Chaste

by Angela Felsted

  I put the receiver down.

  The girl’s boarding school my dad threatened me with would keep Mike at a distance. It might even be tempting if it didn’t mean leaving behind my family and friends. Never mind that I’m not the problem here. Why is it when the boy misbehaves, the girl gets sent away? Nope, not gonna happen.

  As I burrow under my covers and pull a sheet over my head, I try to forget about this horrid mess.

  The memory of last Monday floods into my brain. The feel of Quinn’s lips on mine, the stubble of his cheek against the skin of my palm, his hand pressed into my back until my knees turn to putty. His warm touch, his innocent eyes, his unassuming smile fill me with longing. When I’m with him, I forget about Mike and my still-grieving parents. When I’m with him even the counselor’s psychobabble is bearable.

  With Quinn I feel safe.

  31

  Quinn

  There’s a rumor going around at lunch that Mike and Kat have gotten back together. When I hear it, I almost choke on my cheeseburger. After I swallow and wash it down with a carton of milk, I decide to find out the truth.

  But when I look around the cafeteria, my partner is nowhere in sight.

  Same with physics, John and Tasha are here, but no Kat. And it’s lonely sitting by myself. I miss joking about Mrs. Williams’ craziness to someone who gets it.

  By the time I show up to my afterschool chamber music rehearsal, I’m dying to talk to a person who knows something. So I pull John aside. “Is Kat back together with Mike?”

  He shrugs. “That’s what Mike says, but I think she’s avoiding him.”

  “She’s not home sick?”

  “No, Kat’s tough. She almost never gets sick. Also, she called me this morning and asked me to pick up her homework, something about needing a day off.”

  “But Kat—”

  “Believe me, I know. It doesn’t sound anything like Kat. She seemed shaken up on the phone, but for whatever reason, she won’t tell me why.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  He laughs. “Good luck, man. That girl is closed off.”

  Despite his doubts, he pulls a binder from his bag, rips out a sheet of paper labeled “Kat’s homework,” and hands it to me. As he walks out the door, I fold it and stuff it in my pocket.

  I always go straight home after my Tuesday rehearsals because it’s my night to cook, but this is about me letting go and trusting my gut. I need to go with my instincts right now, trust them so Kat can trust me. I can’t help her otherwise. It’s frightening, and I worry she’ll slam the door in my face. But humiliation is worth it if I can be with Kat.

  On my way to her house, I stop by a flower shop where I pick up white daisies and some yellow mums. When I knock on Kat’s door, her mother answers it. From the hard line of her mouth, I know she’s not happy to see me.

  “Is Kat home?” I ask.

  She starts to shut the door.

  “No wait,” I blurt, sticking my foot in the door jamb.

  “She’s busy.”

  I hold the flowers closer to my chest to hide my pounding heart. “I need to see her.”

  “You need to stay out of her life.”

  “Lay off him, Mom,” says the voice of an angel.

  I look over the shoulder of the middle-aged woman blocking my path and see Kat walking toward us from the stairs with a book in her hand, her usually straight hair is now corkscrew-curly in the most feminine style I’ve ever seen.

  I want to protect her. I need to know she’s not with Mike, the jerk who calls her nasty names and treats her like slime on the bottom of his shoe.

  When Kat looks directly into my eyes, my heart stutters.

  “Fine, but don’t tell your father,” I hear her mother say before leaving us alone.

  My legs won’t move as Kat comes closer, and for a second I forget about the flowers in my hand.

  “Uh,” my mouth goes dry. Say something, idiot! “I, um, brought your homework.”

  “Why didn’t you let John do it?”

  My thoughts stall, but I manage to fumble around in my pocket and pull out the paper with her assignments on it, pushing it into her hand.

  Kat stuffs it into her book.

  “Okay, then. You’ve run the errand. So you can go. I’m sort of, you know, busy trying to grasp this bizarre-o religion of yours.”

