Wide Awake

by KB Anne

  “Emergency exit, shithead,” I hiss.

  My head knocks into the door. I don’t think it was an accident.

  The instant the sun hits my skin, sharp pains shoot through my knees and legs and up my arms and chest. This must be what it feels like when a witch is burned at the stake.

  Ryan dumps me on the ground and jumps away. “What the hell was that?”

  My fingers reach through the grass and claw into the soil. The tips of my fingers absorb the coolness of the dirt. Hatred empties from me, leaving nothing but a broken, hollow shell behind.

  The sun reinhabits my body, pushing out whatever darkness sought refuge within me moments before.

  “Better?” Ryan asks.

  “Better,” I whisper into the blades of grass.

  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” a man bellows.

  I lift my head. Black loafers stop in front of my face.

  “Principal Donahue.”

  “Gigi.”

  11

  Bundle O’ Nerves

  Three days’ out-of-school suspension. The Walrus thought he was punishing me. He spewed words like, “I hope you learned your lesson,” and “Gigi, this is the last time.” Actually, he paused after that one. He and I both knew it wouldn’t be my last time, especially if he continues to refuse expelling me.

  The reality is I’m enjoying my free school pass. I don’t have to go to class—not that I went that often anyway. I don’t have to eat in the cafeteria—not that I ever ate any of the food. And I don’t have to see Breas. Yes, I am well aware that Breas lives next door to me. And yes, I am aware that they’ll be over for dinner tomorrow night because it’s the night before the big game, and Scott, Uncle Mark, and Ryan always come over for dinner the night before a big game, though I’m not sure why because we don’t serve anything that once had a face on it.

  But still, Gram’s worried about me. Uncle Mark’s worried about me. Ryan and Scott are definitely worried about me, because they unfortunately not only witnessed my little hissy fit but the self-mutilation as well. As a result, tonight’s family dinner is cancelled with no unscheduled visitors, and Gram and I sit across from each other sipping soup, pretending not to acknowledge the absence of half the table.

  “So, Gigi,” she says.

  “So, Gram,” I reply.

  She smiles at me, but it’s a tight, tired smile. A smile that tells me she doesn’t want to play games. “What happened today?”

  I scratch the bandage on my left wrist. “Nothing.”

  She sets her spoon on the table. It rattles back and forth, sounding much louder than it normally would if Scott and Uncle Mark were at the table. She keeps watching me.

  I suck in a deep breath through my nose. “Breas. Breas bothers me.”

  She picks up the spoon and studies the handle. An observer might think she’s lost interest in the conversation, but I know better. She takes a sip of soup. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He makes me angry.”

  “What about him makes you angry?”

  “Everything.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “His accent.”

  “His accent?”

  “Yeah, he’s so Irish.”

  She swallows. “Gigi, you and I are Irish. Mark and Scott are Irish. Mark has an Irish accent. Scott does too sometimes.”

  “I know,” I groan, “but Breas is just so annoying about it.”

  She frowns. “Gigi, that’s not a reason, and you know it.”

  I sigh. “I don’t really know what it is. He harasses me. I don’t like him touching me without my permission.”

  “Well, that is a legitimate concern. Have you told him about it? Have you told anyone else?”

  “No, not really. I mean I’ve stomped on his foot and kicked him, but I guess I haven’t said anything about it to him or to anyone. I feel things with him I don’t want to feel.”

  Her eyes lift to mine. “Like what?”

  I don’t often admit my emotions, but when I do, it’s always to Gram. She pulls the truth out of me one reluctant nugget at a time.

  “Like I feel sorta nauseous around him.”

  “Like a bad nauseous or a nervous nauseous.”

  I roll my eyes. “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I guess like a nervous nauseous.”

  “So, he makes you uncomfortable?”

  I nod my head up and down. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly what he does. He makes me uncomfortable.”

  “So, you have feelings for him?”

  “I … I wouldn’t call them feelings, unless you consider wanting to punch him in the face feelings, which you know I do.”

  She pulls her lips to the side in that motherly way, or I guess in a motherly way. I wouldn’t know. But I imagine her pulling her lips in just like that with her daughter.

  “Is it because he’s very handsome?”

  My eyes open wide. “Gram!”

  “What? He is.”

  “You’re like five times his age.”

  She laughs. “I can still acknowledge when a man or a woman is attractive. I’m not dead.”

  “Ew, let’s not go there.”

  “So, is it?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Gigi, you are a test in patience every conversation.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment. Do you think he’s attractive?”

  “Well, yeah. I guess, but that’s not it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, his first day I was called down to Donahue because I was smoking in the bathroom.”

  Gram’s eyes widen.

  I put up my hands. “I wasn’t smoking. I was just experimenting with smells and people. A social experiment.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Go on.”

  “Well, he walked out of Donahue’s office and took one look at me and said, ‘You’re mine.’”

  “That’s it?”

  I straighten. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Gigi, haven’t you learned by now that you can’t take what people say to heart. You let their words bother you.”

  I start clearing the table, throwing spoons into bowls, and moving the salt and pepper shakers. “I don’t.”

