Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  “Hey,” he says to both of us. His feet are bare and he’s wearing black sweats, a plain white tee, and his hair has obviously been towel dried after a shower and pushed around by his fingers. His mood seems twice as light as it was earlier, but the calm after the storm is often as unpredictable as the thunder.

  “Alright, come on,” Becka starts. “You wrote Kelly a dirty love note?”

  Thomas snorts, shaking his head as he drags his hand down his face. He glances between us and the television.

  “Fuck no,” he says, holding his hand out when she picks up the bag of Twizzlers. “Petey wrote it.”

  Holding one between her front teeth, B pulls two more pieces of licorice out and hands them to me. I keep one and pass the other to Thomas. Taking a tiny bite, I glance between Doc Brown and the delinquent boy with summer-sky blue eyes.

  “I knew it.” Becka taps candy against her lips, chewing a bite. “What’d it say?”

  He kind of chuckles, taking a bite of licorice before he continues. “We got stoned Wednesday and he wrote some stuff he wanted to tell her but he was too pussy to give it to her himself.”

  Rebecka doesn’t ask why he didn’t tell the principal it was Petey who wrote whatever was inappropriate, neither do I. What I want to ask, what’s taken over my brain, is if he’s going to run away. But I don’t have the heart to bring it up. Thankfully, his sister keeps asking questions.

  “What are you going to tell Dad?”

  He shrugs. “Whatever. What’s he going to do, ground me?”

  “I’m just saying, last time he said—”

  “They’re not going to send me to boot camp, Rebecka.” He cuts her off with a half-assuring, half-don’t-be-ridiculous look. “If they were, Dad would have done it last week when he found my bag.”

  Our jaws drop in sync. It makes him laugh.

  I know Dusty smokes, but there’s something about knowing he had it on him—that he carries it and had it here—that kind of makes him cooler.

  “Dad found a bag on you?” Becka asks. “What’d he say?”

  Thomas smirks, unaffected. “That it was better than the shit he smoked in college.”

  While I’m sort of taken aback by the thought of Lucas ever smoking pot, his daughter scoffs, annoyed.

  “Give me another piece of licorice, Bliss.” His low tone is summertime warm and his blue eyes are crystal clear persuasive. I take two more pieces out and pass one to him.

  While the movie plays, I watch Thomas lean back, letting his head rest against the overstuffed chair. He bends one of his knees and stretches an arm over his head; the other rests across his stomach. It makes him look careless and older than fourteen, but his ease and proximity replace the worry in my nerves with a Dusty-steadied heartbeat.

  I stretch my legs, popping my toes against the cushions, and curl up contentedly. I don’t realize I’ve nodded off until I hear Thomas say my name.

  “Leigh.” His voice is low pitched and his hand is light on my shoulder as he nudges me awake.

  I open my eyes to a flash of headlights in the driveway. The television is off and Becka’s passed out on the other end of the couch. I lean up onto my elbow as Thomas turns.

  “See ya.” He heads toward the stairs before his parents come in.

  Worry and wonder return to me as he leaves, but I can’t blame him. If I were in his shoes, I’d probably do the same. Becka wakes up as her parents come in. Lucas kisses our foreheads and says goodnight while Tommy lingers for a few minutes. She picks up our snacks, telling us about his client’s awful hair plugs and his wife’s red lipstick on her teeth before we head upstairs.

  Ever the odd couple, B and I slip into bed like opposites that complement each other. She sleeps in mismatched socks, while I love the slide of sheets along my bare feet.

  “I love you like smashed chocolate cake,” she tells me with a yawn.

  I smile in the dark. “I love you like little green lizards.”

  We turn together, getting comfortable under blankets and on pillows that smell like both of us. I sink into familiar softness and let my eyes close, but they don’t stay that way.

  They adjust to the dark as sleep doesn’t come. I turn onto my back. I flip to my other side. Winter moonlight glows through her curtains, outlining everything in silvery white as I stretch out and curl up.

  What Thomas said about getting out of here twists around my mind and tightens my stomach. The rest of his family doesn’t seem worried, and I try to tell myself it was frustration coming out in words I haven’t heard yet. But it doesn’t work. Long after Becka’s snoring, I’m wide awake: fidgeting, uncomfortable, and restless.

