Oh My Goth

by Gena Showalter

  Mercedes spots Clarik and licks her lips as if he’s dessert. Then her gaze moves to me, and for a moment, only a moment, she appears pleasantly surprised. I’m mistaken, surely. A second later, she’s scowling and I’m relieved. Mercedes being happy to see me can mean only (1) the world is about to end, or (2) she’s planned something evil à la Carrie.

  Bobby winds his arm around her shoulders, but she shrugs him off. “Oh, goodie. It’s Jade the Unlaid.” In as deep and raspy a voice as he can manage, mimicking me, he says, “Look at me, everyone. I’m screwed up. I’m in an emotional prison, blah, blah.”

  Mercedes elbows his stomach, and he frowns at her, all What’d I do?

  Tension rolls off Clarik in big, sweeping waves.

  “Poor Bobby,” I say. “He forgets that I witnessed him picking his nose and eating glue in elementary school and that I once caught him wetting himself at recess.” One day, in junior high, I was sitting under the bleachers, hidden in shadows, and I saw his dad punch him in the gut. It wasn’t a playful punch either; his dad gave the blow his all.

  I did try to talk to Bobby the next day, and I even told our principal what I’d seen. Bobby told me I needed glasses, and the principal told me I shouldn’t spread lies about people.

  Bobby turns beet red and steps toward me, but Clarik bows up, pure aggression, his expression all There is no line I will not cross, and Bob the Cob backs down.

  “Go on in, Jade,” Heaven says.

  The twins are actually pretty cool. They’ve never picked on the weak just for grins and giggles, and they’ve often mediated disagreements between classmates to prevent a fight from breaking out.

  I reach for the door handle as Mercedes says in a stage whisper, “I’m sorry you got stuck driving Miss Crazy, Clarik. I’ll make it up to you later.”

  In her mind, she’s allowed to insult me, but Bobby isn’t. I get it. Clarik doesn’t. He goes rigid, as if he’s been pushed to his breaking point.

  I should zip my lips, let him think the worst of Mercedes and the best of me. But let’s be honest. Like Mercedes, zipping my lips has never been my forte, and I’m absolutely willing to cut off my nose to spite my face.

  In my best impersonation of her, I twitter, “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. My name is Mercedes Turner, and I like long walks on the beach, cuddling in front of a warm fire and pretending I’m better than everyone else because deep down inside I know I’m just a waste of space.” Giggle, giggle.

  Mercedes pales, and more tension rolls off Clarik. I decide he’s a modern-day Robin Hood. A defender of the weak, whoever the “weak” one happens to be.

  Charlee Ann purses her lips as if she’s just come across toxic waste. In her mind, she has. “You aren’t wanted here, freak. Leave.”

  “She’s my friend,” Clarik says. “I don’t like when my friends are insulted.”

  I reel, a little dizzy with realization. He admitted we’re friends in a public place, even after I insulted Mercedes. He admitted we’re friends in a public place without hesitation or shame. Is this heaven?

  “Fine, fine. She can stay.” Mercedes heaves an I’m such a giver sigh.

  “Linnie, Kimberly and Robb are his friends, too,” I say. His prefriends. He’ll love them when he meets them, I’m sure of it.

  “Whatever,” she grumbles.

  Bobby remains silent, glaring between Mercedes and Clarik.

  Clarik reaches around me to open the front door, ever the gentleman, and ushers me into the living room.

  The small space is overcrowded, different perfumes and colognes clashing in the air. Rock music pumps from a Bluetooth speaker, loud enough to irritate me but not loud enough to halt conversation. Furniture has been pushed aside to make room for dancing.

  Anyone who spots Clarik shouts a happy greeting. He’s been part of Hathaway High for a week, but everyone treats him as a long-lost loved one.

  He nods in greeting before lowering his head to whisper straight into my ear. “I’m sorry. I brought you here, and they were rude.”

  Warm shivers cascade through me, and I gulp. Before I can respond—what the heck am I supposed to say?—soft arms and expensive perfume envelop me.

