Chaste

by Angela Felsted

  “I heard he called you a sociopath,” Tasha says.

  Groaning, I wad up my napkin and toss it onto my tray. Then I glance at the crowd of boys I usually hang out with, sitting on the other side of the room with Mike smashed in the middle. I wonder how much of this gossip they’ll believe. Time to nip this rumor in the ass. “He’s probably just desperate to get my attention.”

  “Yeah, Right.” Tasha laughs. “Quinn wouldn’t touch you if you were the last girl on earth. He acts like you have some contagious disease. He’s so moral. I bet he carries around a Book of Mormon in his backpack. He probably has a picture of Jesus hanging on his ceiling instead of some girl with big boobs in a bikini.”

  I think of the pile of books he erected yesterday. There was definitely a book or two of scripture stacked in there. He probably put them in as added protection, thinking of me as a vampire he could wave away with religious artifacts. Maybe today he’ll bring in garlic. Something to make him smell less like baby powder.

  “I bet you could throw on lacy red lingerie, and he’d still run the other way. I bet my Macbook you can’t get him to sleep with you.” I glance up. Tasha’s giving me this smug smile, like she’s super hot and I’ve lost my appeal.

  “Who’d want to sleep with Quinn Walker?” I sneer. “He’s probably never even kissed a girl, let alone done anything interesting.”

  “Are you kidding? Half the girls at this school are in love with him.”

  “He’s Mormon.” I don’t date brainwashed guys in cults, or lemmings who blindly follow false-prophets, or anyone stupid enough to think they can become like God. It’s not only blasphemous but an insult to my intelligence.

  I fold my cardboard tray in half and crush it with the heel of my hand. Tasha is crazy.

  “You’re so prejudiced!” she cries. “All that talk about equal opportunity, the evil N word and how you’re just as smart as any white girl. And you’re prejudiced! Don’t be stupid, Kat. The guy is a stud, just look at him.”

  It’s not the same thing. I didn’t choose to be African American. Quinn Walker has all the control in the world over what he decides to believe. Even so, I lift my eyes and notice Quinn’s broad shoulders, his shiny blond hair and baby blue eyes, the crinkles around his mouth when he laughs. My stomach does a funny flip.

  I wave away the feeling. Cuteness doesn’t matter when someone is a nutcase. “Too preppy,” I say.

  “You like him,” Tasha says with a triumphant grin as she wipes her sticky hands with a napkin. “But just like me, he won’t touch you. We’re too dangerous, too experienced. Plus, if you dated him, your dad would kill you.”

  My dad! The thought hits me like a lightning bolt. Sleeping with a Mormon boy is about the only thing I haven’t done to get his attention. Maybe it would work. It’s a lot less dangerous than burning the house down. I run with the idea before I can change my mind. “I’ll jump him by Christmas,” I say. “You still want to wager your Macbook?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” When I shake my head no, her eyebrows pull together. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

  “Every word.”

  “Then I get your video camera when you fail.” She breaks into a toothy smile. I have to admit that gives me pause, because my camera is a part of me. Without it I can’t do my vlogs, tape the boys playing basketball or record the faces of those around me. I know it sounds cheesy, but after burying my brother, having a record of the living is one of the few things which make me happy.

  The thing is, I can’t get Tasha’s smug look out of my head, the one she gave me when she said Quinn would never go for me. I want nothing more than to prove her wrong. Plus, I think about her Macbook and how I’m always mooching off John for his computer. My mother’s too involved in gaming to ever let me use hers, and I realize I could really use a computer of my own. Tasha’s isn’t just any computer either. It’s state-of-the-art.

  I glance at Quinn again. My smartass physics partner has led a far too sheltered life. He needs someone to take him outside his June Cleaver bubble and show him how the real world works. He may say he’s not into bad girls, but maybe that’s because he’s never had one after him.

  He’s a teenage boy. How hard could it possibly be?

  I just need to show a little more skin, maybe some cleavage. If I tease him enough with what I wear, he won’t be able to get me out of his head. Then I can accomplish two things at once, get my dad out of his Roland House obsession and get Quinn to stop acting all superior.

