Someone To Kiss My Scars: A Teen Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  “Thanks, Jazz.” He leaned his forehead against hers while he held the back of her head. “You’re a good friend.”

  Jazz grinned. “You’re dripping on my chest.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” He tried to wipe his sweat off her chest, then realized he had just touched her neckline. He jerked his hand away, staring at drops disappearing into her shirt then glanced up at her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jazz chuckled.

  He touched her glasses. “Your lenses are wet.”

  Still smiling, she said, “Did you drip on the outside, or did I steam them up from the inside?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe both. You should wipe them.”

  She pulled off her glasses and dried them with the tail of the open shirt she wore over her stretch top.

  “So what do we do now?”

  She put her glasses on. “Text your dad and ask him to call Patty about you needing to leave early. I’ll go back to PE and find a way to talk about this story to Drew. She can’t forget this happened. I’ll follow you home after class.”

  “You have detention.”

  “Shit.” She stomped her foot. “And it’s with that asshole, Eric.”

  He held her shoulders. “I can go to your house and wait for you. Dad said he won’t get home until much later. I can clean your kitchen.”

  She laughed. “He’ll be home tonight, not a week from now.”

  “I’ll clean what I can. Do I need a key?”

  “No. I never lock it except at night.”

  “Do you have a flash drive?”

  “Actually, I do.” She fished one out of her jeans pocket. “I back up all my lab files on this, so don’t lose it.”

  “What about your worms? I don’t want to mess up your experiment.”

  “You’re very thoughtful, Hunter. Seriously. But I think I’d rather work with human memories from now on. They’re a lot more interesting.”

  Hunter stuffed the flash drive into his pocket. “So I’ve written another story about sex, though sicker than normal. If there’s such a thing as normal.”

  “There’s got to be somewhere.” Her eyes met his.

  “I hope so.”

  Their eyes wandered around each other’s faces. Her eyes found his beautiful cupid bow upper lip and a full, pouty lower lip. Then his brows—extra thick—and his eyelashes—so long. Then to his dimples. He was the cutest boy she had ever seen.

  And he seemed to like looking at her.

  Yet both of them were struggling with demons from the past. Her stomach churned. What would he think when he saw hers?

  She touched his cheek. “Don’t forget to text your dad.”

  “OK.”

  She left for the gym.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hunter walked to the Pit, sat down, and downloaded all his stories, plus everything he’d written about the Tremarians, onto Jazz’s flash drive. He removed the device, reinserted it to make sure the documents were there, and opened a few. Satisfied that the files were safe, he then deleted every document from his computer.

  “Hunter!” shouted Patty from her office behind him.

  He stood.

  “Your dad called and wants you home.”

  “OK.”

  “You sick?”

  “Yeah. My head’s messed up.”

  “I hope you didn’t give it to me. Get! And don’t come back tomorrow if you’re still sick. I just got over the flu last week.”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  “I hope you feel better, Hunter.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hunter walked out to his truck and climbed in. As he drove to Jazz’s house, he thought about the prelude to Drew and Eric’s story. This time, when he’d moved to the hallway door, he’d heard a woman moaning in pleasure and breathing rapidly, then music, or something like music. Rapid percussion in the background and then the sound of bees swarming in waves while another voice repeatedly screamed, “Ahhh, ahhh, ahhhh!” Followed by a machine gun, or maybe rapid drumming. Then the sounds disappeared.

  Somehow it seemed familiar, but he couldn’t remember the context.

  He needed to confront his father about his past. Hunter was hallucinating and hearing voices. Something horrible must have happened to him years ago. Otherwise, why would his memories have disappeared?

  The voice who thanked him for fastening her bra was the same voice moaning behind the door. At least, they sounded the same.

  An immense foreboding lurked somewhere near, a suffocating presence ready to pounce and crush him. He knew it was there, but he had no idea what it was.

  He pulled into Jazz’s driveway and took his pack and computer inside where he noticed a smell of flowers; that was Jazz’s scent—rich, sweet, and fruity—mixed slightly with sweat.

