The Jezebel

by Dylan Allen

  “Why?” I ask.

  She shrugs, but her jaw is still tense.

  “I failed math, social studies, and science.”

  “Yeah but, why?”

  “According to my report card, I didn’t grasp the material.” She glances at me again; her expression has gone from embarrassed to assessing.

  “But that can’t be why,” I press because I can’t believe she’s ever failed to grasp anything.

  She shakes her head and chuckles. “You're the first person to ever say that. So, I’ll tell you why, but you have to swear that you’re not some sort of spy for your family.”

  Family. How I wish. Longing twists like a hook in my heart. “Hayes and my little brothers are my only family and they can’t afford to hire me yet. So, don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  She exhales the way my mother does when she’s trying to calm her nerves. “I didn’t want to be in the same class with my twin brother for the rest of my life.”

  That’s the last thing I expected her to say. “Didn’t you have to live together, too?”

  “I didn’t hate him. It was everyone else. He’s great at everything. He’s charming, and funny, and smart. They couldn’t help but compare us, and I was never anyone’s favorite.” She says it like it doesn’t matter, and maybe it doesn’t, anymore. But, if she failed a grade and added an entire year to school to get away from him, it must have mattered a whole lot. “I’m sorry,” I say and hate how dumb it sounds.

  “Don’t be. It was one year, and I've recovered nicely. I know it must make you twitchy seeing how you’re in a rush and all.”

  That hook twists tighter “Not by choice. I have to take care of my brothers. I’ll peak early and then, I’ll do an Aaliyah or a Biggie, and that’ll be it.”.

  “What?” she chuckles.

  “They all peaked early and died early. I’m ten, and five years ahead in school. Figure I’ll finish college by the time I’m 18, and then I’ll get a job, kick butt and then kick the bucket by 30, max. So, I’m not gonna get married or have kids. Better not to have people left behind who need me.”

  “But…that’s ridiculous,” she sputters.

  “Tell that to Selena, Ricky Valens, Tupac, Kurt Cobain, River Phoenix, James Dean.” I counter.

  “Are you serious?”

  “You look like I just told you I was from Mars.”

  She groans. “So, what about Oprah Winfrey, Margaret Thatcher, Vera Wang, Betty White, Viola Davis?”

  “Violin who?”

  She darts an unimpressed glare in my direction and shakes her head in disappointment.

  “I’m going to teach you some women’s history while you’re cleaning. They’re all legends who have lived long after their moment of glory. My dad died young; I know my time could come any day. But that just makes me want to do something worth being remembered for. Your life will have more than one peak, and more than one valley. You might die young and it’s good to live like this might be your last day, because hell. who knows? But you better plan like you’re gonna be here until you’re a hundred and three.”

  “And, we’re here,” she announces breezily, oblivious to the seismic shift her words have caused inside me. She pops the trunk before turning to face me. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yup.” I croak and grab the door handle.

  “Oooh, I almost forgot. One sec…” She reaches into the back seat, pulls out a white wax lined bakery bag and holds it out to me.

  “Scones. In case you get hungry between classes tomorrow.”

  I take the bag and hope that she can see the gratitude in my eyes. I’m afraid that if I try to speak, I’ll cry.

  I hold the bag with as much delicacy as I can while I walk my bike up to the side entrance. I turn to look back at where she dropped me off, she’s still there watching until she’s sure I’m going to get inside safely, something my own mother has never done. I lift a hand to return her wave goodbye and slip past the gate.

  That night, for the first time since my stepfather died, I don’t cry myself to sleep.

  Just My Imagination

  Stone

  The last four months have been the best of my whole life. Regan gave me more than a place to study; she’s transformed my whole life. When I walked into class the morning after my first night with her, the ball of dread that always sat in my gut wasn’t so heavy.

  I’d been afraid to fight back because I didn’t want to get kicked out. But I saw their faces when she reminded them that I’m a Rivers and I know they don’t want trouble either. They only pick on me because I let them.

