Oh My Goth

by Gena Showalter

  “I run every chance I get,” I finally say. In more ways than one.

  “I prefer a treadmill.”

  “Because you don’t want other people ogling your body? Makes sense.” I motion to his massive biceps with a tilt of my chin. “You also work with weights. Obvi.”

  His lips do that thing I’m coming to like, quirking up at the corners. Then they fall. That, I don’t like. “Are you trying to tell me I’m deliciously strong and manly?”

  “Strong and manly, yes,” I answer. He’s teasing me, but is he maybe...kind of...flirting with me, too? I decide to give teasing him back a shot. “I’m into dark things, but cannibalism isn’t one of them. If your very large muscles are delicious, I’d rather not know.”

  He laughs outright, thrilling me. “Do you like very large muscles on your guys, Jade Leighton?”

  He knows my last name even though I didn’t tell him. My heart skips another beat. How odd. I’m too young for any kind of murmur or valve problems. Frowning, I press two fingers into the base of my neck, gauging my pulse.

  Okay, I’m definitely suffering from tachycardia—a term I learned while studying other ways my mom could have died if she’d survived the crash.

  My dad found my list one day and showed my therapist. Dr. Miller says it’s one of the ways I self-soothe. My brain’s way of saying to my heart: We were going to lose Mom at some point, anyway, so why mourn the tragedy of her passing?

  “I don’t have any guys,” I say. “I don’t date.”

  His dark brows knit together. “Don’t date...as in never?”

  “Exactly. Never.”

  “By choice? Or because boys are afraid of you?”

  “Both?” I reply.

  He motions to the smaller house ahead and says, “This is me.”

  I remain beside the truck as he pulls into the driveway and parks. Because leaving would be rude. We’re in the middle of a conversation, and I have manners...when I choose to have manners.

  A man hops off the porch and approaches, making me think he’s been waiting for Clarik’s return. He’s tall, with dark hair and a barrel chest. His face is rough and weathered, and he’s somehow familiar to me. Clarik’s dad? He’s wearing a ragged T-shirt and paint-stained jeans.

  “Well, well. Who do we got here?” he asks, smiling at me. It’s a kind smile, as if he means it with every fiber of his being and he’s not just being polite.

  “Uncle Tag, this is Jade.” Clarik motions in my direction. “She goes to Hathaway.”

  We shake hands. His grip is firm, his palm calloused.

  “Did I overhear you two planning a date?” Tag asks.

  “No,” Clarik says, the denial rushing from his mouth at warp speed.

  Okay, all right. He wasn’t flirting with me.

  Tag frowns at him. “Stop being rude to our guest. You have no evening plans this weekend, boy. Go out, get to know each other better. You could use a friend.”

  “Uncle Tag, stop,” Clarik grates, shifting from one booted foot to the other. “Please. You’re making Jade uncomfortable.”

  “No, he’s not,” I say. “And yes. I’ll go out with you this weekend.”

  Tag beams at me, and if he were a teacher, I’m pretty sure I would have just earned an A on my test.

  Clarik is the one to frown this time. He studies me, silent, the waning sunlight glittering in his electric blues. For a brief, stolen moment—a few seconds? an eternity?—I’m unable to breathe.

  I should probably visit a clinic and get checked out.

  “We’ll go to dinner on Sunday,” he finally says and looks away.

  Just like that, breath fills my lungs again. And just like that, Clarik begins to grow tenser by the second. The same kind of tension I noticed while we were in the office. He doesn’t want to go out with me, but he’s too sweet to hurt my feelings.

  I bet he’s crushing on someone else, and yeah, okay, I don’t have to dig through too many mental files to figure out the witch’s name. I should back out, let him off the hook...but I’m going to proceed full steam ahead. One, I’ll be doing him a huge favor by keeping him away from Mercedes and the heartache she will surely dish, and two, I’m so freaking curious about him. Once I’ve figured him out, my fascination with him will fade.

  He’ll thank me later, I’m sure of it.

