Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

Plus, they stink.

  I lean over and cup my hand over Becka’s ear so she can hear me whisper, “Boys are gross. Want to go outside?”

  She nods. “Oh yeah.”

  It’s hot out, but the fresh air is welcome. It smells like gardenias and charcoal, and the sun rays tingle my skin. Becka skates while I walk the line of flowers from the porch to the driveway.

  Birthdays here are different than they are with my family. If it was one of ours, Grandma and Grandpa would come to our house. We’d light candles and sing “Happy Birthday.”

  But there are no candle holes in Dusty’s cake, and no one here is old enough to be a grandparent. We don’t sing when Mom calls us inside, but Dusty does open his presents while we all stand back and watch.

  Thomas puts the hat I got him on right away. “Thanks, L,” he says, using only the first initial of my name instead of the whole thing.

  “Still not as cool as my shirt,” Becka comments, talking over everyone. She elbows Petey in the side and takes cake off Ben’s hands, eating his last bite.

  A couple of hours later, when it’s just the five of us again, we all dot her nose with frosting.

  JULY SUN shines into August, and August fades into September. Before I know it, summer is over and it’s the first day of school. Sixth grade.

  Thomas is in junior high this year, so it’s only his sister who gets out of Tommy’s car right before the bell rings. We’re in such a rush we don’t have time to talk before we go into separate classrooms. But we join again at lunch.

  We sit outside on the steps. I’m eating my banana bite by broken off bite, and Becka’s next to me, ignoring her apple sauce. She has one of her shoes off, and Smitty’s on her other side with one of his off too. They trade one shoelace each—her new white one for one of his checkered ones—before slipping their Chucks back on.

  “They’re so … clean,” Becka grumbles. “Here…” she pulls a marker from her pocket and hands me her other new shoe “…write on it.”

  I don’t know what to write, so I turn her shoe around in my hands. A minute ago, I thought they were perfectly clean, but as I look now, I notice there’s writing on the outside, along the bottom.

  Watch out for bed knobs.

  “What’s this mean?” I ask.

  “I got a new bed when I was six. Thomas and I were jumping on it, and my foot slipped. I fell off and cut my face open on the corner of the frame.”

  She points to the little scar in her eyebrow.

  “Six stitches.” She shrugs, pulling her re-laced shoe back on. “Thomas got in big trouble, though. He was supposed to know better because he’s older. Whenever I’m about to do something cool, he tells me to watch out for bed knobs, even if there’s not one a mile in sight.”

  This girl is the toughest person I know. She almost cracked her head open and she told me like it was nothing.

  “That’s crazy,” I tell her, looking down at his handwriting.

  It’s a scary memory, but the last part of the story makes me smile—the part about Thomas telling her to watch out. It’s like this inside-code that no one but them know about.

  I want inside-code-secrets, too.

  Uncapping the marker between my teeth, I start by drawing a heart. Then, slowly and carefully, because it’s hard to write on the edge of a shoe, I write, I love you like banana Popsicles.

  SEPTEMBER FADES into October. Sun rays that tingle turn into clouds that rain and winds that chill. Each day is colder and grayer than the one before it, and today is my birthday.

  Mom hangs up crepe paper streamers and makes punch with juice and sherbet. She puts party favor bags together and bakes an angel food cake. Grandma and Grandpa can’t make it, but Dad agreed to let Becka stay over last night and to let me have more friends over today.

  Laura shows up first, then Jackie. No scandalous Kelly, and no obnoxious boys. At least, until Tommy arrives. Her arms are full of presents when I open the door. It’s overcast outside, but she looks radiant. “Happy birthday, birthday girl!”

  As Becka and I let her by, we see Thomas and Pete on the front porch. Zipped up in black and gray hoodies, they’re also holding presents.

  “I couldn’t carry them all!” I hear Tommy tell my mom.

  “What are you doing here?” Becka asks the boys, crossing her arms. “Mom wouldn’t let you stay home after yesterday?”

  “What happened yesterday?” I ask, glancing over at her.

  “Dad caught them stealing from his liquor cabinet.”

  Thomas’ blue eyes dip like they’re hiding mischief, but his smile is good even through the screen.

