“There’s another party tonight,” Gina says half-heartedly. She’s lying on her stomach, her Psychology book propped open. I’m not sure if she’s reading it or just looking at the pictures. Psychology is her major. “Want to go? I know how much you love the booze.”
At the thought of alcohol my heart lurches, craving the numbness. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Forcing my face into a mask, I glance up from the Sudoku puzzle I’m working on. Gina’s smirking, as though she realizes what’s going on inside my head. That my body is screaming “yes” and my mind is saying “no.”
Without giving anything away, I say, “I have that paper due in English. I was gonna work on it in a little bit. Plus I need to do laundry. I should probably—”
She holds up a hand. “Yeah, me either,” she says, snickering.
I let my mask falter and release a giant sigh. “Good.”
Gina looks better. Seems a little better too. She’s showered. Wearing cutoffs and a white tank.
“Want to do laundry together?” I ask, false hope in my voice.
Neither of us has been to the basement laundry room since our Resident Assistant gave us the tour.
She puts her forefinger to her lip and looks at the ceiling, as though she’s trying to answer the mysteries of the universe. Finally she says, “Hmmmmm, it’s an exciting prospect. But no. I’ll have to pass. Have fun though.”
I laugh. “I will.”
She flips on her music but keeps it down, and I go back to working on my puzzle. Out of the blue, she asks, “So when are you going to tell me about your tattoos?”
“Huh?” I raise my head, feigning innocence, though there’s no point. Of course I should’ve known she saw them. Gina doesn’t seem like she would miss anything.
“Don’t play coy. I saw two when I came in this morning. I never would’ve guessed you were the tattoo type.” Her face is lifted, waiting for me to answer, but I’m caught off guard. I’ve thought about telling her, but the timing’s been off.
And now? She’s dealing with so much. How can I further weigh her down with my problems?
Gina closes her book and stands. “Let’s see them.”
My heart starts to race and I press my arms to my sides. She’s standing in front of me, moving her hands, directing me to raise my shirt.
I shake my head. “I’d rather not right now.”
She spins around and throws herself back on her bed. “I spilled my guts to you this morning. Told you stuff I’ve never told anyone, and you can’t even show me your tattoos? Lame.” She flips open her book, whipping the pages so hard I think she’ll rip them.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you about them. I do. They mean something. They aren’t random or silly. They’re important.”
“Yeah, whatever. You’re a tragic soul. You’re life is hard. Blah. Blah. Blah. And boo-hoo.” Gina stops flipping pages and glares. “You’re nothing special, you know. Whatever problems you think you have, someone always has worse.” She slams her book shut, slides on a pair of black combat boots. “I’m out of here.” She flings open the door. There’s a guy standing at the opening, his hand raised to knock.
“Hey.” He waves nervously.
“What do you want?” Gina asks in a huff.
“Is—” he pauses and looks at the card. “Maddie Martin here?”
I notice he’s holding something in his hands. Like a present. I climb off the bed. “I’m Maddie,” I say, curious.
“Of course it’s for you. The virgin tattoo girl.” She pushes past the guy, knocking him out of the way.
I step closer. “Who’s it from?” I’m thinking maybe my aunt and uncle sent me a present. They seem to sense when I need a pick-me-up.
The friendly smile he wore moments ago vanishes. “Look, Maddie, I have no clue. Do you want this or not?” He holds out the bag like it contains poison.
“Yeah, okay.” I take the card and the pink gift bag. The guy walks away, shaking his head. “Thanks,” I holler after him. He raises a hand, but keeps walking.
I close the door and sit on my bed. The card had my name on the outside. Inside are two words: Call me. With a phone number underneath. Nervous butterflies flutter in my belly. I set the card on the bed, push aside the tissue, and look inside the bag.
It’s a cell phone. I pick up the card again. If my aunt and uncle were the givers they would’ve signed their names, or at least had the delivery guy put their names on the card. But all that’s inside the card are the two words and a phone number.