  Tag slaps him on the back. “Good, good. Glad that’s settled. Now, did you pick up my Cheetos?”

  “Yes, sir.” Clarik reaches into the truck and withdraws two bags of White Cheddar Cheetos Puffs.

  “Thank you kindly, Clarie. You’re a good boy.” Tag slaps him on the shoulder again before nodding at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jade.” He walks away then, leaving us alone.

  Clarie? Should I leave, too? What’s typical boy/girl just-planned nondate date protocol?

  Expression unreadable, Clarik says, “Sorry about that. Look, I’m going to be brutally honest with you. I’m not interested in dating anyone right now.”

  Anyone, or just me? “Are you not into Goth girls? You prefer normal girls?”

  “I don’t care about the Goth thing. I just care about the girl inside.” His head tilts to the side, his study of me intensifying, making me squirm. “What is Goth, anyway? To you, I mean.”

  He isn’t the first person to ask. “A state of being, I guess. I tend to embrace what other people abhor, things labeled as freakish. I see beauty in darkness.” And in you. I see beauty in you. What does that say about him, though? That there’s darkness in him? “I understand and accept that I’m headed for the grave, that we’re all headed for the grave, one way or another, one day or another. I’m not afraid.”

  No one has ever watched me as intensely as Clarik is now, as if he’s taking in every microexpression and any secrets I might be hiding beyond my eyes. He proves it when he says, “You say you are unafraid of dying, and for yourself, yes, I buy it. But not for others. Your gaze shifted when you spoke of others dying.”

  He’s perceptive, but I already knew that. If I let myself, I could worry 24/7 about how everyone close to me will die, and when.

  “Anyway,” he says, letting me off the hook. “Whatever you are, I like it. You’re hot. Beyond hot. But, as I was saying, I’m not interested in dating anyone right now. My ex-girlfriend...she... It doesn’t matter. If you and I go out, it’ll be as friends, only friends. So if you’d rather not spend time with me, I’ll understand and—”

  “I still want to go, and I promise I won’t make a pass at you,” I interject. I’m not sure I know how to make a pass. But I do know his admission has added fuel to the fire of my curiosity. “How long did you and...whatever her name is...date?” And how long has he lived with his uncle? Why doesn’t he live with his parents? And most important, does he truly think I’m hot?

  One question at a time.

  “Her name is Kendra, and we were together most of junior year.”

  Wow. Talk about a serious commitment, especially for people so young. “Are you not over her or something?”

  An invisible curtain seems to fall over his features, hiding his expression. “That isn’t really your business, is it?”

  The harshness of his tone would have zipped the lips of a normal person. I’ve never claimed to be normal. “I’ll take that as a No, Jade, I sob into my pillow every night and pray she’ll beg me to take her back. So how long have you been single?”

  His eyes narrow, his lashes nearly fusing together. “A couple of months.” The words are ragged, shoved out from between clenched teeth.

  Hmm. Kimberly claims it can takes years to get over a long-term relationship. If someone starts dating too soon, they “rebound.” A term I’ve never understood in relation to couples, not in the negative sense it’s implied. In basketball, a ball that bounces back after striking a hard surface is a good thing, right? A second chance to m
ake a shot.

  “Why did you guys break up?” I ask. And who ended things?

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. Between one blink and the next, he lets go of his irritation, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. That twinkle is different from the glimmer, merrier.

  Man, his mood changes lightning fast. While I fight my emotions, he welcomes his with open arms.

  “For a girl who supposedly doesn’t care about anything or anyone, you sure do ask a lot of questions.”

  Thanks, Mercedes. Rather than confirm or deny it, I say, “Please tell me you aren’t one of those people who believes everything everyone tells you, and that you have a few brain cells working independently of the rumor mill.”

  “I’m not a fan of the rumor mill or all of its many employees, but I’m not blind. Let’s be real. At times there’s something almost...robotic about you.”