  I picture how people will laugh when they see the good Mormon boy losing his morals over the girl he called a sociopath. He won’t look so moral when his good guy reputation is dragged through the mud.

  “You in?” Tasha asks.

  “I am so in.”

  “Okay, fine, but how will I know you’ve done it?” She twirls a silky strand of blond hair around her finger. Must be nice to have hair that lies flat on its own. Tasha has no idea how lucky she is.

  “You’ll just have to trust me,” I say.

  She laughs. “Right, like I’d give you my Macbook based on trust.”

  “I hope you don’t want me to video tape it, because that’s plain trashy.” Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I thumb through my paper about “childishness” before shoving it into my backpack.

  “How about this,” I say. “I’ll tell you when it happens, and then you can approach him yourself.”

  “Like he’ll tell me,” she says in a voice oozing with sarcasm.

  “He won’t be able to hide it. Aren’t you the one who said he’s not like other guys?” I glare at the back of Molly’s head. She’s laughing at something Quinn just said. “The boy has such a pale complexion his face reads like an open book.”

  “Who’s pale?” John asks, taking the chair beside me.

  “Kat thinks she can seduce Quinn Walker,” Tasha says, crumbling up her brown lunch bag and tossing it like a basketball into the trash.

  John whistles long and low. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? I mean, he already walks the other direction every time he sees Mike in the hall. Seriously, what’d he ever do to you?”

  “You’re taking his side?” I stare at him open mouthed. I am shocked, shocked John would pick Quinn over me. John, who’s known me since kindergarten, who uses me as his designated driver, who constantly asks me for advice so he doesn’t lose Debbie, his long-distance girlfriend.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Come on, Kat. Do you want me to feed you a feel-good lie or tell you the truth? Last I checked, you and I were straight with each other.”

  I wave his words away with the back of my hand. The last thing I need is another arrogant know-it-all in my life. Dealing with Roland was bad enough, not that I don’t miss him. But his constant “‘I know better than you’ lectures” made me want to hit something.

  “If you’re doing this to get even with your dad, it’ll back-fire big time,” he tells me. “Quinn’s no pawn, and he won’t fall for your tricks. He’s got his head screwed on straight.”

  “Don’t you dare tell him,” I say.

  Mike picks that moment to pass our table. “Hey, Kat.” He winks at me on his way out the door, stretching his arms behind him to show off his broad shoulders and washboard abs. I glance at Tasha. Her mouth hangs open.

  “Why don’t you stick with Mike?” John whispers to me. “You can have him anytime you want. Tasha’s drooling over there.”

  It’s true. She can’t keep her eyes off Mike. He pauses at the door as if lingering will make me admire him.

  But I don’t want to ogle Mike. I look at Quinn instead. Now that my friends have both bet against me, I need to come up with a plan to make him let down his guard. I just need to show a little more skin.

  Ironic, since today I wore a blouse with a Mandarin collar in what is probably a pointless attempt to get on Mrs. Williams’ good side. Not only is my belly ring covered, but so is my neck, my shoulders, my chest and every asset I could use to m
y advantage. I glance down at my legs. At least my skirt is short. So what if I made the mistake of wearing opaque black tights? Their shape still shows.

  Tasha brushes a hand through her hair; a strap on her emerald green blouse slips off her shoulder. It’s pretty on her, the way the material catches the light. But she doesn’t have quite enough on top to fill it out, on me though … I picture myself “accidently” knocking Quinn’s books over before bending to pick them up in the silk blouse Tasha’s wearing.

  He’d have to be blind not to notice.

  “Mmmm Tasha,” I say, making my voice sugary sweet. “I’ll give you Mike for an entire weekend if you switch shirts with me.”

  John snorts. “You can’t lease out your ex-boyfriend.”

  “Says who?” I turn to him. “I own that boy’s ass.”

