by Nessa Morgan
“So…” I draw out, waiting for the words in my head to make sense. They’re jumbled and scattered, like puzzle pieces, slowly moving until they make a complete picture. “I walk at the end of the year?” I ask, still weirded out. I didn’t mean it as a question but he answers anyway.
“If you want,” Mr. Stone responds, take the sheet back from me. “I mean, you could stay, but you’d be taking two, maybe three classes at most next year,” he tells me, tucking things back into my file. “Two of those classes would be electives and you’d spend a good amount of time doing, well, nothing.”
“So… I’m graduating?” I clarify, still surprised.
“You’re graduating,” he confirms with a smile. I start blinking my eyes quickly, just staring at the folder on his desk. “You okay?”
Yeah, I’m not looking normal right now.
“I’m just… shocked,” I tell him. I always knew my way of overloading on classes would benefit me in the future. The future? Oh, balls, that means I can apply for college now. I need to apply to colleges. I don’t even know where I want to go. “What about the senior project?” I ask, remember that I can’t graduate unless I do that.
“You could start now,” he offers. “I can set you up with a teacher who could help you after school or switch out one of your classes.” He clicks on his computer, bringing up my schedule for next semester. “You’ll also need to take a senior experience course but that can wait until next semester.”
“After school would be better,” I tell him, not willing to lose any of my classes. I could forego lunch but I’ve done that the last two years. I enjoy having a period where I can just do… nothing. “What is the senior project?” I ask. I’ve had to sit through many, many boring presentations. Normally, I tune it out with my iPod, so I don’t exactly have a good grasp on what to actually do for it.”
“I’ll assign you with a teacher that will explain it better than I can.”
I nod.
I go through the rest of my day in a daze, and then there’s detention. Mrs. Taylor lets me talk to my senior project advisor—I still can’t believe I’m saying that—and she explains that the project is just a final major final project I must pass in order to graduate using the four Ps: Paper, Project, Portfolio, and Presentation.
That doesn’t sound too hard.
She gives me all the necessary paperwork and tells me that she’ll be around if I need her. I know I’ll need her. When I get back to the Mrs. Taylor’s classroom, she has me tutor one of her students with Shakespeare, mainly Romeo and Juliet. I read that in the seventh grade, it’s a piece of cake.
I head home on the transit bus and before I even make it to my front door, Zephyr’s by my side.
“How was your day?” he asks, taking my backpack from my shoulders.
“Are you going to do this the entire week?” I ask, nearly forgetting my good news. I only ask because he always scares me when he pops up out of nowhere. I swear, he’s part ninja.
“Yep,” Zephyr answers as I push open the front door and step through it. “Now, your day; how was it?” he presses.
“It was great,” I tell him, excitedly diving into my story about graduating a year early.
He smiles and wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you, Joey.”
I beam up to him. “Oh, I also have these for you,” I tell him, tugging papers from my backpack. I hand him the notes he’s missing in AP Euro—a couple days worth—and a few from other classes I stopped by before detention. All of his teachers were happy with the prospect of Zephyr doing homework. Hmmm… what kind of student is my boyfriend?
“Damn,” he grumbles when I hand him the thick stack of papers and past homework.
“Only trying to help you stay caught up.” I catch his frown as he stares at the work in his hands. “I’d have given you some of these yesterday, I just kind of spaced, you know?” It was hard to remember between kisses, you know.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he tells me, still staring at everything. “Really.”
I giggle. “No, I didn’t,” I agree with a perky smile. “But then how would I”—I drop the AP Euro textbook on the table, emitting a thick thud—“help you study for history?” I wiggle my eyebrows.
The smile falls from his face. If he thinks he’s going to spend his week of freedom, oops, I mean suspension just lounging around, browsing Tickld, and making out with me, he has another think coming.
“Run home and grab your stuff,” I tell him, shoving him to the door. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Ten
It was one very long, very dull week at school without Zephyr, but everyone learned quickly that we were officially dating—thanks to him making it Facebook official. How did people learn of relationships before Facebook? And, boy, did he have a lot of friends on that thing. It was like dating a celebrity, everyone wanted to get a better look at me.
