Unless I don’t want to? My whole body was prepared to mutiny if I allowed her to leave here thinking I didn’t want her. I shoved both hands into my hair.
‘Brrr! Are y’all coming in, or what?’ Carlie said behind me. ‘’Cause I’m closing this door.’
Jacqueline was shivering, and I was standing barefoot on the landing outside in the middle of December. I captured her hand in mine and brought her inside, refusing to consider Carlie’s hundred-watt smile. She went back to her corner of the sofa, where Francis allowed himself to be hoisted and repositioned in a way that would’ve got anyone else on the planet a hiss and scratch.
Caleb, objecting to the disruption because he’d been kicking Carlie’s ass and mine, made some surly comment and got an elbow from his sister while I placed Jacqueline in my corner of the sofa. After making introductions, I sat on the floor in front of her and wondered what the hell to do now. Unchartered territory – that’s what this was. I’d given her every reason to let go, and she wasn’t doing it.
Minutes later, Carlie, determined that everything go according to her romantic whims, winked at me and hustled her brother across the yard, whether he wanted to go or not. I bolted the door behind them and turned to lean against it.
‘So. I thought we said we were taking a break?’ I said.
‘You said we were taking a break.’ She was still irritated.
I reminded her that she had to leave by Tuesday morning – the break was university decreed, after all – and she conceded.
I stared at the floor, knowing damned well what I was to her. I had to tell her. I had to put it all out there, because she had everything so wrong. I’d shielded myself too well. So well that she couldn’t see the truth.
‘It’s not that I don’t want you. I lied, earlier, when I said I was protecting you.’ My eyes rose to hers as she sat, silent, still curled into the corner of my sofa. So impossible, so beautiful. ‘I’m protecting myself.’ My palms braced against the door, and I forced out the thing I feared, and the desire that had bided its time, waiting to crush me. ‘I don’t want to be your rebound, Jacqueline.’
Her thoughts were readable, even from this distance. She wasn’t sure how I knew, but she saw that I did. I waited for her to try to explain that she cared about me – because I knew she did. I waited for her to argue that she just wasn’t ready now, to claim that she was giving me what she could, to ask why I couldn’t be satisfied with that.
‘Then why are you assuming that role?’ she said instead, rising and crossing the carpet, her eyes on mine, unwavering. ‘It’s not what I want, either.’
I accepted her body, pushing into my space like she’d pushed into my heart. She’d chipped away at the wall between us until it collapsed and turned to dust at my feet.
‘What am I gonna do with you?’ I asked, palms cupping her face, and she said she could think of a couple of things. Unwilling to wait to find out what those things were, I picked her up and carried her to my bed.
I loved her silly, furry-cuffed boots. Off they went.
I loved her blousy knitted top, pink and white swirls, like a watercolour sunset my mother had painted on Grandpa’s beach when I was very small. Off it went, too.
I loved her snug, curve-hugging jeans that wouldn’t simply slide down her hips – they had to be tugged while she wiggled. I tugged. She wiggled. Off they went as well.
Her bra and panties were silky-smooth and matched the creamy tone of her skin. Front clasp. Bra off. The last thin scrap of fabric covered the part of her I wanted to taste, soon. Panties, gone.
She lay in the centre of my bed, naked, and I was fully clothed, but barefoot. I stood, staring down at her, prolonging the moment. She squirmed, her chest rising and falling, her hands kneading the comforter beneath her.
I reached to pull my long-sleeved T-shirt off, unhurried. The squirming increased as I slid the sleeves down my arms, flexing them. I combed my hair back from my face and took a measured breath, like a light tap on the brake. Slow. Slower. My jeans were threadbare – I didn’t wear these out, because they always seemed to threaten spontaneous disintegration. Ripped in three or four places, frayed around the hems, the seams, and the waistband, which hung at my hipbones. One button, undone. Two.
Jacqueline’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, her breasts lush handfuls I wanted to feel against my chest, against my palms and fingers and face as I sucked those hard, pebbled nipples.
