Say You'll Remember Me

  The girl any guy would happily have a lobotomy for, so he could spend one evening with her, walks into my life, has no problem giving me hell, and I can’t touch. The past year wasn’t my penance for my sins. This moment is. “Did you miss I’m a bad guy?”

  “A bad guy encased in bubble wrap with warning labels included. Yes, I saw you in one of my prevention videos at school. Beware of boy warning you off of kissing—he’s the nightmare all parents shiver in their beds about at night.”

  “I’m being up-front of who I am.”

  “Please,” she says. “You’re a kitten.”

  My eyes bug out of my head. “Kitten?”

  “You know you want my number.”

  There’s a tease in her voice that goes straight to parts south, and my blood courses with desire. That’s the problem. I do want her number, and I do want to kiss her.

  “How about you let me continue to be the good guy. You keep pushing, and I’m going to give in and be the guy that says pretty things to get close to your body.”

  “Why can’t you be both?” she asks. “The guy who wants to kiss me and the good guy?”

  Because I don’t know if those things exist in the same universe. Because a girl like her never gave the time of day to a guy like me. “I’m beginning to think you want to be kissed.”

  Her cheeks blare bright red, and that causes me to stop breathing. She really does want to be kissed, but then she winks. “You’re fun to mess with.”

  An unexpected chuckle on my part, and I drink from my lemonade. Fire. Cracker.

  What would life have been like if I had met her before the past year? Would I have used her or would I have seen the gorgeous girl in front of me as someone worth getting to know? I’d like to think I would have seen her worth, but I was a jerk before who was more concerned with what made me happy in the moment, not the future, and I would have talked her into bed.

  “Well, if you’re determined to not use me for my body,” she says, “use me for my mind. Ask me something.”

  I can do that. “If Star Wars isn’t your thing, what is?”

  She surveys me like I’m a textbook. “Computers.”

  Wasn’t expecting that. “Computers?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked. That thing between my ears? That space within my skull? It’s filled with more than blond hair and air.”

  Point awarded to Elle. “Fair enough.”

  “What about you?” She plows forward in a way that tells me that question-and-answer session is done. “What’s your thing?”

  That’s the million-dollar question. “For the past couple of months, my thing has been walking around outside with a pack on my back.”

  Elle bobs her head back and forth as if that was a given. “Besides that.”

  “There’s not much else. I love my friends, my family.”

  Elle taps a finger against the counter. She’s on the hunt, and I don’t care for being the prey. “That’s it? Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think there’s more.”

  “You’d be wrong.”

  “Do you like books?”

  “I read.” But it doesn’t move me.

  “Obsessed with any movies? Wait in line overnight for tickets? Have a secret website devoted to a character?”

  “Like them like anybody else.”

  “What about music? Do you like music?”

  I scratch the back of my head and move the glass on the counter for something to do. Yeah, I love music.

  “You like music,” she states.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you listen or do you play?”

  “Both.” Not sure how you can play without loving to listen.

  “What do you play?”

  I should tell her the guitar, my new instrument of choice. “The drums.”

  Elle leans her elbows on the counter and laces her fingers together. “Should I be scared of you?”

  My eyes snap to hers. Demanding an answer, she doesn’t look away. Intimidating blue eyes behind kick-ass glasses.

  “You keep trying to prove you’re this big, bad boy. Should I believe what you say or should I judge you by your actions?”

  I don’t want her to be scared of me, but according to what I was convicted of, I should say yes. Play the part. A sickness shreds my insides. “I am bad.”

  “Yes, because bad boys do what you’ve done for me.”

  She has it all wrong. “I used girls for their bodies and did it without an ounce of guilt. I did drugs, I drank and I used to beat the hell out of guys because the fight felt good. I wasn’t someone you would have liked.”

  “When you finished that statement, you left it hanging as if there was an unsaid ‘but.’”

  “I wasn’t a good guy.”

  “Fine. You weren’t a good guy. But according to your speech at the press conference you had a year to figure yourself out. Did Dad’s program work?”

  It did. I don’t know how, and I won’t know how until I’m faced with making some of the same choices. I’m hoping I’m strong enough to go down different paths, but I doubt myself. “I won’t hurt you if that’s what you’re asking.”

  It’s not a great answer, but it’s the best I’ve got. One second of her eyes boring into mine. Two seconds. Three. My pulse pounds in my ears.

  “I think you’ve changed.”

  I pray she’s right.

  Elle sips her lemonade, then holds her glass between her hands on the counter. “You didn’t have to tell everyone what you did. I overheard Sean and Cynthia talking about it. She said it was part of the agreement for what you did to stay sealed and that the only reason you told everyone is because my dad asked you to share.”

  My skin shrinks on my bones as I’m backed into a corner. “Does anyone in this house realize how much you hear?”

  “No. Most people in this house don’t think much of me, at least with anything that matters. Sometimes, I’m convinced they think I’m as useful as paint. Will you tell me why you told everyone what you did?”

  She’s quiet for a few beats as if giving me a chance to collect my thoughts and jump into the conversation. There’s no jumping as I don’t know what to say.

