Someone To Kiss My Scars: A Teen Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  “He was in the locker room?”

  “No, he was in the lobby outside the gym.”

  “Then how could he . . . ? She looked away from Jazz then back at her. “What are you and Hunter doing?”

  “Maybe something you’d like to know about, Tatiana. Maybe we can talk later about it?” She searched Tatiana’s eyes, trying to break through the happy façade she always projected. “We both hide things we do to ourselves from other people. For reasons we don’t want others to know. Reasons we’d like to forget.”

  Tatiana’s face relaxed, losing the ever-present smile and cocked eyebrows. “Can we?”

  “Maybe. I’ll talk to you later. Can we keep each other’s secrets for now?”

  “Sure.”

  Later, Jazz noticed Drew shouting at Eric by her locker, calling him a pervert. Tatiana watched as well then walked over to Jazz. “Guess she remembered, huh?”

  During the next two classes, Jazz could feel Eric’s glare burning her back.

  After school, she made sure she got to Bentley’s office before he did to avoid any confrontation with him in the hall. Bentley told her to sit down in one corner of his office. A minute later, Eric entered.

  “You’re late,” Bentley barked.

  “Had a problem with my girlfriend. Sorry.”

  Bentley pointed to a chair. Eric sat.

  Jazz had opened her computer and began a search about memory loss. She noticed that she hadn’t closed Hunter’s story about Eric, which she’d read in math class. The Word document appeared on the left side of her screen, overlapped partially by her Safari window.

  Eric jerked his computer lid up and stabbed his trackpad.

  After another minute, Bentley stood. “I’ll be right back. No talking while I’m gone.” He left his office.

  Eric glared. “What did you tell her?” he growled.

  Jazz looked up and smiled. Then put her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  “She was fine until you talked to her! Bitch!”

  “Eric!” yelled Patty from her desk. “Shut your mouth. I just added ten minutes to your detention.”

  Eric ground his teeth and turned his desk toward the wall.

  Jazz inadvertently clicked on Hunter’s story, bringing it to the front. She looked over the story for a few seconds.

  Bentley returned, sat at his desk, then opened his computer. After a few minutes, he looked at Jazz. “Where did you get that, Jazz?”

  Jazz’s stomach locked and fear burned her chest.

  “Don’t lie to me. I can see it on my screen.”

  Eric turned toward Jazz.

  “I got it in an email,” said Jazz.

  “I told Hunter to delete his file,” said Bentley.

  “He did, but he’d already sent me a copy. I’m sorry. I should have deleted it.”

  Bentley looked at both of them. “Since you’re both here, I want an explanation about this story. Eric, what do you know about this?”

  Eric shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Bentley nodded to Jazz. “Send it to my printer.”

  Jazz pressed keys and soon the printer behind Bentley churned out the document. He picked up the pages, looked them over, and gave them to Eric. “This is the story Ms. Tucker read on Hunter’s computer this morning.”

  As Eric read the first page, his face turned red. He looked up briefly after turning to the second page, then hid his face behind the papers. Slowly he put the papers down on his desk and looked to the ceiling.

  Jazz felt her chest pounding as she snuck a few quick looks at Eric reading.

  “Eric?” asked Bentley. “Where did Hunter get this story?”

  “From my head, sir. I never talked to him. I don’t know how he could possibly have known . . .”

  Bentley sat forward in his chair. “That you fantasized about Ms. Tucker?”

  “Yes, sir. But I said nothing to him. Or to anyone.” He glared at Jazz.

  Bentley turned to her. “Why did he send you a copy?”

  Jazz swallowed and tried to keep her voice calm. “I think he was scared when Ms. Tucker started to read it. We’re friends.”

  “Who else knows about this story?” asked Bentley.

  “Just Hunter, me, Ms. Tucker, and Eric,” said Jazz. “No one else.”

