “Oh, I love this part. He’s about to realize he’s in love with her,” she swoons.

  I don’t know how she watches this garbage. It’s so repetitive and predictable.

  As soon as the movie ends–he did, in fact, realize he was in love with her–Chane goes upstairs to change into her pajamas and I do the same, claiming the downstairs bathroom. I try to be quick about tying my hair up and brushing my teeth, not wanting a lecture from Lindsay about being anti-social.

  When I climb back up the stairs toward the main room, I freeze.

  Curled up into each other, Lindsay and Marcella are a mass of tangled limbs and hair swirling together. I’m encroaching on an intimate moment, something I’m most definitely not supposed to see. For some inexplicable reason, my heart hurts, like a piece of it has broken off and floated away.

  I retreat back down the stairs and into the bathroom, hiding with the lights off. I don’t know why I feel so anxious about their kiss. I should be happy for Lindsay, proud she’s embracing her true self, and elated she’s found another person to embrace it with.

  But all I feel is alone.

  Not a lonely kind of alone, because I feel that all the time. This is different, more permanent, more crushing. Not knowing what else to do, I decide to take a shower. Normally, the idea of stripping naked and bathing in a random house would bother me. Tonight, I need to feel the hot water beat against my skin until there is nothing left to feel. I let the water clean away all my insecurities and fears until what remains is an acceptable amount of happiness for my friend. The fear gnawing its way through my stomach has been sedated, at least for now.

  I drag myself out of the shower, wrapping the only towel I can find around my body. It smells vaguely familiar: warm, spicy, and pleasant. I wonder what fabric softener they use. There is no hair dryer in the bathroom, so I’m forced to towel-dry my hair–which is unsuccessful. Finally, I force my still-damp skin back into my sleep shorts and t-shirt and edge out of the bathroom.

  “Do you always shower in the dark?” T.K. is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom, a horribly sexy smirk on his face.

  “Stalking me as I shower? Pervert much?” I snap, acutely aware of the thin fabric of my shirt clinging to my skin. I hadn’t thought to put on my bra.

  T.K.’s drifting eyes tell me he’s noticed.

  “You’re in my bathroom,” he says. “I’m waiting for my turn.”

  “Well it’s all yours.” I take a step toward the stairs, slowly, like I am facing a bear. I make a point of pulling the fabric of my shorts away from my body. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of checking out my ass as I walk away.

  T.K. glances down at me knowingly; he is completely aware of my flushed skin. He takes a step closer, his chest brushing mine. “Want some help with that?”

  “Seriously? You can’t think of something more original?” I gaze up at him through my lashes, annoyed he has me flustered yet again.

  “Mm,” he says, rubbing his chin in mock-ponder. He’s usually clean-shaven, but tonight there is a ghost of blonde fur. “Nice legs, I’d like to–”

  “Stop!” I cut him off before he can say whatever horribly suggestive thing he’s thinking. T.K. smiles in response, the corners of his mouth lifting gradually until he looks like a lunatic. He has no shame. “When are you going to give it up?”

  “When you finally admit you find me irresistible.” He bends down so our lips are only an inch apart. I’m afraid to move; I’m terrified accidental contact will send me spiralling. “You can kiss me, if you want.”

  For one horrible second, I almost do.

  “Am I interrupting?” Chane asks, her accent making the innocent question sound more suggestive than I think she means it to be.

  “Yes,” T.K. says, not looking away from me.

  “No!” I step out of his embrace. “Sorry I took so long. I needed a shower.”

  “It’s okay! Are you ready for more sleepover fun? We’re going to play Truth or Dare.” The way Chane says it, so adorably harmless, almost makes me want to go back upstairs to Lindsay and Marcella.

  Almost.

  “I’m down for that,” T.K. says, purposely brushing his arm against mine. “Raye, truth or dare?” His eyebrows do a suggestive wiggle implying I won’t have a choice.

  “Omigod, keep it in your pants, T.K.! No boys allowed.” Chane sticks her tongue out at him and pulls me toward the stairs into safety. The last thing I see is T.K. taking off his shirt and tossing it to the ground.

  He definitely knows I’m watching.

  ∆∆∆

  The car ride home the next morning is quiet and awkward. I can tell Lindsay wants to talk, but I’m not sure I’m ready to hear her gush over Marcella, so I say nothing to encourage her. I know they stayed up later than Chane and I did. I don’t know what they talked about. I feel like the second Lindsay tells me, I will be finalizing the loss of her as my friend.

  “So, Marcella kissed me last night,” she finally says as I turn the corner onto her street.