  The next time they cornered me, I swung my backpack at the one whose face was closest and broke his nose.

  He bled all over the hallway.

  We were both hauled to the principal’s office, and before I could say anything, he announced that I’d hit him accidentally.

  They never bothered me again.

  It only took me one month to work enough hours to earn the $500 I owed her. When she told me my tab was settled, I kept coming anyway. With my bullies vanquished I didn’t need the space to study anymore. So, I started spending the entire evening with her in the kitchen.

  She’s a universe of knowledge and she shares it all with me. From baking to history, politics to Pokémon evolution, she knows everything. And when she’s talking to me, I get the feeling that she’s been waiting to tell someone all the things she’s sharing with me.

  Some nights, we just listen to music and work on our own. She plays music I’ve never heard before. Her favorite is “Just my Imagination” by The Temptations. When that comes on, she sings along. Her voice is nice enough. But it’s the smile she wears when she’s singing it that makes it my favorite.

  Other times, she brings her laptop and gives me an education on movies shot in Houston. We watched Terms of Endearment, Jason’s Lyric, Armageddon, and Selena. All of them were sad, but Selena is the only one that made her cry.

  And on the nights when we get every scone off the cookie sheets, without any of them sticking, she plays this song called “Southside” and makes me dance with her. She smells like those scones she makes: lemon and ginger and vanilla… I could smell it all day, every day, and still never get tired of it.

  The loud, long screech of a car horn shakes me awake just in time for me to stop myself from walking into the crosswalk. I jump back onto the sidewalk and clutch my backpack to my chest.

  My heart thuds against the hardbound book inside. This signed special edition copy of Cosmos by Carl Sagan is my most prized possession. I’m giving it to her as a graduation gift. Last week she found out she’s going to be her class Valedictorian.

  I wish I could go watch her graduate. But I’d have to ask my mother to drive me all the way to Hofheinz Pavilion. If she knew I’d even met a Wilde, much less spent time with one, she’d raise hell and this small peace I’ve found would be taken from me.

  So, I’m taking her my present now. I’ve read it at least a hundred times in the two years since my stepfather brought it home for me. I can recite entire chapters with my eyes closed. But there’s one in particular, about the planet Venus, that made me decide to give this book to Regan.

  The transits of Venus - the point in its orbit when it moves between the earth and the sun – only happens once a century. It is the rarest of predictable astronomical phenomena – and one of the most important. Before we had high powered telescopes and the ability to launch satellites into space, scientists used its occurrence to map our entire solar system.

  The book has taught me more than planetary order. It helped me understand that even in chaos, there’s order.

  When my stepfather died, I read it obsessively to remind myself that there is no such thing as bad timing, or coincidence, or luck. As intelligent as we are, we’re no more important than a speck of stardust compared to the age and size of the universe. Just like those planets up there - we’re on a collision course with our destiny and everything we do, everyone w
e meet, shapes that journey and becomes part of it.

  Regan has become part of mine.

  I wrote an inscription on the inside of the book that says, “You’re my Venus and I’m your Mars.”

  It’s simple, but when she reads the book, she’ll understand. She’ll see I’m not some ordinary kid. When I finish school, I’m going to marry her. I used to think I’d never get married, because I didn’t want to leave people behind the way I was. But I’d do it with her.

  I gulp down the cool night air to calm my racing heart. The sidewalks here are pristine strips of large red pavers that line the glass fronted stores on the street. The leaves and petals of the hanging plants that give it a small town feel during the day, cast eerie shadows now.

  The telltale glow of light from the back of the store makes my heart skip a beat. I’m early, but I wanted to have time to give her my present before we got to work.

  I’ve just opened the door and am about to call out for her when a shrill, short scream rips through the quiet of the bakery.

  I freeze, my heart beating like a jackhammer. Another scream, this one followed by a man’s rumbling voice scares me into motion. I press the white button on the wall to trigger the silent alarm and tip toe toward the kitchen.