As if I’d said this aloud, she whimpered softly.
‘Soon, baby,’ I whispered.
At the third button, I could have shoved the jeans down – they were loose enough. I paused. She panted. Fourth button. I pushed the jeans down and stepped out of them. Her eyes grazed over all of me. She licked her lips. Yes. Her hands clenched, tight fists at her sides. One knee rose restlessly.
Boxers down and off.
She started to rise, but I pointed at her and shook my head. Stay. There. Reading the silent command in my eyes, she lay back down, biting her lip.
I took my wallet from the desk behind me and removed the condom, rolled it on. One knee on the foot of the bed. Her soft skin was a feast, and I wanted to devour her. She spread her legs, just enough to welcome me. I wanted to slide the tip of my tongue from her ankle to her thigh, licking and charting an unhurried, torturous course. I wanted to taste her, but that would have to wait, because I had to possess her. Now. I crawled forward, my body shaking with anticipation, just as hers was.
When I rose over her, she reached for me and I paused, staring into her eyes, and then rocked into her, fully. Her arms surrounded my shoulders, fingers clutching the hair at my nape as she cried out. Sweeping my tongue through her mouth, I kissed her, holding myself still. Mine, I thought. Yours, her body answered. I began to move, and she held tight, humming and moaning, crying and pulling me inside, everywhere I wanted in. She came apart seconds later and I plunged my tongue into her mouth, stroking deeply and swallowing her pleasure, making it mine. I growled her name, shuddering, and dragged her with me as I collapsed at her side.
I love you, I thought, but heard nothing in return.
Her fingers moved over the petals tattooed over my heart.
‘My mother’s name was Rosemary. She went by Rose.’ I stared at the ceiling.
‘You did this in memory of her?’
I nodded against the pillow. ‘Yes. And the poem on my left side. She wrote it – for my dad.’
Her fingers traced the poem, and I shivered. ‘She was a poet?’
‘Sometimes.’ My mother’s face smiled down at me – a memory that I couldn’t place now. I held on to whatever I could of her. ‘Usually, she was a painter.’
Jacqueline made some comment about the artist genes and engineering parts that comprised me, and I laughed at this visual, wondering aloud which were the engineering parts.
She asked if I had any of Mom’s paintings. I told her that some hung in the Hellers’ place, since they used to be so close. I would, perhaps, show her those. Others were in storage in the Hellers’ attic or Dad’s.
She began questioning me about their friendship, and at first I thought she was merely curious about the longstanding relationship between the Hellers and the Maxfields.
‘They were all really close – before.’
Before was an uncomplicated word, and it would never express all I’d lost when my timeline split in two, hurling me into an after I would never escape. I couldn’t reach through that curtain, ever, and see my mother as she was. Touch her. Hear her voice the way it should have been.
‘Lucas, I need to tell you something,’ Jacqueline said, and there was an uneasy tenor to her voice. I turned my head, watching her face as she told me she’d been curious and had searched for my mother’s obituary online.
I knew well enough what she’d found. The nightmare from which I could never wake. My heart went stone cold, and I could barely breathe. ‘Did you find your answer?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
Pity. That’s what I saw in her eyes. I lay back, eyes stinging as I thought of the news articles she must have read. I wondered if she’d sifted through the facts to see my part. My guilt.
I braced, trying to come to terms with this. No one outside the Hellers and Dad knew the details. I’d never spoken of them with anyone. I couldn’t bear to even think about it – how could I speak of it?
Then I caught what she’d just said – that she’d talked to Charles.
‘What?’
‘Lucas, I’m sorry if I invaded your privacy –’
‘If? Why would you go talk to him? Weren’t the gory details in the news reports sickening enough for you? Or personal enough?’ I shot off the bed and pulled on my jeans, my voice like ice, like a razor, cutting into my skin. My wrists burned. I don’t know what I said to her and what I didn’t – the details I’d never uttered aloud. It didn’t matter. She knew them all.