  “Hold up,” I say, trying not to hyperventilate. This is my chance, so I’d better not blow it. “Please don’t go back to Mike. He’s a jerk, and you deserve better. You need someone good—no, great—who sees you as the amazing woman you are. Who doesn’t take you for granted. And it doesn’t have to be me, either, even if I would give my right arm for a chance with you. Breaking Molly’s heart was the hardest thing I ever did, not that I need to tell you that. But ever since you and I kissed, I can’t get you out of my head. So here.” I thrust the flowers forward. “Break my hea—”

  Her lips on mine cut off my words. The flowers drop to the floor along with her book as I move forward into the house and shut the door with my foot. This is madness, but I’m lost in the feel of her body, unable to resist her perfect girl-smell, the sound she makes in the back of her throat, the fullness of her mouth.

  My hands move up and down her spine while hers slide along the back of my neck. She’s so warm and sexy and gorgeous that I don’t ever want to stop. And for a moment I understand why my sister let things go too far with Ray. If kissing Kat always feels this good, I am totally screwed.

  The sound of the doorbell makes me pull back.

  “Kat, we need rules,” I whisper.

  She pulls on my arm, guiding me to her mother’s office and puts a finger to her mouth as a signal to be quiet.

  Mrs. Jackson brushes past us to answer the ring.

  “Didn’t I already tell you that Kat has the flu?” I hear her say to the guest at the door.

  “Yes,” says a familiar voice. Mike’s voice. Kat’s eyes go wide as saucers. “That’s why I brought a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. I know it’s her favorite. If you let me use the kitchen, I’ll heat it up and take it to her.”

  “She’s resting.”

  “Come on Mrs. J, you know I’m only trying to be nice.”

  Kat snorts before putting a hand to her mouth. I rub her shoulder, put an arm around her back and hold her against the front of my shirt.

  Her mother speaks, “Thanks for the soup. When Kat wakes up, I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  I hear the door shut. Mrs. Jackson marches into the office holding a can of soup and an envelope. “He sure is persistent,” she says to Kat. “Maybe you should be honest. Tell him you’re not interested, that it’s over. I don’t like lying for you.”

  Kat shuts her eyes so tight it looks painful. “I’ve already told him a million times.”

  The envelope passes from Mrs. Jackson’s hand to Kat’s. For a moment I think she’s going to open it. Instead she walks from her mother’s office and starts picking the daisies and mums off the floor.

  “You aren’t going to read it?” I ask.

  “Not in front of my mom.”

  I squat down, pick up her fallen book and suppress a shudder when I see it’s one of the most inflammatory anti-Mormon titles ever written.

  Kat looks at me for a few seconds too long, almost as if she knows what I’m thinking.

  “My father gave it to me,” she says in an apologetic whisper. “I think maybe I was too hard on him. This is his way of protecting me.”

  “Because I’m so dangerous,” I say, my voice shaking with hurt.

  The very thought that she’d rather read half-truths and hateful propaganda than risk asking me a few questions burns like betrayal up my esophagus.

  “I don’t believe everything I read, Quinn,” she says as she takes the daisies and mums to the kitchen to put them in a vase.

  Though I hear the creaking of the faucet and the water flowing, I keep my eyes on the book in my hand. “Just promise you won’t read anymore,
” I say.

  She shakes her head no.

  My shoulders tense and I feel myself getting agitated. I think she senses it too because she loops an arm around my waist. I look into her eyes and see softness there, like she actually cares.

  “Don’t let this come between us,” she says.

  Glass slides against granite as she puts the flowers in the middle of the kitchen island. Before I know it, I’m staring at her lips, touching her hair as I go in for a kiss.

  Our mouths move in a rhythm that makes my bones and muscles buzz with heat—not unlike when I play the cello and feel the vibrations spread through my rib cage—except with Kat the feelings start from the inside and work their way out.

  She pulls back and smiles at me before ripping open the envelope from Mike. She reads his note out loud.