  “Gigi, I know you do.”

  “I—”

  She raises her hand. “I’m not finished. You put a wall around you to keep people out.”

  “I don’t keep you out. Or Uncle Mark, or Ryan and Lizzie, or Scott—as much as I try to keep him out.”

  “Gigi …” she warns.

  “I’m sorry. I love Scott … mostly.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “Kidding. But, Gram, are you suggesting I should let Breas in?”

  “I’d like you to acknowledge your feelings and decide if you really do care about him or if he’s making you care about him because he’s harassing you. It’s not okay for him to touch you without your permission, and if I need to, I’ll set strict guidelines, but like it or not, he’s someone who is going to be in your life. You need to establish boundaries with him.”

  “I don’t like boundaries. Can’t we just kick his ass back to Ireland?”

  She pulls her lips to the side. “It’s not that easy. I wish it were, but there’s a more complicated history.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, Gigi. In time, you will.”

  12

  Soapy Kisses

  I’ve never been a big rule follower. That shouldn’t surprise anyone, but I always listen to my gram. Always. When it comes to Breas, I quietly disagree. Gram seems to think he has a role to play in my life, but she refuses to elaborate. I don’t know why she needs to be so cryptic about it. Whenever she’s had visions in the past, she’s always told me in vivid detail what she saw, whether I wanted to hear it or not. And believe me, most times I didn’t want to hear it. She has this tendency to predict my next bad decision before I can even think about ma
king it. Like the time she handed me a box of condoms before I went to bed one night. I wound up sneaking out and proceeded to have sex with some random guy at Metropol. But here’s the thing. I didn’t plan on going to the club or getting sexed up with some stranger for my first time. It just happened. And she knew it was going to happen.

  So, you can see why I’m really uneasy about the whole “acknowledge your feelings about Breas” thing. I mean, what if she’s already seen Breas and me together? What if she already knows what’s going to happen between us?

  And there’s that whole dark and sinister thing about him that nobody else seems to see. I guess I don’t see it—I feel it.

  I know, I know. Call the kettle black much, Gigi? But it’s there. Trust me on that.

  And what about my “conflicting hormone” thing, where I’m torn between jumping on his lap and testing that Irish kissing theory or ripping his balls off and shoving them through the food mill? What about that?

  The only one thing I know for certain is that I’m a hot mess. A hot, freaking mess.

  So rather than spending my school-free day figuring out my feelings about Breas, I dug in the dirt. And now I’m forced to sit next to him at dinner, and I still have no idea what my true feelings are, and I’m not about to talk to him about it.

  Thank goodness Ryan, Scott, and Uncle Mark are over for their Thursday-night-before-the-big-game routine. They can act as a buffer.

  For most of the meal, Breas has been very cordial to me. Nice even. Maybe he feels bad about what happened yesterday, as he should. Maybe he really does care about me. Maybe he really wants to get to know me.

  “So, Gi, will you take me to the game tomorrow evening? I’m looking forward to experiencing America’s form of football.”

  His fingers brush mine as I take the pasta bowl, and I almost drop it. Why in god’s name do I have to feel an electric charge every time we touch? That feeling is supposed to be reserved for fairy tales and romances, but instead of making me lovey-dovey, it makes me want to break something.

  I take a deep breath to steady myself. “I thought we already discussed that you do not call me ‘Gi.’ That name is reserved for family and loved ones, and you are neither.”

  “Gigi,” Gram scolds. “Be nice.”

  “I am being nice. I’m letting him know his boundaries. Familiar nicknames are not one of them.”

  That’s it. Embrace your anger. You know exactly how you feel about that.

  “Breas,” Uncle Mark says, “why don’t you sit with me at the game? I sit with Ryan’s dads and a few other parents in the stands next to the band. Best seats in the house.”

  Ryan grins at Scott. The parent cheering section led by their dads is notorious. Pom-poms, noise-makers, and two words: body paint.

  I don’t sit anywhere near the parent cheering section, nor would I subject anyone I care about to that form of abuse. Not even Breas.

  “If Gigi doesn’t change her mind, I would be happy to. Otherwise, I’d prefer my American experience to be surrounded by my peers.”

  Scott’s eyes meet mine. It’s a warning to remain calm and not make a scene. He should know I never make a scene. Well, I’d never make a scene at Gram’s—that’s just disrespectful.

  “Gigi, I think you’ll wash the dishes by yourself tonight,” Gram says. She considers solo dishwashing a form of punishment. She doesn’t realize it’s a reprieve from the after-dinner conversation with the present company.

  I shrug. “Sure. I’ll get started.”

  Breas pulls the salad bowl just out of my reach. “Let me help you with that.”

  “No, I’ve got it.” I reach for it, but he’s lifted it in the air.

  “I’m the guest, and I’m choosing to help,” he says with that smile that’s growing on me like a fungus on the bottom of my foot.

  “I’ll be out in the rose garden,” Gram says. She nods at me before disappearing through the back door.

  Uncle Mark stands up and follows her out. “We’ll join you. Scott, Ryan, let’s go.”

