Chaste

by Angela Felsted

  Kat may be sexy, but I know exactly what she thinks of my religion. There’s no way she’s grown up in Pastor Jackson’s shadow without his hateful ideology rubbing off on her. And after losing half a dozen friends to the man’s opinions, I’m all too familiar with what he believes.

  She snorts.

  “Don’t deny it,” I say, shaking off her hand. I march down the hill and climb to the top of the bleachers, sit and tilt my eyes to the sky. A hawk is making circles overhead. The bench shifts below me at her approach.

  I turn and look Kat in the eye, determined to unsettle her the way she unsettles me. But she doesn’t flinch; instead she looks right back. Her green eyes, framed by long dark lashes, pull me in like a tractor beam. I swallow and focus on a chickenpox scar to the left of her eyebrow. Getting hung up on Kat’s eyes is the last thing I need.

  “You and I should have a heart to heart,” she says.

  “You’re taunting me.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  A strand of dark hair falls across her face. I glance at her mouth, expecting to see a sneer or a laugh, something to indicate this is all a big joke. Instead she drops her eyes to her knees as if embarrassed.

  My cheeks warm with guilt as I think of my mother. She would be ashamed. I hear her voice in my head. Judge not that ye be not judged.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I ask in a soft voice.

  “Do you hate me, Quinn?”

  Now there’s a question I never expected to hear coming from Kat. She annoys me to no end, but I wouldn’t call it hate. More like dislike. No, dislike is too strong, wariness maybe?

  “Of course I don’t hate you.”

  “Then why won’t you go out with me?”

  My throat goes dry. Did Kat have a personality transplant while I was gone? Or is she one of those girls who acts nice when you’re alone, but treats you like a used piece of gum in front of her friends? That seems more likely.

  “You’re not my type,” I say.

  “I wish you’d let me change your mind.” She puts her hand on my arm.

  My heart thrums faster. I take the backpack off my shoulder and place it on my lap to hide my body’s reaction to her touch. “Let’s stick to physics, okay?”

  “Fine,” she sighs, opening her backpack to pull out her book. She balances it on her knees, flips it open to the table of contents and looks at me with eyes which shine like jewels against her dark skin.

  I can’t look away, and for a split second I wonder what it would be like to kiss her. My gaze drops to her mouth, her bottom lip slightly fuller than the top, the alluring crease along the upper edge. How would those lips feel on mine?

  Clasping my bag more securely in place, I blink away the thought. Too many days at home without human contact.

  “Quinn?”

  “Yeah?” I unzip my backpack, pull out my book and flip open my text. My eyes focus on some random words. Not that I’m reading or anything.

  “If you want to kiss me, I’m game.”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, come on. We’re alone. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. I promise not to bite … well,” she says. “Not unless you want me to.”

  She puts a hand over her mouth to hide her laugh. It’s a nice laugh, deep and sexy.

  “Not a good idea.” I need to say something snarky, anything to keep her from looking at me like a girl in one of my late night fantasies.

  “You only date Mormon girls?”

  I narrow my eyes at her, gripping the strap on my bag.

  “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” she says as if she knows me.

  “You wouldn’t know truth if it bit you in the rear end.” I tap my sneakers on the metal bleachers. “It isn’t about religion, Kat. It’s about staying chaste.”

  “So now I’m a whore.” Blinking furiously, she crosses her arms over her waist.

  I swallow. “Um … no.”

  “You’re prejudiced,” she says.

  “Am not!”

  “You think you’re better than me.”

  She says it as if I’m some stuck up snob, sitting on a throne so I can look down my nose at the world. It’s the ultimate catch-twenty-two, and I’m sick of it. Make a mistake, and people point fingers, call you a hypocrite, insult your religion. Live the standards, and you’re a self-righteous know-it-all who thinks himself superior to everyone else.

  “Of course,” I say, my voice oozing with sarcasm. “Angels come down from heaven and guard me in my sleep. They have to because I’m so dang special.”