  “Alley Kat.” She clears her throat. “Did you get the bracelet, the flowers, the apology? I know I made a mistake last week, but I was only trying to protect you from the damage of your careless behavior. If you hadn’t run away, I wouldn’t have accidentally hurt you. You can forgive me, can’t you? I know Walker is in the house with you, and that you’re not really sick. I’m not stupid. So what if I cheated on you? Now that you’ve cheated on me, you can say we’re even. I need you. I’ll do anything to make this work. Just tell me what you want. Mike.”

  “He’s blaming you for his actions,” I say, my instinct to protect Kat stronger than ever. “Maybe it’s bad, but I’m glad I hit him. No one deserved it more.”

  She freezes.

  Did I say the wrong thing?

  “No one can know about the note,” she says. “Telling you was hard enough.”

  I nod, but only because that’s what she wants. Why she’s embarrassed is beyond me. Whether or not Mike chooses to rein in his anger has nothing to do with anything Kat says or does. He should be ashamed, and she should be angry. Not the other way around.

  “Come to my place for dinner,” I say, wanting nothing more than to take her from this prison of a home. “Mike already knows we’re together. Maybe it’ll send him a message that you’re living life on your terms.”

  Her smile is so pretty. “I’d love to, Quinn.”

  “This time I’ll drive.”

  32

  Katarina

  I toss back my hair and square my shoulders on my way to Quinn’s car, which has a dent in one side and needs a fresh coat of paint. Although I know it’s nice of him to open my door, a part of me hates giving up control. Maybe we’re not so different.

  “How’s Elijah?” I ask, sliding into the passenger’s seat.

  “He wants to meet you.”

  “Oh, really? What have you told him about me?”

  Quinn blushes like he thinks if he says something sweet, I’ll hit him, which is absurd. I’m more likely to kiss him senseless.

  “I won’t laugh,” I say.

  His face lights up with a mischievous grin before he bends so his eyes are even with mine. When he cups my cheek in his hand, I get goose bumps. “You’ll just have to ask him yourself.”

  As we drive, I glance at the speedometer needle, wishing I could make the car go faster, to see the leaves on the trees turn blurry as I travel farther away from Mike.

  My fingers shake when I think of my ex. And Quinn, sensing there’s something wrong, slides his hand over mine.

  “We need rules,” he says.

  “Why?” I ask in a flustered voice. While I remember him saying something similar at the house, I hadn’t thought he was serious.

  “So I don’t corrupt you.”

  I laugh, because it’s funny and kind of sweet that he thinks if we have sex, he’ll crush my innocence like a dandelion gone to seed.

  “Okay, first rule,” he says. “We spend our time together in public. Family events, movies, restaurants—”

  “Movies sound promising.” I picture sitting in the back of a dark theater while he kisses me for hours, hands roaming every inch of my body.

  “Second rule: no touching of private parts.”

  I blink. There goes my fantasy! Feeling slightly dazed, I ask, “Any more rules your highness.”

  “I’m not a king.”

  “Well you’re acting like one, laying these down without consulting me.”

  He sighs and runs a hand through his blond curls. Most girls I know would die for hair like his. Pity he doesn’t let it grow below his ears.

  He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to be difficult, Kat, but after what happened to my sister, I need to have boundaries. Maybe it’s not fair. The thing is, I’ve seen what happens when no one says no. My sister is tired, her education has suffered, time for herself is no longer an option. The last thing I want is to put you in that kind of situation.

  “You should trust yourself, Quinn.”

  Worry lines form between his eyes. “Third rule: no kissing or hugging after ten pm.”

  I haven’t had to live by any set-in-stone rules since before Roland died. Even then my parents weren’t this strict. This must be about Quinn’s need to build walls.

  “Eleven,” I counter.

  “Fine, it’s a start,” he says, pulling up to the curb beside his house, a tiny place with peeling paint and overgrown bushes. He shuts off the engine.

  “I don’t hear any music,” I say, remembering the first time I came to this house and found his father playing drums in the basement.

  “There are occasional moments of silence at my house.”

