by Ron C. Nieto
“Kiss me.”
In spite of the simple way he’d phrased it, his tone was all but commanding. Aching, which I could relate to, and a little bit imploring, which melted me into a puddle of goo. There were other nuances I could not identify.
I leaned in the couple inches or so that kept us apart and, just like the previous night, the feeling of rightness that swept through me was overwhelming. The kiss might have been simple, even chaste by my adolescent hormones’ standard, since tongues were kept inside their respective mouths, but still, it touched me all the way to my soul.
I could spend the rest of my life like this, just kissing him. It was like a puzzle piece of who I was had just found its place, even though I had not realized that it was missing to begin with.
Intoxicating.
I wouldn’t have been able to pull back if the deep meow of the stupid cat hadn’t startled me, breaking the contact.
I stared down at the huge, black animal, who regarded me with contempt and a certain lack of interest, and Keith took a deep, shaky breath, pulling himself out of the reverie.
“Alice,” he said, his voice so husky it was almost a growl. “You really need to make friends with Sparrow.”
“I’m sorry, the other day he wasn’t around and I guess I had allowed myself to forget that he existed.” And had a thing against me, I thought.
Keith frowned a little.
“That’s right. He’s not around while I play, lately. But he’s still my cat.”
“Didn’t you say he liked your music?”
“He used to. But for the past couple of days, he keeps huffing and hightailing it.”
“You must be losing your touch,” I teased him.
“Am I?” His voice made my heart somersault in my chest, and then his left hand was in my waist, his right one sweeping my bangs to the side and lingering while cupping the side of my face, and Sparrow was thoroughly forgotten.
He knew which buttons to push.
“I used to think you were kind of innocent,” I found myself saying, still staring into his darkened blue eyes.
He laughed. “Because I’m a loner at school?”
“Well, yes… I mean, you tended to be alone, stay out of gossip, that sort of thing. Couples make it to the radar, even if they are unpopular, you know?”
A smirk. Silence.
“How many girlfriends have you had anyway?” I blurted out, my thoughts bypassing any kind of filter on the way to my mouth.
“Does it matter?” he asked, taking a step back that made me feel the cold from his absence.
“Yes. I mean, no. Of course not.” He raised his eyebrow, not buying my denial and enjoying my embarrassment. “Okay, so I might be a little jealous,” I admitted, biting my lip.
“No reason to be.” He pulled me to him again, holding me close and nudging my head to bend and rest against the side of his neck. “You were right; I’m a loner after all.”
“You don’t act like one,” I mumbled against his skin, too comfortable to move any time within this century. “You know just what to say and how to act. Like you’re…”
“Experienced?”
“Yeah.”
I felt his shoulder shrugging. “It’s because of you. You and I, we fit.”
His words echoed my thoughts of previous moments together, and I wondered whether we were right. I’d always written off the perfect moments and the love at first sight and the alignment of the stars when finally together, assuming it to be the product of the overactive imagination of writers, hip rock stars, and whatever else.
Right then, in Keith’s arms?
It made sense.
***
When I arrived at my place that night and closed the door, I stood for a moment in the foyer, trying to wrap my mind around it. My boyfriend. It didn’t sound quite right, because Keith was way too important to fit with such a commonly used term, but still. I couldn’t find anything better on short notice, and I needed to start acknowledging our relationship.
I also needed to start breaking it to my parents.
I walked into the living room, where Mom was reading a novel and listening to soft music on the stereo. Dad wasn’t home yet, and I relished the chance to open up little by little. Taking a deep breath, I entered the room and sat down in a cushioned armchair.
“Hey, Mom,” I greeted her.
She immediately put down her novel, sat straight up and gave me a concerned look.
“Hi, sweetie. Is everything okay?”
Her reaction took me aback and I went into defensive mode. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“You always head on straight to your room when you arrive before dinner.”
Note to self: try to expand your family conversation time.
“No, it’s cool. Today we finished practice a little early, because the first two Acts are already good to go.”
“Already? That’s wonderful, but…”—she checked her watch— “aren’t you a bit later than usual? If you finished early, that makes it extra late, too.”
“Yeah, I stayed behind talking with the guys,” I said, unrepentant at the white lie and gathering the needed courage to blurt the news out of the blue. “Keith’s a nice guy, after all.”
“Nice guy” didn’t quite translate into “and I think I might love him” but I had to start somewhere, right?
“Keith Brannagh? Are you two talking again?” Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“What’s wrong with it?” Defensive again. I was acting way too insecure with this whole issue.
“Nothing’s wrong, Alice. Actually, I’m glad you’re picking up whatever might remain of your friendship.”
Okay, that wasn’t what I expected.
“Really?” I stuttered.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I know we distanced ourselves from the Brannaghs when they most needed our support, and I’m not proud of it,” she said, averting her eyes, “but he looked like a nice kid. I don’t know why you’ve avoided him all this time.”
“Mom. He’s got silver-streaked black hair, paints his nails black and is known to occasionally use eyeliner.”
She blinked, and if I hadn’t just burst her happy bubble—and my chances that my parents would accept my new boyfriend—I’d have found her expression comical.
