Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  Rebecka high-fives Smitty and looks at me with blue eyes that glint and elate. When she’s excited, she smiles to the sky and back, and takes everyone with her.

  I pull her hood up and tug the strings until black cotton gathers tightly around her cheeks. She scrunches her nose and makes a funny face. “One week is like ten years in best friend time,” mine explains to Oliver like it’s a matter of fact.

  “It’s true.” I put my backpack on. “I almost died of a broken heart in her absence.”

  Oliver smirks. It’s cute, but I know a better one.

  “You can’t die from a broken heart,” he says.

  Once again, he has no idea.

  I lace-lock my bare fingers between Becka’s gloved ones. She brings my hand up and kisses the back of it for all to see, but the hallway’s nearly empty save for us, and I’m ready to go. I’ve waited all week for the freedom under her roof.

  “Actually, yes,” Becka says with certainty and confidence under her scrunched-up hood. “You can.”

  AS SOON as we walk through Becka’s front door, I feel it. The air inside is warm, but more bitten and bitter feeling than outside. It doesn’t lift the cold from me, because before I can see what’s going on, I hear it.

  “You can’t keep doing this shit, Thomas. How many strings do you think I can fucking pull?”

  The silence Luke’s third-degree lecturing is met with weighs heavy on my eagerly beating heart. Tommy heads toward the commotion while her daughter wanders to the kitchen. I follow, but can’t help stealing a quick glance into the living room.

  Thomas doesn’t look up as his mother approaches. He’s slouched with his long legs stretched out and open in front of him. His head is leaned back where his arms are draped across the back of the couch. His eyes are open, but he’s staring at the ceiling.

  “You don’t let anyone push you around. I didn’t raise you to be a punk, but you don’t go off on everyone who looks at you wrong. And you’re done ditching school. I’m tired of this—”

  “What happened?” Tommy asks in her husband’s pause.

  “He broke some kid’s nose. While he was supposed to be in biology.”

  “Dammit, Thomas—” Tommy Castor’s silk-soft, smile-sweet voice turns into disgust and exasperation faster than I can blink.

  I’ve seen my parents angry. They drove me right back here to return the phone when they saw it, but they didn’t raise their voices. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard either of them yell, and they don’t use curse words. Not with other people or one another, and certainly not with me.

  And, they’re consistent.

  Rules aren’t blurry at my house like they are here. At home-home, wrong is wrong. Drinking, drugs, fighting, it’s all wrong. Here, it’s okay to mix a few cocktails or smoke a little weed, as long as it stays here. It’s apparently okay to fight too, so long as someone else takes the first swing or really deserves it.

  Maybe if I got into half the trouble Thomas does, I’d see a different side of my parents.

  “Come on,” Rebecka says, grabbing sodas and a bag of chips. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  I’m unable to keep from stealing another glance into the living room on our way upstairs. Tommy’s eyes are narrowed. She’s glaring at her son like she’s resisting every urge to wring his neck.

  “How could you be so stupid, Dusty? What are we supposed to do when somebody finally decides to press charges?”

  Thomas is laid back, wide open like a target while his parents throw questions at him he’s not meant to answer. He takes it, and all I can think is, every second he sits there is another second closer to him leaving. All this interrogation is making him to want to run away even more, even sooner.

  He doesn’t care.

  When we get to Becka’s room, my week’s worth of longing and anticipation feel like conflict and disappointment. Thomas being lectured, questioned, and threatened isn’t anything new. It’s becoming normal the older he gets.

  With her door closed and her television louder than necessary, I can’t make out anything downstairs. I wait for his door to slam, or for his bag to hit the wall, or bass beats from his room to rattle Rebecka’s, but nothing happens. Afternoon fades into evening, and not knowing what happened, how trial and punishment ended, bothers me.

  Did they all leave?

  Was this fight so bad they finally carted Thomas off to boot camp without letting him pack a bag or say goodbye?

  The thought makes my stomach ache all the way up into my chest.