  “It’s your birthday, L,” he says, disregarding what Becka said like it’s nothing. “Your choice. Are you going to let us in?”

  I start to smile but hold it down. Without answering, I latch the door and turn my back. Becka whoops victoriously as I take a few steps. But I stop and look over my shoulder.

  “Hey, come on,” Pete says, stepping forward. “Let us in.” He shifts the gift box under one arm and tests the door while his friend hangs back.

  Thomas is silently smug like he knows I’m playing, but there’s something in his eyes I can’t place. The way he looks at me makes my stomach flip, and my heartbeat kind of, sort of skips.

  “No princess jokes,” I tell them.

  “You’re not a birthday princess?” Thomas teases.

  I double back to the door like I’m going to open it to sock him right in his smile.

  “Leighlee,” Mom calls, making Becka and I both turn. She’s walking to us and opening the door. “Let them in. It’s cold outside.”

  “Yeah, it’s cold outside,” Pete repeats as they step in. Becka pushes him as they pass.

  Thomas smirks at me. “Thanks, princess kid.”

  In a living room full of pink decorations and giggling girls, Dusty and Petey stick out like sore thumbs. They’re the only ones wearing black, but it can’t be their hoodies. As everyone else sings to me, Thomas puts his hands in his pockets and leans back against the counter. He doesn’t seem to mind all the family tradition, but Pete keeps shifting on his feet and looking around. Between camera snaps and compliments as I open my gifts, they talk in low tones mostly to each other. They’re polite when Mom offers them drinks, but if unruliness had a look and sound, it would be these boys: zipped up, under their breath, on the sly in front of everyone.

  “There’s one last gift,” Mom says, picking up untied bows and torn wrapping. “Upstairs in your room.”

  Jackie squeaks, and Becka takes off toward the steps. I chase after her.

  “Wait for me,” I call, laughing. “It’s my birthday!”

  I don’t mean to stay upstairs, but there’s a dressing table that wasn’t there this morning, and Mom’s filled it with makeup. I lose track of time with my friends, and when we come back down, Mom and Tommy are in the kitchen drinking coffee.

  “Where’d the boys go?” I ask, a little made-up and one-year-older blissful.

  “They’re out back with your father.”

  I peek out the window with Becka. Thomas’ baseball bag is on the ground, surrounded by yellow and orange leaves, while he bats and Petey pitches. My dad stands further out, wearing a glove I never even knew he had.

  Shifty boys that stood out of place in my kitchen are laughing in my backyard now, and it makes me smile high.

  People leave as the sun sets. The boys come in, and Tommy gives me a hug.

  “Thank you,” I tell her for the earrings and necklace and other presents I haven’t even opened yet.

  Rebecka sticks by me as our moms say goodbye. She sticks her tongue out at Petey as he walks up to us.

  “Happy birthday,” he says, side-eying my lipgloss and offering his hand for a low five. I go to meet him for it, but he pulls away, making me miss. He laughs, but holds his same hand up for a high five he doesn’t back out of.

  As he joins his friend, Thomas pulls his hoodie hood up. His cheeks are red from playing in the cold, bu
t the look he gives me makes me feel warm.

  “Thanks for letting us crash your party,” he says. And then, lower for me, “Happy birthday, sunny side.”

  “I don’t know why she buys me this shit.” Rebecka tosses a pile of brand-new clothes across her room. “Do I look like this type of girl, Bliss?”

  I smile and shake my head, blowing on my wet nails. “She’s trying to be nice.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand?” I ask, cleaning excess color off my finger with the edge of my thumb nail.

  She huffs, kicking another pile of clothes. It’s Friday and we just got out of school. My mom and dad took the weekend off, deciding to actually celebrate their wedding anniversary this year. I’ll be with the Castors until Sunday.

  Dad wasn’t exactly sold on the idea of my being in the care of non-family members while they’re out of town, but he caved. Sometimes I don’t know what his deal is, and I’m not convinced that he likes Luke. I know for a fact that he fights some inner battle regarding Thomas.

  But he’s just a boy. Thomas is like a brother to me.

  “You’re too young to understand,” Dad will say. “You can’t trust a teenager’s intentions, Leigh.”