  “Yeah, I know.” I don’t think before I speak, letting my bitter words tumble out. Lindsay’s eyes widen for a couple of seconds as she realizes I saw their private moment. Finally, she shrugs her shoulders and gives me a timid smile.

  “It was my first kiss.” She begins toying with the hem o
f her jacket, and I realize this conversation must be a million times more awkward for her than it is for me. I’m a bystander–this is her life.

  “Well, how was it?” I try to mimic the teen girls I’ve seen in movies.

  Lindsay rolls her eyes at me. “You don’t need to pretend, Raye. Giddy doesn’t suit you.” She laughs, still not meeting my eyes. “Tell me you’re okay with all this. I know she’s not your favourite person, but I care about her.”

  “What, like you wouldn’t date someone because I didn’t like them?” I say it sarcastically, but the lash-covered look Lindsay gives me in return tells me that is exactly the case. If I tell her not to date Marcella, she won’t. And she probably won’t even hate me for it. “You would never ask me not to date someone,” I point out.

  “No, but your judgment is better than mine. I trust what you think more than I trust what I think. You’re like the little cricket on my shoulder.”

  “Funny, that’s how I think of you,” I say, suddenly more relaxed.

  “I’m serious, Raye! I know you need me to keep you social and human and not a drug addict,” she says, the words tumbling out, “but I need you to keep me alert and rational.”

  I have never said a word about how much I rely on Lindsay, but it’s not surprising she knows. She does keep me human, after all. Sometimes I wonder where I would be without her. It’s comforting to know the same thoughts cross her mind in return.

  “I wear my heart right here,” she continues, slapping her bicep. “I need you to tell me I’m not making a mistake.”

  The way Lindsay is looking at me, finally making direct eye contact, makes me realize I’m never going to lose her. No human, thing, or situation will ever break apart what we have. We need each other too much. She is the sugar to my spice, the hot to my cold. Together, we’re almost a well-functioning person. The knowledge fills me with powerful warmth. It radiates through my entire body and soul.

  “You’re not making a mistake, Linds. Besides, you should trust yourself to make the right choice. I know I do.”

  She gives me a one-brow-raised look. “Since when do you lie?”

  “I’m not lying. Do I like her? No, not particularly, but I don’t like anyone, remember? What I know is she likes you.” I turn in my seat so I can fully look at her. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears and her arms are wrapped around her sides, seemingly holding herself together. “I know this freaks you out because you’re going to have to start telling people, but you can’t let that stop you. As long as Marcella makes you happy, and as long as she treats you well, I’m not going to be the devil on your shoulder telling you to hold back.”

  Lindsay’s mouth twists to one side, debating. “I wish you liked her. I always thought when I started dating someone, you two would get along.”

  She’s looking for excuses, and as much as Raye from two minutes ago would love to poke at those insecurities, ensuring Lindsay remains mine, my fear is temporarily subdued. I can’t let her talk herself out of potential happiness.

  “Lindsay Cruz, you need to get out of your head. Your parents will get over it. You don’t even need to tell them right away if you aren’t ready. Give it some time, see if it works out.”

  My words come out a bit harsher than I initially intend, but I see the internal struggle Lindsay is experiencing. She does like Marcella. She may even be on her way to loving her. While Lindsay doesn’t care about getting hurt herself, she does care about hurting others–me, her parents. The idea someone she loves may suffer because of her choices is eating her up inside.

  “You can’t use me or them as an excuse anymore.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she says, looking down again. “I have this horrible nightmare I’ll tell them and they’ll kick me out or ship me off.”

  “If they kept Shawn after they found out he was dealing, they aren’t going to kick you out for this. You’re not doing anything wrong.” Even as I speak the words, I am not convinced. Lindsay’s parents are extremely right-wing and rigid, not to mention old-school religious. Her fears aren’t exactly unwarranted. “And if they do, you can stay in our guest room. Fifty bucks says my mom won’t even notice.” That part, at least, I’m sure of.

  “I love you, Raye,” she says, finally allowing herself to smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes, but it is definitely a step in the right direction. “And I’m going to hold this conversation over you when you’re yelling at me for using all the hot water or for eating your favourite chips.”

  “Deal. Now get out, I’m dying to go home and wash my hair with my own shampoo.” I smell like T.K.; it is driving me insane.

  I have a lot to think about on the way home. I’m not pleased about Lindsay and Marcella, but I don’t fear losing Lindsay anymore, either. I try willing myself to be happy, but I don’t have it in me. Maybe bubbly, cheerful people are able to will themselves into happiness. I can’t remember ever being that person, so I don’t know.