  I put my hand in the crook of his elbow as we walk across the grass, not sure why I feel such a need to be near him. Maybe I’m weaker than I thought.

  When we enter the house, warm steam drifts around us. I smell meat cooking. A baby cries in the other room. Elijah. My pulse races. I’m not good with babies. I glance up at Quinn.

  His mouth has fallen open.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “She’s cooking,” he says. “Tuesday night, and my sister is making dinner.”

  “So?”

  “Tuesday is my night to cook.”

  As I follow him into the kitchen, the steam gets thicker, the smell of meat grows stronger and the baby cries louder. Quinn’s father and sister meet us at the door.

  “Son, I was so worried,” the older man says. He cradles the still-crying baby in his arms. If that kid doesn’t stop screaming soon, my ears are going to burst.

  “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Amy scolds. “Next time call if you’re coming home late.”

  For a few short minutes I feel invisible while Quinn’s family worries over him. I wonder if my parents would notice if I disappeared for a few days. I mean, yeah, if I got into trouble they’d notice. But what if I vanished without a trace? No struggle, no note, no drama. Would they care?

  Quinn taps me on the shoulder. “I think you’ve both met Kat before,” he says to his family. “I, uh … invited her for dinner.”

  They both break into matching grins. “Your physics partner, right?” Mr. Walker says. He hands the baby to Quinn before reaching out to shake my hand. For a formal gesture, it’s strangely familiar. His warm fingers squeeze mine in a firm clasp that’s neither weak nor crushingly strong.

  “So you brought her home for dinner, did you?” Amy asks in a voice thick with inferred meaning. Quinn doesn’t answer, just puts his pinky into Elijah’s mouth.

  The baby stops crying.

  “You want to hold him?” Quinn asks, grinning from ear to ear like I’m a natural-born baby-lover.

  Never mind that I’ve never held a baby in my life and don’t want to start with one that’s likely to scream if I so much as touch him.

  “Nah, I might break him,” I say.

  Quinn grins before leading me into the empty living room. One wall is filled with self help books—Healing the Shame that Binds You, Bradford on The Family, The Gift of Fear. Another with religious titles—The Miracle of Forgiveness, Standing for Something, Teachings of Thomas S. Monson.

  “Who r
eads the self-help books?” I ask him, sitting smack in the middle of his denim colored couch.

  “My mother,” he says, hovering above me with Elijah in his arms.

  “Who reads the religious stuff?

  “My mother used to,” he says. “But after reading Spencer W. Kimball’s The Miracle of Forgiveness and sliding into a depression a few years back, she’s been less enthusiastic about sacred topics.”

  “Your mom was depressed?” I feel my eyes widen. His family seems so functional.

  “Yeah, even now she struggles with guilt and inadequacy. The Miracle of Forgiveness only made it worse for her. President Kimball talks about sins of omission alongside theft, adultery and murder.”

  I shake my head. “What the hell is a sin of omission?”

  “The sin of leaving things undone—stuff like not going to church, not sharing the gospel with neighbors, or forgetting to hold family prayer twice a day. After reading The Miracle of Forgiveness, my mother felt even worse about herself. She didn’t get out of bed for weeks. When she finally pulled out of her funk, she’d cry at the drop of a hat.”

  “Why do you still have it?” I ask.

  “Um, well.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Since The Miracle of Forgiveness states that ‘Christ cannot forgive one in sin’ and that sexual sin is especially bad, our Bishop made Amy read it as part of her repentance process about six months before Elijah was born.” He shakes his head. “She couldn’t take the bread and water for a long time. I think the humiliation of having others see she was unworthy is one reason she stopped going to church.”

  In that moment my father’s voice comes into my head, “If Mormons believed in grace, they’d know we’re all unworthy. They’d know that man can’t make judgments in the name of God. And they’d be free from guilt and shame. Free to feel His love.”

  “Didn’t that bother you?” I ask.

  “Why would it?” he says too fast.

  “You just said your sister was humiliated. How did that help her feel God’s love?”