BONDED

by S. D. Harrison

  “Happy New Year, Ossy,” I say, kissing Oswald on the head as I slip on a pair of black pumps. He regards me with his eyes wide, as though he also disapproves of the dress. “It’s not that bad,” I tell him, grabbing my jacket off the hook and heading downstairs.

  Mom looks up from her spot on the couch, her laptop carefully set on her lap. “Oh, come on,” she says, looking at the dress. “You’re only wearing that because I hate it.”

  “That doesn’t make it any less fulfilling.” I grab my keys and open the door, turning to face her so she can experience the full view of the dress. I shrug on my jacket and wish her a happy New Year, but in a sarcastic way she is quick to pick up on. She knows how angry her babysitting makes me.

  When I pull up to Lindsay’s, she is already waiting for me on the porch, her hair up in a high bun on her head and her legs bare. I can make out blue sequins poking out of her jacket.

  “Hey!” she says, climbing in the front seat. “Geez, Raye, this thing is a beast.”

  “He’s great, right?” I reply, patting the wheel lovingly.

  “It suits you,” she laughs as she takes in the interior. “I’m going to catch a ride home with Marcella later. Is that okay?”

  It isn’t, but I don’t want to ruin her night. “Sure. How are things going with her? Have you seen her over the break?” I thought up and rehearsed the questions prior to picking her up.

  “A few times. She’s been busy with family stuff, but we’ve been texting, like, non-stop. Things are going well. I may even be ready to tell my parents soon. You know, after we get back to school and I see how things go. I’ve been promised an official first date. Dinner, a movie, the whole thing,” she says, her voice trying to contain the excitement I know she feels. I can tell she is still worried about what others will think, but it’s clear she’s trying hard not to. I guess Marcella has been good for something.

  “That’s awesome, Linds.” I try my best to mean it. I want Lindsay to be happy more than anything in the world, but I wish that happiness involved someone else. “Wait. I thought Marcella didn’t have a car. Doesn’t T.K. drive her everywhere?” Even saying his name raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I don’t know what is wrong with me.

  “She asked her uncle to pick her up. I think she’s sick of always asking T.K. I wish they’d get along.”

  I don’t answer. I’m more curious about alien family relations. I don’t even know if aliens mate in the normal way. The thought brings a heated blush to my cheeks for some reason.

  “Did her parents visit for Christmas?” I ask, probing. The more I think about the situation, the more questions I have. Are Marcella and T.K. even related? How do they find money for fancy cars and big houses?

  “No, they were stuck in Europe. It must suck never seeing them,” Lindsay answers, oblivious to my internal question marathon.

  By the time we arrive at Katie’s house, my head is pounding with curiosity.

  I haven’t even stepped out of the car before Marcella is rushing my Jeep, throwing her arms around Lindsay. She won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if T.K. told her I know their little–and by little I mean freaking enormous–secret.

  “Hi, Marcella,” I say, my voice nonchalant.

  “Hey, Raye,” she replies, still not looking at me. Maybe she is embarrassed about being an alien. I probably would be.

  I follow the two of them into Katie’s home, which is more like a cottage with one main floor and a basement, neither of which is large. I question her parents’ taste immediately, noting the bright green walls and matching carpet coating the living room. Pictures of trees and plants adorn the walls, and there is a single loveseat pressed into a corner in a horrific shade of mud-brown. The place is packed full of bodies, all jammed together grinding and swaying to music playing from crappy speakers I can’t see. It doesn’t seem like the best venue for a party, but at least there is little of value around to be broken.

  “Move,” I say, shoving some already-drunk girl with ten thousand braids adorning her head out of my way. These people are savages. As the thought develops in my head, some guy wearing a Green Lantern t-shirt starts vomiting in a drawer. Classy.

  “I think I’m in hell,” I say to no one–because no one would hear me over the noise, anyway.

  When I think my night is at its worse, I look up to see T.K. leaning against the wall talking with Katie. His eyes meet mine about two seconds after I spot him. He raises his beer up in mock-cheers.

