I don’t know why it has to be stolen and what I’m stealing him from. The time we got together it was here. He won’t let me go to his house. I still haven’t met his parents.
One night online he surprises me.
Derek: how’d you like to spend a whole weekend with me in Toronto?
Beth: suddenly it’s right?
Derek: I knew you’d take it like that
Beth: this isn’t about sex?
Derek: shut up
Beth: only if you tell me how you’ll know when it’s finally right
Derek: easy . . . my mum says it’s wrong unless you’re married
Beth: you’re a big boy . . . you don’t have to do what Mommy says
Derek: you don’t know my mum
“And why is that?” I ask the screen. I don’t type it, though. Complaining only makes him disappear.
Beth: so you’re asking me to elope to Toronto with you? let me check my calendar
Derek: maybe next time . . . this time I’m asking you to come sing with me again
I get all hot. Singing with him is such a rush—but how can I? I stare at the screen, imagining myself onstage with him again, letting our passion fill our song. I’ve got so much bottled up in me. It needs to get out somehow. But I wrecked that. Derek didn’t give me the full scoop, but I could tell the AYS directors were angry.
Beth: I can’t show my face around Amabile again
Derek: it’s just the guys . . . they all still think you’re the goddess
Beth: me and all those guys?
Derek: you and ME and all those guys . . . Saturday we’ve got a movie premier downtown TO, and Sunday we’re doing a live CBC Radio broadcast
He is so nuts to think I can do that.
Beth: and you want me to muck it up?
Derek: I arranged “Beth’s Song” as a duet with tenor/bass backup . . . I want you to write the words and then come sing it with me
Beth: I can’t write lyrics good enough for that song
Derek: don’t be stupid
Beth: you write it
Derek: I already did my part . . . it’s your turn
I can’t. I can’t. No way. I can’t. I’m not hot anymore. Suddenly I’m really cold. Freezing cold. I start typing.
Beth: I’ve got midterms and a big project due . . . our CD-release concert is coming up
Derek: this is important
Beth: I can’t do it . . . all I’ve ever written is bits and pieces . . . fragments . . . and most of it’s hideous and sappy
Derek: apply yourself . . . you’re wasting your talent
Just because he can write, doesn’t mean I can. He talks about music flowing out of him. I have to squeeze out every word. And it’s still bad.
Beth: what talent? I’d ruin your song
Derek: no you won’t . . . you’ve got plenty of time . . . if it stinks, I’ll tell you and you can try again
Beth: that sounds like great fun
Derek: that’s how it works . . . I can’t remember the date, but it’s after your Thanksgiving . . . the second weekend of December I think
Am I relieved? Disappointed? A mixture of emotions surge in choppy confusion.
Beth: that’s when our concert is . . . we’re doubling it for our Christmas concert
Derek: shoot . . . you did that on purpose
I need to give him something. I flip to the calendar. Sunday’s free—totally.
Beth: how about I take the train up to Toronto on Sunday and watch your broadcast? that would be cool
Derek: come Sunday and sing with me
Beth: please, just let me hide out in the crowd . . . I’d love to be your groupie
Derek: NO . . . I’ll email you the music
Beth: I can’t
He ignores that last post—I’m sure of it. Within three minutes there’s an email in my inbox with an attachment.
I hit reply and type, “There’s absolutely no way on earth I can do this.”
It’s late. I’m whipped, and his hyper-confidence in me makes me angry. It sounds cool—him and me singing a song we wrote on the radio. What I wouldn’t give to do that. But that song is too beautiful, means too much. My words would clunk against his music. I don’t have beauty inside me like he does. I’m the Beast. Ugly. That’s all I can write.
Since that night when I told him I couldn’t leave Bliss and we fought in the park, I’ve been patient and understanding. Crap. I haven’t even met his mom. I’ve let him get away with it. It’s all exactly how he wants. He’s not going to make me do this.
Next morning I get a text from Derek on my way to my locker to dump my backpack: try 2 lines
I chuck my bag into the locker. “Crap.” I key in: 0 lines and mash the send button.
Scott arrives in time for that performance. “I don’t like the way he treats you.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I have to see you like this every day.”
“Like what?” I jerk my head around and glare at him. “I’m fine.”
He frowns and leans against his locker. “Uptight. On edge. Isolated—even from me.”
I scowl at him. “I’m really happy with Derek.”
“Deliriously. I can see that.” Scott folds his arms across his chest.
“When we’re together—”
“Doesn’t seem to happen much.” He leans toward me. “What’s with that guy?”
“We’re both really busy.”
“Too bad. Maybe you should look closer to home.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Scott’s surprised. I haven’t given him an opening like that for weeks. He steps closer. “We’d be together whenever we want. At school and after. Weekends.” His dark blue eyes get intense. “If you would just let me in.”
“I’m busy, though. My choir and the CD. Not to mention all these AP classes I’m taking this year.”
“We study well together. Don’t you miss that?”
I can’t lie. I do.
“How about I come over this afternoon, and we can study for that econ exam we’ve got Thursday?”
“Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
“Come on, Beth. He doesn’t own you. You’re not his puppet.”
Exactly. “This is just to study?”
“Like old times.”
“You know, Scottie.” My old name for him slips easily out. “That would be nice. I have missed you.”
“I’m here. Every day. I’m here.”
The bell rings, and we head off to different classes. It’s nice to have Scott acting like a friend again. I’m actually looking forward to seeing him in choir today. And he’s a lot better at econ than me. I could use his help. My phone buzzes as I sit down. Derek.
1 line?
I painstakingly type, I’m not your puppet out in full and send it back to him.
After school, Scott and I walk out to my car together. “How is your history project going?” I ask to fill the nervous silence.
“So-so. It’s kind of a dumb project.”
We’re supposed to look at how politics or governments were influenced by art or vice versa. “I like it. I’m studying how jazz influenced politics during the Depression.”
Scott opens my door for me. “I got stuck with Stalinist-era Soviet art.” He slams the door and goes around to the passenger side.
“Stalinist art sounds cool to me.” I adjust my mirror while he gets settled. “You could tie it in with communist propaganda.”
“Boring. It’s not fair. You get to do music. You’re an expert.”
“Jazz?” I start Jeannette’s engine and back her up. “Are you kidding? I sing choir music.”
He laughs. “Some of it’s jazzy.”
“A gospel spiritual isn’t jazz.” I drive out of the parking lot.
“Want to trade topics?”
“No way.”
“I rest my case.”
When we pull up to the house, oh, crap, Der
ek is sitting in the driveway on his bike. Scott whips an accusing look at me.
“I didn’t know he’d be here. I don’t want to—”
“Rub my face in it?”
Derek’s at my door before I can answer, opening it, pulling me up, and kissing me.
Scott is out of his side fast. “Are we still going to study?” He’s got his backpack in his hand, looks ready to bail.
I twist around to face Scott. Derek keeps his arms around me. “Of course.” I pat Derek’s arm. “Scott and I have a big econ exam we need to cram for.”
Scott glares at Derek. “You any good at econ?”
“Nope. Must be why I’m always broke.” He squeezes me. “If you’re busy, I’ll take off.”
“No.”
Scott’s face falls. Great. I can spend the next three hours studying with Scott or making out with Derek. And they both know it.
Derek reaches inside his jacket. “I’m just dropping this off.” He pulls out some white pages folded in half. “I don’t have to stay.” He looks from me to Scott. “I don’t want to get in your way.”
He’s taking this so wrong. “That’s stupid. We’re just studying.” I lead the way into the house. “Come on, Scott. We’re wasting time.”
We spread out our notes and books on the kitchen table and get to work.
Derek wanders into the living room and sits down at the piano. He messes around, improvising jazz—slow, seductive stuff that makes it incredibly difficult to concentrate on econ.
Scott looks up from his notes. “Jazz, huh?”
I get pink and flip to the back of the chapter, hunting for review questions. “Ask me these.”
Derek keeps playing. After a while, he comes into the kitchen. “When is your mum home tonight?” He glances at the clock.
“She’s got a late meeting.”
Derek opens the cupboard under the stove, pulls out a tall pot. “How about pasta then?”
Scott can’t like seeing how comfortable Derek is in our kitchen.
“Sure.” I turn to Scott. “Do you want to stay? Derek’s pasta is pretty good.”
Derek puts the pot in the sink and turns on the faucet. “The secret is to cook the pasta al dente and finish it in the sauce so it sucks up the flavor.”
“Naw.” Scott glares at me. “My mom’s expecting me.”
“He won’t poison you—I promise.”
Derek laughs. “Then what will I do with all this hemlock I’ve got chopped up?”
“You—” I point to Derek. “Shut up and let us study.”
Scott and I struggle through another half hour, trying to decipher lecture notes with Derek humming and chopping and frying behind us.
“This is truly a culinary masterpiece.” Derek walks around the island with a plate of steaming pasta in each hand. “Sure you don’t want some, Scott?”
“I guess I better go.”
Derek puts the plates down at the far end of the table. “I guess you better.”
Scott slams his book shut and grabs his notes and backpack.
I look up at Derek. “We’re not done.”
Scott shoves his stuff in his pack. “I’ll see you at school.” He won’t look at me.
I follow him to the door. “Thanks. Maybe we can finish Wednesday. I’ve got choir tomorrow.”
His eyes are full of hurt. “You want to?”
“I can’t get that stuff in Chapter Six.”
The pain in his eyes eases. “Okay.” He drops his voice. “My house?”
“Sure.”
Derek is sitting, staring at the steam rising from his pasta. “How long has this been going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Private tutoring.”
I take a big bite of pasta and chew.
“At least now I know why you say you’re too busy to work on this with me.” He lays the folded-over sheets of paper on the table between us.
I swallow. “School is crazy hard this semester. And econ is my worst, deadliest subject.”
“You seemed to enjoy it with Scott.”