  She always wore heavy clothes—sweatshirts, velour tops, and long-sleeved dresses. The only skin she revealed was her neck, face, and hands. Jazz dressed differently than any other girl at school.

  He laid his things on the kitchen table and approached the sink. Almost everything was encrusted with old food. After opening cabinets, he determined that every plate, pot, and utensil she owned was dirty. Hunter chuckled. Jazz cleaned up only when she had to. He’d been taught to clean everything as he used it, which meant that most of the dishes and utensils in his house were never used. Jazz evidently believed in equal dirty time. Or maybe her mother’s absence had caused this.

  Despite her apparent confidence and aggressiveness, Jazz seemed as lonely and desperate for friendship as he was.

  He filled the sinks, pots, and pans with warm soapy water to let everything soak for a while before he tried to scrub them. He emptied the trash, which required another bag to contain all the food scraps and boxes the first bag couldn’t hold. After he removed the overflow, he found an empty vodka bottle, neck up, in the bag.

  How much did Jazz drink every day? And when did it start?

  He had some idea about why she drank. Having to deal with her mother’s men, all similar to Leon, must have taken a toll. Her warning that he would see her do horrible things, that she would be naked suggested . . . what? Sexual abuse by Leon or others? Recalling Jazz handling her gun made him wonder how anyone would get away with abusing her. But maybe she got the gun afterward.

  Hunter opened the cabinet with the liquor and found three bottles, two unopened and one half empty. A shot glass sat to the side. He remembered drinking his father’s whiskey and being surprised it didn’t choke him. He poured a little vodka into the glass and sipped it.

  His throat felt warm as the liquid seeped along his tongue, and he realized he had tasted this before. But when?

  He filled the shot glass and tossed the liquor into his mouth, his eyes closed as he swirled the vodka around and swallowed. His neck loosened, and the relaxing numbness spread to his shoulders. He’d had no idea he was so tight.

  He poured more into the glass and walked down the hall, which he knew led to Jazz’s bedroom.

  He stood outside the open door and leaned in. Her clean clothes were piled on the bed—a tangle of sheets, a blanket, a large teddy bear, and some pillows—and random piles of underwear lay on the floor. Hunter sipped more vodka.

  Bulges of her clothing rose above the open drawers of her dresser. A stack of books leaned against a lamp on her nightstand. Standing in an almost-dried puddle of liquid was a glass, a third full of what looked like diluted Coke, possibly left over from last night.

  She drank at night to fall asleep, just like he’d done the night before.

  Then he saw the poster fastened to the ceiling above her bed—a muscle-bound guy, pecs and abs hard and bulging, naked except for a g-string, smiling down at him.

  Jazz’s dream guy? Someone she wished she could be with? Or have sex with?

  What must Jazz have thought about him writing stories about a land without sex now that he saw what she slept under every night? She’d talked about the gen
der disparity in orgasms during their first conversation while at the time he had never considered the overwhelming desire for sex being a factor in resistance to the Tremarians.

  The realization that he’d never thought about sex punched him in the gut. He was seventeen years old, and he couldn’t remember having fantasized about a girl—or woman. He couldn’t imagine sleeping under a poster of a nude female.

  Why?

  When he’d seen Jazz’s bra on the table and later felt it under her shirt, he’d had a flashback of a woman, possibly his mother, asking him to fasten her bra. All his senses electrified when he felt Jazz’s breasts against his chest, but he’d felt more when he saw the woman’s bare back. The vision had left him breathless.

  It was obvious to him that he had stifled any sexual feelings or desires for years. Why?

  Because of something that happened to him. Something sexual that he had forgotten or blocked out of his mind.

  Then he noticed two posters of Einstein hanging on the wall across from her bed. One with his tongue touching his chin—nutty and rebellious. The other with a pipe in his mouth—serious and intelligent.

  Jazz’s personality was complex, to say the least.

  Down the hall past the bathroom, he saw another door, slightly ajar—her mother’s bedroom. He pushed it open and was immediately hit by the choking smell of stale cigarette smoke. He turned on the light.