“He… what?”
“Yeah, Mom. He used to be considered weird by the goth kids.”
“Goth… Those are the ones in black with all the skulls and chains, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, why are you talking to him, then?”
“I just told you; he’s nice.” Not the best time to proceed with my full confession.
“If you believe so… Oh my, he used to be such a kind boy,” she said, more for herself than for me, still in shock.
“He’s still kind.” I bit my lip and then pulled out a trump card. “Anna and Ray are over.”
“Why?” The change in topic helped her recover, except, it wasn’t exactly a change.
“Ray got possessive. The kind of possessive that grabs and shoves.”
My mom put her hand in front of her lips, as if trying to hold in the surprise and horror, and I dropped the bomb.
“Actually, it was Keith who stepped in and protected her.”
“Did he? What happened?”
“Ray hit Keith. Taking into account that he’s got a head and about thirty pounds on him, Keith didn’t really stand a chance and he knew it from the get go. Still, he did the right thing and confronted Ray.”
I felt bad for using Anna’s troubles and Keith’s bruises like this, but it worked. Mom seemed thoughtful and mollified. “You can’t judge from looks alone, I guess.”
“That’s what I did all this time, and I think I was so wrong, Mom.”
“I might have been wrong in my reaction, too.” She smiled at me, still unsure, but supportive. “If you say he’s nice, I’ll just have to trust your opinion. You’re the one who has talked to him, after all.”
I grinned. “Tha
nks.”
I don’t think she realized how much her words meant to me, but I bounded up the stairs with a huge weight off my shoulders.
CHAPTER 17
The following day, Keith cut class. It sucked, because I had been hoping to have lunch with him and because I hated how much I’d grown to anticipate his presence, but the day was pretty smooth anyway. The lessons were as fascinating as ever, and the drama at the cafeteria would have made any teenager movie proud. Lena snickered and glared, and her group stared down my group. Pretty cliché, really.
“Lena’s been spreading rumors,” Anna said conversationally while we ate.
“What about?”
“Even I can answer that one, Alice.” Dave gave me a look that was close to an eye roll, but he smiled in good nature while doing it so I forgave him.
“Keith,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What does she say?”
“Several things.” Anna started to count on her fingers.
“First one is how you’re playing him and trying to break him for kicks.”
“Wait. How does that one work? I mean, the people she wants to get to hate me are the people who hate Keith in the first place, so wouldn’t they approve that version?”
“Keith wouldn’t like that version,” Dave said, adding a mountain of mayonnaise to his chips.
There was a moment of silence.
“Lena is so not crushing on Keith.” If she was, I needed to do damage control to my sanity, and soon.
“She did know he played…” Anna offered, giving me a look.
“But she’s not stupid. Why would she attack him to get a reaction?”
“To get a reaction.”
Anna and I both turned to Dave. “Hey, you seem to know a lot.”
He ducked his head, trying to escape the scrutiny. “Well, Jack’s the only dude from our year in theater. We’re not best buddies, but we used to talk. I know he and Lena aren’t an item, like everyone thinks.”
“She’s alone?” I screeched, a bit too loud because of the surprise, and my friends hushed me.
“As alone as she knows how to be.” Dave shrugged, and I took it to mean that she was Queen Bee—or Bitch Queen—and got a lot of attention, from no one in particular.
“Huh. Guys, that changes everything.” Anna leaned in, excitement alight in her features. “She might not be just attacking him. She might be trying to drive a wedge between you two, Alice.”
I felt an oncoming headache, but I had to admit that it was the most logical thing we’d come up with regarding Lena and her attacks on Keith. “What for?”
She shrugged and ate a fry from Dave’s plate. “Search me.”
***
In the grand scheme of things, we didn’t learn anything new or interesting, but still I thought it was a good excuse and decided to drop by Keith’s place on my way home. Between the gossip, asking what had happened, and bringing him his books and homework, I thought I had a solid alibi.
However, when I stood in front of his door and rang the bell, I hit a wall of silence. No lights on, though it was still early to need them. No TV, though it was Keith, and he didn’t spend all his time in front of the screen as any other guy would. No music, though, that was odd. No steps coming to the door.
I tried again.
If he’s sick and stayed home, perhaps he needs the company or needs to be checked on—not out, you traitorous brain, just on—or…
Meow.
With a jump of Olympic proportions, I looked down to meet Sparrow’s unflinching green eyes. He sat on his haunches and stared up at me, knowingly, as if he knew exactly why I was there and some humor was to be found in the entire situation.
He didn’t look too threatening, though I did wish he weren’t so black.
“Hey there, cat. Sparrow.” I felt stupid for talking to him, but Keith had said that I needed to be friends with his pet so I would try. “You locked outside, too?”
He did some more staring, without replying.
Thank God.
“I wanted to see how your owner was doing. I guess he’s okay if he’s outside, huh?” I tilted my head to the side. “So, how come he abandoned you in the yard?”
He did a sound a lot like a harrumph and proceeded to lick his front paw. Then, he stood, weaved between my shins and sat down again, in front of me.