  When we head downstairs for dinner, Lucas and Tommy have left, but there’s light and music coming out from Thomas’ closed door. I feel better knowing he’s here, but not by much. Not really, especially once Becka and Smitty start texting. My phone’s in my pocket so I can feel it, but it never vibrates.

  I check it around midnight to be sure it hasn’t died. It hasn’t. And it sort of stings.

  Maybe he’s still bent out of shape, but Thomas knows I’m here. He could text me something. Anything. There’s no rule that says he’s supposed to treat me differently than everyone else, but maybe there should be. Because getting into bed with Becka and questioning where I’m going to sleep tonight isn’t right.

  I’m supposed to be with him.

  On my back, next to my fast asleep best friend, I watch the shadows on her walls while minutes pass.

  Ten.

  Fifteen.

  I can faintly hear music coming from his room, and I want to go, but why should I?

  He couldn’t even say hello to me.

  I bend my knees and pop my toes under shared blankets.

  After the first night I spent with Thomas, three months passed before I snuck down to his room again. Now, it’s a given: staying over with Rebecka means stolen nights with Dusty. We’re a world apart the rest of the time, and he rarely lets me forget it—until we’re in his room. Alone, we’re us: an innocent secret made of bad habits spread across his bed.

  I cherish that. I crave it.

  It’s what makes not hearing from him so disheartening.

  ANOTHER TEN minutes pass. Fifteen. Becka’s snoozing hard after another half hour, and I think again about going. Thomas’ bad moods don’t deter me, but the thought that maybe he’d rather be alone—or worse—that maybe he’s on the phone with someone else, makes my stomach knot and my heartbeat feel strenuous.

  Another ten minutes pass. Luke and Tommy return home, and I hate what I feel.

  Little sister.

  Doubtful.

  Confused.

  I’m turn onto my side, about to get up and go when my phone finally buzzes under the pillows.

  One new message from Dusty.

  What are you waiting for, princess girl?

  My stomach dips around knots and my heartbeat gives a little flutter, but I don’t reply. I darken the screen and take a purposefully slow breath. I lie in the warmth of his invitation for a minute, loving the way making him wait feels.

  After taking my time pulling his hoodie on and my hair into a ponytail, I step stealthily down to the door I’ve wanted behind all week.

  Thomas is posted in front of his window when I slip inside. Lit only by the glow of his desk lamp, he’s barefoot under black sweats and wearing a plain white tee. His room is warm. It smells like soap and smoke, and sounds like summer in the middle of fall thanks to the acoustic guitar drifting from his stereo. The corners of his lips turn up when he sees me, and all my anxiousness and doubts are gone.

  Taking in my sleepwear, his low-lidded blues beam.

  “What took you so long?” I ask, half playing, half serious, all softly—trying to feel out his mood.

  Thomas brings the joint back to his lips. As he pulls a hit, the sight of his cracked-open, bruised-up knuckles makes my heart skip a beat. I want to ask him about the fight, but he looks like he has something to say.

  He blows smoke and tosses the roach out his window. When he closes it, no chill lingers as he steps toward me. The closer he get
s, the warmer I am.

  Toe-to-toe, but nowhere near the same height, I look up. I want an answer, but Thomas regards me with arched brows and eyes that are equal parts high, sincere, and confident.

  I’m about to prompt him—don’t ignore me all night—but he smirks. Exhaling a laugh that’s all breath, he steps past me, turns off his desk lamp, and takes my hand.

  The way it feels in the dark is beyond compare.

  He leads me to my side of his bed without a word. I climb in, trying to untangle sheets and blankets that smell so good I all but hum as he slides in behind me. He helps me with the covers and turns my body, carefully but surely bringing my back to his chest.

  Surrounded by cozy-cool sheets, Thomas wraps his arm around me and makes my heart pulse deep eager beats. All my confusion, everything I wanted to ask and say, dwindles away. There’s nothing but his arms, his strength, the feel of his breath on my neck—him. Just him.

  I smile secretly and wonder if he can feel my heart, because I can definitely feel his. It’s beating steadily between my shoulders, and I want more of it. More of this. I want this all the time.