  He saw two multiple photo frames hanging on the far wall filled with pictures of Jazz and her mother at various ages. He couldn’t help walking inside the room.

  In the center of one frame was a 5x7 of what must have been Jazz’s grandparents holding a baby. A much younger, thinner Jazz and her mother stood next to them.

  Who was the baby?

  He drank the last of the vodka as he turned around to see if more pictures were displayed. He noticed a pile of CDs and a dusty boom box on the dresser.

  Excitement trickled into his chest, fluttering his heart.

  He felt an uncontrollable urge to look at the CDs. His trembling fingers pushed through the pile until he saw the blood-red cover for the Mothership album.

  The name pulsed in his brain, edged by flashing lights and gyrating bodies.

  He removed the disk and read the song titles, hearing beats and a voice embedded in each of the words.

  The title of number five—”Whole Lotta Love”—thumped his chest and he held his breath until he could slip the disk under the slowly rising lid and slam it down before it reached its apex.

  Hunter pressed the button until “5” appeared on the screen, hit ‘Play,’ and cranked the volume knob all the way to the right.

  *****

  When Jazz jogged through the gym into the locker room, she noticed Drew laughing with Eric as Coach Harris led the group in stretching exercises. Eric must have come in while she was talking to Drew and walked right past Hunter while he typed his story.

  As she sat in front of her locker unlacing her boots, Hunter’s story on the bench next to her, she heard the toilet flush right after a retching sound. A few seconds later, she heard another flush. Tatiana came out of a stall holding a toothbrush and saw Jazz. Tatiana palmed the brush against her arm as she smiled at Jazz.

  “Are you sick?” asked Jazz as she pulled on her sneakers.

  “Something I ate, I guess.” She seemed a little unsteady as she walked to her locker. Hiding the opening with her body, the hand holding the brush darted to the top shelf. She shut the door and turned to see Jazz looking at her.

  “Questions?” Tatiana asked.

  Jazz shook her head. She thought Tatiana could be a model: tall, thin, pretty. She didn’t know she purged until today, using a toothbrush to make her gag. Now she knew why Tatiana was often late to PE or had to use the restroom frequently during class. Jazz wondered why she’d started. But then why did anyone start anything? Something happened to her.

  “Did you hear what Drew told me earlier?” asked Jazz, wondering if she noticed Drew’s loss of memory.

  “About Eric, the pervert? Yes. And then she seemed to forget what she’d just said.”

  “She’s out there giggling with Eric right now like nothing happened.”

  “Weird.” As Tatiana walked past Jazz, she bent down a little toward the papers on the bench.

  Jazz noticed and grabbed the story. “Questions?” She pasted a smile on her lips.

  “What’s that?”

  “A story Hunter wrote. He wants me to read it.”

  “He wrote about Drew and Eric having a fight?”

  Jazz felt a chill spread under her ribs. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “He’s a cutie,” said Tatiana, “but a little strange for my taste. Toodles.” She walked back to the gym.

  When Jazz appeared on the court, Harris ordered her to run five laps. Ugh! She was not built for running. As she circled the court, she kept an eye on Drew, trying to decide when and how she would talk to her about the trampoline incident. The angry, disgusted girl who had stomped through the front entrance half an hour ago was now her usual flirty self, taking every opportunity to make sure Eric kept his attention on her.

  After the laps and drills to prepare for the upcoming track meet, Harris gave them a water break. Drew walked into the locker room, so Jazz followed.

  She headed toward the sink as Drew closed a stall door. Jazz splashed some water on her face and pulled out a few paper towels.

  “Hey, Drew. I’ve been thinking about that story you told me before class.”

  “What’re you talking about, Jazz?”

  “About Eric watching Kelly and Skylar jumping on the trampoline.”

  “OK. When did this happen?”

  “You told me before class. You yelled at Eric in the parking lot and ran in here.”

  “What’re you smokin’, Jazz? Hey, I got to crap, so could you hurry up and leave?”