I brought him his homework and we’d sit down and work on it. Kind of boring, but I made a rule: No kissing until he finished his homework. It sounded weird when I said it, and he hated it then, but he soared through his work quickly then mauled me on the living room couch. Okay, that’s an over exaggeration, but he got his homework done, that was all that mattered. I was also determined to help him bring up his AP Euro grade. It was somewhat successful. When the next week started, we were stealing glances at each other across the room in detention, sending smirks and winks to each other. At least, that was when I was there. Some days, Mrs. Taylor let me work with Miss Cherry on my senior project of which I still had no idea what I was doing, topic-wise.
The start of the month meant that I had my monthly appointment with Dr. Jett. I had to push that back two weeks because of my after school activities, something that my shrink understood, she just made it clear that we were definitely going to talk about it when I saw her in the upcoming weeks.
“I was thinking,” Zephyr begins on the final Friday of our detention. We’ve just walked from Mrs. Taylor’s classroom, bidding her a good evening. “We should probably go on an official date.” He links his fingers with mine, tugging me closer to him as we walk from the school. He missed his practice, though he knew that he was playing in the game tonight, as was Ryder. The coach pulled some strings to get his suspension suspended for a week. Something about the team they’re playing tonight being the best in the district, I don’t really know. The coach doesn’t really care about detention and school rules, he only cares about winning. With Zephyr and Ryder, he wins. Without, he learned last week, he loses. By a lot. I’m pretty sure money exchanged hands.
“As long as it has nothing to do with a party,” I begin. “I’d love to.”
He turns to me. “A party never crossed my mind.” Lightly, he brushes his lips across my cheek, his hair tickling the bare skin of my shoulders. I was stupid enough to walk out of the school in a tank top without my jacket. Zephyr’s trying to keep me warm… it’s working. Yep, it’s working. “I was thinking dinner, you and me, a nice, cozy restaurant—”
“Not Lily’s,” I beg, nearly gagging when the memory of that fettuccini comes back to me. Blech.
He shakes his head, leading me to Jamie’s car. She went home with Marcus after school, leaving the keys with Zephyr.
He opens the door for me. “I have something so much better planned, something I know you’ll like,” He tells me with a quick kiss on the lips. “And I plan to do a lot of that.” He kisses me again. “You know, now that I can.”
Smiling, I’m sure I blush.
He parks the car in his driveway but walks across the lawn to walk me to my door. He says he’s never sure I make it home safely; I say he just wants in my house. I’m never wrong.
Zephyr’s exactly what I always pictured in a boyfriend. He’s kind, considerate, and un-freaking-believably smoking hot. Okay, that’s a little much, but he’s still what I pictured a boyfriend to be. And did I mention he doesn’t serenade me in the cafeteria? That’s always a
plus.
“I was thinking…” I say, trailing off as he follows me into the house, dropping his checkered backpack next to mine. “I could go to your game tonight.” I plaster a wide, toothy grin on my face. The idea of sitting through football isn’t the pull here; it’s the idea of seeing Zephyr play. I wasn’t paying attention the last time out of spite.
“Only if you want to,” he tells me, a raise to his eyebrows. He grips my hand, touching me as much as he can. I can tell, in his eyes, he wants me to go to his game.
I walk him over to the couch, forcing him to sit down. I sit on his lap, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, resting my head against his arm. “Why wouldn’t I want to see my guy in action?” I whisper-ask near his ear.
A visible tremor runs through his body as my breath tickles his ear. He tries to cover it up with a snort, ruining the moment. “Because you hate football,” he reasons.
True.
Leaning away, I laugh with him. “Beside the point, I like you,” I tell him, reaching my hands up to massage his shoulders. “And if I remember correctly, you wear some pretty tight pants that show off the goods.”
“I knew it,” Zephyr exclaims. “You only want me for my body.”
