Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  Rebecka and I giggle while the bald man with the ugly glasses stumbles over his words. “Well, you see, she’s been told.”

  “Your mom is cool,” Rebecka whispers, taking my hand.

  Hers is yellow-sugar sticky, sweaty, and hot, but it feels like maybe she was born to hold mine.

  BECKA AND I have the same teacher, and our desks are right beside each other.

  “What are you eating?” I ask, unpacking all of my school supplies from my backpack.

  She offers me her lunch baggie full of smashed dessert. “Mom said I couldn’t have cake for breakfast, but she didn’t say I couldn’t have it at all.”

  Once everyone is settled, Mrs. Perkowski, our fifth-grade teacher, introduces me to the rest of the class. A few look at me like I’m weird, so the sweat-scented girl next to me threatens them with her balled-up fist.

  “I got your back,” she says.

  During our first recess, I swing while she chases boys.

  “I can’t run in this darn skirt.” Her face turns a light shade of red as she stretches out denim, ripping a few stitches.

  At lunch, I share my turkey sandwich with her. She offers me some of her peanut butter and jelly.

  I meet some new friends.

  Laura: she likes my purple romper, and I like her pink headband. I think she wants to be my friend, but we’re both equally shy. We’re in the same class.

  Oliver: he says hey and that’s it.

  Jackie: she smiles at me, and I feel bad because I don’t tell her she has lettuce in her teeth. It would be rude to embarrass her in front of her friends.

  Hal “Smitty” Smith: he’s best friends with Oliver.

  Kelly: she demands attention from everyone. She’s close with this girl Katie, and I don’t think either one of them likes me.

  After we eat, Becka and I head to the playground where I see Thomas playing soccer on the field. On the sideline, a bunch of girls smile and giggle and whisper to one another. Becka throws Tater Tots at them.

  The blonde boy kicking the ball waves at the cluster of girls, but Thomas is in his own world. His concentration is unbreakable, and as he rushes down the other side of the field with a trail of followers pursuing him, his hair falls in his eyes.

  When he kicks the ball into the white net, the blonde boy jumps on his back, and another boy with darker hair tackles his knees until all three of them are on the ground.

  The girls clap, still whispering and giggling. Only now they point at Thomas and his friends, and it’s odd to me.

  “Tater Tot?” Becka asks, popping one into her mouth.

  I look away from her brother and into her eyes. She has the same freckles as he does and a small scar above her right eyebrow. I wonder if she’ll ever tell me how she got it. I wonder if she’s going to be my best friend, because I want her to be. I wonder if she thinks I’m strange because I stare at her deeply. I wonder if she realizes how hard it is not to look at her closely.

  “No thanks,” I say, deciding that tomorrow morning I’m going to bring Rebecka her own banana Popsicle.

  WHEN I get home the first thing I do is call my dad and tell him all about school. “My teacher was okay, but she smells like peanut butter,” and “Everyone liked my purple romper, so I think I’ll wear my pink one tomorrow,” and “I made this new friend but she’s kind of different, and she sneaks chocolate cake into school in lunch baggies.”

  That’s where he stops me, saying he’ll be home from work soon.

  When he walks through the door, I don’t give him a chance to settle before I talk about Rebecka Castor again. “She has a skateboard and a brother, but she has a skateboard!” and “She held my hand on the way to lunch today, and she threw Tater Tots at this girl because she said she was mean to her, and …”

  My parents are happy that I’ve found a person to bond with right away. I kind of, sort of tell them about Thomas, but Dad gives me a funny look at the mention of a boy. I ask him about his day instead.

  “It wasn’t as exciting as your day, Bliss,” he says.

  Becka and I become close in the weeks following the beginning of the school year. We’re best friends, and despite our differences, we get along wonderfully. I like Rebecka the way she is, and she deals with my girly tendencies.

  Every day we have a sort of routine: Mom drops me off at the front of the school in the morning, and Becka meets me outside the gate where she can ride her board; I give her a Popsicle, and she gives me whatever junk food she finds in her house before leaving for school. Sometimes Thomas is with her, sometimes he’s not.

