Even before she'd decided we were friends, before our first fateful bonding moment outside of the vice principal's office when she first realized I was in her corner, I'd admired her.
Admired that she never backed down. Admired that, with the way she was treated by nearly everyone around her, she never bent, not one iota, let alone came near to breaking.
Her strength galvanized me, made me see the world in a different way.
I had it so easy. My mother was awful, my father dismal, but my life was pampered and I could escape any time I wanted, which was often, and visit my gram, who lived a short walk away and made up for both of my pieces of shit parents and then some.
I had an anger problem and a bad attitude. This I knew. But it was Scarlett who inspired me to give those things purpose.
The first time I tried to help, she didn't even notice me.
We were in the cafeteria at school. I was in line to get lunch, stealing glances at her.
She was by herself. She always was. She was less interested in talking to other kids than any kid I'd ever seen besides myself. Once, I'd even taken a seat across from her to eat, and she'd still barely said two words to me.
Her thick brown hair was endearingly messy. She had the perfect face of a doll, but it was always set into hard lines, an incongruous, arresting look but one that I couldn't stop looking at. And I looked a lot. I enjoyed watching her. She wasn't like anybody else, didn't react to things in the same way. I got a kick out of expecting the unexpected from her.
Every inch of her tiny frame read: This girl is tough and she does not plan to deal with your shit. Do not mess with her.
So why was everyone always messing with her?
They loved to tease her about the trashcan stuff, and I thought that was about the most messed up thing ever. It set my teeth on edge. What an awful thing to tease someone about.
No part of me understood, but then, I'd never felt like someone who fit in, either.
They were serving cheese zombies and tomato soup for lunch, one of my favorites, and I waited in line just watching her and not particularly paying attention to anything else.
I couldn't help but overhear the boys in front of me, though. There were two of them and they were snickering. It was the type of laugh where you knew there was something bad behind it. Something mean, and so I focused on them, listening as they revealed themselves to be just the kind of little shits I had no patience for.
"I swear to God, Jason," one said to the other. "I have five dollars in my backpack, and if you do it, it's all yours."
Jason laughed harder. "I'll get into trouble."
"It's five bucks! Just say you tripped and spilled it. Hell, some tomato soup on her head might make her smell better."
They both went into loud peals of laughter. I thought they sounded like nasty, little hyenas.
I felt sick. I didn't even have to hear any more, I knew what they were planning and to whom, but I did hear more, I listened and collected my food, then quietly followed them.
I set down my tray on the first table I passed.
Jason's giggling friend sat down at the next one and waved him on.
With an evil grin, Jason approached Scarlett from behind, still holding his tray.
With quick furious steps I caught up to him, grabbed his tray, stepped on his foot, and sent my elbow hard into his chin all at once.
He went down with a gratifying cry.
Very calmly, I took his tomato soup and poured it right into his bratty, dismayed face.
"Is it funny now, you little shit?" I spat at him right before a teacher started dragging me away.
I glanced at Scarlett as I went.
She'd turned at the commotion, looking bored with only a touch of interest in her big, dark eyes as she looked at me, but no comprehension on her face that I'd just saved her from a headful of soup.
Still, that didn't deter me. Her plight ate at me. I'd lie in bed, hands clenched into fists, and stew about it.
I was a lonely, solemn boy, more sensitive than I'd ever admit, and I couldn't stand what was happening to her.
Anytime something was really bothering me, I took it to Gram.
"It's not right," I told my glamorous grandmother. "It's wrong, the way she's being treated. The kids are monsters, and the teachers don't care until it's gotten so bad that Scarlett gets herself into trouble. It's every day, Gram. Every day she has to put up with these little shits picking on her."
She was studying my face in a way that I liked, the way she always did when I was reminding her of Grandpa. She didn't even reprimand me for cursing, that's how intently she was listening to me.
"You've gotta help her, Gram. It's bad enough the way they talk, but she's got no one at home taking care of her. She needs clothes. Soap. Someone to wash her hair and brush her teeth, or yanno, teach her how to do it."
She touched a hand to my hair, purest love pouring out of her eyes. "Yes, yes, of course she does, Dante, my sweet, sweet boy. We will work on all of that."
"They're awful at school. They won't let up on her. Maybe if you talk to her about . . . taking a bath or somethin', it'd make it easier on her."
"I will. I absolutely will, you darling boy. I'm ashamed that you even had to point it out, but you leave it to me, okay?"
I nodded. I had absolute faith that Gram would do anything she promised, so I was done worrying about that part of it.
"Thank you," I told her. "But . . . what should I do? How do you think I can help her?"
"How about just being her friend? Friends can make life a lot better."
I flushed and looked down, embarrassed to tell her that the girl I was so worried about would barely say two words to me. "I'll try," I muttered.
"And Dante?"
"Yes?"
"You're strong. And brave. I have faith in you. I know you will find a way to help her. If you see she needs defending, defend her. Do what you think is right and you won't have any regrets."
