by L.J. Shen
He smiled into our kiss. He liked it, I realized. Me hurting him. Making him bleed.
It was only when he was about to yank the ring out of my lip that I finally pulled back. He dropped his hand completely.
So this was the game, I thought. I hurt him, and he hurt me back, but only as much as I could tolerate.
I ran my tongue along my teeth, savoring his warm, salty blood. When I looked at him again, he looked incredibly mortal all of a sudden. Boyish, even. With a red slash of blood smeared over his mouth, waiting for me to say something.
To acknowledge he wasn’t the only screwed-up person in the room.
“You were wrong. I didn’t want you to kiss me.” I licked the corner of my lips, mocking him.
He smirked, leaning down and capturing the tip of my ear with his teeth, whispering. “You wanted it, you enjoyed it, and next time I touch you, Good Girl, I’m not only going to dirty you up. I’m going to make you filthy, like me.”
Three things happened simultaneously from that day onward:
1. Vaughn began to monitor my interactions at school, especially with the lads. Guys stopped acknowledging my presence completely, in all grades and statuses, other than Knight and Hunter, who weren’t scared of their lunatic mate. Everyone else caught word that Lenny Astalis was Vaughn’s unwilling possession, and even though I had no interest in any of them, I still thought they were cowards for listening to Vaughn.
Of course, I was the worst type of property—the neglected kind. Vaughn went even farther out of his way to make sure people knew I was nothing to him. There was a brief rumor about my catching chlamydia from a Brazilian male model I’d allegedly had sex with over the summer, but it died quickly when Vaughn said no one was desperate enough to fuck me.
2. The girls, who all heard different versions of what happened in the janitor’s room (exclusively from Alice and Arabella) and knew now without a shadow of a doubt that Vaughn had taken an unlikely interest in me, went from disliking me to actively despising me. Poppy often had to skip some of her after-school activities just to see me home and make sure no one was following or harassing me. Arabella and Alice continued to call me Vampire Girl because of my attire and fondness for all things black, and they nagged me about Vaughn whenever they came to visit Poppy. Their questions were met with silence.
3. Vaughn began to show up at my house nearly every day to work on his mysterious project with my father.
Papa had taken a liking to Vaughn when he’d first witnessed his artistic greatness at summer session, and now that Vaughn had expressed interest in working closely with him, I guess Papa felt flattered. Even though Vaughn wasn’t aware of the fact that I was too starstruck to talk to my own father about my art, he knew he was hurting me by coming here. Every time I opened the door and he was on the other side with his sculpting equipment, he gave me a lopsided grin that reminded me he’d kissed me not too long ago, that no matter how disgusting I found him, I’d once had his blood in my mouth.
His bottom lip was still bruised from my bite.
“Given up on that internship yet?” he’d ask.
“In your dreams,” I’d answer, and he’d laugh good-naturedly and shake his head, brushing past me.
On the day Knight broke up with Poppy, I sat in her room, stroking her hair.
The boy who’d warned guys off of her because he was so worried for her precious heart ended up stomping all over it like it was a dance floor.
I kept busy trying to keep my sister from flinging herself off our roof.
The rumor that Poppy had been prematurely disposed of for a college girl spread like wildfire in a hayfield at All Saints High. Her locker had been graffitied, and when she’d opened it today, she found a real human turd on top of her books with a Post-it note: Dumped!
Knight had been nowhere in sight today, and Poppy had sworn off going back to school for the remainder of the year. I hugged and consoled her all evening. Poppy rightfully couldn’t trust her so-called best friends, Alice and Arabella, who had been the first to spread the rumor of her breakup down the corridors of the school.
The queen bees of All Saints had turned against my sister, now that she was no longer under the protection of The Knight Cole.
The year had been crappy with a side of shite to me, but Poppy actually liked it here before the whole Knight debacle. I’d made no friends, gone on no dates, and collected no memories. In a lot of ways, it felt like a long, excruciating night, with no dreams or even nightmares to occupy my mind—a big, fat nothing of staring at the ceiling that made me wonder if I really even existed.