  Careful in the nighttime stillness, I open her door to find the hallway as dim and silent as her room. The whole house is sleepy silent.

  Except Thomas.

  Light glows under his doorway, and I hear the muffled hum of his television as I pass his room. With the bathroom door closed with me inside, I don’t know if it’s the cool water I touch to my face or the fact that he’s awake, but I feel better. I pat my face dry, and the apparent cure to my apprehensions is suddenly unmistakable in my mind.

  I consider hesitating.

  I think about my parents.

  I should probably go back to my best friend’s room and try to sleep, but I can’t do it. I don’t want to.

  I tiptoe the quietest steps down the hall toward Thomas’ room instead of Becka’s. By the time I get to his door, my heart’s fluttering. Uncertain but enlivened, I tap against white painted oak as lightly as I can. The television on the other side of it gets turned down, and it’s the exact encouragement my nerves need. The doorknob feels like cool assurance and validation as I turn it and open his door.

  Thomas is in bed, on top of the covers, leaning against his headboard in the same clothes he was in earlier. He sits up straight, questioning me with anxious blues.

  “I can’t sleep,” I whisper, closing his door.

  “Where’s Becka?” he asks. “Do you want me to get my mom?”

  “No.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Becka’s fine,” I tell him, pulling my hair over my shoulder, fidgeting with the ends. “I can’t sleep.”

  Thomas looks as unsure as me, so I let go of strawberry blonde strands and sit in the same spot on his bed where I’ve sat a hundred times before. I feel sort of dumb for startling him, but my nerves have calmed and I don’t want to go back to tossing and turning in Becka’s room.

  “Can I … like, watch television with you?” I ask.

  His eyes soften and he nods. It’s easy. It’s me and Thomas.

  I climb up and pull the covers back while he changes the channel. I curve my arm under a gray pillow. It’s cool on my cheek and I can smell him—sweet grass, trouble, smoke, and vanilla. There’s a matching gray comforter on top of black sheets making me feel cozy-safe and sleepy-comfortable.

  We don’t talk, but it’s not awkward. We just watch TV.

  “BLISS,” THOMAS whispers.

  I stretch my arms and legs under warm bedding that smells like pure, unreserved mischief. It’s familiar and welcome, and I don’t want to open my eyes yet.

  “Hey.” The bed shifts and I feel his hand on my shoulder, nudging me gently from my Dusty-reverie.

  Early morning light glows through his curtains and there’s enough that I can make Thomas out. Still on top of the covers, still in his same clothes, he’s leaning on his elbow and looking down at me. His hair’s a fuzzy flurry of dark blonde goodness, and his sleepy blues are kind. I’ve seen him like this at the breakfast table, but this is better.

  Thomas’ just woke up look is dreamy.

  “It’s early,” he says, his voice is deeper than usual, slack and heavy and inviting. Winter sunrise backlights him as he smiles a half smirk. “You need to get back to Becka’s room before she wakes up.”

  I’m reluctant to pull the blankets down; my hair probably looks crazy. I’m surrounded in warmth and peace of mind I don’t want to leave, but
Thomas’ tired smile is equal parts assuring and heartening. It’s enough to make me nod and get up.

  I walk softly to his door and turn the handle with both hands for extra-cautious quiet. I peek out into the hall to be sure all the doors are still closed before I look back over my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, meeting his early morning blues once more before I slip out.

  With his door closed behind me, the rest of the house is silent. Lucas and Tommy are still in their room, and Becka’s snoring her little snore when I re-enter hers. I’m safe, uncaught—my middle of the night acts unknown—and there’s a rush of fluttering in my stomach. It tickles and tempts, and I wonder if this is how Thomas feels every time he gets away with breaking a rule.

  I curl down and snuggle up into Becka’s checkered pillows and neon green sheets, but I smell like vanilla and the woods and trouble.

  And I kind of love it.

  LIFE IS easy, and it goes on. Between returning to school, homework and midterms, and weekends with my best friend, ice-cold winter melts slowly into slick-bright springtime. It’s finally warm enough to wear dresses again, and Becka put new hot pink wheels on her board this afternoon.