“Well, if we’re being honest…” I trail off.
That sends him into hysterics and he falls back onto the couch, dragging me down with him until I’m lying on top of him. I take the opportunity to kiss him, nipping at his bottom lip with my teeth. I pull away, staring into his eyes, feeling his hand move up my body.
Zephyr looks up at me for a moment, narrowing his eyes, before he sits up. “You look tired,” he tells me. “Have you been sleeping at all?” His thumbs brush against my cheeks.
I stifle a yawn—that doesn’t help—while lightly hitting him in the arm. “I’ve been spending my nights tutoring you,” I remind him. We spend the nights camped out in my living room, surrounded by books and paper, spending most of our time sitting on the couch in a tangled heap, kissing until two or three in the morning. There’s no point in trying to sleep after that. “You should know the answer to that,” I say, brightly flushing.
He gets a faraway look in his eyes, a slow smile spreading along his lips. “Yeah, we don’t really get much studying done until the wee hours of the morning.” He looks to me apologetically, his look a recreation of his puppy dog eyes. Though, he knows I can never resist the puppy dog eyes.
“I think I might just take a nap before the game.” I thread my arms around his neck. “When do you leave?” I ask quietly, leaning my head on his shoulder. He leans back and traces circles on my back with his fingertips.
“In two and half hours,” he tells me, his chest vibrating with every word. “Want me to take you?”
I nod into his shoulder. “You might have to wake me up.” My bed sounds so alluring right now; I want nothing more than to borough beneath my blankets and create an impenetrable cocoon. “I’m planning a nap right now.”
“Then I’ll leave,” he tells me, sitting up and gently pushing me onto the couch. “Because the thought of you in a bed is too tempting to pass up and I might cave,” he says, standing up and moving away from the couch, turning back to look at me.
“Get out of here,” I tell him, following him to the door and giving him a light kiss on the cheek. He catches my lips, pulling me closer, pulling me deeper, and I could just melt. He pulls away, leaving me breathless, his cocky smile blooming. “I’ll leave my window open.”
“I know you will.” With that, and a kiss to my forehead, he leaves. I lock the door behind him, walk through the rest of the house to make sure everything’s locked and secure, then head up to my room, kicking off my shoes as I go. I remember he has a key when I walk into my room, peeling my long-sleeved tee over my head and tugging down the gray fabric of my white camisole. I drop my shoes near the closet and aim toward the bed, climbing beneath the cool sheets.
I’m out like a light before my head even hits the pillow.
A light sound, almost like a cry, wakes me. My eyes open and I’m staring up at clothes—a lot of clothes; pink shirts, pink dresses, tiny, pleated skirts, khaki shorts. They look familiar but I can’t place them in my memory. I’ve seen them somewhere before, I know that, maybe in a store or some place I’ve been.
Other than that, everything is dark around me. Though, there’s a blue patterned hue streaming through the venetian blinds in the window.
Wait, I didn’t close my blinds. And my window isn’t behind me.
My hands reach up, gripping the slats in a… a door?
Why is there a door above my head?
I move my other hand out, hitting something small and leathery, like a shoe, only tiny. Lifting it, I see the white strap and the Disney Princess face—Jasmine. It’s a shoe, a little girl’s white sandal. On a hunch, I hit the heel against my knee and it lights up pink and purple, illuminating the little space.
I’m in a closet. A closet filled with clothes and toys.
Staring at the sandal in my hand, I remember that I used to have a pair of these. I cried when Hilary donated them to Goodwill along with my favorite pink dress when I was nine because I outgrew them. I loved that dress; it was pretty. It was covered in white, purple, and blue flowers with a lace hem. Just like the dress hanging above my head.
Wait.
What the hell?
“Josie?” a deep male voice, familiar and frightening, whispers in the room behind my head, his voice has a slight tremble, a vibrato I can’t figure out. “Josie, baby girl,” he continues, a softness in his voice I can tell is forced, “Where are you?”