I sat, head in my hands, struggling to breathe, reliving it – please, God, no –
A distant noise woke me, but I rolled back over, kicking off the sheet. I was hot, but too lazy to get up and turn on my ceiling fan. I lay on my side, staring out the window to the backyard, thinking about Yesenia, and the coming weekend. I would hold her hand. Kiss her, maybe, if I could get her alone. If she let me.
God, it was hot. I flopped on to my back. To be thirteen was to be a furnace. I burned off food and energy like a flame sucking down oxygen. You will eat us out of house and home by the time you’re fifteen! my mother said while watching me finish off the leftovers she’d intended to reheat for our dinner. We’d ordered takeout instead. She didn’t want all of hers, so I’d finished it, too.
I heard the noise again. Mom was probably up. She prowled around the house sometimes when Dad was gone, missing him. I should check on her … My clock read 4:11. Ugh. Four hours until I would see Yesenia. I could get up early, get to school early. Maybe I would catch her without all her giggling friends, and we could talk about … something. Like my upcoming game. Maybe she’d want to come watch me play sometime.
I turned just as someone leaned over me. Dad? But he was out of town.
Jerked from the bed, I stumbled. Something was stuffed into my mouth as I opened it to scream – I gagged and couldn’t make a sound or spit it out. I thrashed and kicked but couldn’t get loose. Couldn’t move my wrists. I was shoved to my knees at the foot of the bed, and then he was gone. I tried to stand up, run, grab my phone to dial 911, but I was stuck.
My wrists were tied. I strained to scrape the binding loose with my fingernails, but it was too tight. Plastic. It was plastic. I pulled against the restraint, but it didn’t budge. I tried to rotate my hands to see if I could swivel them free, or fold them and twist them free, like Houdini, but the plastic just cut into my wrists. My hands were too big. Mom said my hands and feet were like the big, floppy feet of a puppy that would be a ginormous dog.
From her room down the hall, my mother screamed. I froze. She called my name. ‘Landon!’ There was a crash and a thud and I struggled harder, not caring if it hurt. I couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t tell her I was coming. My tongue shoved against the cloth in my mouth.
‘What did you do to him? What did you do to him? LANDON!’
There were more words, the sound of a slap – an open palm against bare skin, more screams, and I heard them all but they didn’t register because there was a buzzing in my ears and my blood swishing and my heart pounding. She was crying. ‘Oh, God. God. Don’t. No. No-no-no-no-no!’ Screaming. ‘NO! NO-NO-NO!’ Crying. ‘Landon …’ I yanked harder, pulling the bed with me, all the way to the door, my feet bracing against the floor, my legs straining. The bed ran into the dresser, wedged against the wall. I couldn’t feel my hands.
I couldn’t hear her any more. I couldn’t hear her. The rag in my mouth finally worked free. ‘Mom! MOM!’ I screamed. ‘DON’T TOUCH HER! MOM!’ My wrists were on fire. Why wasn’t I strong enough to break these stupid fucking plastic bands? I screamed until I was hoarse and kept screaming.
Gunshot.
I stopped breathing. My limbs shook. My chest quaked. I couldn’t hear anything beyond my heartbeat. My blood. My thick swallows. My useless sobs. ‘Mom … Mommy …’
I puked. Passed out. The sun came up. My wrists and arms were covered in blood. The zip-ties on my wrists were covered in blood. It was all brown, dried, itchy.
I called for my mother, but I’d screamed too much. A rasp came from my throat, nothing more. Useless. I was useless. Fucking, fucking, fucking useless.
You’re the man of the house while I’m gone. Take care of your mother.
‘Do you want me to leave?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
25
Landon
The number of people in my graduating class was forty-three.
That number could have easily been forty-two. I’d been one of the projected dropouts since the first day of high school. Before that, probably. In this town, there was no such thing as a fresh start; we carried our histories year to year like lists of impairments pinned to our shirts. The only reason I crossed that gym floor in a cap and gown was the man in the third row of the bleachers, sitting next to my father.