  “And it will remain that way,” said Bentley. “Jazz delete that file and the email. Eric, give that back to me.” Eric handed him the papers. He looked sternly at both of them. “Neither of you will speak about this again. Jazz, you will tell Hunter the same.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jazz replied.

  “Jazz, your time is up. You can leave.”

  Jazz rose and left the office. As she walked to her car, she realized she had made three big mistakes: Tatiana saw the story about Eric after lunch, Drew read it, and Jazz was caught reading the one about Eric and Tucker. Why did she have to do that? She hoped she hadn’t made Hunter’s life more difficult.

  “Jazz!” Tatiana waved her hand out of her car window then opened the door. “You said we could talk later, so I waited for you.”

  “Hey, Tatiana.”

  “I’m sure you noticed Drew and Eric after you gave her that story.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would she have remembered what happened during lunch if she hadn’t read it?”

  “Probably not. We’re not sure yet.”

  “We? As in you and Hunter?”

  “Yeah. Listen, Tatiana, this is all new for us. We’re still trying to figure things out. Maybe after another day we’ll know more about this. Can you come to my house for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Did you and Hunter make Drew forget what happened?”

  “Hunter did, but he wasn’t trying to. He saw Drew’s memory in his mind.”

  Tatiana sucked in her lips and scrunched her eyes. “How?”

  “We don’t know, but it keeps happening.”

  “Can Hunter take a memory from me?”

  Jazz watched her bite her bottom lip as she locked onto her eyes. This girl is desperate. Would Hunter want Jazz to protect his secret or give him the chance to help her? She thought she knew the answer. “I think so. He can try.”

  Tatiana grabbed Jazz’s hand. “OK. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Can we keep this between us?”

  “Yeah. Just like you’ll keep my secret?”

  Jazz nodded.

  “Thanks.” She squeezed Jazz’s hand then returned to her car.

  Jazz waved as she pulled away. Will she tell anyone else?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The most famous riff in the world (how did he know that?) pounded from the speakers: Jimmy Page on guitar first, then John Paul Jones on bass, then the voice of Robert Plant screaming the words. He was surprised he knew their names. By the time John Bonham crashed into the mix with his drums, Hunter’s hips were undulating to the beat beneath hands reaching to the ceiling, nodding his head, mouthing the lyrics.

  He turned around, still dancing, closing his eyes, feeling the music fill every part of his body. He felt loose, lithe, electrified!

  He turned again, opened his eyes, and saw her dancing in the mirror—a beautiful blonde woman, shaking her long hair from shoulder to shoulder, piercing him with her dagger blue eyes as she directed every word of the song to him through blood-red lips, jerking her hips with each lift of her heel, pointing at him with long, red fingernails.

  Her large breasts swayed unrestrained beneath her cut-off t-shirt. She turned, put her hands on her hips, and shook her ass, barely covered by yoga shorts.

  Hunter was hypnotized, staring at her, panting his breaths. She moved out of the mirror during the instrumental section like an animal on the prowl, grinning with malice and seduction, shimmying so close to him he could feel her warmth and inhale her scent of patchouli and rose petals. She bent toward him, forcing him to lean back with her hands on his chest. Then he leaned
toward her as she bent back, shaking her shoulders, moving her breasts beneath her shirt.

  They both held their hands above their shoulders as they turned around slowly, rotating their heads, humping their pelvises as Plant’s orgasmic shouts filled their ears. When Bonham brought the simulated sex to a close with a roll through his drums, Hunter and the woman jumped side by side and thrust their hips toward each other with each pair of crashing drums and guitars before Page launched into his solo. They jumped around and did the same hip crunch from the other side—six times—before Plant’s voice rose above the din.

  Hunter and the woman twirled around each other, eyes locked, as they shook and shimmied. The woman’s hands flung wildly, often raking across his ass or his genitals. When Plant roared in ecstasy toward the end, the woman screamed, “Shake for me!” The woman shook her shoulders and hips. Hunter stared at her chest, hypnotized.