I pull the phone out. It’s one of those prepaid ones. Opening the instructions, I figure out how to turn it on and then find out how many minutes I have. It says 5000, and that they can be used for texting.
A rush of excitement shivers down my spine. I’ve always wanted a cell phone. I’ve always wanted to text. But who sent it?
I go back to the card, searching for nonexistent clues. The phone pings in my hand, and I jump. Then a message pops on the screen.
Call me, Freckles!
I stare at the words on the phone, and my heart starts to beat fast like a runaway freight train. The piece of paper I carried in my pocket for more than a week. The same words and the same numbers.
It’s Kyle. And he remembers, including the nickname he gave me.
Who is this? I text him back, pretending not to know the truth. I push the gift bag off my lap. Leaning against my pillows. Several seconds pass and I start to wonder if he’s going to respond. I try to relax and focus on my Sudoku, but the numbers on the page look like a blurry mass.
I think about Gina and the way she huffed out of the room. Sitting up, I punch her number into my phone and type a message.
Sorry Gina. I want to tell you about my tattoos. I was just in shock. Hope you’re okay. By the way, this is Maddie and I now have a cell.
Within seconds she responds. Who gave you a phone?
I pause, debating whether I should tell her. Then type: Kyle.
She texts back. Are you still a virgin?
I blush. The heat blooms through my whole body. Why would she ask me that? What does my still being a virgin have to do with Kyle giving me a phone? Unless…
“Ugh,” I shout at the ceiling. I’m not easy.
Yes!!!
Nothing kinky?
No!!!
Would you tell me if you and Kyle did get kinky?
There were no handcuffs or whips involved.
I didn’t realize you were that kind of girl. We can work something out if you’d like.
Her message confuses me. I start to text back and realize I didn’t text the last part to Gina, but to Kyle.
Shit! I toss my phone away as though it’s a red-hot coal. I bury my face in my pillow and scream with humiliation. I’ve done plenty of embarrassing things. Like the time my shoe caught on the hem of my skirt when I stood after playing my song at a piano recital. That’s why I wear ballet flats now. No heels to worry about. Or the time I went down a slide at the waterpark and my top came off, which is why I no longer wear bikinis. Then there was the time I wore white pants to the grocery store. A little boy pointed, and asked if I was going to die because of all the blood. And there’s more, many, many more. But in all those times, in all those places, never have I been more mortified than I am right now.
My phone is at the foot of my bed, and I hear it ping. I sit, desperate to know what it says, but at the same time terrified.
I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care what he thinks. I say the words over and over in my head, but I do care. A lot. Even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though my brain is telling he isn’t worth it.
What would my parents think? Am I honoring them with my feelings for a murderer’s son?
Another ping. I can’t resist. Ever so slowly I pick up the phone, turn it over and read the text.
It’s from Gina.
No response. :(
I hurry and text her back.
Texting
shame. I sent the message meant for you to someone else. The words handcuffs and whips were included.
OMG. Who?
Kyle.
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL
I can’t respond to that. She’s laughing at me. I’m sure that’s what Kyle is doing too. My face blisters hot.
Maddie, why won’t you call?
This time I check the number. It’s from Kyle.
I send back. You call me! I would call him, but the idea of dialing the numbers, forcing myself to realize I want to talk to him. Each digit bringing me closer to the inevitable. I’m not brave enough to do it. But if he calls, then all I have to do is answer. Or ignore it.
Fine. I will.
The phone rings. The ringtone is a minuet. I stare at it, recognizing the number. It’s Kyle. He really called.
Gina pushes open the door.
I click ignore, and stuff the phone under my leg.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” She’s fidgety, and seems a little out of it.
“So you wanna talk?” I ask, patting my bed.
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I was thinking I might go to the party tonight after all. I need to get out.”
My heart drops into my stomach. “Really?”
Gina laughs. “No, not really. I just wanted to see your face.” She throws herself onto my bed. “I’m dying to know what possessed virgin girl to get tattoos.”