  Katie? Really? It’s a low blow, and I want to make him pay for it.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing the shirt of the first guy who bumps into me. I think his name is Andrew. We have math together. Or maybe English. He’s familiar. Whatever.

  A look of fear creeps into maybe-Andrew’s face followed by a look of incredulousness as I pull him in for a kiss, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  Dylan. His name is Dylan.

  Dylan picks up fast, pulling me by the waist so I’m closer to his body. He tastes like cheap beer and pot, and he uses too much tongue. I don’t know why I do it–maybe because I can or maybe because I’m angry and I can’t see anything worth breaking.

  Dylan tries to remove my jacket. I shove him back as roughly as I pulled him in. “Not even a remote chance in the darkest part of hell,” I tell him, walking toward the snack table in search of something to wash away the Dylan taste from my mouth.

  T.K. is waiting for me by a suspicious looking bowl of chips. “Was that necessary?” he asks, offering me a beer. Is he trying to be an asshole?

  “I thought so,” I reply, voice dripping distaste as I shove his hand away.

  “Oh. Shit. I’m sorry, I’m an idiot.” He immediately puts the beer down, pushing it away.

  “If only that were newsworthy.”

  “Does it bother you I’m having one?” He sets his own beer down on the table before I have the chance to answer. It does bother me he’s having one, not that I will ever tell him.

  “Do whatever the hell you like with your body. Or Katie’s, for that matter.” I take off my jacket for something to do, and then feel awkward when I’m forced to hold it.

  “I’m not the one who had their tongue down someone else’s throat,” he says, shoving the beer further away. I do not want a sip.

  “Pretty sure it was Dylan’s tongue down my throat, not the other way around.”

  “That guy’s name is Mark. He’s in our math class,” T.K. says, a hint of amusement in his voice, which only angers me further. Of course me kissing another guy is funny to him. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s all just a game.

  “There’s a place for those in Katie’s bedroom.” He gestures to my jacket.

  “And I’m sure you know exactly how to find it.” Even though I’m attempting to be nonchalant, my voice comes out frosty.

  “Yeah, from when I put my jacket in there about fifteen minutes ago. Jesus, Raye, I was telling her thank you for inviting me. I know you don’t practice it, but manners are still a widely accepted custom among humans,” he shouts, trying to be heard over the music. Someone rams into my back, sending me flying into T.K.’s chest.

  “Ugh!” I hiss. T.K. runs his hands up my arms, steadying me. The motion lets a swarm of butterflies loose in my stomach. What the hell is wrong with me? Stupid, useless hormones.

  “Come on,” he says, spinning me around and pushing me toward the other side of the small house.

  T.K. walks me into a small bedroom adorned with excessive amounts of fluffy items that have no business being fluffy. A chair. A lamp. A picture frame.

  He closes the door behind us, blocking out a large part of the noise. An old rock song is leaking through the crack, now a faint hum in the background.

  “I like your dress.” He looks me up and down a few times for good measure.

  “We’re supposed to be fighting! You can’t compliment my clothing and expect me to charge into your arms.”

  “I can’t?” His face is completely serious. He takes my jacket an
d tosses it on the bed with a few dozen others. “Sit,” he orders, taking a seat on the bed and patting his lap.

  “Oh, like hell,” I reply, taking a seat on the god-awful fluffy chair. It threatens to eat me alive. “Well? What do you want?” I cross my arms and legs in unison.

  T.K. braces himself, like he is about to embark on an unpleasant journey. “I need to know you’re not going to go around telling people about what you know. Marcella’s worried. So are the others.”

  “I bet they are,” I jeer, angry this is what he wants to talk about. “Well, rest assured, I have no intention of getting locked-up for insanity. Your messed up little lives are safe with me. Can I go now?” I stand up from the chair and start toward the door.