I tilt my head back, looking through the thin slats in the door, peering at the man who doesn’t know where Josie is. Am I Josie? Something in his hand glints red and silver in the light sneaking through the venetian blinds. The hazy light also illuminates the pink walls, the white rumpled bedspread, and the wicker kids’ furniture.
Where am I?
I open my mouth, setting the sandal back down gently so I don’t hit the heel, letting, “Daddy?” slip from my lips quietly. He can’t hear me. My voice is tiny, one you’d picture for a small child, maybe six or seven years old.
“God DAMN IT!” He yells, hitting his fist against the wall by the door, shaking the ground my body lies on, and scaring the little girl I am. With fear, I crawl into a ball and try to forget where I am, forget who I am and who he is, forget that I’m scared. “Where are you, Josie?” he tries again, sounding nicer. “Come out for Daddy, baby girl.”
I don’t want to, Daddy. You scare me.
He drops to the ground, hard enough to shake the floor again, and peers under the bed, flinging back the blanket that hangs down, almost ripping it from the bed. Shaking his head, he stands up, using one trembling leg at a time. He looks to the closet, the door I’m hiding behind, and slowly walks over. His steps are loud and booming through the hollow wood beneath my ear. His hand grasps the doorknob, twisting until it slowly creaks open.
The sound is loud. It shouldn’t be so loud, but it is. It hurts, it hurts so much, I can’t move.
I can’t stop.
“Wake up,” I hear. “Wake up,” he says again, the voice this time shaking me, moving me. The voice is close, dragging me away from… somewhere, somewhere dark and cold. I gasp, taking in a deep breath, welcoming the air into my fragile lungs. “Are you okay?” Zephyr asks once I’ve calmed down enough to breathe. My throat hurts, just like my hands. “You’re soaked,” he tells me as his hand moves across my damp forehead, pushing my hair away from my face.
My hands reluctantly release something—the comforter I was gripping—and they seek the feeling of his shoulder, grasping and clenching something warm, him and his shirt, just for the feel of something real and safe and pure.
Something that won’t hurt me.
“Zephyr,” I gasp out. I seek him, all of him, as he kneels by my bed.
He’s real, I tell myself. He’s real and he’s here to protect me, not to hurt me. He
could never hurt me. He loves me.
“I’m here,” he tells me, leaning closer to me, his weight shifting the bed. His hands frame my face, his thumbs smoothing the tears from my cheeks.
When did I start crying?
“Zephyr?” I ask again, but I don’t mean it as a question, I just want to hear him say something back.
“I’m right here,” he tells me, his hand moving down my neck, caressing the bare skin of my shoulders. “I’m right here.”
It’s not enough.
“Say my name,” I beg, whispering. I need to hear him say my name.
“What?” he asks, confused by my request. “Why?”
“Just say it,” I beg harder, nearly sobbing. “Please.”
Just say my name, that’s all I want. I need to hear you say my name.
“Joey.” His voice is smooth and soft, like velvet. It could glide around me and lift me from the ground like a leaf caught in the window, placing me on a cloud to take me away.
He sounds nothing like the man looking for Josie.
“Oh, my God,” I blubber out, letting more tears flow down my cheeks.
“What, Joey?” His hands move to my hair, through my hair. “What is it?”
I’m not sure how to say it or even how to begin. I don’t know how to tell him what happened inside my head while I slept. I’m not even sure myself. Can I tell him where I went? Where my dream decided to take me this time? How much does he know about what happened to me? How much does he want to know about my past, about before we ever met, before he was my friend? Before we came to be what we are now.
I can just tell it how it is. Nothing more, nothing less. That’s always good.
“I…” I start, terrified of my own truth. “I remembered something.”
“What did you remember, Joey,” he asks, soothingly. He leans forward to rest his forehead against mine.
I ignore his question. He doesn’t need to know the scary details, not right now. “Don’t leave me alone,” I beg, my hands reaching up his neck, threading through his hair, feeling the softness of him. I need him. I need him to stay with me. “Please don’t leave me alone.” Not right now.