At least we were nearing graduation. I still hadn’t applied to any colleges, in Europe or elsewhere, praying for that internship. Wherever Vaughn went, even if it was to England with me, I’d be in my home field. He wouldn’t have so much power there. Anyway, he still wasn’t done with his piece, and who knows what he’d actually sent them when the internship application was due. It had been a month now, at least. But I had bigger fish to fry.
Knight wasn’t a bad person, but as a boyfriend, he was rubbish, and I thought Poppy deserved a lot more than what he’d offered her.
“Let it all go.” I stroked Poppy’s light hair, kissing the crown of her head while she nestled in my arms on her bed. She had a canopy-style princess bed, all baby pink and white, and a vanity desk the size of my entire room. I didn’t care about those sorts of things, but Poppy did.
I didn’t fault her for that. We were who we were. She had to take care of me at school because I got into trouble all the time.
Poppy blew her nose into the hem of my kilt, and I let her.
“He is such an arsehole!” she exclaimed, bursting out in a fresh bout of tears.
“A world-class one.” I nodded, rallying behind her statement. “He should be internationally recognized for the level of arseholeness he exhibits.”
“But he’s so gorgeous.”
“Sure, if you’re into that Shawn-Mendes-meets-Chase-Crawford look. But there are a lot of gorgeous guys, and you deserve one who will recognize just how special you are.” I gently removed the hair that stuck to her damp cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
Poppy sat up, patting her eyes with a tattered tissue.
“Am I, though?” She narrowed her puffy eyes at me.
I plucked some fresh tissues from her nightstand and handed them to her, along with a bottle of water.
“Are you what?” I asked.
“Special. You are special, Lenny. With your art and quirky attitude and the way you pretend not to care when gorgeous, rich guys like Vaughn Spencer make you a walking target. But I’m not like that. I’m not talented or strong or particularly interesting. I don’t have any special looks or clothes or abilities. I’m not even book smart.” She sniffled, eyeing me with a suspicious frown now, like it was my fault she chose to wear mainstream, high-end brands and put highlights in her hair and have normal, popular “friends.”
“You can be talented and completely horrible,” I said cautiously, thinking of Vaughn. “And you can also have not even one artistic bone in your body and still be the rarest thing in the universe. It’s in your actions. It’s your soul. You are special, Poppy, because you make people feel good. No one can take that away from you.”
She sank into my arms, and we sat there for what seemed like forever, hugging and rocking back and forth, relishing the bittersweet agony of loving a boy who didn’t love her back—not that I knew anything about that. Heartbreak was a mystical, double-edged sword from where I was standing. And I had no desire to experience the full range of emotions in a car crash of feelings. Not ever going there.
That day in the janitor’s closet had rattled me. Not that I’d found Jason’s…member appealing, but there was a thrill there. If I was being honest with myself, the thrill had more to do with biting Vaughn’s lip and watching as he licked his own blood with a little smirk, and less to do with Jason. I liked that Vaughn had pulled me away from Alice’s boyfriend, that he
was possessive of me. And even though I’d heard of his antics since then—disappearing with girls into rooms during parties I wasn’t invited to—I also knew he wondered.
He wondered who I was seeing.
Who I was with, and what I was doing with them.
I fed his curiosity and played his mind games.
I was always on my phone at school. I texted Pope, my best friend from Carlisle Prep, and smiled at the phone. I put a hand to my cheek and pretended to blush.
On nights I knew Vaughn would show up at my house—because my father was already in his studio, preparing his tools—I’d go out, even if just for a drive, and come back with my hair messy and my black lipstick purposely smeared.
I drove him crazy, because he was driving me insane. I wanted to fight him, to hurt him for what he was doing to me. Bite him. Taste him. Feel him.
I often snuck into the house as he was leaving, tired and dirty, his hair a disheveled mess. He would climb into his beat-up truck and frown at me silently, as if trying to squeeze answers out of me telepathically.