  “Not yet.” He grabs my hand as I pass him, pulling me in so his hands are on my waist and his thighs are pressed against my hips. I’m one ember away from combusting. “I like you, Raye. I’ve made that pretty clear. But I can’t wait around forever,” he says, his gaze focused intently upon mine. “Okay, I guess technically I could wait forever,” he corrects, giving me a little smile. “But I won’t because that sounds like torture. You need to give me something here, some indication you reciprocate this, even a little.” T.K. takes one of his hands from my waist and puts it over his heart.

  I want to run my hands through his hair.

  I do not.

  “I don’t trust you not to hurt me,” I say, voice low. It is one of the most honest things I have ever said, and I hate that I’m saying it to T.K. of all people. When did I become capable of hurting again? I’m already breaking all of my rules because of him, and I haven’t even done anything yet.

  “You can’t be scared forever.” His voice is gentle, but the words are not.

  “I’m not scared.” I step out of his arms. I’m not going to stand here and listen to him tell me what I feel. A small part of my mind tells me I’m being ridiculous. I kick that part aside.

  “I feel like we keep having the same conversation. Do you want this or not, Raye? No more games or I’m done.”

  When I don’t say anything, T.K. leaves.

  ∆∆∆

  I spend the rest of the night pretending not to notice the glares Marcella is giving me or the smell of various alcohols wafting through the room. I tell myself exactly thirty-one times I do not want a drink. I tell myself twenty-two times I do not want something a little stronger.

  My chest is a constant stream of tightness and little pangs. I can’t remember the last time I felt so wound up without being angry.

  “You okay?” Lindsay tugs on the sleeve of my dress to grab my attention.

  “Peachy,” I reply, pretending to be interested in a picture of Katie as a three-year-old ballerina. I do not notice her touching T.K.’s arm from the corner of my vision.

  “Hey.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “What’s up with you? You’re acting so…un-Raye-like.”

  “I’m perfectly Raye-like,” I say, not noticing Katie stroke T.K.’s cheek.

  “At least three people have shoved you in the last five minutes, and none of them are crying yet. You’re as un-Raye-like as you have ever been.” Frustrated, she steps into my field of view so I can’t avoid her. Marcella is nowhere to be seen. I can’t remember her leaving.

  “Where’s–” I start to ask, but am cut off by the sudden lack of music as someone turns on a stream airing the countdown to midnight.

  “57… 56… 55… 54… 53...”

  “There you are!” Lindsay grabs Marcella’s hand and pulls her close.

  “There were, like, thirty people trying to use the bathroom. Someone has been very sick,” Marcella replies. I can tell she is disgusted. I watch as she tucks a fallen piece of Lindsay’s hair behind her ear.

  “37… 36...”

  Watching them together hurts me in more ways than one. Lindsay is trying so hard to find happiness, even though it means straying from everything she has ever known. Meanwhile, I’m standing here not watching T.K. drift closer to Katie as she pulls on the hem of his shirt.

  What the hell am I doing?

  My stomach tightens–I felt like I’m going to throw up. Katie is pulling him in, too close to be casual. I know all I have to do is go over there and it will stop, but I can’t seem to make my feet move.

  “30… 29… 28...”

  “Excuse me,” I say, abandoning Lindsay and Marcella as I push a few groups of people out of my way. “Move,” I hiss, swiping at a couple unable to wait for midnight.

  “19… 18…”

  He doesn’t notice as I approach. My heart decides to stop beating.

  “15… 14….”

  “He’s spoken for,” I say, touching his arm. My words are for T.K., not Katie. He said he needs an indication. Well, I’m giving him a neon sign.

  “Are you kidding me?” Katie seethes, outraged. “T.K.?”

  T.K. looks at me like he doesn’t believe I’m actually here, standing in front of him, doing exactly what he wants. One would think he’d be used to getting his way by now.

  I start to fill with lead. What if I’m already too late? What if he didn’t mean what he said? If I make an ass out of myself again over the same stupid boy I’m going to–

  “You heard the woman,” he replies, eyes on mine.

  Katie ceases to exist.

  “3...”

  God, help me.

  “2...”