  “Is that right?” she says.

  “You’re scared of me,” I accuse.

  “Sure I am. We hurt those we fear. And just last week I picketed one of your churches. It was a lot of work, too, because I ran out of red nail polish making that sign with the demon picture on it.” She sticks out her tongue.

  Okay, fine. I get that I’m in over my head with Kat. The girl knows how to dish it out, and I can’t win this. So I put a hand to my heart and go with it.

  “That must have been dreadful, you without your nail polish.”

  “Almost as bad as you without your Mormon Bible.”

  “It’s not called a ‘Mormon Bible.’ We’re Christians and believe in the traditional Bible. Just. Like. You.”

  “Not Christians.” She shakes her head. “And I know a hell of a lot more than you think.” She flashes me a condescending smile.

  Why do so many people insist they know more about my beliefs than I do? If I had a quarter for every time someone tried to inform me about my church’s “heretical” doctrine, I’d be a rich man.

  “Whatever.” I shrug.

  “No, really. I can prove it. The Jesus you worship is nothing like the Jesus I worship—”

  “Except that he just happened to live at the same time, in the same place, know the same people, wear the same clothes, eat the same food, and perform the same miracles.”

  My sarcasm only fuels Kat’s temper. “He’s not the same Jesus,” she says, before sticking her nose in the air. “And if you want to be saved, you need to declare the real Jesus your personal savior. Stop relying so much on meaningless stuff like ordinances and sacraments. Stop acting like you can save yourself.”

  I do not, nor have I ever believed I can save myself. But there’s no point in explaining that to Kat because she’d only disqualify the statement and say it doesn’t matter because my god isn’t hers. I’ve done this enough to know what comes next and frankly, I’m sick of it.

  Against my better judgment I issue her a challenge. “I doubt you know one iota about my religion. You’re too busy labeling people. I’d bet a hundred dollars you can’t even tell me the church’s real name.” I stand and throw my backpack over my shoulder.

  “Not a hundred dollars,” she says, her eyebrow arching up. “A kiss.”

  “And what do I get when you botch it?”

  “What do you want?” Now there’s a question I haven’t heard for awhile. She puts a hand on my backpack as if she can stop me from leaving.

  “I want you to stop touching me.” Staying in control is hard enough with how she looks at me, no point in tempting fate. Maybe after I win this bet, she’ll leave me alone.

  “Okay, Quinn. But I should probably tell you that my dad’s given a forty-minute sermon about the lie that is your church’s name.”

  “He what?”

  “Yeah, you can find it on Centreville Bible Church’s website. Just type cults into the search box, it comes up on a list with about five other so-called religions.”

  My anger feels like a warm stone in the pit of my stomach. Why is she telling me this? To bring home what a foolish simpleton she thinks I am?

  “You didn’t help write that sermon, did you?” I accuse.

  “Of course not,” she says, letting go of my bag. “But I know you call your religion The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And just for the record, I think it’s blasphemous.”

  My jaw drops. What ha
d I been thinking, making that bet? Scratch that question. I wasn’t thinking at all. I don’t give out kisses like cheap trinkets to just any girl. And certainly not to a girl like Kat, who wouldn’t blink an eye if her boyfriend, Mike, broke every bone in my body.

  “You wanna grab a bite to eat before kissing me?” she asks.

  “No, let’s get this over with.”

  She takes a step back like my words have surprised her. Truth is, I don’t need to drag out the drama Kat has created with this little bet. Better to deal with it now, rip it off like a band aid. Then I won’t be worrying about it, lying in bed unable to sleep because I can’t get her out of my head.

  “You sure?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I take a step forward, trying not to notice that she smells like soap or that I’ve never been this close to her.

  My stomach is squirming, which is totally absurd. It isn’t like she can hurt me.

  She goes completely still when I snake an arm around her waist. For a moment I think my mind is playing tricks on me because she sighs the way Elijah does in his sleep. But when she shuts her eyes and cradles her body next to mine, I realize that long sigh wasn’t my imagination.