  At recess, Rebecka chases Smitty or makes fun of Kelly, and I watch Thomas play soccer. I’ve learned that his blonde-haired friend is Petey, who they sometimes call Pete, and the dark-haired boy is Benjamin, who they call Ben.

  They’re his Becka, and he’s their Bliss.

  I’ve only spoken to Thomas a few times. He hasn’t said anything more about my hair, which is a relief. I think about what I’ll say if he ever comments on it again, and everything I come up with is pretty dumb. “My mom said I can’t talk to boys,” and “Shut up, Thomas.”

  As August, September, and a lot of October pass, I begin to think that he may never talk to me again. Not that I care, because I don’t. It just makes it more awkward when Thomas asks out of nowhere, “Why does your mom call you Bliss?”

  He and Petey stick around with his sister and wait for me before class starts. I don’t particularly like the way Petey looks at me, but then again, I don’t think I like the way any boy does. Even Thomas, because sometimes he stares at me with those abnormal blue eyes and it’s scary.

  They’re waiting for my answer, and I don’t want to tell them. I take a bite and chew my Twinkie—courtesy of Becka—slowly. When the first bite is finished, I take another.

  Thomas’ eyes are set on my mouth, and Petey asks something like, “She’s a fifth grader?”

  Becka grows bored with my slow eating and rides her board around the parking lot. Thomas kind of mumbles something to Petey, and Petey sort of rolls his eyes before crossing his arms over his chest and sighs.

  When I swallow the last of my Twinkie, I’m sad because it’s gone. Mom doesn’t buy sugary foods. She says that they’re bad for my teeth, so I don’t tell her about my daily exchange with Rebecka.

  “You don’t have to tell me, Leigh,” Thomas says so softly his lips hardly move. His eyes are ahead watching his best friend and little sister play around. He seems to be a little bit annoyed with Petey, only not.

  “It’s stupid,” I whisper.

  Thomas looks right at me and admits, “My family calls me Dusty.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He chuckles like he knows exactly why, only he doesn’t want to tell me. “I have no fucking idea.”

  I rarely hear my parents curse, so it’s outrageous to me that Thomas said the F-word freely. I should tell on him, but then I feel like it makes Thomas the sixth grader cooler.

  “Bliss is my middle name.” I shrug my shoulders and try to control my blush. “My parents had a hard time having a baby, so when I was finally born, Mom said I was a blissful wonder.”

  He smiles before sinking his hands into his pockets.

  During class Becka tells me they call Thomas “Dusty” because when he was little he overheard his dad say asshole. He repeated it over and over and their parents thought it was funny, declaring that his mouth was mini-foul—dusty, not grimy. However, his language only got worse over the years. Especially lately, she says.

  “But it’s too late to call him Filthy, because he’s already Dusty,” she adds.

  HALLOWEEN IN Newport, Oregon isn’t any different than it was in Nevada; everyone at school is dressed up for the costume parade.

  Kelly’s a ladybug in a short skirt.

  Becka says she’s “scandalous.”

  I like the word.

  Scandalous.

  Smitty’s Freddy Kruger, and he’s been chasing my best friend around the basketba
ll courts all morning. She’s dressed up like Michael Meyers but totally screams like a girl.

  “What are you?” Thomas asks, coming up behind me. His voice is close to my ear. He tickles my neck with his breath.

  “What do you want, Thomas?” He jumps in front of me and I scream.

  His face is smeared with white-gray makeup, and fake blood covers his clothes. Not too far behind him are Petey and Ben, and they look the same as he does, only not as scary. “You look like a princess. Is that what you are, Bliss? A princess?”

  I push his shoulder. “I’m Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Aww, a pretty-pretty princess,” Thomas teases. He circles one my curls around his finger.

  “Leave me alone,” I grumble, moving away from him again.

  Petey leaps in front of me, waving his hands around like an idiot. I exhale, shoving him away from my body space as Ben tugs on my dress. I swipe at his hand and straighten out pink silky satin.

  “Hey,” Thomas warns his friends. They don’t listen.

  “Petey, quit it.” I stomp my foot, but they only laugh harder.