  The rush of blood in my ears is so loud, my ears throb. If anything happens to her…I move faster, but soundlessly through the hallway that leads into the kitchen and stop to grab a knife from the wall where they’re mounted.

  “Get over here and show me what a slut you are,” the man’s voice isn’t angry. But I’ve heard the boys at school call girls that and I know it’s not something you say to be nice.

  “You wish,” she responds in that taunting voice of hers. She doesn’t sound afraid, but her scream when I first walked in is practically ringing in my ear.

  I creep to the door and pause to listen for sounds of him coming this way. I don’t hear anything, so I flatten my back to the wall of the dark hallway and move as fast as I can and creep unnoticed into the service area of the restaurant where they’re standing.

  His back is to me, Regan is on her knees in front of him and his hand is in her hair, tugging it back and forth. Regan is gagging. He’s saying all sorts of filthy words to her that even Hayes wouldn’t say to anyone. I see red and tighten my grip on the knife handle.

  Seeing him hurt her, my girl, makes something in me go solid. All of the crap of this year bubbles up to the surface. I don’t think about what comes next. I just heed my instinct that’s screaming at me to protect her. I rush toward them with the knife poised to strike. I’m fully prepared to take this man’s life to save hers.

  Regan’s thick, dark lashes flutter and then her eyes pop open just as I lift the knife. I shake my head, mouth “I’ll stop him,” and watch them go from dazed to terrified as I plunge it into his back.

  And then all hell breaks loose.

  Do You Love Him?

  Regan

  Weston’s howls are interspersed with grunts of pain. He claws desperately at his back to try and grasp the handle of the knife, twisting and turning wildly. In stark contrast. Stone is completely still and silent as he stares in rapt, morbid fascination.

  If this nightmare wasn’t happening to me, I would laugh.

  The horrifying, manic scream Weston unleashes when he manages to grip the hilt and yank it out, shakes me out of my stupor. I take a cautious step in his direction, “Weston, let me have that,” I nod at the blood tipped chef’s knife in his hand.

  He jerks away from my extended arm. He eyes Stone with wild, enraged eyes. “Who the fuck is this kid?” he roars lurches toward him.

  I’m afraid he’s going to turn the knife on Stone, but he drops it and reaches around to probe his back. He lifts a trembling bloody stained hand in front of his face and pales.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him and reach for him again.

  As soon as I touch him, he wrenches away, protecting his injured flank and turning his ire on me. “What the fuck do you think? I got stabbed in the fucking back and I’m bleeding,” he cries.

  “We should call 9-1-1,” Stone’s voice is toneless and so cold, it sends a shiver up my spine. I glance at him and gasp at the undisguised malice in his eyes.

  “Don’t you fucking call anyone,” Weston hisses through clenched teeth.

  “You need a doctor,” I argue, incredulous as he starts to gather the small pile of keys, phone and wallet he’d dumped on the white marble serving counter that runs along the entire front of the bakery.

  “And the police,” Stone chimes in.

  “Fuck the police,” Weston pushes a lock of blonde hair off his sweat damp forehead.

  “Why not? I stabbed you, don’t you want me to pay for it?” Stone asks in a taunting voice. His expression is keen and knowing. His voice is grave and there is not a hint of regret in his expression. If anything, he looks like he’s sorry Weston isn’t dead. There’s no hint of the compassionate kid I’ve gotten to know.

  “You’re fucking lucky I don’t like cops. I know some bruisers in juvie hall that would turn your little ass inside out,” Weston growls.

  “Weston!” I shoot him a quelling glance over my shoulder.

  He looks at me like I grew another head. “Are you seriously yelling at me? The little shit fucking stabbed me.”

  “He was scared,” I snap at him and step into his line of sight so he can’t see Stone anymore.

  “He doesn’t scare me.” Stone’s voice trembles.

  I turn around, cup his face in my hands, and tilt it up until I can look into his eyes. They’re luminous with unshed tears. “Why?” I whisper.

