by Jaime Reed
My breath caught as my stare fell to her mouth then back to her eyes again. Then I felt myself leaning in until the next thing I knew, I was kissing Stacey Levine.
And it wasn’t in the least bit terrible. In fact, it felt really good. Our faces were damp from her crying, and her lips were soft and electric. I wanted to pull her closer, but I only had two hands and my manuscript was still rolled tight in my fist.
Then clarity struck me in the gut. Its impact snatched me off the couch and across the room until my back hit the banister of the stairs. Stacey remained seated on the sofa, stone stiff. Her eyes looked dazed and she brought a hand to her mouth.
I spoke first. “That was—”
“Yeah,” she finished.
I raked my hands through my hair as I struggled to think. “We shouldn’t have—”
“I know.”
“But I wanted—”
“Me too,” she admitted, and it was a relief to not be the only one feeling … whatever this was. Now that the truth was out in the open, I wasn’t sure what to do next. All I could come up with was, “See you at school?”
“Okay.” Stacey sprang from the couch and ran to the door as if the place was haunted.
Her clumsy fingers fumbled with the locks. I went to help her, but she unlocked the bolt and swung the door so wide that it almost hit me in the face. She went from porch to sidewalk in one motion and was at her car by the time I got outside. Her Volkswagen Bug disappeared around the block a minute later, and I was too busy eyeing the skid marks left in the street to notice that I had company.
I turned to my right and saw Wade and Kendra standing on the porch with me.
My stare moved to the car parked in the driveway, and I wondered just how distracted I had to be to not hear them drive up.
“Is she okay?” Kendra asked.
“Yeah. She just had to run,” I explained.
Wade craned his neck to see the end of the block, but Stacey was long gone by now. “I’ll say. What did you do, man?”
Looking back toward the quiet street again, it occurred to me that an awkward week awaited me on Monday. At best, Stacey would ignore me and duck into classrooms whenever I’d walk by. At worst, there would be high-level weirdness or awkward small talk. But it was hard to dwell on the aftermath with my lips still tasting like watermelon lip gloss. I was deliriously numb and living in the moment, so tomorrow would have to figure itself out on its own.
“I let her read some of my work,” I finally answered, then stepped back inside.
“Ah! That explains it then,” Wade said behind me as I closed the door and locked him out.
Part of me just wanted to keep reading Liam’s book. I felt like I couldn’t stop. But another part of me needed to pace myself. I didn’t want to rush. Every page contained important events of my life. I studied the text as if there would be an exam on it later. Three days after the Nineties Dance, I had about fifty pages left in the book and I didn’t want the experience to end.
Liam, Liam, Liam. If I’d thought I was messed up before, I was a straight-up train wreck now. Now that he no longer stood outside my house, I felt the void. As hard as it was to admit, I’d gotten used to seeing him under the lamppost. My mornings made more sense. Getting up at 5:30 in the morning made more sense. But suddenly my internal clock had no purpose.
I hadn’t heard a peep from him since the dance. The only texts I got were daily inspirational quotes from Kendra, and Cody hounding me for Stacey’s phone number. But I didn’t want to give that to him until I cleared it with Stacey, and she and I hadn’t spoken, either.
I’d left her two messages, apologizing for going off on her at the dance. But I got radio static all weekend. This wasn’t our first fight and it wouldn’t be the last, so I figured I’d give her time to chill out.
That afternoon, while I was doing homework, a new text popped up. I was hopeful it was from Stacey or Liam, but instead it was Cody again.
DORY: U thought I forgot, didn’t U?
ME: More like hoped.
DORY: R U saying I’m not good enough 4 her?
ME: No! Don’t want u hurt. She’s messy.
DORY: I like messy.
I sighed and went back to my homework. I also did some drawing. I wasn’t the most talented artist, nowhere near where I was before, but I’d quickly advanced past the stick figure stage. By sundown, I’d completed a collection of one-shoulder tops and went downstairs to show Mom my progress. Kindergartners probably drew better forms, but I was proud of it and planned to tape it onto the fridge.