  “Shake, Baby!” she screamed at him. She reached for his hips and jerked them back and forth, allowing her hands to wander. Hunter gasped, backed away, but she followed, repeating everything she’d done previously.

  As the song ended, the woman smiled at him slyly as she looked directly at his erection. She moved back into the mirror, purposely swaying her hips, and laughing. Hunter couldn’t help watching her butt as the quiet strumming of the next song started.

  He was about to shout something at her—

  “Hunter?”

  He jerked his head around to see Jazz standing in the doorway, smiling as her eyes moved below his waist.

  Now she was staring. “What were you doing?”

  Hunter looked down and realized his erection was pushing out his pants.

  He lunged toward the boom box and stopped the music.

  “I’m sorry.” He kept his body facing the dresser, trying not to think of what pressed against the drawer handle.

  “How come you never told me you could dance? You were amazing.”

  “How long were you standing there?” he said as he fumbled with the disk and placed it into the case. He felt lightheaded as he shuffled his feet.

  “Since the guitar solo. My mother played that album all the time.”

  “Oh my god.” He grasped his head. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here.”

  She leaned against the door jam. “True, but I would have done the same. After you left, I thought what I would do if you sent me to your house by myself. I’d have to look around because I care about you and want to know you better.” She moved toward him. “You’re a good dancer, Hunter. Did you teach yourself, or did someone . . . “

  The realization of who the woman was slammed into him. He looked at the mirror and saw the horror on his face—his eyes bulging and his mouth open to scream. His heart raced while his stomach churned. His knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor.

  He and his mother had danced to that song all the time.

  “Hunter!” Jazz blurted as she ran to him. “Are you sick?”

  “My mother,” he cried. “She taught me. We used to dance together to that song almost every day.”

  He could feel the shock sparking through Jazz’s brain.

  “You danced like that with her?” Jazz said slowly with barely a hint of the disgust Hunter thought she felt.

  “I saw her in the mirror, and then suddenly she was dancing next to me. I couldn’t remember what she looked like before now.”

  Jazz reached for him.

  “Don’t touch me!” he shouted, moving away from her. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I can’t.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I felt so good dancing. Then she kept touching me like it was an accident. She was trying to arouse me, teasing, like she wasn’t doing it on purpose. She wore no bra and short shorts.” His face twisted in pain. “I didn’t want her to leave, but I felt so embarrassed. I felt dirty, but she laughed at me. What the hell? She wanted her thirteen-year-old son to get a boner over her!”

  “I’m sorry, Hunter.”

  “Do you think that’s really what my mother did to me? Or maybe that’s what I wanted her to do and felt guilty for wanting that?”

  “I don’t know, Hunter. I think it means you knew her behavior was wrong. Did you try to touch her?”

  “No. But I wanted to. I kept staring at her body.”

  “Maybe it was the vodka you drank.”

  Hunter’s eyes widened as he jumped to his feet. He saw the shot glass and quickly grabbed it.

  “I already saw it, Hunter. How much did you drink?”

  “Not much.” He looked to the floor. “I think I used to drink back then. I think she drank more. I don’t know whether she gave it to me or maybe I sneaked it. How did you start?”

  Jazz looked away. “I snuck it at first just because Mom and her boyfriends drank and partied all the time. Then it got to be a crutch because of . . . things that happened to me.”

  “How much do you drink now?”

  Jazz averted her eyes. “More than I should.”

  He watched her face turn red. “I’m sorry, Jazz. I’m not judging you. I’m just surprised.”

  “Yeah,” she scoffed. “Guess I’m just like my mom.” She sat on the bed. “I drink at night so I can sleep. No other time. Well, today at lunch, but usually just at night. I can’t stop my mind when I get into bed. Things from the past keep swirling around. Now four shots of vodka and Coke knock me out until morning.”