  A breeze whips around us as I kiss her on the cheek.

  “Done,” I say, opening my arms.

  14

  Katarina

  “And what was that?” I say, surpised.

  “A kiss,” Quinn states without emotion.

  I look at the ground, trying to hide the heat rising to my cheeks. Talk about pathetic. I practically melted and all he did was kiss me on the cheek. With the way I let out that long lingering sigh, you’d think I’d never been touched before.

  Fine, so I admit I haven’t been kissed that softly in a very long time. Maybe never. His lips on my skin were like a breath of warm wind—light, tender, undemanding—the complete opposite of how Mike does things. Not that Quinn would ever kiss me of his own free will. After the way I lost patience and called him on his religion, he probably thinks I hate him. But if I’m going to seduce the boy, I plan to do it my way. Wake him up a little first.

  “I should go,” he says, even though we haven’t come up with a project yet. Why is he doing this? Is it because I’m not some fragile flower like Molly?

  He grabs his stuff, steps to the lowest bleacher, and gets ready to run up the hill like he can’t escape fast enough. Does he think I’ve made a Quinn voodoo doll and stuck it with needles from head to toe?

  “Wait!” I call, but he doesn’t turn.

  It reminds me of the nightmare I had last night where I was screaming at the top of my lungs for my parents, but neither of them heard me. I despise being ignored. So I run after him. One of my high heels catches on the bench and I plummet forward. Stupid, stupid, stupid! The palms of my hands dig into the metal.

  I catch myself before my face hits, but a sharp pain shoots up my leg. My ankle throbs and burns as if someone has put my foot in a vise. My body topples over at a ninety degree angle. I hear footsteps, followed by a voice.

  “You okay?” Quinn asks, offering his hand. He pulls me upright until I’m sitting on the bench. I glance at his face. He’s totally pale.

  “I think so,” I say, bending to roll up the bottom of my slacks. My ankle has swollen to twice its usual size just that fast. It’s warm to the touch, the blood is pumping through it so strongly, I can feel my pulse.

  “It’s my fault,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

  “I’m the one who tripped.”

  “But I shouldn’t have ignored you. This is my fault.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that.” It isn’t as though he made me wear these ridiculous stilettos and then pushed me down the bleachers with his own two hands. Does he think he’s responsible for every ill twist of fate?

  “Let me help you up,” he insists.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to stand on my own. The last thing I need is another person treating me like I’m helpless. I get enough of that from the counselor and the principal, not to mention my father and Mike.

  More pain shoots up my leg; I wobble, toppling into Quinn. Without asking he scoops me into his arms. Damn it! I want to scream for him to put me down. Then I smell the baby powder clinging to his clothes again.

  I bite my tongue.

  He’s carrying me up the hill as if I weigh nothing, his blue T-shirt moving up and down as he breathes. I hear his heart beating faster than normal and imagine him kissing me for real, slipping off my blouse, working his hands down my body. I want that delicious chest above me, those fingers playing me the way he plays his cello. Mmm, those fingers would make up for any deficits in size. If there are any, I mean.

  “Do you think it’s broken?” Quinn asks, his eyes wide with worry.

  I hope not! Then I remember he’s talking about my leg. “I don’t think so,” I stammer.

  “If it is, I’ll drive you home,” he says. “Don’t worry about Mrs. Williams. I’ll do the legwork for the project, pick something out and go to the library. I can even get your school work for last period and drop it by your house.”

  Do I know this boy? Where did he come from? Maybe if I fake a broken rib, he’ll take off my shirt to see if I’m okay. Maybe if I pretend to pass out, he’ll give me mouth to mouth. I force myself not to laugh because it’s absurd. He’d never fall for anything so transparent. He looks so concerned right now, the way he’s scrunching up his eyebrows. Laughing would be wrong.

  “I just … left my stuff on the bleachers,” I say.

  “Let me get you to the nurse. After I know you’re okay, I’ll go back for it.”