  Dads will do that, though.

  So will Moms, apparently.

  When we got home from school today, we found a stack of clothes folded on Rebecka’s bed, courtesy of her mother. I was excited, running my fingers over the lacy-lace, silky-silk, and cottony-cotton. Becka threw a temper tantrum—one she’s still currently pitching.

  If there is one thing I’ve learned in the year I’ve known Tommy, it’s that she wishes her only daughter was more like me and less like … Rebecka. She forces the pinks, and the bows, and the jellies, but Becka isn’t a pushover.

  If it were all for me, I’d be one happy daughter.

  “Do you want this stuff?” My best friend holds up a light pink sundress. “I’ll never wear any of it, and she…” Rebecka spits “…won’t take any of it back.”

  I touch the surface of my nails to feel if they’re dry. Once I’m happy that they won’t smudge, I set my hands in my lap and give Becka a pouty lip. “I can’t take your new clothes.”

  She blows her overgrown bangs out of her eyes. “Tell your pops I let you borrow them or something. Tell him I got them for your birthday.” She takes the dozen or so shirts, and the four or five dresses, and stuffs them into my overnight bag. “There, now they’re yours.”

  “My birthday was five months ago,” I say lowly. I don’t go without at home and if I ever need anything all I have to do is ask, but my parents can’t afford to get me these dresses and these shirts. Of course I want them.

  “Leigh …” Rebecka rolls her eyes, beginning to speak, but she’s cut off when the door from down the hall slams shut, shaking the picture frames on her wall. I jump, and Becka singsongs, “Thomas is home.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask, slowly taking her clothes out of my bag while she straightens the poster hanging above her dresser.

  “Hormones,” she replies with a shrug.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Hormones?”

  “Mom says Thomas has teenage boy hormones. Something about growing hair in odd places and extra, misplaced testosterone. Whatever, it’s why he’s always grumpy.”

  Stunned, I think about it for a moment and say, “Does that mean Petey and Ben are suffering from hormones, too?”

  Thomas is always grouchy, but so are his friends. No one can ask them to do anything without getting a dirty look or an ice-cold shoulder. Thomas talks back to his parents, and he’s always slamming doors: car doors, bedroom doors, sliding glass doors.

  Becka scoffs. “God, yes.”

  “How long does it last?” I hope Thomas doesn’t grow hair on his knuckles like our gross school librarian.

  “At least through the seventh grade.”

  My eyes open widely. “You mean Thomas is going to be grumpy for another four months?”

  She nods. “At least.”

  “Do you want to go ask why he’s in a bad mood?”

  “No, not really,” she says. On the floor, she’s literally using her foot to pack down the clothes so they’ll fit inside my bag. She pushes and shoves and rams until the seams stretch and the zipper snags on one of the dresses. It won’t close, but it’s good enough for her. “But we can.”

  THOMAS STANDS in front of his dresser with his back toward us, looking through his CDs. Fresh out of baseball practice, his hat is on backwards and his white pants hang low. He doesn’t notice that Becka and I have entered his personal space, though I wish he had. His hormones make him unpredictable, and I don’t want him upset that we’re here uninvited.

  We sit on the edge of his bed and wait for him to see us. He switches the CD and turns the music up before flipping his hat forward and turning our way.

  He doesn’t flinch. “Hey,” he mutters.

  The front of his baseball uniform is covered in orange clay dust and his lip is busted. Rebecka laughs, but I’m a little more concerned. I examine him from cleat to hat-hair; his knuckles are red and swollen, but besides the busted lip and dirty clothes, he seems to be fine.

  Irritable, but fine.

  “What happened to you?” his sister asks, flipping through a magazine she snatches from the nightstand. She lies back on his pillows, putting her dirty Chucks on his blanket.

  Thomas pulls off his shirt and tosses it in the direction of his laundry hamper. I try not to look, but he’s in a white tank and his bare arms make it hard not to.

  “I had a misunderstanding with that Jordan kid.” Thomas pulls out his computer chair and takes a seat. With the right side of his mouth curved up, he tosses a blue lighter into the air and catches it in the palm of his hand. “He’s an asshole.”