  Thomas finds my hand under his blankets. He gathers me a little closer, and it’s overwhelming—the effect this touch has on my pulse. In front of me, he curves his fingers between mine and my heart beats so deeply I hear it in my ear drums. I taste it on the back of my tongue, and I feel it in my palm.

  “Don’t do that again, baby,” he tells me softly. I hesitate but loosen my fingers, worried I’ve hurt his cut up knuckles, but he brushes his thumb across the top of my hand.

  “Don’t make me wait for you,” he says, and I understand.

  Shifting our hands, I cover his with mine and close my eyes. I fall asleep softly touching around split-cut knuckles and savoring our secret in the dark.

  THREE WEEKS later, I’m in my mom’s living room, eating a second slice of pre-dinner pumpkin pie, wishing I was sipping hot chocolate in front of the Castors’ fireplace instead.

  It’s Thanksgiving and Dad’s parents are visiting. Being anywhere but here today and tomorrow goes without saying. I play my part and it’s not terrible. I’ll be free again on Saturday, but that feels a million years away.

  At the table, we take turns sharing thanks. Bliss is one of the many things Mom and Dad both say. I don’t share all of mine out loud, but I’m thankful Grandma and Grandpa are here. I’m thankful for both my families. My parents are irreplaceable, but I love Lucas and Tommy, too.

  I’m thankful we moved to Newport, and that Dad was right about me making friends.

  I’m more than thankful for Becka. She’s my partner and my accomplice, and my best friend above all.

  Between bites, I smile to myself. Deep down, I’m more than thankful for Thomas.

  As insistent as he is on me acting my age, Thomas treats me like more of an adult than anyone, because we share the biggest secret. Our trust in each other goes somewhere beyond best friend trust, and I’m doubly thankful for it.

  I’ve found a friend for life in Thomas, like I have in Rebecka. I don’t know how we survived before we met. My life feels like it was so blank before them.

  After dinner, while I’m helping Mom clean up, Grandma turns to me between dishes.

  “Anything extra special on your Christmas list this year?” she asks.

  “New snow boots,” I say instead of more freedom, a few chances, and a little faith from the people who gave me life. “Gray ones, with extra grip on the bottom.”

  When I pop the wishbone later with Grandpa, I secretly ask for Thomas to stay in Saturday night. I miss him. I miss the breath-shallowing, pulse-deepening, undefinable and overwhelming way our borrowed time makes me feel. I miss his laugh and his bed, and his just-awake face and sleepy voice. I miss the soft tone he uses when he calls me baby, and holding hands in the dark, and the way he looks at me in the morning. I miss his arms, and his heartbeat, and … him.

  Stuffed and sleepy, I say goodnight and head up to my room. With my door closed and music turned on low, I change into pink and ivory striped pants and the matching tank top before heading to my closet. I grab Thomas’ hoodie from its hidden corner and pull it on over my pajamas.

  It’s losing its woodsy-vanilla-trouble smell, but with the hood up and deep breaths, I still get hints of Dusty.

  I think about texting him, but I don’t know what to say. Flipping off the overhead light, I turn on my nightstand lamp and open The Giver.

  My lids grow heavy after a few pages. I can’t help it; I’ve got Thomas’ sleeves pulled down around my fingers and my fabric covered fingers pressed to my chin and lips. The sleeves are soft on my skin, and the smell of trouble all around my senses lulls my consciousness and sends my sleepy curiosity to a place it’s never quite gone before.

  When the idea of taking my tank top off from under his hoodie first occurs to me, I pause under a wave of shyness. I feel sort of silly.

  But, I’m alone in my room. It can be my own secret. No one will ever know.

  Sitting up, I tug the sweater and my sleep shirt both off.

  Momentarily topless, I separate dark blue baseball cotton from light pink pajamas, and toss my tank top toward my closet. Biting the bottom of my smile, I slip my arms back into his sleeves and pull the sweatshirt back over my head.

  Thomas’ hoodie on my bare skin is better than anything I could have imagined. It swallows me in cozy weight and feels like trusty shelter. Bringing the hood up, I lie back down and stretch my arms across my bed. Warm, worn cotton slides with my movement, brushing along my stomach and chest and delicate places.