“Why were you so nasty to him? I thought you liked Scott—at least that I had such a good friend.”
“I thought you’d be upfront with me. Going behind my back? That isn’t like you.”
“I need to preapprove all my study plans with you?”
He snorts. “Studying?”
“That’s all we did.” I put down my fork and glare at my plate of pasta.
Derek leans closer to me. “And what did you do last night or the one before when I wasn’t here?”
“That’s a nasty thing to say.” I turn my head and meet the storm in his eyes, unleash one of my own. “I’m not the one holding you at arm’s length. I’m not the one who can’t ever get together. I’m not the one who won’t take his girlfriend over to his house to meet his parents. I’m not the one who disappears off the face of the earth for days at a time with zero explanation. I’m not the one who comes up with wild, impossible plans. I’m not the one—”
“Sorry. I thought you were.” He puts down his fork, picks up the papers. “I’ll quit bugging you.” He stands up and looks around for his jacket.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting out of your way. Call Scott and tell him I’m dumped, and you can finish whatever you two really planned to do.” His face goes from angry to sincere little boy devastation. Quite an act.
“No way.” I glare at him. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy. Sit down and eat.”
He obeys.
We both shovel pasta and chew.
He swallows first. “It’s obvious. I’m making you miserable.”
“That’s not true.”
He reaches across the table and touches my cheek. “That’s not a happy face, Beth.”
I catch his hand, hold it on my face. “If you would just—”
“It’ll probably get worse before it gets better.” He gets out of his chair and crouches next to mine.
I look down at his deep, tortured eyes, the concern spread across his brow. “Will it get better?”
“Maybe. No guarantees.” He stands up. “Go be happy with Scott, and I’ll disappear.”
I get to my feet. “Don’t you dare.” I put both hands on his chest. “I couldn’t live if you left me.”
“No. Don’t say that.” He grabs a hold of my hands. His are cold. “Don’t put that on me.”
“Too late.” I lean toward his trembling lips. “You’re stuck.” He lets me kiss him. “I’d rather be miserable loving you, than happy with anyone else.”
He kind of devours me at that point. Good thing Mom keeps the kitchen floor so clean because we don’t make it to the couch. We sink down, roll around, get lost in lips like we did back in Lausanne during that concert.
I sit up and squirm out of my hoodie so I’ve just got a tank left on. I skipped the bra today. He stares—then pulls me back down beside him. I meet his lips, wrap my legs around him. He kisses me back, then chews on my bare shoulder, smoothes his hands across my back. His lips slide to my neck, down my throat. He presses his face on my chest. I’m dying for his skin. I need to get my lips on his body. I unzip his sweatshirt, go for his T-shirt.
He grabs my wrists. “Don’t do that.”
I fight to get my hands free. He distracts me, kissing my lips again. I stop fighting him. He relaxes his grip but doesn’t let go. We’re locked together. I roll onto my back, bring him along so he’s on top. I stretch my arms, with his still attached, up over my head, and go crazy kissing him. He lets go of my wrists, runs his hands down my arms—
I grab the back of his T-shirt, fast, yank hard.
He wrenches free, pushes away from me. “Damn it, Beth.” He pulls his shirt back down, but I see the Band-Aid on his stomach—in the same place it was in Lausanne. “I said don’t.”
I lay on the floor stunned. Ice-cold misery flows through me, twisting the fiery passion that throbs me into stark pain.
Damn it, Beth.
Damn it, Beth.
Damn it, Beth.
Then Derek is back on me, but he’s not the same person now. His kisses are too deep, out of control. He presses his body against mine, too hard, jamming me into the unyielding tile floor. I go nuts, try to fight him off. He fights back—overpowers me.
I yell, “You’re hurting me, Derek! ”
He groans and rolls on his side. “Damn it, Beth. I don’t want to hurt you.” He grabs his hair and kind of chokes. “I don’t want to hurt you, but—”
I scramble to my feet and gather up my sweatshirt. I hurry to the far side of the room, turn, holding my sweatshirt up like a shield. My other arm is out, hand raised to ward him off. I’m trembling, terrified. Damn it, Beth. Damn it, Beth. That’s all I can hear. He’s saying something else, but it doesn’t get through.
Isn’t this exactly what I want? What I’ve dreamed of? What I’ve begged him for? Why am I flipping out? I want the heat to surge again, but it’s frozen into a dagger, cutting me inside. “Go away, Derek.”
“Damn it, Beth. We can’t leave it like this.” He starts to cough.
I run up the stairs to my room, lock the door, press against it. I brace for him to follow and pound on it, knowing I’ll let him in, remembering I love him, reassuring myself I want this. He’ll be gentle. He’ll be sweet. He won’t hurt me.
He’ll tell me everything after this. We’ll share everything after this.
I wait and wait.
No steps on the stairs.
No gentle knock.
No voice whispering that he loves me, he wants me, he needs me.
Only the creak of the kitchen door and the brutal sound of his motorcycle tearing open the silence of the night.
Sing Me to Sleep Page 21