  The more I think about the two of them, the more my mind betrays me, directing my thoughts to T.K. I hate the power he has over me, and I’m running out of ways to avoid him. I’m worried I will cave in eventually.

  I remind myself he is a player and I hate him, and I shove him into the dark recesses of my mind.

  I will be stronger than the weakest part of myself.

  I have to be.

  CHAPTER 14

  I spend my Saturday watching Christmas specials as I bake ten million sugar cookies no one will ever eat.

  When I was younger, my dad and I would bake them together and wrap them into little gifts for our friends and neighbours. One of my favourite memories of him involves flour on our noses and sprinkles under our nails as we sang carols at the top of our lungs.

  “I think my favourite are the reindeer faces. What do you think, Rayray?”

  “It’s all about the Santas, Daddy,” I say, completely serious as though his reindeer comment is horribly absurd.

  “But your favourite carol is about a reindeer,” he points out.

  I tap my nose, considering it very, very carefully.

  “Santa’s there, too, though,” I finally say.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He pokes my nose with a flour-dipped finger and turns up the volume on the CD player.

  It is typically a strict rule of mine not to think about him, but I make exceptions for Christmas. Christmas was always ours, something we shared, just the two of us. Even when he was alive Mom never cared for the holiday.

  Although I now refuse to give treats as gifts–too sentimental–and I typically avoid covering myself in flour–too messy–and I exchange carols for movies–too painful–I continue to bake until my hands are no longer capable of stirring. Because of this, when Christmas Eve comes around I have copious amounts of cookies to busy myself inhaling.

  I’m in the middle of eating a fat snowman when the doorbell chimes, forcing me out of my blankets and away from Elf, which is playing on TV. My mom is at work because people still need lawyers on Christmas Eve, apparently–it isn’t like either of us have friends who stop by randomly, anyway.

  At least, we aren’t supposed to.

  I pull open the door, expecting carollers or a rude salesman. Instead, I find myself face-to-chest with T.K. He isn’t wearing a proper jacket and the snow from above keeps sticking to his crimson sweater. It takes me a moment to look up and meet his eyes, and when I do, I regret it. They’re greener than usual, a mysterious twinkle causing them to sparkle like a freshly polished emerald. He’s freshly shaven, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s wearing new cologne. The faint smell of pine wafts off of him, reminding me of a Christmas tree. He’s more put together than usual, not that he ever appears dishevelled.

  Definitely not a good sign.

  “I don’t know if I’m more concerned you know where I live, or that you’re actually here,” I say, distancing myself from his abs. He is what, sixteen-years-old? He shouldn’t even have abs.

  “Small town,” he
replies with a careless wave, like he randomly appears on girls’ doorsteps often–which he probably does. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

  “But you’ll get your nice outfit all wet.” A mischievous smile appears on his face as his hands lift in the air, palms up toward the falling snow.

  I look down at what I’m wearing and my cheeks become warm. I have on my traditional Christmas pajamas–red and white striped pants and a red shirt with a giant reindeer face plastered on the front. It’s three dimensional. Luckily, I left the Santa-head slippers back by the couch. I cross my arms in front of my chest, trying to hide the reindeer. “What do you want?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” he says, as though it is a proper explanation.

  “Yeah, and you’re ruining my holiday cheer. Get off my porch.”

  To T.K. it is as good as an invitation. He puts his hands on my waist and shifts our bodies so he is inside my house and I’m standing on the porch, my bare feet tickling the snow. I yelp at the cold and run inside to my slippers.

  The door closes behind me. T.K. walks in as though he has been here a thousand times. “I love this one,” he says, nodding at the TV. Buddy the Elf is frozen in a comical situation, admiring a piece of red lingerie.

  “Oh my god, go away,” I hiss, watching in horror as he sits down on my couch and begins nestling into my pile of blankets. He actually has the nerve to un-pause the TV and starts the movie over from the beginning. “Hey!”

  Rather than leave, T.K. pats the spot next to him on the couch.

  Letting out a frustrated sigh, I try in vain to grab the remote from his hand, but he merely holds it out of my reach and pats the couch again. I give up and sit down as far away from him as possible, snatching back one of my blankets.

  T.K. is a horrible movie-companion; he makes me regret ever having thought otherwise. Every few minutes he makes a dumb comment like, “Did he seriously not realize he wasn’t an elf? The guy is a beast,” and, “That girl should have axed him for spying on her in the shower. You probably would have axed him, eh?”