  It thrills and captivates and teases. So, I take hold of the bottom edge with both hands. I give the littlest tug, so I can feel that again.

  I press my lips together to keep from gasping as soft fabric skims and tickles across sensitive spots. My skin feels tingly and tight, like when I’m cold, but this is different. My cheeks blush, and my pulse picks up, and my hands repeat the little pull movement again all on their own.

  Turning my face into the hood, I close my eyes. Everything is Thomas, everywhere. I stretch and shift, making the well-worn material slide in a way that tightens the tickle-tingle all over and under my skin until it feels so good it almost hurts.

  The cotton caress thrills sort of amaze me, and I turn to my side and reach for my phone. I text Thomas:

  I know you know I love it, but it’s Thanksgiving. I’m thankful for your hoodie. That’s all.

  Tucking my phone under my pillow and turning my lamp off, I snuggle down into Dusty-scented warmth and brand-new sensations. I close my eyes and sigh, and a second later my phone vibrates. The words that glow in the dark light my whole world up.

  You should be next to me.

  GRANDMA SENDS my new boots in the mail two weeks later. They’re waiting for me when I get home from school, and once they’re on I don’t ever want to take them off.

  “They’re like armor,” I explain to Thomas in my quietest voice. I said goodnight to my parents hours ago, but I’m still careful. And I’m still wearing my boots.

  “They’re invincible. Like, I can walk on or through anything with them,” I continue, tapping the toes together on top of my bedspread.

  Thomas laughs, all breath and lungs and beautiful. “They’re boots, baby.”

  He’s a boy. I don’t expect him to fully understand the greatness that is snow boots, but I love hearing him laugh. So I keep going.

  “No, they’re not. They make me invulnerable,” I insist, pulling his hood up and wishing I was with him. “I’m untouchable in them. Unconquerable.”

  He laughs around a hit, and my heart flips trouble-flattered beats.

  I CAN’t be anywhere but home on Christmas Day or Eve, but Mom agrees to let me spend the night before that with Becka. It’s the treacherous thick of wintertime and there’s snow on top of ice in every direction, making me extra thankful for super boots.

  Tommy picks us up after school, and I couldn’t be more exc
ited to exchange gifts with my girl.

  Or maybe I could.

  Maybe I’m just as excited to see Thomas. I brought a gift for him, too, but mostly I’m looking forward to being with him.

  When we get inside, Becka kicks her boots off in the entryway. I keep mine on as I follow her upstairs, and it’s a good thing I do because as we round the top of the steps, Thomas’ door opens.

  Jacket half-zipped, hood half-off, barely resting on her hot-pink streaked ponytail, Valarie steps into the hallway and knocks me totally off my guard. She’s grinning high, and I feel like the floor is going to bottom out from under me.

  “Hey, little sisters,” she greets, popping a loud bubble with her gum as she passes us. She smells like pot and looks too good in holey kneed jeans. She’s so pretty it makes me hurt. She’s so pretty it turns my stomach.

  “Go die,” Becka snaps, within earshot before Valarie closes the bathroom door.

  Not wanting to stick around, B grabs some CDs and we go back downstairs.

  When Becka says, “Mom, take us to the mall. We can’t say here. We’ll catch something,” Tommy ineffectually scolds her daughter, but takes us anyway.

  We aren’t in the car five minutes when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Where’d you go, kid baby?

  I put it back in my pocket without replying, and I don’t take it out all night. When we get home hours later and get into bed, I still don’t say anything to him.

  Because what is there to say?

  Because why is he putting me in this position?

  Because what am I when he has her?

  Blowing a slow breath out, I turn onto my back, into the same position I was in months ago: knowing he’s home, but unable to decide if I should go, and why.

  I close my eyes under Becka’s glowing rope lights.

  Everyone was in Thomas’ room this afternoon, not just Valarie. I heard Petey laughing, and Mixie, and Ben. But seeing Valarie open his door like that …

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter. It’s not like anything was going on with everyone there, but it doesn’t work.