  Which, in a manner of speaking, is true. I know stuff about Mike that would make my Mama’s hair curl. Stuff about his parent’s marriage, his father’s drinking problem, juicy tidbits about the girls he’s cheated on, who he’s cheated with, even the last words he said to Roland the night he died: I’ll see you in hell. Yep, my brother talked with Mike that night just like he talked to me.

  “Then why can’t you make him leave you alone?” John says.

  I shrug. “He’ll figure it out eventually. In the meantime, Tasha, what do you say?”

  Picking up my bag, I walk to the edge of the table and try to play it cool. If I make this look like a take it or leave it proposition, she’s more likely to fold.

  I step toward the door.

  “Kat, wait … I’m coming.” She stands.

  I turn back toward her, but my tights have caught on the edge of a chair. When I look down, my mouth drops open in horror. My tights, damn, my tights have snagged. They have a humongous run in them.

  Green silk shirt or no green silk shirt, this looks bad! Even so, I refuse to take them off. My feet will sweat like crazy if I do. Make the best of it, Kat. Wear the top; show up early; cross your legs so Quinn won’t see.

  Tasha and I switch blouses in the bathroom. I rush to Mrs. Williams’ class as fast as I can. Quinn walks in, his T-shirt slightly too tight across his chest, a wide grin on his face that makes his blue eyes sparkle. And all I want is to take that sparkle away, to show him what it means to live in a world where fathers don’t notice their families and mothers don’t bake homemade cookies.

  I smile at him when he takes the stool next to mine.

  He opens his bag and starts stacking books between us.

  Remembering my ruined tights, I pull out my paper about childishness and lay it across my lap. Then I lean back and peer around the book wall. “Can we talk?”

  “Not unless it’s about calling off your boyfriend. He looks at me like he wants to rip my head off every effin’ time he passes me in the hall.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I pull out a textbook at the bottom of the wall, watching as all the books tumble to the ground except two. “Are you really so scared of me that you have to erect barricades?”

  “So now you’re being civil?”

  I put my paper on the desk and crouch to the floor, reenacting that lovely fantasy I had in the lunch room where Quinn can’t keep his eyes off me. But instead of gaping at my plunging neckline, he averts his gaze and drops to the floor beside me.

  “I got this,” he says, staring at the ground. He gathers the books into a pile. I brush his hand, and he draws it back like I’ve burned him. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  When I look up, Molly stands between Quinn and me. Her strawberry-blond hair falls in a silky waterfall halfway to the floor. She holds her hands out, palms up while my physics partner gives the books to her. She puts everything back on the desk, and Quinn surprises me then because he doesn’t kiss her or hug her or pinch her ass. Instead he does something downright fatherly. He squeezes her arm in a gesture of thanks.

  All at once I’m on the outside looking in. I know it makes no sense, but I feel as if I’m standing in the rain, freezing cold and soaked to the skin. My father used to touch me like that. Now he won’t even look me in the eye.

  Molly goes back to her seat. I sit in my chair and stare hard at the table, my thoughts frozen, my fingers tingling numb with cold. I realize that just like my father, a window stands between me and Quinn. And that just like with my dad, I have the urge to press my nose against the glass. It’s a moment of weakness. I should keep my mouth shut; instead I start talking.

  “What would it take for you to go out with me?” I blurt, grabbing his leather-bound Bible from the table. It sounds desperate, not like me at all, and I can’t resist turning it into a joke to save face. “Dress like a nun? Read Stephenie Meyer? Worship Glenn Beck?”

  “That’s insulting,” he says.

  I touch his elbow to get him to look at me. And while he doesn’t refuse to meet my eyes, I can tell I’ve hurt him by the way he blinks.

  “Let me buy you lunch sometime,” I say.

  “I’d rather swim with piranhas.”

  9

  Quinn

  Kat’s green eyes go from bright to dull when I say I’d rather swim with piranhas than let her buy me lunch. My mother would be appalled at my behavior, but I so don’t regret it. I despise being pigeonholed, stuck into a box and shoved to the side like I’m nothing more than a one-dimensional drawing of a person. And just to be clear, I can’t stand Glenn Beck!