15
Maddie
Thanks For the Chat
Gina and I talk and talk and talk until we can’t talk any more. I tell her everything. About Kyle. About my parents. About my shrink named Abigail. I tell her about the tattoos, how they relate to the seven stages of grief. And show them to her.
Turns out she’s afraid of needles.
I’m an only child. And I always wanted a sister. Gina has taken the role. It took eighteen years. I can’t help but think of those cackling senior girls that put us together. Maybe they are smarter than I gave them credit for.
Gina is a foster kid. Raised in the system. She was dropped off at a homeless shelter when she was a baby. No note. No explanation. Her home life was a series of rejections, beatings, and starvation. When she turned eighteen a lawyer contacted her and informed her that a trust had been set up in her name. It was anonymous. The only condition on receiving the money was she had to graduate college. Which is why she’s here.
And I’m grateful.
“How often do you talk to your shrink?” Gina asks.
“Before I started college, it was once a week. I haven’t talked to her since getting here, though. What about you?”
“Sometimes daily. Luckily Luca is available 24/7.” She wriggles her eyebrows playfully.
“Luca? Is that your therapist's name?” I want to be clear. She’s giving off the vibe that there might be more than just talking going on between her and her shrink.
“Yeah. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.”
I blanch.
“Don’t worry. Nothing’s happened. Yet. Luca says I put myself in dangerous situations so I’ll need more therapy. He isn’t wrong.”
It’s midnight, and she’s lying next to me on my bed. Kyle’s called two more times, but I keep pressing ignore. Gina hasn’t given me any crap about it. Just keeps raising her eyebrows and giving me questioning looks. I should text him. Ask him to stop. Probably even give back the phone.
But I’m too tired.
And I love the phone.
Another first. Thanks to Kyle. That hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“Why are you blaming Kyle for something his father did?” Gina blurts, giving me a sideways glance.
It’s a solid question. Even Abigail asked it when I first began seeing her. I know I shouldn’t. He didn’t pull the trigger. Make my parents bleed and die. He didn’t take them from me, leave me orphaned. My mom and dad actually liked Kyle. My mom teased me about him all the time. But he’s his father’s son. Who’s to say Kyle won’t become like him? Who’s to say he isn’t already like him?
My aunt and uncle used to argue constantly about Chief Hadley, about how he wanted to come after me. But Kyle’s dad never did. And two words always came up in their disputes: blackmail, revenge. I could never understand what they meant. Was someone blackmailing them? Did Chief Hadley want revenge? On me?
It seemed likely. I’d seen him with a gun in his hand, leaving my parents' house.
When I was fifteen, my aunt and uncle’s arguments abruptly stopped. Or they realized I could hear them, and kept their quarreling to times when I wasn’t around.
I didn’t want revenge. I wanted justice. To see Chief Hadley rotting away in a prison cell forever.
At some point I know he stepped down as the chief. A new man took his place. I asked my aunt what happened. All she said was, “He got what he deserved.” I asked what she meant, and she shushed me. Told me not to worry about it.
Now that I’m going to school with his son, I can’t help but worry, and wonder if I should research his dad on the internet. Something I’ve done a handful of times, and under the supervision of my aunt.
“Maddie?” Gina touches my arm.
“I don’t blame Kyle. I don’t.” I shake my head, realizing I mean it. “But when I see him, or I’m near him, I remember what his father did to my parents. And if his father is evil, well then…” I don’t finish the sentence. My body has rebelled against my mind. My aunt’s words, bad men raise bad kids, fling themselves through my thoughts. My body doesn’t believe it.
“You think Kyle is evil too.” She takes a deep breath, crossing her arms. “I get that. I do. Obviously my mom chose not to deal with her problems, and I’m the same way.” She sniffs. “But you should give Kyle a chance, especially if you feel so strongly about him.” She rolls on her side, faces me. Her eyes are the color of dark chocolate, and they’re staring at me intently.