  He sat on the bed next to her. “I found my dad’s whiskey yesterday and drank some for the same reason. I wondered why it was easy for me to drink. Then I tried the vodka. Same thing. Easy.”

  “Did your mother drink?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe she was drunk when she danced with you.”

  “Would that have made it better?”

  “No, but it might mean she realized what she did was wrong.” She reached for his hand. “Everyone feels their own pain, Hunter. But we all respond in similar ways. We either hurt ourselves, or others, or both. The one thing you can count on in life is feeling pain.”

  “Or nothing.”

  “Or nothing. Which can be worse.” She shook her head. “I recently read a survey of teens. Seventy percent consider anxiety and depression to be major problems with their peers. I wonder who that thirty percent are who have happy friends.”

  They stared at each other through the mirror. Hunter wondered what she really felt about him.

  Jazz stood up from the bed. “But feeling hunger is usually easier to deal with. You hungry?”

  Hunter laughed. “Even if I was, you don’t have a clean plate in the house.”

  “Then help me wash them. I was expecting to come home to a clean kitchen. You can imagine my disappointment.” She grabbed his hand. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes.”

  She led him down the hall to her room and stopped, raising her brows and giving him a sly look. “Did you go in here?”

  “No, but I looked inside.”

  “So you saw Alessandro?” She pointed up, laughing. “He’s seen . . . way too much. Lucky he can’t talk.” She said wistfully, “Though sometimes I wish he could.”

  “What would you want him to say?”

  Jazz sighed deeply as her eyes found Hunter’s then looked to the floor. “I’d want . . . I’d want him to say, ‘Despite everything, I love you.’” She held his hands and blinked a few tears from her eyes. “Hunter, I hope when you see my memories, you won’t run away.”

  “You didn’t run from me when you saw mine. Despite everything so far, you’re still my friend.” He kissed her hand.

  She smiled. “And I am yours—so far.” She kissed his hand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  During their dinner of canned beef stew and bread, Jazz told Hunter what had happened with Tatiana, Drew, and Eric. She was worried Eric would confront Hunter the next day, and she thought Bentley would be extra nosy watching their computers. What would happen whe
n Hunter wrote another story at school?

  Hunter washed their bowls in the sink. “I won’t go tomorrow. Patty thinks I’m sick, and Dad wants me to stay home. But once he finds out I see memories from people near me, I don’t think he’ll want us to be in the same house.” He gave her a bowl.

  “Why?” She dried the bowl with a towel.

  “He doesn’t want me to find out what happened. I’ll see it, just like I saw him having sex with Parker.”

  “OK. You two are in the same house tonight, and he leaves for work. Then what would you do?”

  “I’ll drive over here.” He gave her another bowl and some spoons.

  “Why?”

  He flung water and suds off his hands. “Think I’ll find out what Alessandro knows.”

  She dried the bowl. “He’s not real, silly.”

  “But you are. You can stay home, too.”

  Jazz put her hand on her hip and raised her eyebrows. “Are you asking me for a date?”

  “Yup. We can sit in the living room. You’ll relive your horrible memories, and I’ll try to get rid of them.”

  “You really want to try?”

  “Yes. And I promise not to run away.”

  “Cool. I’ll make us breakfast.” She hung up the towel, put away the bowls, and closed the cabinet. “I invited Tatiana for lunch. She wants you to try and delete a memory. Wonder what it’s about?”

  “What they’re all about. Something bad that she did or someone did to her.” He dried his hands. “Do you have any explanation for why this is happening to me?”

  “Actually, I think I do. I revisited some of the articles I used for my project and found others during sixth period. Most scientists believe memories are stored in the brain, that each experience causes the formation of neural networks, but no one has found a specific area of the brain where specific memories are stored. Others think memories are holographs—like the projection of Princess Leia in Star Wars—formed by the entire brain. And like holographs, each part of the memory contains the entire memory, so brain damage doesn’t necessarily result in a loss of memory.”