  Ryan follows them out with no concern for my well-being, but that’s Ryan. He assumes the best in people, even when I’ve proven otherwise.

  Scott, however, knows me better. He pushes out his chair and carries his plate over to the sink. “Do you think that’s such a good idea?”

  “They’ll be fine,” Uncle Mark yells through the screen door.

  Scott scrunches his forehead at Breas. “Gi, are you sure you’re okay with him helping you?”

  So much for discreet. I glance up at Breas. He winks at me, making my stomach churn.

  “Scott, come on,” his dad calls for him again. “Let’s not keep Gram waiting!”

  “Sorry,” he mouths on his way out.

  The air shifts in the room when he exits. As if he took all the pure, positive energy with him and left raw, sensual tension behind. A shiver runs through me.

  “Are you cold?” Breas asks, his hot breath on my neck. The fuzziness returns. It’s like he’s my dealer and the slightest interaction with him sets off my cravings.

  I plunge a plate into the hot, soapy water and start scrubbing off dinner remnants. “Nope, not at all.”

  “Shall I rinse?” He dips his hand into the water. His finger caresses mine as he reaches for the plate. The touch triggers a memory of our lips pressed together.

  I suck in a breath. He’s standing close. Uncomfortably close. So close that I could rest my head against his chest. So close that all he has to do is bend down to kiss me.

  As if reading my mind, he cups my face in his wet, soapy hand. His head dips down. His lips hover just above mine. I push into his. The moment our lips touch, everything goes black.

  13

  Secret Keepers

  Friday night. The night of the big game. Scott and Ryan promise it will be a game to remember. Sidenote: Scott and Ryan promise every game will be one to remember. Lizzie wants to go, and I had promised the boys I’d go. Technically, since I’m suspended I’m not supposed to be on school grounds, though I’ve never been one for technicalities. But after what happened with Breas last night, I don’t want to be within a twenty-mile radius of him. I can’t trust myself around him. He gives me the shakes.

  Lizzie and I meet at the Quikmart before the game just like always. Her parents think she has a Friday night Bible study group, so they never question her Friday night whereabouts. It’s very convenient.

  I pick up a sixteen-ounce cup and dump in the remainder of the espresso. “You stay and go to the game.”

  Lizzie pours herself a blue raspberry slushie. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I won’t be alone. I’m going out.”

  She hands the Quikmart clerk money for both our drinks. “Do I even want to know where?”

  “Metropol. Completely safe. Completely harmless.”

  “Gigi, you and I have very different definitions of safe and harmless. Is Dead Bastards playing tonight? Is that why you want to go?”

  I avoid her gaze by opening the door for her. “No, I learned my lesson the last time.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  I grunt. “True. But really, Dead Bastards aren’t playing this month anywhere near Pittsburgh.”

  Her eyebrows rise.

  “Not that I checked or anything.”

  She reaches for my hands. “Just stay away from them. You deserve better.”

  “I know.” I sniff, but it has nothing to do with any feeling swirling inside of me. It’s because of the coffee for god’s sake.

  “Do you? Because sometimes I don’t think you do. You were underage. They should never have put you in that situation.”

  “I had too much to drink. It was my fault.”

  She squeezes my hands. “Gigi, look at me.”

  I sigh, acting like I can’t believe she’s making me look at her, but what I’m really doing is erasing the emotion from my face.

  “It’s not your fault,” she says.

  “I know.”
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  She scrunches her forehead and looks at me. I mean really looks at me. “Do you? Do you really believe it’s not your fault? They should not have taken advantage of you like that. You were underage and drunk.”

  I swallow. Heat creeps up my throat when I even think about adjusting the truth. “I do. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Then why do you need to go there tonight? Why don’t you come to the game with me? Scott and Ryan will be bummed if you don’t go.”

  “I just don’t want to run into anyone.” At least that’s not a lie.

  “Like anyone with an Irish accent and lives next door to you?” Her dimple pops up.

  “Maybe.”

  Lizzie may have been homeschooled until she was eight, and her JW parents might try to shield her from temptation and sin, but she knows things. All kinds of things. So many things that it’s almost like she was swapped out for a changeling from one of those old Irish tales that Gram used to tell me.

  “So, Breas,” she says.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay …” she says.

  “Let’s talk about Ryan instead.”

  Her eyes brighten. “What about Ryan?”

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  She blushes. A warm pink washes over her cheeks. She’s lovely when she’s bashful. It’s a becoming trait on her.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “We’ve been talking a lot these last few days.”

  “Oh really?”

  Red blooms up her neck. “Well, you got kicked out. I had to talk to someone.”

  I grin at her. “Absolutely. You absolutely had to ‘talk’ to someone.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  I raise my eyebrow.

  “Seriously,” she says. “Nothing happened.”

  “Do you want something to happen?”

  She peeks over at me. “I think so.”

  “What will your parents say?”

  Lizzie’s parents love Lizzie. They preach about loving thy neighbor and spreading the word of Jehovah and all sorts of Hallmark crap, but the thing is that while it’s okay for Lizzie to minister the random unknown misguided teen girl, it won’t be okay for their little Lizzie to date someone of a different race or someone with two dads.