  “You can say no,” she says. “You don’t have to do everything they tell you.”

  That’s where she’s wrong. “Yeah, I do. It’s part of my plea deal.”

  Her forehead wrinkles, and I don’t like it. She shouldn’t wear worry. “I know you don’t know my dad, but he’s not a politician because of power or because he likes bossing people around. He’s a politician because he wants to help people. My dad wants to make the world a better place. If you didn’t want to tell the world what you did, he would have been okay with it.”

  “You spoke up,” I say.

  “That reporter was crucifying you, and you were good to me. You deserved better.”

  Deserved better. People don’t get what they deserve. At least not people like me.

  “Let me guess. You’re going to save the world like your dad, too.” There’s more bite to my comment than I intended, and I hate how she flinches. Asshole. I’m an asshole. That’s a part of me that could have stayed behind in the woods, but nope, I had to bring that back with me.

  I open my mouth to apologize, but the steady staccato rhythm of her fingernails tapping in rapid succession causes me to pause. I don’t know much about life, but I do know a pissed female when I see one. That wildfire raging inside her, if it’s anything like Holiday’s...it’d be smart to find the nearest exit.

  “Do you think I’m not capable of saving the world?”

  Mouth open again, but her glare cuts me off. Speaking now would be bad, and as she tilts her head in a cutting way, not speaking is bad, too. I. Am. Screwed.

  “I’m capable of saving the world.”
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  Both hands in the air. “I believe you.”

  “Sure you do. That’s what people say, but then I’m only asked to pose for the picture.”

  The world halts. Elle’s cheeks are red, remnants of the anger that just boiled over, but there’s hurt raging in those blue eyes, and the urge is to make her better. But I don’t know how to make her better. I’ve never been the guy to make anyone better. I’m just the guy who knows how to make himself feel good.

  I scan the room, half hoping the answer genie will appear out of thin air, but besides the buzzing of the fridge, like always, I’ve got nothing. That’s wrong. I got the truth.

  “Look...” Who knew telling the truth could be so hard? The truth is stripping and raw and creates a tightness in my chest. “My family was at the press conference, and all I could think was how I didn’t want my sister to see me as...”

  ...a criminal.

  A thing to be hated and judged. “I didn’t want anyone to know what I was convicted of. When that reporter started shooting off his mouth, if I talked then, people wouldn’t have cared who I want to be and they wouldn’t care about your dad’s program. All they would have cared about is that I did something wrong, I didn’t serve the time they wanted and that your dad was stupid to give me a second chance.”

  Because that’s how people work. Somebody does something wrong and people are salivating to point it out. There’s no forgiveness, just vengeance. Hang the person by the rope in the center of town and have a picnic around them with the family. It’s what they did in the Wild, Wild West. We do it now, just a more technologically advanced version.

  “Then you spoke up and people saw me differently. If you had the courage to come forward, I could, too.” If Elle saw me differently, maybe Holiday would see me as redeemable, too.

  A rush of regrets saturates every cell in my body, and I try to shake it off. To survive the past year, I had to be numb. Even now, to do what needs to be done, I’ve got to keep from feeling too much for too long. Emotions—feeling—needing to feel, it’s what got me into trouble.

  “You say I don’t have to do everything they ask of me—” I lay it out for Elle “—but your dad saved my life. I say listening, paying attention, doing what he says...it’s got to be better than when I made decisions for myself.”

  “That’s why we chose Hendrix for the program, and why we chose him to represent it for the next year.” Sean Johnson enters the room. “He’s smart and learns quickly.”

  Sean’s in a polo shirt, khaki pants and is put together like I’d expect a rich politician to be. Hair in place, a smile that’s chemically white and straight teeth. I met him a few times before I went to juvenile detention, but my thoughts were so warped then that he felt more like a nightmare than real.

  “Listen to Hendrix, Elle. You can learn a few things from him.” Sean stops at the edge of the counter and levels Elle with his eyes. “The advice your parents give isn’t to punish you. It’s to help. If you don’t want to take it from me, then take it from him. You need to start listening.”

  Ellison

  Not just listen. Sean wants me to obey. They all do. I’m starting to question my own sanity because every person I’ve had contact with has told me to listen and do what I’m told to do. I sag. Maybe they’re right, and if they are, what does that say about that part of me that’s screaming when I do conform?

  Footsteps in the foyer and multiple voices carry throughout the house. The meetings are over, Sean’s here and that must mean it’s time to learn my fate. My mother’s laughter rings out, and she and my father walk into the kitchen. Something has put Mom in a splendid mood, and I’m not sure if that should freak me out. Did I mess up so badly that her mind fractured?

  Without any pleasantries, my parents join us at the island. With his loose faded blue jeans and a chain hanging from his belt buckle to his wallet, Drix stands out, and he steps back as if wishing he could blend into the wall.

  “Thank you for coming, Hendrix,” Dad says, and offers him an inclusive smile. Drix merely inclines his head in greeting. I don’t blame him for staying quiet because I’m also choosing silence as my line of defense. “Sorry you had to wait, but we needed to wrap up a few things before we spoke to you and Elle.”