My classmates and I filed through the side door as our band – minus the senior members – played the processional. Seated in a matching cluster of royal blue, we fidgeted as Mrs Ingram, our esteemed principal, assured us of our bright and shiny futures. I knew she was full of shit, and so were her optimistic claims. I stared at the two vertical lines set between her eyes, permanent from decades of hostile glares at unacceptable students. Those lines made her graduation-speech grin look sinister.
Many of my brainwashed classmates – those who’d scored near-perfect grades since learning to print their names – thought they’d skip off to college in the fall and perform just as well, just as easily. Delusional dumbasses. My eighth-grade prep-school courses were more challenging than almost anything demanded of us here. Getting into a good school wasn’t winning the lottery. It was winning the right to work your ass off for the next four years.
As valedictorian, Pearl gave the expected speech about opportunities and choices and making the world a better place – she actually used that phrase: make the world a better place. As one of the ‘top ten per cent’ of our class – four people – she’d earned automatic admittance into the state university of her choice, while I’d scraped up a probationary admittance to the same campus she chose. I liked Pearl more than I liked the majority of people sitting around me, and I had no doubt that she knew how to work hard. I just hoped she wasn’t betting on improving the world.
On the second page of the commencement programme, my name was listed at the bottom of the first column. My last name was the alphabetical midpoint of my class – student number twenty-two of forty-three. The placement was fitting. As far as almost everyone here was concerned, I was average. Mediocre. Not exceptional, but not a total fail, though some – like Principal Ingram, believed that remained to be seen.
When my name was called, I crossed the worn oak floor in front of the band, staring over my principal’s shoulder at the giant fish – our renowned mascot – depicted in painstaking detail on the far wall. In mascot form, its expression was supposed to look aggressive, intent on winning, but it seriously just looked like a stupid, pissed-off fish.
I’d been determined to cross the stage staring down the bitch who’d made my life hell for almost four years. To show her she hadn’t broken me, whether or not that was true.
Then, above the obligatory applause and crowd noise, I heard Cole’s screamo roar of, ‘LANDOOON,’ Carlie’s chirpy squeal and Caleb’s piercing whistle.
‘He’s fucking practised that all week, dude,’ Cole told me this morning when Caleb demonstrated his new earsplitting skill less than five minutes after the Hellers arrived. ‘The only reason Mom hasn’t gagged him is ’cause he’s a little kid. If it was me, I’d be toast.’
M
y principal’s reign over me was done. After this moment, she couldn’t touch me.
I reached for the rolled diploma with one hand and shook her cold hand with the other, as we’d been instructed to do. I stared into the camera, ignoring the photographer’s appeal to smile. One blinding flash later, I dropped her hand, walking away without ever making eye contact.
She no longer mattered.
As I dropped back into the metal folding seat between Brittney Loper and PK Miller, I took one furtive glance at my classmates. Out of the forty-three of us, thirty-one would be leaving for college in three months. Some would try out for baseball or track or cheerleading and find they weren’t even good enough for some shit college’s second string. Some imagined themselves in student government on campuses where they’d arrive as one of thousands of nobodies. They’d be one of hundreds of freshmen during rush week, desperate for a defined peer group.
Some would figure it out and learn to survive. Some would fail out, and a few would return to this town with their tails between their legs.
I sure as hell wouldn’t be one of those.
Twelve of my fellow graduates planned to remain here, taking or keeping jobs in fishing or retail or tourism or drugs. They would get married and pregnant – preferably in that order, but not necessarily.
Their spawn would attend the schools that turned them out into adulthood after thirteen years with nothing to show for it but a near-worthless diploma. Ten years from now, maybe five, some of them would ask themselves what the fuck they went to school for – why they laboured through algebra, gym, literature and band. They’d want an answer, but there wasn’t one.
‘Maxfield.’ Boyce Wynn tossed me a can from the cooler, wet from melting ice. His was the last name called this afternoon, the last diploma Ingram resentfully presented. He’d be staying here, pretending this gulf was the ocean, this town his kingdom. Working for his dad at the garage, partying on the beach or driving into the city for the occasional change of pace … Not much would change for Boyce.