  “You came!” Linnie squeals.

  No time to stiffen. She lets me go a second later and sways on her feet. Her pupils nearly eclipse her irises as she focuses on Clarik. “And lookie look look at you. You’re even hotter up close.” She pinches his chin and gives his head a little shake. “Hot and a miracle worker. No one else has ever gotten our Jade to leave her house on a Sunday. Or a Saturday. Or any weeknight.”

  I can’t deny it. “Clarik, this is Linnie. Linnie, Clarik.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says with a genuine smile. It’s nothing like the baring of teeth he gave to Bobby.

  Her hand flutters to her chest, resting on her heart. “Did we just make a baby? I feel like we just made a baby.”

  Clarik is laughing as Robb sidles up to Linnie. Robb’s gaze remains on the wood floor, his cheeks flushed. I suspect he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  I do another round of introductions. “Clarik, this is Robb. Robb, Clarik.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Clarik says.

  “Um. Hi.” Robb pulls at the collar of his shirt and clears his throat. He reaches out to shake Clarik’s hand only to ball his own and drop his arm to his side. He’s learned the hard way that some guys are threatened by physical contact with a gay male.

  Pang.

  Clarik reaches out, takes the hand Robb is no longer offering and shakes. Robb gasps, startled, and looks as if he’s about to cry.

  Pang, pang.

  Ugh! I’m sick of those stupid pangs! What are these guys doing to me? Where is my cold detachment? I want it, need it. A stupid handshake shouldn’t have the power to crack my hard-won armor. Nothing should!

  “Gross. Who let the freaks in?” someone calls, and other kids laugh and snicker.

  Clarik stiffens. I scan our surroundings. So many eyes are on us now, watching our every move. So many ears, listening to our every word. I lift my chin, square my shoulders.

  Two girls I don’t know come over and, ignoring my friends, invite Clarik to swim with them in the pool out back. I’m surprised when he declines and the girls walk off, deflated.

  Linnie and Robb gape at him. I play it cool. All right, fine. I’m gaping, too.

  “What?” he asks me. “I came with you, therefore I stay with you.”

  I’m impressed, and okay, okay, I’m also a little irritated. I don’t want him staying with me just because he’s a gentleman. I want him to want to stay with me. Because we’re friends...who will never date, who might or might not ever hang out again after tonight.

  What am I going to do? Call and text him little anecdotes about my day?

  I can see our future: I get to know him better, fall deeper into like with him and, yeah, okay, maybe I finally agree to a one-night stand. Afterward, if he still thinks I’m cool and wants to hang around me—and that’s a big if—he’ll reduce me to some kind of wingwoman so I can help him score other babes. No, thanks.

  “Go,” I tell him. Like a true friend, I wave him toward the path the girls took. “Have fun. With your clean-cut cuteness, you’re cramping our style.” Before he can respond, I turn to Robb and Linnie, cutting him from our group, and say, “Where’s Kimberly? Is she here?” A clear dismissal of my nondate date.

  “She’s on her way,” Robb says, speaking to me but casting Clarik a sympathetic glance.

  There’s a beat of silence, heavy and oppressive. Then Clarik mutters, “Bad bet,” and strides away to join the swim team. I grimace.

  “I bet one or both of the girls ‘forgot’ to bring a swimsuit,” Linnie mutters before wagging a finger in my face. “Has lust rotted your brain? You just sent a grade A filet to a smorgasbord of hangry she
-beasts. Why?”

  I go with honesty. “I got a mental picture of our future, and it wasn’t pretty. Better to end things now.”

  Robb peers straight into my eyes, unflinching, radiating unimaginable pain. Pain that calls to everything buried inside my heart.

  I stumble back a step as if pushed. What horrors has this boy endured?

  “You just cut him to the quick,” he tells me, the words soft and quiet but lethal to my composure. “I know the feeling.”

  Ouch. And he isn’t done. “I’ve loved you for years,” he continues, “ever since seventh grade when you punched a boy who’d punched me, but there is such a thing as toxic love. I keep making excuses for your behavior. You’re afraid to love back and get hurt, right? But there’s only so much cold-shoulder a person can tolerate before they realize they’re better off without you.”