  It’s after one in the morning on our first night of spring break, and after a day spent in the sun, she’s passed out hard.

  I’m far from sleepy.

  Lucas and Tommy are across the street with their neighbor friends, and Ben, Petey, and Thomas are down the hall. With no other sound except for Becka’s ceiling fan, I can hear them laughing and carrying on.

  I flip onto my back, wondering what they’re doing.

  As winter clouds have faded away for clear skies, the boys have grown taller, sneakier, and more rebellious. When they do go, I’m pretty sure they go to school high, because they’ve started to wear their sunglasses all the time—whether the sun is shining or not.

  Valarie wears hers all the time too. “Because when you’re cool,” she told me, “the sun is always shining.”

  I stretch my legs out and pop my toes under the blankets while my thoughts drift.

  Valarie’s nice, even to Becka who never stops antagonizing her. She taught me how to fishtail braid and always offers me a piece of gum. I want to like her. Sometimes I feel like I do, but we’re different. She lives in a world I can’t imagine.

  She and Thomas still deny they’re a couple, but she wears his old Ray-Bans. I’ve seen Dusty written on her left palm in black ink, and he takes the phone to his room and closes the door when she calls.

  I roll my eyes in the dark. I close them and bend my knees, unable to get comfortable.

  Thomas’ hormones have ebbed, but every time his door slams, I still wonder if he’s going to run away. Some of the fights he has with his parents make me certain he’s going to bolt for the front door instead of his own any day now.

  I haven’t snuck back to his room since the night I spent in his bed, half because I’m scared of getting caught and my parents never letting me come back here, and half because of how embarrassed I’d feel if he told me to leave. But to say I haven’t thought about it would be a lie, especially when I get this restless.

  I should count sheep, but I push blankets back instead. I get out of bed, pull one of B’s tees over my camisole, and retrace my actions from months ago.

  In the hallway, the sounds coming from Thomas’ room aren’t as muffled. As I tiptoe to the bathroom for a drink, I hear Ben’s laugh and Petey insulting him over video game gunshots. I don’t understand why boys enjoy trash talking, but with the bathroom door closed behind me, I smile. The nearness of their chaos and crude camaraderie is composing and familiar, like home.

  Filling the little cup next to the sink, I take a few sips and look at myself in the mirror. Sun freckles have come out across my nose and cheeks, and when I turn to the side and look at my profile, I notice that Becka’s shirt looks different on me than it does on her. My small curves are subtle, but I can see them under faded black cotton. I’m not as tall or tan as Valarie, but I’ve grown.

  I pour what’s left of the water into the sink and return the cup, flipping the light back off as I open the door. As I do, Thomas’ door opens.

  Petey steps one foot into the hallway but keeps his other in Thomas’ room, facing his friends.

  “Look.” I hear Ben chuckling. “You’re doing better paused than you were playing, loser.”

  “Would a loser have fingered Kelly behind the bleachers today?” Petey replies, causing my eyes to widen and deeper snickering to echo from Thomas’ room as he turns.

  Floored and instantly pink-cheeked by what he said, I’m caught.

  “Hey, princess Blissy-bliss,” Petey says. His grin is goofy and his steps look clumsy-heavy. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  I sigh and cross my arms. “Isn’t it past yours? Aren’t you supposed to turn into a gremlin?”

  “Maybe.” He walks toward me. “Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “Shut my door,” Thomas calls from his room.

  His best friend snorts, ignoring him and reaching for my hand.

  “Come on,” he says, tugging me from the bathroom doorway and dragging me to Thomas’ room. I peek around his shoulder as both boys look up.

  “Look who doesn’t turn into a pumpkin after midnight,” Petey teases.

  Thomas’ blue eyes are dark and mellow-elated as he sits up straighter. It reminds me of the last time I came here in the middle of the night, and I feel silly.

  “Hi.” I wave.

  It’s quick, but Ben sits up and asks Petey, “I thought you we’re getting food?”

  Thomas’ eyes flick from mine to his friend’s loose grip above my wrist.