After a dinner of Mom’s latest vegan concoction, I finally settled down for some reading. And I realized I had arrived at the scene that I’d been waiting for.
LESS THAN THREE | Page 251
Panic quickly set in as my ears strained to pick up any sign of life: a whimper, a curse, another bloodcurdling scream; anything other than the eerie quiet that made the hair rise on my arms. I begged for just one footprint, one small flash of movement to help me find her. I’d never begged for anything so hard in my life.
“Ellia!” I screamed as I picked up speed, my fear tapping in to reserved energy I never knew I had. There was no sound from her at all, and the only footsteps I could hear were my own.
I was coming up to another bend in the path when something out of the corner of my eye made me stop and double back. The bright colors seemed out of place with the rocky landscape. As I peered over the cliff’s edge to the rocks below, I wished more than anything it was just a large animal. But I knew it wasn’t.
If I had to guess, it was a two-story drop. I’d jumped off roofs higher than that, but there was usually a pool or a trampoline to break my fall. My girl wasn’t so lucky.
I raced down the slope of the path by means of flight, levitation, or some other supernatural method of transport, because my feet never really touched the ground. I never felt the gritty give of sand, or the wind in my face. All I could feel was my heart seizing up in the worst muscle cramp I ever experienced.
The structure that gave the running path its incline was a wall of rocks and packed-in sand. At the base of the wall lay a scrap yard of small boulders that had chipped away from the siding over time. Ellia lay in the midst of that jagged debris. Her lack of movement didn’t make sense to me. I could see her form clearly as the sun was rising higher over the mountains, but I couldn’t grasp the stillness itself. Living things moved. A pulse. A breath. As I knelt over her, she showed no sign of any of those symptoms.
This was the one time when Mom’s medical talks came in handy and I remembered what she told me about CPR and not moving the body. I pinched Ellia’s nose and breathed into her mouth and pumped her chest lightly. My throat was sandpaper raw and saltwater stung my eyes.
Pinch, breathe, pump.
Again.
No response.
Again.
“Ellia, wake up! Please!”
Pinch, breathe—
Her chest jerked and air pushed back into my face in a loud cough.
Her eyes flew open and met mine with recognition; she even smiled as she lifted her hand to touch her head. I felt a rush of relief.
“What happened?” she croaked out.
“You fell over the side of the trail.” I looked up at the stone wall and the height of the drop.
“I lost my keys. Dropped them … My keys … The collar.” She was fading on me. I lightly slapped her cheeks to keep her awake.
“Hey, hey, stay with me now, Ellia. We need to get you some help. Can you move?” I touched her arms and legs, checking for visible injuries. From what I could see, there were no broken bones—mostly scratches and open gashes.
I searched our surroundings. My car was at home over a mile away and the ambulance would take forever to arrive. But Ellia lived closer with a perfectly good vehicle in the driveway. If need be, I would hot-wire her parents’ car and take her to the hospital myself, but I hoped things didn’t have to come to that.
I scoope
d her gently in my arms and she cried out in pain. I asked her where it hurt and she pointed to her head. It was killing her, she said.
This was not a good sign. I’d had a few concussions myself from stray curveballs and bike accidents, and I knew she had to see a doctor and get X-rayed.
Ignoring the cramping in my legs and arms, I carried her off the beach, through the promenade, and up several blocks to her house. I kept talking to her to keep her awake; I spouted off random trivia, like how red hair was a recessive gene, and recited some of my bad poetry—anything to keep her eyes open.
I stumbled onto Ellia’s front porch and kicked the door. I kicked and kicked until the lights downstairs came on. The door swung open and Ellia’s father appeared, ready to yell at the intrusion at six in the morning. His angry dark eyes took in the scene and the questions poured out laced with rage.
“She needs a doctor!” I shoved past him and entered the living room. “She fell and hit her head on the rocks and I think she might have a concussion.”
“What was she doing out of the house this time of morning?” he barked.