I saw the cat door installed.
“Oh. You just like to be out, then.”
Endless staring. Condescending staring, even. I took a deep breath, decided that enough was enough, and hitched my bag in my shoulder.
“Well, I’ll be on my way. I’ll tell him tomorrow that I dropped by.”
I refused to acknowledge that I was beating a hasty retreat from a cat. Instead, I rejoiced in the fact that I had successfully interacted with said cat—said twelve-pound cat, actually—and that Keith would be happy to know that.
***
While I wondered where he was or what he might be up to, I managed to get through the rest of the afternoon in a somewhat productive manner—trig homework finished, history chapter answers semi-coherently jotted down, that sort of thing. Then, right before dinner, my cell rang.
Keith’s number. Finally!
Jumping out of my chair, I closed the door to my room and plopped down on the bed.
“Hey,” I said, grinning.
“Alice?” The voice wasn’t Keith’s, and cold dread coiled in my stomach.
“Mr. Brannagh?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice from shaking.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m, um, sorry about calling you this late. I didn’t want to inconvenience you, but, to be honest, you’re the only friend of Keith’s I can think of, and your number was among the recent calls, so…”
“Is Keith okay?” The rambling wasn’t helping. Not at all. I needed to know everything was okay, then we could move on to the reason why he’d given me the scare of my life.
“He’s here, at home.” The unspoken “but” hung heavy between us. “I really hate to ask you this, but, ah, do you think you could drop by?”
I was out the bed and down the stairs before Mr. Brannagh had finished his question.
“On the way. Give me ten minutes, tops.”
I hung up, not waiting for an answer, called out a warning to my parents—“boy emergency, I’ll dine out,” which wasn’t exactly a lie—and shoved my feet into my trainers.
Beating my own records, I was ringing Keith’s in just under eight minutes, completely out of breath and unconscious of the fact that I was wearing my old, shaggy gym pants, that my hair must look like a nest of pencils and other assorted memorabilia, and that my running shoes treaded mud all over the vestibule when Mr. Brannagh opened the door.
He was both surprised and relieved to see me. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said. “I didn’t want to scare you, but…” He fidgeted and motioned toward Keith’s closed door. “I can’t get him to stop. I can’t even get him to talk to me. I probably shouldn’t have called you anyway, but you did get his attention the other day, with the cake, so I thought…”
The poor man was beyond himself. Thick worry lines etched into his face, and his distress, oddly enough, helped me to control my own.
“It’s okay, Mr. Brannagh. I’m glad you chose to call me. How long has he been playing?”
“Hours, for all I know. He got up early to cram some practice in, then I had to leave for work… When I returned, I found him like that. I don’t even know if he’s stopped at all.”
I shook myself, trying to recover from the surprise.
“I’ll just…” I gestured toward his room.
“Please.”
I walked the short distance to the door, bypassing Sparrow’s eerily glowing eyes in the corridor, and let myself in with a shiver, not even knocking.
I closed the door behind me, trying to close out Mr. Brannagh, trying to spare him the shock in my face.
“What the hell?” I whispered, when I could get enough breat
h past the lump in my throat.
The room was in perfect order, just as he always kept it. The bed was made, and he sat on top of the covers, one leg tucked beneath him. His beloved guitar was cradled in his lap and he was wearing headphones. That was probably the reason his house had been in silence that afternoon. Still, up to that point, everything was normal.
His face, however, was pale and drawn, the skin almost translucent over the bone. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, matching the lingering bruises from Sunday. His eyes, his beautiful, vibrant blue eyes, were bloodshot and unblinking, lost staring out at nothing. The expression in them was blank, and he didn’t blink, not even once.
The music playing was the same from that first day, the same from the previous day’s practice. It was fast, so fast that I could hear the notes quivering even though the amp was not connected, but it had moved again beyond the love and the unease. Now, it was a song filled with despair, with pain, with anger.
It was a sound that didn’t reflect his soul at all.
“Keith,” I called with a small voice. He didn’t react. He didn’t even see me. Clamping down on the fear that threatened to rise, I took off his headphones, filling the room with disharmonious music, and tried again, louder. “Keith!”
He blinked. I saw recognition dawn in his gaze and saw his mouth moving to form words. Nothing came out.
“Keith, please, stop. You need to stop.”
He nodded, just a fraction, but his fingers moved faster and faster, spinning fear and a dark, unspoken threat into the song. I wanted to stand and bolt, run away from him and never look back. I didn’t understand what was going on. The precious few explanations that came to mind were farfetched and didn’t match Keith’s character at all. Crazy? Doing drugs? It wasn’t like him.
Moreover, the music that tried to push me away wasn’t like him. This time, his soul hid in his eyes, not touching his guitar. His gentle, pained, and terrified eyes, which begged me not to leave.
Lunging forward, I grabbed his left wrist, forcefully pulling him away from the neck of the guitar, physically stopping him. He struggled, but only until I managed to lift his hand away. Once the contact was broken, he hung limp from my grasp. He was trembling badly and—
“Oh my God. What have you done?”