  I start to cry.

  “Bliss,” Thomas whispers softly. “Don’t cry, princess pie.”

  I shrug him off.

  The zombie’s sister comes to my rescue and she’s angry. “Darn it, Dusty, look what you did.”

  Pretending to sob in order to make the walking dead feel terrible isn’t kind. Between Becka yelling at Thomas and him felling awful for making me cry, I slip my hands from my face and shout, “Just kidding!”

  The joke’s on them.

  Petey and Ben chuckle nervously, but Thomas’ sharp eyes focus on me like he’s saying, “Game on, Bliss.”

  I stick my tongue out at the teasing trio before I take Becka’s hand and skip away toward the Halloween parade together.

  She wins Most Horrifying costume in the school’s contest.

  I get a snack-sized Snickers from Oliver.

  “DO YOU think your mom will let you come over?” Becka asks, taking half of my sandwich while I take her oatmeal cookies.

  Turns out I have a massive sweet tooth that I was unaware of before I met this girl nine months ago.

  I shrug, biting into the brown sugar gooey goodness. “Maybe.”

  She trades me her white milk for my chocolate milk. “My mom said it’s fine if you spend the night. She said she’ll make dinner, which is weird because my mom doesn’t cook.”

  I hold the cookie up. “She makes cookies.”

  She rolls her eyes, opening my milk before her own. “No, Bliss. Mom buys these from the baker.”

  “I’ll ask when I get home,” I say.

  “She’ll say yes,” Becka assures me with a mouth full of food.

  Thomas comes by our lunch table and takes my milk.

  MY HEART beats all kinds of rigid and quick. I chew on my bottom lip and pull on the ends of my hair. I’ve never been allowed to spend the night over a friend’s house before, but I’ll be in the sixth grade soon. It’s almost summer, and I’m old enough.

  “Isn’t there a boy in that house?” Dad asks, folding his newspaper. His bushy eyebrows come together.

  I stop playing with my hair. “Thomas isn’t a boy. He’s a brother.”

  The man who gave me life sits back in his black leather recliner, rocking a bit. He has a caseload on the table in front of him, and my mother at his side.

  “I don’t feel comfortable allowing you to sleep under the same roof as a boy, Bliss,” he says.

  Frustration burns behind my eyes. But the risk of waterworks does nothing for Judge McCloy. This may as well be his courtroom, and I may as well be some child crook. He makes decisions based on facts. It was that way before he was appointed to the bench last summer.

  “But Rebecka’s my best friend,” I remind him, fighting back tears.

  “She’s a good kid, Thaddeus,” Mom says, not completely confident in her own words.

  My father looks up. “I’ve met Lucas Castor, Teri …” he trails off, not saying another word. Their uncomfortable silence turns my stomach.

  Since becoming friends with Becka and Thomas, I can see how strict my parents are compared to theirs and I haven’t even met them. I’ve never wanted to yell at my mom and dad before, but sitting on this couch while they give each other uncertain half-looks, I feel like screaming.

  “Please let me spend the night with my friend,” I say steadily, keeping care of my tone. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  I’ve replayed the one time I heard Thomas curse in my head over and over since it happened, but I’ve never had the courage to say it out loud.

  Fucking.

  “I have no fucking idea.”

  He licked his lips, adjusted his backpack, and ran his hand though his hair. He was sure of himself.

  Let me fucking go, Dad.

  I want to fucking go to Rebecka’s, Mom.

  This isn’t fucking fair!

  I could never.

  But when I think I can’t handle the indecision any longer, Dad clears his throat. He’s reached his verdict.

  “Don’t make me regret letting you go, Bliss.”

  I stand up and scream. I jump up and down and clap my hands and do a little dance. I hug my daddy and don’t pay attention as he grumbles things about pre-teen boys and something called a chastity belt.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I squeal, taking off up the stairs.

  “Leighlee.” Dad’s deep tone echoes off of the walls. “We’re trusting you.”

  “You can,” I quickly swear, packing my bag.