  “Sure, Drew.”

  Jazz left the room and headed for the court.

  Eric walked toward her. “Where’s Drew?”

  “Taking a dump.”

  “Why don’t you ever change clothes for PE? It’s disgusting to sit in your sweaty clothes all afternoon.”

  “And have you ogling my boobs? Oh, that’s right, you like looking at little girls’ boobs. Especially when they bounce.” Jazz walked away.

  “Hey! Bi ...”

  Jazz turned. “Please say it, Eric. Then none of us would have to see you tomorrow. Maybe for three days.”

  She had been needled about not changing for PE for years. But wearing a gym uniform would cause even more comments. Her mother had finally talked to Patty, explaining that Jazz had an embarrassing skin condition, so staff stopped bothering her, but kids like Eric still gave her a hard time occasionally. She wished the problem were merely a skin condition.

  Jazz heard a swarm of kids enter the gym and turned around. The 7th graders grabbed basketballs from a rack and launched them toward three baskets on the far end of the court. Various grades shared the court during the day, especially when snow covered most of the playground.

  She saw Kelly and Skylar playing one-on-one and walked toward them.

  “Hey, Kelly! Drew told me you got to use your trampoline at lunch today. Bet that was fun.” Jazz wondered if the girls had noticed Eric watching them.

  Kelly held the ball and seemed ready to blurt out an angry comment, but swallowed it. She sighed. “It was OK.”

  Jazz let out a breath and took a chance. “Would’ve been better if Eric hadn’t stared at you, huh?”

  Kelly’s eyes widened. “How’d you know?”

  “Drew told me. Did you know he shot photos of you?”

  “No! That creep!”

  “Drew made him delete them.”

  She ran up to Jazz. “You sure?”

  “You want to ask her? Let’s go.”

  As Jazz led the girls toward the locker room, she noticed Eric was playing baske
tball at one of the side baskets.

  Drew had just emerged from the locker room. She smiled at her sister. “Hey, Sis! What’s up?”

  “Eric was taking pictures of us while we jumped on the trampoline?”

  Drew’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “Yes,” said Jazz. “Drew caught him doing it from the porch.”

  “Your boyfriend’s a creep, Drew,” said Kelly. “After he got the snow off, he wouldn’t leave.”

  “Yeah,” said Skylar. “We told him to go away a bunch of times before he actually did.”

  “That’s what you told me before class, Drew,” said Jazz. She pulled the folded papers from her back pocket and held them out. For a second, she hesitated, wondering whether Drew needed to read the story, but she worried her full memory wouldn’t return unless she did. “Please go read this . . . by yourself. I typed up what you told me.”

  Drew took the papers slowly then looked over at Eric.

  Jazz noticed Tatiana watching them out of the corner of her eye.

  “C’mon, girls,” said Jazz, “let’s get back before Ms. Sally gets mad.” She walked with them back to their class.

  Tatiana walked up to her just as Jazz turned around.

  “Well, that was interesting,” said Tatiana. “I thought Hunter wanted you to read that story, not give it to Drew.”

  Jazz cleared her throat and tried to smile. “His story’s in my locker.”

  “So Drew told you about Eric then forgot. And the first two lines of Hunter’s story are about Eric and Drew having a fight. At least that’s what I read. Is Drew going to remember now?”

  Jazz wiped her sweaty hands on her pants and looked around to see if anyone looked their way. “I hope so, for her sister and Skylar’s sake. Don’t you?”

  Tatiana moved closer to Jazz and reduced her volume. “Yeah, but why did she forget what just happened? She was mad about what he did at her house. Then she came to school and told you. Then forgot. And now you give her a story that Hunter wrote . . . When did he write the story?”

  Should she deny and walk away? Or would that cause her to talk to Drew about what had happened? She looked at pretty Tatiana whom no one would suspect to be purging every day and knew she had something she’d like to forget. Jazz weighed her desire to protect Hunter with Tatiana’s obvious need for help. “He wrote it while Drew was telling me the story.”