  He looks at the asphalt, the cars, the clouds, anywhere but at me. He’d better not be crying. I zero in on his eyes. Nope, no tears, but something is definitely wrong. It’s weird being carried by a guy who doesn’t yell when he’s upset. Mike is a champion at letting things out. When he’s angry, everyone knows about it.

  “Wanna talk about it?” I ask.

  “Talk about what?”

  “You know, what’s bothering you. There is something bothering you, isn’t there?”

  It’s the same question I asked Mike when he told me how much he blamed himself for Roland’s death. As if my ex-boyfriend could have wrestled my six-foot-five brother into a taxi cab.

  “Life sucks right now. So yeah. You could say that.”

  Okay, I admit his suspension was totally unfair. But other than that, why would his life suck? He has like, the perfect family, a cute girlfriend, loyal friends. Hell, even John likes him. Quinn puts me down when we reach the school, pulls open the door and loops an arm around my shoulders.

  “Come on, Quinn,” I say. “Tell me what’s upsetting you. I won’t spread gossip. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “You never let up, do you?” The impatience in his voice is at odds with the careful way he guides me down the hall. He stops for a moment, looks down at the floor. “I’m tired.”

  “Of me?”

  “Just tired,” he says. “And not because of early morning seminary either.”

  Seminary … what is he talking about? I squash my eyebrows together in confusion. He must see it written across my face because he answers the question I don’t dare ask.

  “It’s where you study the scriptures with other kids before school. We meet at six in the morning.”

  He flashes me a smile that’s so chilly it almost makes me shiver. Is it me or is it seminary he hates so much? I glance up to the ceiling and make a wish: please, please let it be seminary. I’d be cranky too if I had to wake up that early.

  “If you don’t like it, why do you go?”

  His smile drops like I’ve said the worst thing possible. We stop in front of the clinic. “What do you want, Kat? A lab partner, or someone to play mind games with?”

  He thinks I’m playing? “That’s so not fair,” I say.

  “Is it?”

  He opens the door, standing like a solid prop while I hop around
him.

  “I’m exhausted, Kat. And I don’t have energy for this. Physics I can do, chamber music … but I don’t know the rules of the game you’re playing.”

  “Quinn—”

  “I’m sorry about your leg.” He lets out a breath before helping the school nurse lower me into a chair.

  I glance at his face. It’s gone white again. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry or feeling guilty. Either way it’s ridiculous. He has nothing to be ashamed of. He’d better not be blaming himself for the fact that I wore these crazy-ass shoes, because I’m sick to death of having people make me a victim.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asks.

  I hold up my hand. “I’m fine.”

  “But—”

  “I. Said. I’m. Fine.” Now I’m pissed.

  No mind games, he says. Then goes on to pretend he’s sorry while acting like some hero in a comic book. Who’s messing with whose head now? He’s not Superman, and I’m definitely not Lois Lane.

  The school nurse, Ms. Torres, hasn’t said a word in this entire conversation. Instead she brings a second chair over to elevate my foot, examines my ankle and wraps it in ice.

  Quinn takes a step back. “I didn’t mean—”

  “To treat me like a swooning princess?” I put the back of my hand against my forehead, shutting my eyes to fake helplessness.

  Ms. Torres finally speaks up. “It looks like a sprain. Nothing major, but you might want to let your doctor check it out.”

  Quinn glances at his shoes.

  I sigh. This is so not going how I planned. I need to get a handle on my temper. If this keeps up, I’ll never get him to see me as anything but an enemy. Giving my camera to Tasha will kill me. I grit my teeth just thinking about it. Nope. Not going to happen.

  I have to get Quinn to think with his other brain. Maybe if I can get him to relax, I can move things forward. Carrying me was his idea. Does that mean he’s not afraid to touch me?

  Mr. Nice moves the ice around my ankle so it covers the swelling. This would be so much easier if we were back on the football field. There was a moment back there when he looked at me like a girl he actually wanted to be with.