“Lenora?”
I heard a soft knock on Poppy’s door. Dad must’ve heard my voice coming from this room.
“Come in, Papa.” Poppy quickly wiped the remainder of her tears with the tissue I’d given her and straightened her back, plastering a rather creepy smile on her face. She never wanted to upset our father. One of the many sacrifices she’d made since we’d lost Mum. Poppy was the epitome of a considerate daughter, while I wore morbid clothes and bit boys who pissed me off.
My father stood in the doorway, his long, gray, curly hair spiraling atop his head like an eccentric Elton John hat, his beard almost reaching his round, Buddha belly. Papa looked like a Harry Potter character—a softhearted wizard professor who seemed big and intimidating, but wouldn’t hurt a fly. He loved Mum and us, I knew, but I always had the distinctive feeling we came right after his art.
Mum hadn’t wanted him to open Carlisle Prep—he still did.
Mum would kill him if she were alive to see that he’d ripped us from England to America for his project. He couldn’t resist a good challenge.
Papa knew I never wanted a life outside of art, and he never pushed me for more—not to date boys, not to make friends who weren’t Rafferty, not to live life.
The list went on, naturally.
“What are you girls up to?” He glanced between us with an apologetic smile. That was the sort of relationship we had with Papa. A bit too formal for my liking.
Again, he cared—didn’t miss one parent-teacher conference, and always made sure we were provided for and did something fantastic over the summer. He planned elaborate trips—admiring the wild architecture of Valencia, museums in Hong Kong, galleries in Florence, the pyramids of Egypt. Being a father, however, did not come as naturally to him as being an artist.
It was the Vaughns of the world he found a common language with.
“Oh, nothing much. Just gossiping. How are you, Papa?” Poppy sing-songed, springing to her feet and smoothing her pajamas. “You must be starving. Shall I put some leftover lasagna in the microwave for you?”
I tried not to stare at her too bewilderedly. I wondered what it felt like to cut your feelings off with scissors, like a broken marionette. In trying to be so strong, she weakened herself. I hated to see her hurting.
“That’d be grand, Pop. Cheers. Lenny, may I have a word with you?” He reached his giant, cracked palm in my direction.
I took it and silently stood up.
It was unlike Papa to initiate a serious conversation. Had Vaughn told him something? Did he snitch on me? Tell him I was seeing boys? Not that Papa would care. If anything, he would encourage it.
What the hell was it?
“In the studio.” Papa tugged my hand, leading me to the attic where he had a small studio—in addition to the one in our backyard where he kept some of his unfinished work. The attic was more intimate.
I followed him, racking my brain for what was to come. My father and I chatted all the time during dinners and when we were watching the telly. We talked about the weather and school and Poppy’s busy schedule and his work. The only thing we didn’t talk about was me.
Even when I’d given him my final piece for the internship assignment last month—a human-sized skull made solely from vintage tin cans—I’d quickly averted the conversation to something else, careful not to catch any disappointment or boredom he might be feeling toward my art.
I was expecting the results about that any day now, but in the form of a formal letter. I knew better than to expect my father to bend the rules and break the news to me in person.
We climbed up the narrow, spiraling stairs to the attic. The white wooden floor creaked under our weight as we entered the roof-shaped loft. The aroma of shaved stone, the coldness of the marble and granite giants, and clouds of dust did nothing to disguise the unique scent of Vaughn Spencer that immediately crawled into my nostrils—delicious, formidable, and full of danger. I tried to ignore it, and the shiver it brought along.
He was here tonight. I had heard their voices drifting through the opened window of the attic only ten minutes ago.
“Gentle with the chisel, now, lad. Do not cock this one up. It’s too precious for both of us.”
“Put down the power drill. Slow strokes. Love this stone like it’s a person.”
“Let’s call it a day. You’ve been battling this piece all night. You are not in sync with it. You are at war.”