“She was with me.”
“Why was she out with you? What did you do to my daughter?” he yelled.
“I didn’t do anything!” I set her on the sofa and supported her head with a pillow. When I drew my hand back, it was covered in blood.
“What is going on?” Ellia’s mother came down the stairs, tying her robe around her waist. Even in sleepwear and a head scarf, she looked ready to entertain guests.
“Our daughter snuck off again and now she’s gone and hurt herself,” Mr. Dawson explained.
“Mom, I’m fine. I fell. Hit my head on rocks,” Ellia croaked.
“You’re not fine,” I argued, and then turned my attention to the adults. “She needs to go to the hospital. She’s bleeding.”
“Why does she need a doc—” Mrs. Dawson screamed at the sight of the blood all over me and on Ellia’s clothes. “Oh Jesus!” She glared at me. “What did you do to my baby?”
“Not his fault. He saved me!” Ellia mumbled with as much strength as she could.
“The hell it isn’t his fault!” her dad bellowed. “You wouldn’t need saving if you stayed where you were supposed to. I told you this boy was nothing but trouble and you sneak off and nearly get yourself killed!”
Mrs. Dawson knelt at Ellia’s side on the couch. “Gerald, we need to call an ambulance.”
“I’m fine. Just sleepy,” Ellia slurred as her eyes began to droop.
“NO! You have to stay awake, Ellia!” I reached for her, but Mr. Dawson blocked my path.
“You’ve done quite enough, young man. Now get out of my house before I have you arrested.”
“If you don’t take her to the hospital, I will. On foot if I have to. I carried her this far.” I tried to move around him, but a hard shove to the chest had me stretched out across the foyer.
“Gerald, call an ambulance!” Mrs. Dawson screamed.
I struggled to my feet. “She needs to keep her eyes open until the doctors look at her!” I tried to reason.
Mr. Dawson kept coming at me until I was on the porch. “Get out! Do not come here again.”
“Gerald!” I heard Ellia’s mom wail as the door slammed in my face, the knocker clattering from the impact.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick the door down. I should’ve stuck to my plan and taken Ellia to the hospital myself. They were wasting precious seconds arguing about me rather than focusing on Ellia’s injury.
I knew her dad would make good on his threat to call the police, but I didn’t care. I had to make sure she was okay. I hid behind the shrubs of the neighbor’s yard across the street to see if the ambulance arrived. But three minutes later Ellia’s father tore out of the house with an unconscious Ellia in his arms. Mrs. Dawson trailed behind with the phone in her hand.
“Stay here and talk to the police. Make sure that boy doesn’t come near this house,” he told Ellia’s mom.
I called Dad on my cell. He must’ve heard the fear in my voice because he told me he was on his way to get me. I didn’t want him to come. I knew what he would say; I’d heard it a hundred times before.
I listened to Dad move around on the phone as I watched Mr. Dawson peel out of the driveway and tear up the block at breakneck speed. I wanted to run after them, sit in the waiting room of the hospital, do something other than wait here, because I knew something was terribly wrong with her. I just didn’t know how bad until the police came to my house the next day. I was served papers to stay away from Ellia or else I’d go to jail. Three hundred feet. One hundred yards. It might as well have been across the country as far as I was concerned.
Of course, I didn’t take it seriously, nor did I care if Mr. Dawson had me arrested. And for what? Saving his daughter’s life. I loved her, and if she was hurt then there was nothing that would keep me from her.
My first attempt to see Ellia proved me wrong.
Mr. Dawson stood at the nurse’s desk signing papers when he looked up at me. “You have some nerve showing your face around here. Leave now before I call the police.”
I refused to back down. In fact, I wanted him to push me again so I could press charges against him—see how he liked it. “You can’t keep me from seeing her.”
“No? Boy, I am her father. You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I told you to stay away from my daughter and now she’s in a coma because of you.” He stepped closer and spoke in a low tone.
“Ellia’s in a coma?” I whispered, fear and horror shooting through me.