  The urge to vomit overwhelms me.

  You’ve become a bully.

  Everything is about to change.

  Maybe Robb would be better off without me. Maybe all my friends would be better off without me. Might be time for me to jump ship and fly solo.

  Every cell in my body rebels at the thought—which is the very reason I decide it has to be done. Tomorrow I will cut my friends loose.

  A cold sweat pops up on my brow, and a lump grows in my throat.

  Mercedes stops at my side and clasps my arm with a grip tight enough to bruise, and, oh, wow, I never thought I’d be glad to see her, but I’m desperate for a distraction.

  “Excuse us. I’m going to borrow your soulless zombie friend for a sec.” With a fake smile firmly in place, she draws me through the cabin and nods at guests.

  We walk into a blocked-off hallway and enter a locked room. The room her father reserves for her, to be exact. She flips a switch and light spills from a crystal chandelier. A freaking chandelier the size of a grand piano. Only Mercedes would pick such a fancy light fixture. No, check that. Only Mercedes and Fiona. My stepmother would faint with delight. The bed, dresser and vanity are white while the covers, curtains and rug are pink; I’d bet every piece of furniture is a perfectly restored antique.

  The door closes with an ominous click, and Mercedes rounds on me. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “You invited the whole school, remember? And the guest of honor personally invited me,” I add with a smirk. My words are a sword, and I am an excellent fencer.

  She flinches, then parries. “As the host, I’m going to do you a favor and give you five minutes to leave. Without Clarik. If you stay, you’ll be sorry—I’ll make sure of it. I’ve wanted to make you cry for years, but I’ve always resisted. Today I’ve reached the end of my mercy.”

  Why today? And I don’t have to wonder why she’s wanted to make me cry. The desire is mutual. “What are you going to do? Insult me in front of everyone for the thousandth time?”

  “I’m going to hurt you, and I don’t care if I blow my chances with Clarik in the process.”

  So she does want him. If Clarik starts dating Mercedes...

  Anger sparks. Huffing and puffing, I say, “What chances? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but he couldn’t get away from you fast enough outside.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she says, her teeth gritted. “Also, you need to put your dad on a leash. Tell him to stay away from my mom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Either he came by the house bright and early this morning, or he snuck over sometime during the night and stayed. He doesn’t know I watched him carry her bags to her car before hugging and kissing her goodbye.”

  If I’m an excellent fencer, she is a master. I feel an invisible blade cut through my stomach, acid leaking from the wound. “You’re lying.” Although, on my morning run, I did notice the absence of my dad’s car in our driveway. But we returned at the same time, and he had a box of doughnuts in hand, so I assumed...

  “Why would I lie?”

  Easy. “To cause trouble. To hurt me. To amuse yourself. Take your pick.”

  “Nothing hurts you, remember?” She raises her chin. “I used to like your dad and wish I could live with him instead of my mom.” Her voice cracks, making me wonder just how badly she was hurt by our parents’ breakup, but she rallies quickly. “I should have known he’d turn out to be a cheating jerk, just like every other male in the world.”

  “What kind of kiss was it?” I demand, suddenly understanding why today is the day she has no mercy to spare. Not that I believe she had any to begin with.

  “A peck.”

  “So no tongue?” Even saying the words makes me shudder with revulsion.

  “Yeah, but so what? If you knew anything about boys, you’d know tongue is for hello, not goodbye. Just tell him to stay away,” she repeats. “And get the hell out of my cabin.”

  She storms off then, leaving me alone in the bedroom, the door open. I ease onto the edge of the bed, my mind whirling. My dad would not cheat on Fiona and risk a divorce before Ruby is even born.

  Right? Right. But... People are flawed and constantly make mistakes. My dad is no exception. He was bound to let me down at some point or other.