  I shrug. “So? Robots are cool.” Truth is, I’d rather be robotic than deal with my pain, even if happiness is the ultimate prize. Pain is awful. It’s heavy and soul crushing. It’s draining. It’s a seemingly never-ending pit of despair. Why fall when you can coast?

  “You proved my point for me,” Clarik says. “I just insulted you, but you’re not even close to offended.”

  “You want me to be offended?”

  “Answering a question with another question. Now you’re deflecting.”

  My eyes go wide. Deflecting. Psychology speak for You put the focus back on me, yo. Or something like that. “You’ve gone to therapy.”

  He stiffens, gives me a curt nod.

  “So have I,” I admit, and he relaxes.

  He scrubs a hand down his beautiful face. Beautiful, arresting and unforgettable. Are his looks the reason I’m so fascinated by him? Crap. I can’t be as shallow as Mercedes and Charlee Ann. I’d rather die.

  “Would you like a bottle of water?” he asks, changing the subject without answering my original question about the breakup.

  “No, thanks.” I’ve taken up enough of his time. “I should probably head home before my battery dies.”

  He barks out one of those amazing laughs, and my breath hitches in my throat.

  Okay, I really do need to head home or I might start twirling my hair Mercedes-style, might even ask if I can pet his chest. “See you around, Clarie.”

  His smile widens. “Right back at you, Jadie.”

  There’s a twinge in my chest as I jog away. There’s also a white-hot burn in my shaking thighs. I must have pushed myself too hard today and consumed too little fuel. Or Clarik struck again and somehow ruined my hard-won composure.

  Maybe I should I cancel our nondate date, after all. And really, the scales are unbalanced. I’m curious. He’s not. I’m eager. Well, as eager as I’m capable of being. He’s not. I’m attracted to him. He’s hung up on his ex.

  There. I admitted it. I am attracted to Clarik Iverson. Besides being a hottie with a body, he’s open and honest and blunt. He intrigues me.

  Forget him. Focus. I try. I really do. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

  Nope. Wrong. This time distance fails me.

  Ugh. I think I need to immerse myself in everything Clarik Iverson. Find out what I can, while I can, and build up an immunity to him.

  That’s a thing. Right?

  Or maybe it’s just the worst idea I’ve ever had.

  At home, my dad is in the living room, splayed in his recliner, watching TV. As soon as the door closes behind me, however, he lifts the remote to push Pause. Focusing on me, he says, “You made Fiona cry.”

  “Lately she’s always crying.” But okay, okay. I was a little curt with her when I rejected her casserole. I could have handled the situation better. “I should have been nicer to her.”

  I try to walk past him, but he jumps to his feet to block me. He’s several inches taller than me, though not as tall as Clarik. He’s muscular—he works out—but again, he’s not as muscular as Clarik.

  Um, maybe I should stop comparing the two? Gross.

  Dad looks nothing like me. Over the years, his dark hair has thinned and grayed and his skin has deepened to a dusky bronze. I’m freckled, he isn’t. Lines branch across his forehead, around his eyes and bracket his mouth. They aren’t laugh lines—he rarely laughs. The sun has simply taken a toll. He’s worked outside, in construction, ever since his senior year of high school.

  In my mother’s postwedding journal, she wrote about his dream of becoming a money manager slash accountant, said he liked to call himself a premillionaire. Then I came along and every bit of his college savings was poured into the care and feeding of baby Jade. Or the Poop Machine, as Mom affectionately called me.

  Anger tightens Dad’s features. “Don’t you want to know how you made Fiona cry?”

  “I know how,” I tell him.

  Dad ignores me, saying, “Despite being fatigued by work and the baby, she cooked us a delicious dinner. Made a casserole just for you. You told her you weren’t hungry after she’d gone to so much trouble. Then you failed to return in time to eat with us.”

  “I’ll eat now.” Even though I’m not hungry. I live on protein shakes; they keep my energy up without upsetting a stomach that’s never hungry. But if it will soothe Fiona, I’ll shovel in a few bites of my “special” casserole.

  He gives me a clipped shake of his head. “You were supposed to eat with us.”