  Sean unrolls a national newspaper, and staring back at us is the front page. I pinch myself to make sure I’m awake because that headline, it’s not a nightmare—at least I don’t think it is. The headline is one word alone: “Hero.”

  Below the headline is a picture of my father and Drix looking at each other and shaking hands. There’s also a picture of me and Drix. I’m gazing up at him, he’s gazing down at me. We’re on the midway and we’re both smiling.

  “Congratulations,” Sean says, and I don’t know who he’s talking to. “You’re famous.”

  Hero

  USA TODAY Network Jackson Jenner,

  The Lexington Tribune

  Kentucky Governor Monroe’s Second Chance Program is being hailed as a huge success by supporters and critics yesterday when the governor introduced one of the first graduates.

  Hendrix Page Pierce, a native of Lexington and convicted of a crime last year, has spent the past year in the Second Chance Program. The first seven months were in an intense therapy and education curriculum while being held at a juvenile detention center, then the last three were in an Outward Bound program designed especially for the program’s participants.

  Yesterday, Pierce proved to the state of Kentucky and the nation that second chances are possible and that people can change. The last time Pierce was on the streets he committed a violent crime, but now, not even a week since being released, Pierce proved himself a hero when he saved the governor’s daughter, Ellison Monroe, while she was harassed by two men at the May Fest midway.

  Witnesses have stepped forward and multiple cell phone videos have surfaced since the press conference showing how the men stalked the governor’s daughter and continued to harass her as she tried to flee from them.

  Pierce, not having any prior knowledge of who the governor’s daughter was, approached Ellison Monroe and protected her without violence.

  The police are currently searching for the two men and, if found, charges are expected to be filed.

  (Story continued on page 2)

  Ellison

  “Everyone has a job,” I say. “This happens to be mine.”

  My feet dangle off the dock, and my big toe barely skims the water. There’s been a drought, and the water level is down. Typically, I could cool my entire foot in the large pond, but this isn’t my lucky day. It’s been a week since the press conference, and my parents have mellowed out enough that I finally felt comfortable asking for permission to visit Henry. They, of course, said yes, making me feel silly for waiting as long as I did.

  Henry sits beside me and messes a towel over his dark brown hair that’s cut close to his scalp. He jumped into the dark water. I didn’t. My thoughts are too complex for me to be wet, too heavy for me to float, and I sort of have an irrational fear of drowning.

  “That’s the point, Elle.” Henry dries off the skull tattooed on his biceps. My father hates that tattoo with a passion. “Most seventeen-year-olds are flipping burgers, working retail or serving ice cream. They ask if you want sprinkles on top or fries with an order. They aren’t fleecing grown men for money, and they aren’t living in hell posing for pictures.”

  I’m two hours away from my home in Lexington and at our grandmother’s farm so I can soak in whatever time I can with Henry. He’s stateside for now, but for how long, he has no idea. But that’s how the army works—one day you’re here, the next day you’re gone. As long as Henry keeps returning and what he does makes him happy, I’m okay with what my parents consider his bad employment choice.

  “Dramatic much?” I nudge my dry arm against Henry’s wet one. When he nudges me back, drop
s of water he hadn’t toweled off fall on to my tan shorts and dark green lace tank. “You make what I do sound so scandalous.”

  The wind ruffles the leaves on the trees surrounding the pond, and the sound is like millions of people clapping at my witty comeback.

  I love this place. It’s one of the lone spaces in the world that seems to get me. I love the towering oaks, the old worn wood of the dock and the even older tiny and broken farmhouse at the top of the hill. My father’s family has owned that house and this land since 1770-something. The Monroes are rooted in Kentucky, so deep there isn’t a back strong enough to yank us out.

  “Scandalous.” Henry throws the towel over his bare shoulder, and I can’t help but notice how he resembles my father’s side of the family. Dark hair, dark eyes, chiseled jaw and sharp features. Someone who people automatically pay attention to and respect when they walk in the room. “I think scandalous is a good word for when you hate what you do.”

  “Hate’s a strong word.”

  “Are you changing your mind and telling me you enjoy what you do? That you like being the belle of the ball at your dad’s fund-raisers?”

  No, but... “I do get a very awesome allowance, and Dad bought me a car. Mom and Dad told me to think of working the campaign trail and going to the fund-raisers as a part-time job with great perks.”

  “Doesn’t change that you hate it.”

  “I have a feeling I’d also hate handing out Happy Meals and wiping down tables finger-painted in profanity with ketchup. And last I heard, they only pay minimum wage.”

  Henry cocks his head in agreement, but he’s worse than a dog with a bone. “But it does rip out a piece of your soul each time you pose for the camera.”

  What he’s saying is true. I’ve been helping my father on the campaign trail and fund-raisers for the past two years. I don’t do much besides smile, nod, make polite and useless conversation and look pretty in photos.

  To prepare for these functions, my mother and her stylists fix me up, and I’m transformed from plain me to the girl people enthusiastically stand in line to take pictures with. It’s unsettling when someone changes me from who I am to someone I’m not, so when I glance in the mirror it’s like falling through the looking glass to another side of me that shouldn’t exist.