A few weeks later, I pounded a guy that I heard making a joke about her, and I got my first smile out of her.
I loved that smile that seemed to belong only to me. I felt like I'd been invited into a special club that consisted of just the two of us, and I wanted to stay there. It was the only place I wanted to be.
From that day forward, it was my job to protect her. Her feelings. Her body.
Her freedom.
I look back on it all often, I think about it too much, and my life has fallen into categories—in spite of everything—gradations of her.
Life before Scarlett. Life with Scarlett. Life after Scarlett.
Wanting her.
Needing her.
Having her.
Losing her.
But always, always, there was a cloud looming over our heads, a storm on the brink, and in my mind, at least, there is only one person to blame for it.
*****
From my earliest memories, I had a complicated relationship with my mother.
She taught me to knot a tie, play chess, and to never, ever turn my back on her.
I kept Scarlett from my mother as much as I could for as long as I could. Hid the one I held most dear from the one I most feared.
I sheltered Scarlett from her. Protected her as much as I could. She had enough to contend with in her life without my terrifying mother adding to it.
I kept her hidden as best I could, but of course, that couldn't last forever. Scarlett and I were inseparable. There was bound to be some overlap.
It was the strangest thing, if you ever caught my mother off guard it was like walking in on a corpse. There was not one ounce of animation to her. She was inanimate, staring off into nothing, and if you startled her, her face went on like an alarm going off.
Like stepping on a snake, she struck before you fully understood what you'd done.
I'd caught her like that once and learned to avoid it.
Still, I thought about it. It creeped me the hell out. What did she do when she was so deep i
n her own mind that she seemed to leave her body?
I was young when I pondered that, very young, and the older I got the more apparent the answer was.
She was plotting. Always plotting.
An enemy's downfall, a friend's humiliation, a rival's shame.
A husband's misery.
A son's ruin.
She never lived in the moment. She only lived for her latest trap to spring.
And she always had some web to spin. Everyone in her sphere played some part in the spinning, whether they knew it or not.
There was one thing of value about being her only son; I did learn to deal with her.
Or so I thought.
When I was young and stupid, I thought I'd gotten the best of her, thought I had the keys to keeping her in check for the foreseeable future.
She let me think so, I later realized. She was playing a longer game than I could have anticipated.
The key when it came to my mother was control. If you broke it all down that was all she wanted from anyone, to have power over them.
But that didn't work until you had a weakness to exploit.
The answer to controlling me was always there, from the time Scarlett became my first and best friend, but I was too naive to see it.
I thought I had it all figured out. I thought I was in control. I thought I was the one that had something on her.
I found the thing my mother found the most important without even trying.
For her, the woman who had no animation when she was by herself, it was all about appearances. Her entire life was a sham, a play, and that's all she wanted it to be. She cared more about what the world thought than she did the actual reality of it.
Once I knew that it was a simple thing to figure out what she wanted from me. And once I had that, I figured I had the power to keep her from taking what was important to me.
She loved to bring me out at parties, loved to show off her strapping boy, with his perfect teeth, his good looks, his blond hair, blue eyes, and straight posture—the very image of his handsome father. Thanks to her expectations, I was better at making conversation with adults than other kids, and her 'friends' found this endlessly charming.
She was very happy with that.
I let her have it for a while. She'd taught me well. I even went out of my way to ham it up, her charming little boy, but I made a note of how it pleased her, how she expected, needed my impeccable behavior to help illustrate how perfect, how complete of a person she was pretending to be.
I kept that little card to myself until I needed it, because I always knew I would.
And I did. It was the first time she got an inkling of how close I'd grown to what she referred to as, "That Theroux girl," in her most derisive tone.
She didn't beat around the bush. The day she found out we walked home together from school, she forbid me from ever speaking to Scarlett again.
With a somber face I told her calmly and simply, "No."
She smiled smugly, like she'd been expecting that. "I'll talk to that little piece of trash myself. I'll keep her from ever wanting to so much as look at you, that I promise."
That set me off into the biggest rage of my young life. I could see I even shocked my always a step ahead mother as I began to throw things, going from calm and somber to livid and violent between one breath and the next.
I did have a temper, and it was an ugly thing, but on this particular day there was more than a trace of calculation in it. I'd been expecting this for some time.
I'd been preparing for it.
Plotting it.
There would be no do-over. I'd only get one chance. I couldn't risk not taking it far enough, so I let her have it.
We were in her favorite sitting room. Every single thing in the room was meticulously placed, chosen by her. On a normal day, I knew better than to so much as misplace a pillow in this particular room.
This was not a normal day.
I began by reaching down and picking up a prized object on the glossy mahogany coffee table.
It was a Fabergé egg, worth a lot of money, I knew. It was possibly the most valuable thing in this room full of valuables, and that's why I went for it first.