  “Oh yeah,” Pete remembers. He lets go and heads back out while Thomas shoots me a grin. It’s the same one from the morning he woke me up. The one he slips me in the hallway at school when no one is looking.

  Sitting up against the foot of his bed, he scoots over. “Come sit by me, Bliss.”

  Next to Thomas, every concern about getting caught disintegrates. Every apprehension, misgiving, and nerve ending is nothing compared to the excitement of being included in their up-all-night mischief.

  Their unrest isn’t the same as my restlessness. Petey returns with snacks, and all they’re doing is stealing cars and beating up cops on screen, but it’s behind Thomas’ closed door, and it’s thrilling.

  They’re also sharing a big, green glass bottle amongst themselves. Jameson, I think the off-white label says, and it’s more than exciting. It makes my conscience tingle and my heartbeat deepen.

  While they pass the controllers and the bottle, I silently hope it isn’t from Lucas’s cabinet. I don’t ask, because I don’t want to sound like the annoying little sister in a room of cool kids, but I can feel my sense of right and wrong challenging how good being bad feels.

  Stretching my legs out in front of myself, I glance at Ben from the corner of my eye. His cheeks are rosy-pink and he’s slouched further down than he was when I came in. Petey can’t stop laughing, even when he mentions feeling woozy. Their lids are low and their shoulders are slumped. Their movements are uncoordinated and their smiles ridiculously lopsided. Even Thomas’ smirk looks plastered on his face.

  The boys are drunk.

  Part of me fights to keep from giggling, and part of me wants to go get Becka so she can see. Another part of me is instantly wary, and yet another part is undeniably curious.

  As Petey’s character dies, he passes the controller to Ben and picks up the Jameson. After pulling two gulps, he nudges the bottle in my direction without looking over. Like it’s no big deal. Like it’s nothing at all, but I’ve never felt pressure to be cool as I do in this moment.

  I take the bottle with both hands, and Petey laughs.

  “You’re such a fucking girl, Leigh.” He reaches gracelessly over, showing me how to hold the bottle by its skinny neck in one hand.

  In my peripheral vision, Thomas turns away from the television and toward us
.

  “Wait.” He sets the controller down mid-game.

  “Hey, come on. What the fuck, you pussy—” Ben laughs.

  Thomas doesn’t reply. His crooked smile curves higher as he focuses on the bottle and me. “Wait for me, L,” he says, scooting back and adjusting his posture, causing our shoulders to bump. The contact encourages my confidence, and I read the label to further distract myself from pressure.

  Triple distilled.

  Irish whiskey.

  40% ABV (80 proof)

  I bring the bottle to my nose and regret sniffing immediately. The scent burns my sinuses and prickles my nerves. The little hairs on my arms stand up and my stomach dips. I feel Thomas’ eyes before he takes the whiskey from me.

  “It’s okay,” he tells me softly, like he senses my hesitation.

  I press my lips together, looking at stitching in the bottom of his tee shirt and the copper teeth of his unzipped hoodie zipper. He won’t make fun of me if I don’t take a drink, but I still want to anyway.

  “I know,” I say, meeting his sincere but triple-distilled dark blues. “I want to.”

  The corners of his smile hem in and sort of harden. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine, and his voice is as low when he speaks again.

  “You don’t have to,” he insists, sounding as sincere as he does serious, like maybe he’d actually rather I didn’t.

  “I want to try it,” I return with matching insistence, shaking the tension off and reaching for the contraband in his hands.

  “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

  Holding the Jameson by its neck like Petey showed me, Thomas takes a drink and turns his body more toward mine. Our shoulders disconnect, but our knees bump. I lift my hand to take my turn, but he brings the bottle up for me.

  Holding the green glass above my mouth, he whispers, “Last chance.”

  I shrug it off with closed eyes and an open smile. I tilt my head back, and he tips the bottle to my lips. He pours slowly, and liquor hits my tongue like a splash of fire.

  It’s the worst, most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.

  My face contorts into an absurd expression as I swallow. The bottle’s gone the second the Jameson is down my throat, and I’m coughing. I blink and exhale all the oxygen in my chest out my mouth, letting fresh air hit my tongue in hopes it will take away the rotten tasting burning feeling.