Vaughn was struggling with the piece, and I wasn’t at all sure he’d submitted any other project for the internship. That gave me hope. Maybe I did have a chance. At least I’d handed in my piece in a timely manner.
“Sit down,” Papa instructed with a tired groan, pointing at a huge, untouched stone in the corner of the room.
I brushed away Human Anatomy for Artists by Eliot Goldfinger, which sat atop it, and did as I was told, crossing my legs at the ankles. I ignored the huge horizontal piece covered by a large, white sheet standing in the corner of the studio. I knew how intimate an artist’s relationship was with his work. It was like being pregnant, knowing the baby inside you was growing each day—more cells, longer limbs, more defined facial features.
I also knew that was Vaughn’s piece, and I was not supposed to see it.
“You are going to receive a letter from the board, but I thought this warranted a more personal conversation. Let me start by saying that your assemblage piece was phenomenal. The way you worked the tin, the little escape wheels for eyes, the detail—it was fantastically executed. It evoked many emotions in all three of us. Your Uncle Harry called you a genius, and Alma said yours was by far her favorite. I’ve never been prouder to call you my daughter.”
My breath fluttered in my lungs, and I tried to keep my smile at bay. It was happening. I was getting the internship. I’d already decided what I wanted to show at Tate Modern. I had it all planned. I needed to sketch it first, but the bones were there. It had come to me in my sleep, the night I bit Vaughn.
“Thank you. I—”
“Lenny, you know I love you, right?” Papa crooned, his head falling into his huge, open palms all of a sudden.
Uh-oh.
“Yeah. Of course,” I faltered.
“Do you really, though?” he asked from between the cracks of his fingers, peeking through them like a little boy.
Suddenly, I was pissed at him. Because he wasn’t a little boy. He was a grown-up man. And he was taking the easy way out, playing on my emotions.
“You sound like you’re sending me off to a boarding school on the other side of the world. A bit late for that, Papa.” I kept my tone light, clearing my throat.
Then it hit me. My stupid joke turned into a brutal reality.
No. No, no, no.
Papa dropped his hands from his face and averted his gaze to the floor. When I said nothing, he started pacing the room, back and forth, his hands knotted behind his back. He stopped after a few secon
ds, as if deciding what course of action he wanted to take, and pivoted toward me, leaning down and putting his heavy hands on my shoulders. He caught my gaze, the intensity radiating through his eyes almost knocking me down.
“You’re enough,” he said.
“Of course,” I managed, feeling the walls of the tiny studio closing in on me.
This wasn’t happening. God, please. I’d worked so hard. This was all I’d ever wanted—to have my work exhibited at Tate Modern. I didn’t enjoy sordid relationships and midnight blow jobs at rich kids’ pool parties, or flirt with drugs, fights, and the wrong side of the law. My parents weren’t Californian royalty. I didn’t have football friends and popularity and the entire, bloody world at my feet.
All I’d ever asked for was this internship.
“You are. And one day, you will see that I mean this, but Lenny…you didn’t get the internship.”
I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath, refusing to let the tears fall. I wanted to believe him. But if I were the best, I’d have gotten the internship. We both knew that.
“Vaughn Spencer?” I heard myself asking. I didn’t dare breathe. I knew if I twitched, or even moved a finger, I would go berserk and crash, break, and destroy everything in sight—knock over the statue Vaughn was working on, rip the walls down, and jump headfirst into the pool, praying to hit the bottom and die.
I’d sat back and let Vaughn do this—worm his way into my father’s good graces, right here in Todos Santos. I’d let him into my kingdom, into my family, into my house, every single day, and watched as he stole the only thing I cared about, night after night. Because I stupidly thought my work would speak for itself, that he couldn’t cheat his way into the gig.
I was exactly the naïve little idiot he saw me to be.
“Yes,” my father confirmed behind the fog of my red anger.
I popped my eyes open and darted up from the stone.
“His project is not even finished! He told me himself!” I seethed.