Our eyes met, hers narrowed and disbelieving, mine full of pure, desperate spite. I held her gaze for one meaningful moment just before I turned and threw the thing, with all my might, straight into the wall.
She gasped and started screaming.
I started screaming louder.
That was only the start. I kept going, breaking things until I felt I'd adequately gotten her attention.
That was when I really let her have it. "FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK!" I screamed into her face.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she screamed back.
My voice got deadly quiet to show her that I was in control of myself. "If you embarrass me to Scarlett I'll make you sorry. Every time you want to show me off at some stupid party, I will put on the stupid suit, I will let you do my stupid hair, and then the second you try to introduce me to someone." I pitched my voice louder suddenly, back to near hysteria. "I'm just going to shout FUCK at the top of my lungs."
Her hand was at her throat. She looked horrified. "What has gotten into you?"
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" I repeated, again and again.
"What is wrong with you?"
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
"I don't even—"
"CUNT!" I brought out the very worst curse word, which I'd only ever heard from my dad when I was eavesdropping on my parents fighting. "CUNT! CUNT! FUCK!"
I won that round. She couldn't stand the thought of anyone thinking her perfect son might be disturbed, mentally challenged, or worse, ill bred.
I thought I'd won the war with that silly display. I thought it was enough to keep her in check, to make her leave me alone to live my life, to pick my own friends, to make my own choices and take my own path.
I was so foolish.
CHAPTER THREE
"Every girl should use what Mother Nature gave her before Father Time takes it away."
~Laurence J. Peter
PRESENT
SCARLETT
We were having a beach day. All of my roommates had conspired to drag my cheerless ass out into the cheerful light of day.
Fun in the sun. Yay.
I actually did try to be a good sport about it. I put on a tiny bikini with a sexy gold sequined cover up, piled my hair on top of my head in a thick, messy bun, and put on my best knock-off designer shades.
And, of course, my game face.
We all brought a guy along, though it wasn't planned.
I took Anton. He had a break in filming from his show, and he loved the beach. And the company.
Leona brought her still-boyfriend pilot, Ed. I still didn't like him, but I kept my mouth shut about it. There's a point when your girlfriend has fallen too far for a guy to be turned back with any sage advice, and that was the point when I stopped giving it. I wouldn't alienate her. We were put on this earth to support one another, not tear each other down, and so I was resigned to watch, worry, and wait. There was nothing I could do but be there to pick her up off the ground if she fell too hard.
Demi brought her friend, Harry. He was an adorable college kid with messy brown hair and thick, black hipster glasses. I kind of loved him. He was sweet and shy, and innocent enough to be just perfect for a bright and shiny young soul like Demi.
Farrah brought along Mitch, a guy she'd been dating on and off for at least a year.
He wasn't her boyfriend, per se, but he was certainly a regular, and all of the roommates liked him.
Even me. He was a cop—LAPD—so I'd just avoided him at first, aggressively so.
As I've said, I have a very healthy fear of the police.
But over time, Mitch had just sort of grown on me. He was nice, and he seemed fair. Honest. Sincere and straightforward, particularly so when he talked about his work. He was one of the good guys. It was as refr
eshing as it was baffling to run into one.
Still, I'd never get over being paranoid around law enforcement, and I knew that he would always make me nervous.
Of course I could never let that show.
We took two cars, and Anton and I ended up in the car with Mitch and Farrah. Which is how I found out that Anton did not share my opinion about Harry.
"What a smarmy little punk," he muttered as we parted ways with the other group, climbing into cars to head to the beach. His eyes were on Harry, who was opening the door for Demi, so I didn't have to ask whom he meant.
Mitch was driving, Farrah in the passenger seat, and I was sharing the backseat with Anton, so I had an unimpeded view as I shot him a look. "What is your problem? Harry is a doll." I hadn't been aware there was any animosity between them, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where it came from.
"I guess. If you like pretentious little mamas' boys."
I blinked at him slowly, letting him see how crazy I thought he was. "What the hell, beardo? Leave the poor kid alone. What'd he ever do to you?"
His arms were crossed over his chest, biceps bulging in a way that would have been very distracting if I wasn't starting to see him as a brother, and his face was set in what I would have called a pout if he weren't a huge dude with a man-bun and amazing facial hair.
Nope, I decided. It was still a pout.
"He didn't do anything," Anton finally answered, "but there's no way he's good enough for Demi. She's out of his league."
I don't know why, but I still didn't connect the dots. I was preoccupied, had too much going on in my head, and yes, I was being self-absorbed, were the only excuses I could come up with later.
At the time, though, I only said, "She's out of everyone's league. She's a perfect fucking angel, but a girl's still gotta date."
Anton just curled his lip. "I bet he doesn't even need to wear those glasses. And the douchebag called me his fucking bruh." He snorted. "Bruh. I bet he uses the word hella."
That made me laugh, because I'm a little bit evil (on a good day), but I quickly stifled it. "Just be nice. Jesus. If I can pull myself together and be pleasant for a day, so can you."