  T.K. cups his hand around my neck, tilting my face up toward his.

  “1...”

  And then he kisses me.

  CHAPTER 17

  I’m completely unaware of the shouts and cheers around us. All I feel is T.K.’s hand pressed against the swell of my back and his lips merging with mine, trying to say all the things neither of us have said out loud.

  If not for Lindsay wrapping her arms around my neck from behind, I would kiss T.K. straight through Easter. “Happy New Year!” she squeals, trying to convey a thousand different sentences in the one. Her whole face is glowing.

  “Uh, yeah, you too,” I say, a little dizzy. T.K. is wearing a terribly sexy, all-too-pleased with himself smile. His hand is still on my back.

  Marcella is hovering behind Lindsay, her face a blend of horror, anger, and nervousness. I keep my expression neutral. “You are not driving home with us,” she hisses to T.K., her voice a perfect reflection of her face.

  “I wasn’t planning on going home, anyway.” He runs his hands over my hips and pulls me backward into his body. My heart pounding is easily heard over the music.

  “No?” I ask, going for indifferent and ending up with basket-case.

  He brings his lips down to my ear so only I can hear what he says next. “One, we should talk. Two, we were interrupted and I wasn’t finished.”

  I’m acutely aware of Lindsay and Marcella watching as my face turns twenty shades of red in as many seconds. My only response is to elbow T.K. in the stomach. He seems to take it as a good sign.

  I can do this. I am doing this.

  “Bye, ladies,” T.K. says, pulling me backward through the crowd.

  “Talk to you at school?” I call to Lindsay. She nods enthusiastically, making a shoo motion with her hands.

  T.K. pulls me into Katie’s bedroom where our jackets are waiting. I become instantly anxious about being alone in a room with T.K., his abs, and a bed, but the half-naked couple rolling around on top of the coats saves me. I don’t think they notice us. T.K. yanks my jacket free, passing it to me with a smirk on his face. I try not to think about what the poor thing has experienced in my absence.

  “Oh my god, get out!” the girl cries, finally noticing us as T.K. grabs his own jacket. She is wearing an unfortunate-looking yellow bra.

  “Trust me when I say you have nothing I’m interested in,” T.K. replies, taking my hand and guiding me out of the room. His comment makes me smile, even though I pretend otherwise.

  When we step outside, my face is assaulted by the coolest of breezes. Compared to the sweaty musk of al
cohol and teenage hormones from inside, it is glorious. “Red Jeep?” T.K. asks, walking toward my new baby and peering in the window.

  “That’s the one.” I make to open the door, but he blocks my way, grabbing the edges of my jacket and zipping it up. He tucks my hair into the back and opens the door. I thought he was going to kiss me again, and I’m dramatically disappointed when he doesn’t. “You seriously want to come over?” I ask, driving out of my shitty parallel park.

  “I definitely want to come over. Your mom won’t care?”

  I shrug. She will probably be working or sleeping and won’t even notice.

  T.K. draws patterns on my hand as I drive. It’s a small miracle I don’t crash–one I attribute to the Jeep, not my driving.

  Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway when I pull up. She probably snuck into the office, expecting me to be out later than I am. “Are you hungry?” I discard my jacket and head to the fridge. T.K. stows his own jacket in the hall closet along with his shoes–I wonder if he is trying to be stealthy to avoid my mother finding them.

  “I’m famished.”

  I make leftover turkey sandwiches while T.K. watches and occasionally plays with my hair. I end up putting an excessive amount of mustard on one.

  “I’ll take that one,” he says, reaching for the one doused in mustard. I give it to him gladly and eat the one made properly myself.

  “That’s disgusting,” I comment, watching him inhale the sandwich.

  “Hey, you made it.” He shrugs, snatching a piece of turkey off the cutting board and feeding it to Oswald, who chirps gleefully and runs to his cat tree to eat his treat. “So, are we going to talk about your little declaration?”

  I cross my arms defiantly.

  “I think your exact words were: ‘He’s spoken for,’ right?”