  Footsteps echo, drawing my attention. I cling to the distraction with a desperation that stuns me and glance up in time to see Clarik and Linnie stalk down the hall. As they pass, Clarik searches the room. His glance grazes me only to zoom back. He switches direction and, taking Linnie’s hand to tug her alongside him, enters the bedroom.

  I leap to my feet, my heart racing, my palms suddenly sweating.

  “There you are,” Linnie says. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “Why?” I try not to stare at Clarik. His expression is cold as ice while he himself is hot as fire. He should look out of place amid the feminine furnishings, but he just looks sexy AF. “Did something happen?”

  “Yes!” She sways slightly. “Mercedes dragged you away. I thought you were getting murdered, so I grabbed Clarik so we could save our damsel in distress.” Leaning toward me, she places a hand at the side of her mouth and whisper-yells, “He’s got muscles.”

  “I noticed,” I mutter.

  “You guys stay here.” One step, two, she backs into the hall. “Talk to each other. Make up. I’m gonna go search for Robb. Someone called him an awful name, and he headed outside.”

  I want to beat “someone” into pulp. I also want Robb to stop caring what other people think. Only then will he find peace.

  I hear Dr. Miller’s voice in my head: You truly believe you have found peace?

  Yes! Most times. Okay, sometimes. But sometimes is better than no time.

  “We’ll help—”

  She cuts me off, saying, “I think he could use a break from you. He only agreed to come out with me tonight to get away from his parents. They told him to stop being gay or get out of their house.”

  Poor Robb. No wonder he looks so pained today. No wonder he called me on my crap.

  He will be better off without me.

  Linnie shuts the door, sealing Clarik and me inside. I expect him to bolt, but he prowls through the bedroom, looking everything over. Curious about Mercedes or curious in general?

  I bite my tongue until I taste blood. “You’re not wet. You didn’t swim?”

  “No.” He offers no more. He reaches out to run a fingertip over a bejeweled picture frame of Mercedes and her dad, and his shirtsleeve lifts, revealing more of the tattoo on his biceps. Not a heart after all, but an elaborate cross with pointy ends. Thorny vines wrap around the center, with two roses in bloom. One rose is bloodred and the other is black and withered.

  “Nice ink.”

  He pivots to face me, and he hasn’t thawed a bit. “Do you have more than the ones on your arms?”

  “I do. My back...” No one but my friends and my dad have seen them.

  Before I can talk myself
out of it, I turn and lift my shirt. He moves behind me and traces the different bones. His touch is warm and rough, and I shiver.

  “The detail is stunning.”

  Do I detect a glimmer of warmth in his tone?

  Thank you. I try to speak, but a lump clogs my throat. I shove my tank in place and whip around. As we stare at each other—his irises are so blue, so perfect—breathing is more difficult, because the air somehow is thicker. His vanilla scent envelops me, fogging my head. Heat radiates from him now, warming me inside and out.

  I hate my reaction to him...because I love it.

  Something I live for: his scent. Looking at him.

  Here, now, I want to kiss him. My first. I want his lips on mine, his taste in my mouth. Managing to find my voice, I ask, “Do you have any other tattoos?”

  “I do.” He raises his shirt, revealing row after row of muscle and strength, and magnifying my body’s reaction to him.

  This boy doesn’t have a six-pack; he has an eight-pack, and I’m suddenly, undeniably dying of thirst.

  To my surprise, he does have a heart tattoo. A broken, bleeding heart etched over his breastbone. It isn’t shaped like a traditional Valentine’s Day heart but is an anatomically correct one. The image is gruesome, morbid, but somehow fitting.

  I want to trace it, the way he traced mine—the very reason I glue my arms to my sides. “I... You are... What do they mean? The cross and the heart?”

  He frowns at me. “You’re the first person to ever ask.”

  “And that’s a problem because...?”

  “Do your tattoos mean anything?” he asks rather than answering my question.

  “Of course.” I trace my fingers over the broken heart. “This one represents my mother.”

  Those beautiful features soften as he points to the cross. “Fresh start.” Then, pointing to the heart, he says, “Heartache can make you stronger.”