I gasp, wishing I could let it all go. Close my eyes and forget. But I can’t. I’m not made that way. “I-I don’t know if that’s possible. Alcohol helps.” I snort, feeling ashamed for stating so bluntly my immediate weakness for the burning liquid.
Gina busts out laughing. “Yeah, it does. If only it didn’t have those nasty morning after side effects.”
“We should come up with something. We’d be world heroes.” I laugh with her.
Gina leans over and kisses my cheek. “Thanks for the chat.” She climbs off my bed and falls onto hers. “I’m sleeping straight through tomorrow. Wake me for class on Monday.”
“Night, Gina.”
Minutes later her breathing has evened out and I know she’s asleep. It doesn’t come as easily for me. I can’t help thinking about Kyle and my reasons for shutting him out. Without debating the consequences, I pick up my new phone and text Kyle.
Sorry. Roommate and I were talking. Thanks for the phone.
I stare at the screen for several minutes, waiting for him to respond. He doesn’t, and I roll on my side, pull my comforter up to my neck, and close my eyes.
I’ve been asleep either thirty seconds or three hours when the phone pings.
You’re welcome.
16
Maddie
My Heart is in My Throat
I’m nervous about meeting the other half of my duet. Professor Jenkins told me to meet my partner in Piano Room 3. I’ve been to the room several times already. Professor Jenkins teaches his private lessons in there. That’s fine.
What isn’t fine is that I have no idea who my partner is. What if she’s bad? What if she’s hard to work with? What if she hates me?
I enter the Fine Arts building, walk down stairs, and open the heavy door to the practice room. I can’t help the intense sigh of relief that enters and exits my lungs. I imagine this is what religious people get from prayer. Calming. Fortifying.
There’s still five minutes until our meeting time, so I walk slowly, enjoying the muffled sounds filling the hallway. As I get closer to the designated room, a strain of music rises
above the others. It’s heartbreaking, full of longing, sadness, and hope. I stop, unable to move. It’s beyond beautiful. Finally I have to see who’s playing. My heart demands it.
I run to the door and peer through the small rectangular window. My body registers who it is before my mind does, and my mouth falls open. New sets of butterflies have hatched inside my stomach and are fluttering around wildly. Never in my wildest dreams did I think he played the piano, or even liked classical music.
But he’s always like poetry, I think, and push open the door.
The music stops and he looks up. Surprise creases his brow, turns his lips into a smirk.
“It’s you,” I say, unable to stop the grin that blooms across my face.
He steps away from the piano and comes toward me. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while. His face is scruffy. It’s sexy, I think.
He’s wearing faded jeans, and a black button up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his biceps. I drink him in. He takes my breath away.
“It’s me.” He picks up one of my hands and caresses my palm with the other. The butterflies are frantic, and my heart is racing, racing, racing.
“I didn’t know you played.” The words stumble out of my mouth like drunken old men.
“So you’re my other half?” His fingers are caressing my inner wrist, and my heart stops. Slams to a standstill.
“The duet?” I ask, clearing my throat.
He chuckles. “Maddie Martin. Freckles.” His eyes roam my face as though he’s searching for memories. Trying to see the girl I was when we were younger. When we made our pact.
I was eleven. Short. Shadowy curls. Chunky. Full of wonder and ideas. Always quick to laugh. Always quick to share.
I’m no longer that girl. My face and body have become lean. My hair is long, and I don’t laugh nearly so often as I used to.
“It’s been a long time.” His eyes are searching my face, whether for truth or lies I’m not sure.
I rock back, surprised he’s gotten right to the point.
Does he know why I left? Why I wasn’t able to say good-bye? Does he know that I believe his father killed my parents? Does he know what I saw? The gun in his father’s hand, the words he said. How could he? Unless his father told him. Told him about the silly, mixed up Martin girl. And what if his father asked him to watch out for me? Kill me?
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