  “I’ll make breakfast. We can eat together then.”

  Deciding to double down on his anger, he roars, “Tomorrow doesn’t fix today!”

  His frustration is a pulse against my skin, but inside, my numbness holds steady. Here and now, I feel like the robot Clarik accused me of being.

  Dad knows I’m the way I am on purpose, and the knowledge keeps his stress level on constant simmer.

  “You probably want me to apologize to her, right?” I ask. “Well, I can’t—”

  “No. I don’t want you to apologize. You wouldn’t mean it. You wouldn’t change.” He wilts. “You’d only make things worse.”

  The numbness begins to melt. I graze my thumb over the broken-heart tattoo on my wrist, taking strength from the simple action. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like hurting her. Or you.”

  “It doesn’t.” He sighs. “I should be used to this...to you. I shouldn’t take your slights personally. But I’m not, and I do. I’ve tried to understand you, Jade. I’ve tried to sympathize with you, pamper you, scold you, scream at you, whisper at you, but nothing has worked. I can’t reach you, and if I can’t reach you, I can’t help you.”

  “I don’t want to be reached, Dad, and I don’t need help. I don’t want to change.”

  “I wish...” He heaves another sigh. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  No need to finish his sentence. I already know what he intended to say. I wish you were different, Jade.

  A new pang cuts through my chest, threatening to steal my next breath. “Why don’t we just avoid each other for a few days?”

  He flinches as if I punched him and says, “I’m your father. I’m not going to avoid you, even if you’re ripping out my guts. All I want to do is love you, sweetheart. Why can’t you see that?”

  Pang. “Love is overrated.” The people you love will die. It’s a fact of life. The things you love will break, and the homes you love will be taken from you. Why put yourself through the heartache?

  Plus I remember the hardships of my mom’s ups and downs, how she could swing from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows.

  Mom... Pang, pang. I know her secret hopes and dreams, deepest fears and hidden shames. I know she loved my dad and that love tore her apart. She thought my dad resented her, that he married her only because she was pregnant with me.

  At least Fiona’s pregnancy was planned. This baby is wanted. Whenever he sees Fiona
, he wraps his arms around her and flattens his hands on her belly. Whenever the baby moves, he laughs and kisses Fiona’s temple like she’s doing something spectacular.

  Before, the interactions elicited no reaction from me. Today? The memory alone makes my stomach clench as if I’ve been punched.

  I’ve had enough emotional upheaval for one day.

  “Do you want me to go back to therapy?” I ask. He let me stop last year because I wasn’t making any progress. “Will that make you feel better?”

  “I don’t care about me feeling better. I care about you feeling better. I want you happy, like you were when you were a little girl. Remember how you used to laugh?”

  I wish I could smile encouragingly at him now so he’ll let me go, but I can’t quite manage it; the action is foreign to me, like a language I’ve never learned. “That little girl died in the car crash, and the dead don’t come back to life,” I remind him. “I took her place. I’m here to stay.”

  His shoulders roll in. Ouch.

  I step back, widening the distance between us. “Look, I really need to take a shower. And I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed early, okay?”

  When I move around him this time, he lets me. His gaze bores two holes in my back. Fiona is down the hall, standing in the doorway of the master suite, her features pinched with worry.

  “Jade,” she says, reaching for me.

  With my stomach growing more knotted by the second, I can’t bring myself to deal with her even though I know I should. I enter my room, quietly shut the door and turn the lock.

  I shower, change into a fresh tank and shorts. In an effort to keep my mind occupied, I read for several hours...before finally drifting off to sleep.

  * * *

  For the first time since the car accident that forever changed my life, I dream about my mother. We’re sitting on swings in my backyard. My dad built a playground paradise for Ruby—the name he and Fiona picked out for my sister. Jade and Ruby. Precious gems, my “stone” is forever tarnished.

  A thousand questions and statements rush through my mind, but the words that ultimately slip from my mouth? “I’ve read your journals. Well, two of them.” I want her to know I held on to her in the only way I could.