  ON THE car ride over, I can hardly stay in my seat. Dad doesn’t come along, but Mom drives with strict instructions: speak with parents and make sure the boy doesn’t look like a threat.

  They’re totally embarrassing.

  After turning into Rebecka’s driveway, my mom looks around and whistles in awe. “This place is nice,” she says, mostly to herself.

  It’s the nicest house I’ve seen in this small town. White with blue trim, two stories high, it’s surrounded by tall, beautiful trees. The lawn is an unreal green, and the orange, pink, and red roses surrounding the wraparound porch are perfectly bloomed.

  I smell their sweet scent in the air as soon as I get out of the car.

  “Hey,” Becka calls, running out from the side of the house. Her skateboard is in her right hand and her bangs are stuck to her sweaty forehead.

  “Just got here,” I say, lifting my backpack onto my shoulder. My mom waits at my side, greeting Becka with a smile and a polite hug.

  I’m not so brave. Rebecka smells.

  Barefoot, with dirty knees and breeze-tangled hair, my closest friend grabs my clean hand in her smudgy one. She leads my mother and I toward the house as the front door opens and a woman comes out.

  She takes my breath away.

  In a tight sky-blue shirt and black pencil skirt, her heels tap on the wood as she walks across the porch and takes the few steps down to the walkway where we wait. I see a little of Thomas and Becka in her features, but her hair is an unnatural shade of red, flawlessly curled and styled.

  She looks nothing like my mother.

  Within arm’s reach, she extends her hand to my mom and smiles. “You must be Teri.”

  Mom flattens her windblown hair before shaking Mrs. Castor’s hand. “Yes, and your name?”

  “I’m Tommy Castor. I’m sorry that my husband isn’t here. He’s stuck at the office.” Tommy glows charisma and charm.

  Rebecka sticks a finger in her mouth like she’s going to make herself throw up.

  Mom’s cheeks flush. “That’s fine. I wanted to make sure a parent was here.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Tommy promises, brushing my hair off my shoulder. Her touch is comforting and radiates richness. I’m infatuated. “Do you want to come in and look around before you go?”

  With a swift shake of her head, my mom declines. “That’s not necessary.” She kisses my forehead. “I’ll be ba
ck for you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure,” I reply. My heartbeat hurries and anticipation shoots through my arms. I’m ready for her to go.

  When she does, Becka and I sprint to the house.

  Inside the front door, I stop—stunned. I thought the outside was impressive. There’s art on the walls and a huge flat screen TV in the corner. Tommy has shelves full of books and large glass lamps on the wooden end tables.

  Thomas sits on the oversized couch. Petey and Ben are next to him playing video games, three cans of soda and a bag of chips beside their feet.

  I can see Thomas Castor’s toes, and it’s kind of, sort of weird.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Shut up, Thomas. Leighlee can spend the night if she wants to.” Rebecka stands in front of me, blocking my view.

  Thomas looks past her, toward me. “You’re sleeping here? Why?”

  Petey snorts, pressing on the control buttons too hard. I don’t think Ben’s realized I’m here.

  Rebecka’s about to attack when their mother comes in from outside with the mail in her hand. She looks over at Thomas and makes a disapproving noise with her lips. “Thomas, have some fucking manners and be polite.” Tommy halts and looks around. “And clean up this mess before your dad gets home.”

  Thomas sinks into the couch.

  I smile.

  BECKA’S ROOM looks exactly like she told me it did: band posters and incense, silky zebra sheets and piles of dirty clothes. There are broken skateboards under her bed and candy wrappers on her nightstand.

  We sit on the floor in front of her queen-size bed, and I paint her dirt caked fingernails California Raspberry while she nods her head to the song playing from the stereo. I only have one of her hands done when her bedroom door flies open and three boys barge in.

  Petey snags my nail polish bottle, tossing it to Ben. He throws it to Thomas, who dangles it above my head.

  “Want this?” he teases, holding it between his pointer finger and thumb.

  “Yes.” I reach for it, but my best friend’s brother is faster than me.

  Mischief takes a few steps back. Becka tries to go after him, but Petey and Ben pin her to the ground and tickle her sides until her face turns every shade of red.