  He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything before he presses his lips together like he’s holding back a scream. He swallows hard and he looks into my eyes like his life depends on it.

  “I’m fucking bleeding, can you have your little moment later?” Weston groans from behind me.

  “He’s just a kid, let me get him sorted,” I say in annoyance over my shoulder, and tense when Weston struggles to his feet.

  His face is pale and waxy. Pain etched in lines that crease his forehead and bracket his mouth. He takes a few steps and then slumps into one of the chairs.

  He needs medical attention. But first I need to get Stone out of here. “Are you ready to go back to school? I’ll take you.”

  “I’m not a kid.” Stone stands, arms crossed, glaring at me.

  I sigh in frustration. His lack of remorse rankles. I know he’s got the courage of his convictions, but he’s gone too far.

  “Yes, you are. And you stabbed someone tonight when you shouldn’t even have been here. You should at least apologize.”

  He steps back like I slapped him.

  “I thought he was hurting you,” he says, his little hands balled into fists.

  “No, not at all. What we were doing is what boys do with girls they like.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Stone asks and I frown, my brow furrows so deeply that it gives me an instant headache.

  “No, honey, I...” I have no idea how to explain this thing between me and Weston.

  Weston hefts himself up with a grunt of pain. “We’re fucking and that makes me much more than her titty sucking boyfriend.”

  I wish he’d act like people on tv when they got stabbed and pass out, or something. “Shut up,” I snap.

  “You shut the fuck up, you bitch,” he grits out, his finger pointing menacingly at me. His face is contorted by outrage as he staggers toward me. I’m not scared of him, but I take an instinctive step back.

  “Stop saying bad words to her,” Stone yells.

  “What are you, five years old?” Weston taunts, raising the pitch of his voice in a mocking mimic of Stone’s.

  “I’m ten and a half,” he levels a contemptuous gaze on Weston. “I’m glad I stabbed you, you dirty mouthed jerk,” And then, he lunges at him with so much force that he manages to drag me forward a few steps before I can stop him.

  We
ston’s howl of pain before he falls to his knees makes me jump back in surprise. He drops to his side on the floor clutching his balls and moaning in agony.

  Stone’s little face is grim, his eyes wide and on glued to Weston’s now prostrate, writhing body. “I kicked him,” he says like he can’t believe it himself.

  I reach out to him. He eyes my hand warily, but when I cup his shoulders and pull him into a hug, he comes willingly. He wraps his arms around my waist and hugs me tight.

  Even in the midst of this disaster, affection and love overwhelm everything else, and I hug him back. “You don’t have to be afraid,” I murmur into the top of his sweat-dampened hair.

  “Like hell. If he’s still here when I get up, I’m gonna skin that fucker alive,” Weston grits out, spittle foams in the corners of his grotesquely contorted mouth.

  “I thought he was hurting you,” Stone roars suddenly and pulls away from me with a violent jerk of his little body.

  We all jump at the same time when the sound of the emergency vehicle siren rips through the quiet air. They’re closer now.

  “You called the cops?” Weston groans and starts to stand, but he slumps back in his chair, pale and sweaty.

  “No, I didn’t call anyone.”

  I rush to the window and peer out at the long stretch of Wilde Way. In the distance, I see the unmistakable flash of lights. Like the proverbial deer, I’m momentarily frozen by fear even as my mind races to think of how to salvage this.

  Stone can’t be caught here. He’ll be expelled. And my grandfather will kill me if he knows I’ve been giving aid and comfort to a Rivers.

  “You have to leave.” With my heart in my throat, I grab Stone by the shoulders and turn us toward the back exit. When he digs his heels in and won’t move, I lean down and bring us face to face. “If they find you here, you’ll be in a lot of trouble,” I plead.

  The anger and hurt in his eyes so raw and naked, that it steals my breath.

  “You lied to me, Regan.” He wrenches out of my hold.