Mr. Dawson glowered at me and his eyes were full of pain. “Yes. My baby girl. We might lose her. That court order is ironclad, boy. And I have proof that you were there during the accident. There are cameras all over this hospital capturing your mug as we speak. It wouldn’t be hard to charge you with harassment.”
“What proof?” I asked, trying not to cry.
“You dropped something when you left my home the other day. It has Ellia’s blood on it and no doubt your fingerprints, too. It would be an open-and-shut case for the county sheriff.”
My eyes went wide. I thought of my father and his dreams for me to go to college. I thought of my future with a criminal record. Finally, I thought of Ellia and what little help I would be to her behind bars.
I took a step back and then another until I was in full retreat toward the exit. All the while I kept watching that smug look on Mr. Dawson’s face. He’d gotten what he’d wanted all along and in my own stupidity I’d helped him tear me and Ellia apart.
I didn’t leave my room for a week, except for school. After finding out that I snuck into the hospital, Dad hid my car keys to keep me from returning. Wade had knocked on the door asking about the bloody clothes in the trash, but the only words I could get out were, “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.”
At some point, Dad came into my room to talk. He didn’t say much at first and just sat on the bed with me and held me. He offered soundless strength, which had anchored me through every flu shot and every stitch as a boy.
“It was not your fault,” he said. “It was a terrible accident. You had nothing to do with it.”
But what he didn’t understand, what no one seemed to comprehend, was I had everything to do with it. Blood was on my hands and it couldn’t be washed away. Only now did I discover that all of our parents’ warnings were true. Only now did I realize just how selfish my love for Ellia was, how dangerous. I hoped one day she would forgive me …
* * *
The book slipped from my fingers and landed facedown on the bed. My stare drifted to Vivian, who stood facing the window. The wheels began to churn in my brain. A healthy dose of fear had set in. That usually was followed by intense anger, which gave me enough fuel to confront them both.
I didn’t care if they were working or if they were sound asleep. I snatched open the door and tore through the hallway.
“Mom! Dad!” I called
out and stormed toward their room. “Where are you? Dad?”
Mom stepped out of her room in her bathrobe and looked as though she’d been ripped from sleep. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“I need to talk to you guys. Is Dad still up?” I raced down the stairs before she could answer. I passed through the kitchen, past the pantry, then stopped in front of the closed door of Dad’s office.
Mom followed me. “Ellia, did something happen to you tonight? You seem agitated.”
“I’m fine. I need to know about my accident.” I tried to turn the knob, but the door was locked.
“Honey, we’ve been over this. You hit your head on the rocks at the beach and your father took you to the hospital.”
“And then what?” I stepped back and saw that the lights were on inside. “Daddy?”
“Ellia Renée, you stop this foolishness right now!” she scolded, looking winded. This woman never let anything rattle her. She would slap on that plastic smile like it was a coat of arms.
Finally, the door opened and Dad appeared. “What on earth is going on here?”
Dad was an imposing figure on a good day, but he was downright menacing now in light of what I discovered. But I stood my ground and looked my father square in the eye and asked, “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The dog collar. I was looking for it that day on the beach, thinking I dropped it on the path. Where is it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dad said. “Now, I need you to calm down. You’re getting worked up for no reason.”
More dodging. More omissions. More fibs. I wasn’t listening anyway.
“You blackmailed Liam with Babette’s collar. And threatened to send him to jail if he came near me,” I accused.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m being ridiculous? Who puts out a restraining order on their kid’s boyfriend?”
“Ellia, that was for your own good,” he said.
“I swear if I hear that one more time.” I grabbed fistfuls of my hair and growled. “Do you even know who I am, Daddy? Do you even know why I kept that collar? Do you know why I did all that crazy stuff—the parties, the staying out late? It’s because of you. Not Liam. If anything, he’s the good one in this outfit. And I used that goodness to get back at you. What kind of person does that make me, Daddy?” I knew I was overstepping all kinds of bounds, but I needed to get to the truth.