  The bell rings as I pull out my paper, typed in a rush at two in the morning after I finally got Elijah to nod off. It probably has a ton of typos in it, but I glue on a smile and pretend I’m not worried. Everyone knows Mrs. Williams is nuts. Chances are she won’t even read it.

  The teacher in question clears her throat to bring the class to order, and then marches straight to our table with her arms crossed. “Assignment?” she asks.

  Kat and I whip out our papers at the exact same time.

  Our psycho teacher grabs them from us, walks over to the metal trash can, drops our papers inside and lights a match. My eyes widen. The woman is crazy. The contents of the trash flare into flames.

  “I asked you to work together,” she says, frowning. “Now I’ll have to fail you for the quarter. If you two plan on passing this class, you’d better take me seriously.”

  She goes on to talk about how each partnership will do a science project together, one requiring lots of team work outside of class. When she gets to the part about how this will be half our grade, I groan.

  “Do you have a problem, Mr. Walker?” she says, narrowing her eyes at me.

  I lower my gaze to the table and shake my head.

  “Good.” She turns her attention back to the class. “Team McCormick will do a project on sound.”

  Molly turns around to beam at me. Sound. It’s the perfect topic for a musician. I’m jealous of Ben. Not only does he get to sit next to Molly, but now he’ll be working on a project with her. Not just any project either. One Molly and I would’ve done wonders with had we been allowed to work together.

  “Team Jackson, you get fire.”

  I snort. Figures. I have absolutely no trouble picturing my physics partner as a pyro. Without thinking I blurt out my thoughts. “This is perfect for you, Kat. Playing with fire, destroying everything you touch.”

  “We’ll start with that hunk of junk you call a cello,” she snaps.

  “Or maybe we can burn your hair. You use so many products on it, I bet it will—”

  “Do you two want to write another paper?” Mrs. William’s cuts in. “Never in all my years of teaching have I seen such rudeness and disrespect. You will do your project without lighting a single match.”

  “Fine with me, I’ll use a lighter,” Kat says.

  “Or the friction of stick against stick,” I add, pantomiming the technique I learned in scouts for starting a fire without matches.

  “A magnifying glass under the sun,” Kat throws out.

  “No fire!” Mrs. William’s slams her fist on our desk,
staring daggers at Kat and me. “Find a way to do your project without it. Make it work or I’ll fail you both. And believe me, nothing would please me more. The pair of you needs a swift kick in the pants.”

  “So what you want us to come up with is a science project about fire that doesn’t involve using fire in any way?” I ask.

  She can’t be serious.

  Kat does the strangest thing then. She lays her fingers over the tops of mine and says in a voice the whole class can hear. “Don’t worry, Quinn. We’ll be spending lots of time together. We can make our own fire.”

  “Would you cut that out!” I snap, pulling my hand away.

  I hate how Kat treats me like some windup top she can spin around at will, and Molly … even though I can’t see her face, I can tell she’s mad. Her hair is standing on end like a wet cat’s. I put her through a lot last week. First, I fell asleep on the phone while we were talking Friday night. Then, I lied about why I was canceling our Saturday date because I didn’t want her to know I was taking care my nephew after he’d come down with a stomach bug.

  And now I have to sit here while Kat makes a fool of me. Everyone’s watching. I can feel their eyes. Even John, who likes Kat for some strange reason, just sits there listening as she taunts me.

  “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much,” she says, twisting Shakespeare’s words around to imply I’m in love with her.

  “You flatter yourself.”

  She flips her hair over her shoulder, stands and stomps toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Mrs. Williams asks.

  “The ladies room.” She turns and holds her hand out for a pass.

  Molly starts laughing. “You goin’ for the tired teen mom look, Kat? Circles under your eyes, snags in your tights, all you need is a spit up stain on your shoulder and your look will be complete.”

  Her laughter catches like wild fire. It starts with Ben then spreads through the room. But I can’t laugh because I’m thinking about Amy and the man who left her behind.