  I’m used to his language—it’s a Thomas thing.

  “Mom’s pissed,” Rebecka says indifferently. “She’s going to tell Dad.”

  Thomas loses the smirk and drops his head back. He sinks into the chair and his knees part. “So what?”

  I don’t know when it happened, or if teenage boy hormones are to blame, but Thomas grew up. The boyish softness he used to have in his face has hardened and become so serious. He’s almost as tall as his dad, and there’s muscle in his arms that wasn’t there last year. His crystal blue eyes have deepened and lost the openness they had when he stole my nail polish and made me chase him into the same room we’re all sitting in right now.

  He’s too old for his age.

  “Are you staying the night, Bliss?” Thomas catches me off guard.

  “Yeah,” I say, shaking my head … watching, wondering.

  Thomas nods, flipping the lighter between his fingers. “That’s cool. That beach party is tonight. Mom wants us to go.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Rebecka rolls her eyes. “Dad’s firm is donating some money to the lighthouse. Which is nice, but they’re a bunch of asshole lawyers if you want my opinion.”

  My eyes widen when she curses.

  “I should probably get dressed. I need to be the good child tonight.” Thomas stands up and his sister drops the magazine back onto the night stand.

  With no respect for his bed, she walks across the mattress and jumps off the edge, landing on her feet. I follow behind her like a normal person, walking past Thomas with a small smile. I’m not surprised when he reaches out and touches a lock of my hair.

  Curling it around his finger, he tugs a little. “See ya, pretty girl.”

  I swat his hand away like I have many times before and push my hair over my shoulder. After looking down the hall to make sure Becka isn’t waiting for me, I lean against the doorframe in front of Dusty and ask, “Why did you get into a fight?”

  “Boy stuff,” he says, leaving it at that.

  “Like what?” I ask. He doesn’t make me nervous like he used to. He doesn’t make me anything but curious. “Did he take your ball or something?”

  Thomas
tilts his head back and laughs. I can see all of his teeth and the sound is real.

  “No, Bliss, he didn’t take my ball.”

  I smile, wishing he would do it again—laugh. “Then what happened?”

  Thomas licks the cut on his lip and pauses before answering, “I got in a fight over a girl.”

  I giggle because, what?

  Boyfriends and girlfriends are nothing new to me. I’ve heard Petey talk about the girls at their new school. Ben said Petey kissed Kelly once. I know that Smitty wants Rebecka to be his girlfriend, and I know Becka wants Smitty to be her guy, but because she’s her, she’s always telling him no.

  But I’ve never heard anything like this from Thomas. It’s kind of outrageous.

  “There is this new girl in school. Valarie,” he explains, sort of smiling.

  I scoff and Thomas laughs again, but not like before. He rushes the rest of the details. “Jordan likes her, but she likes me, and we got into a fight about it at baseball practice. That’s all.”

  “Do you like her?” I ask, enticed. This is an untouched side of Thomas.

  “What?” He chuckles, running a nervous hand through his wrecked hair. “I don’t know. Maybe. She’s pretty.”

  I suck in a slow breath. “You think she’s pretty?”

  Thomas walks away from me, back toward his dresser. The song changes and his room fills with the low guitar and slow, smooth flow of “D’yer Mak’er.” My mom used to listen to this same song when I was little. With a ladle as her microphone and the kitchen as a dance floor, she’d rock her hips and flip her hair.

  Now this song will forever remind me of Thomas and this moment instead.

  “It’s not about her, Bliss. She’s whatever.” The lighter is back in the air, into his palm. Up and down, again and again.

  “Oh,” I say, pushing myself away from the door. I don’t understand what he means or what the heaviness in my chest is, but the idea of Thomas fighting over a girl he might like is … hurtful.

  As I turn to leave, Thomas says in his normal patronizing tone, “Leigh, you’re still the prettiest.”

  ON THE way to Agate Beach, I sit in my normal spot between Rebecka and Thomas in the back of Luke’s Mercedes. I’ve attended my share of fundraisers with the Castors. Lucas’ firm donates to the community and his family is expected to show up to these functions with perfect, happy faces. Sometimes that includes me.