Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  She doesn’t say another word for the rest of the game.

  “BECKA?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you love Smitty?” I look over but only see her small body covered in big blankets, cradled by huge pillows.

  “Yes,” she says breathlessly. “I do.”

  We face each other, kicking the bedspread and throws out of our way. She scoots closer until our bare knees touch and I can smell the mint toothpaste on her breath. Light and feel-good vibes roll off of her in waves, and it’s impossible not to drown with her.

  Secretly, I know how she feels—to be in love.

  Love.

  Fucking love.

  Love feels like tingles and sunrays.

  It’s a tightness in my chest and an extra beat of my heart. Love is completeness—sappiness. Better than the best chocolate ever.

  Love gives me tickle-chills and super high, high, high smiles. It keeps me from sleeping. It makes it hard to breathe, blink, care.

  Love is indescribable, cumbersome, silly-selfish, consuming, life-changing, goose bump-giving, knowing-all-the-words-to-the-song exciting, I-can’t-think-straight-without-him overwhelming, sigh-swooning, laugh-out-loud-for-no-reason anxious.

  It’s fun and always near.

  It’s a rule-causing, jealousy-inducing, leg-kicking, dream-giving, wonderful, filling, shake-trembling, wonder-where-you-are-always obsessive, necessary, requiring, joyful flow.

  Our love is secret-keeping, late-night sneaking, gift-giving, cream-soda loving, vanilla, trouble, and princess-pie-dusty incomparable.

  His love is locked around my bones.

  His love is forever-never-leaving.

  Thomas’ love for me is simple.

  It’s for us and no one else.

  I want to tell Becka all about it. I want to scream, “I’m in love, too!”

  But instead, I ask, “What does it feel like?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Rebecka blows her bangs from her eyes. She’s all nervous energy and bounce, and she shifts closer until we’re nose-to-nose, heart-to-heart. Love-to-love.

  “Try.”

  “Okay,” she sighs with upturned lips. “You know when you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and it’s so good, you smile through the entire thing?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “And it’s too good to eat too fast, so you eat slowly and steadily because you know that once this sandwich is gone, if you make another, it won’t be the same.”

  I nod.

  “You eat all around, munching on the crust first, going nowhere near the middle.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Now all you’re left with is the center of the sandwich, so you wait a few moments to eat it because it’s going to be the best part. It’s thick with chunky peanuts, and the jelly is sticky-stuck on your fingers.”

  I nod.

  “Finally, you pop the last bite in your mouth and it’s better than you imagined. It’s the best bite ever. It’s a never-again sort of deal.”

  I nod.

  Rebecka smiles. “Well, love feels like that.”

  After Becka and I re-bury ourselves beneath down feathers and heavy cotton, she has her foot in my back. I have my elbow in her neck, and Thomas wakes me from a deep, hot slumber.

  “Come with me,” he whispers, pulling me out of bed with no regard for the sleeping girl beside me.

  It’s a quarter to four and I’m half-awake on the sneaky walk to his room. Dusty didn’t come home after the game, and now that I see him, sloppy-walking, weed-scented, and slur-speaking, I don’t need him to tell me where he was or what he was doing.

  As he pushes open his door, I say tiredly, “I can’t stay. It’s late.”

  He casually replies, “Try leaving me. I dare you.”

  I stay.

  We lie in bed and his phone rings. He ignores it at first, but after a while Thomas can’t pretend it’s not happening. “Leave me alone,” he finally answers before chucking it across the room.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “Valarie,” he answers, quick and uncaring. He circles his finger around my hair.

  “Why?” I sit up.

  Thomas pulls me back. “Why what, Leigh?”

  “Why is she calling you at four in the morning?” I try not to sound insecure and untrusting, but it’s hard. With Valarie, it’s hard.

  He doesn’t answer me.

  With this, it’s hard.

  Thomas touches inside my bare knee with his fingertips, trying to distract me. “Close your eyes, sleepy baby.”

  “No.”

  He squeezes my thigh roughly, groaning in my ear. “I’m not doing this with you, Leighlee.”

  “You have to,” I say in a soft voice. “Because you owe me. Because you love me.”

  He’s off the bed before I can say another word, and I don’t know where things went wrong. Why the sudden shift? Because he’s lit? He’s always lit. This is something else. Something more. Something worse.

  “You sound like a fucking child.” He pulls his black hoodie over his head. His shirt comes up and I can see his back, and I’m like, what? What? WHAT?

  “You wouldn’t.” My hands are over my mouth.

  Thomas pats his pockets, looking for cigarettes. He stumbles. He’s drunk. He’s a lot of things.

  “Wouldn’t what?” His spark lights up his room as he sits on the floor against his dresser, waiting for me to answer.

  I move to the edge of the bed. Thomas takes a drag from his smoke, looking older than fifteen, making me feel exactly thirteen.

  “Your back,” I say.

  His eyes are bloodshot and his undershirt is stretched out and yanked at the neck. He brings his knees up and drops his head back, unable to hold it up any longer. Figuring out the reason for my misery can’t be easy through the cloud of his own haze, lazy and drunk-mellow.

  Meanwhile, my heart is shattering.

  I shake my hands out and rub them up and down my thighs. My jaw aches. I want to cry.

  Then.

  Then.

  Then he gets it.

  Instantly wide-eyed and aware, Thomas tosses his cigarette out the window and kneels in front of me, wrecked.

  “It didn’t mean anything,” he swears in a broken voice. An unsteady hand tries to touch my face; I smack it away.

  I thought love made things different and included all of the normal amenities, like not sleeping with other people.

  If he’s in love with me, why does he need her?

  I’m here.

  I’m love.

  What is she?

  Last bite of a peanut butter and jelly? I’m stupid.

  Love is childhood-taking.

  My thirteen-year-old heart is going on one hundred.

  I grew up.

  “Bliss. Please.” On his feet, unsteady, unstill, this boy is crazy. Hot, cold, love, loveless—faded. Thomas has his hands in his hair and he’s pacing, back and forth, fast and slow. “Get the fuck out if you don’t like it.”

  He’s in my way so I can’t leave.

  “Leigh, I’m sorry. I got caught up. I had to. What was I supposed to do?”

  He puts his hand over my mouth so I can’t answer.

  “You’re not my girl. I’m not your boyfriend.”

  I push him away. He reaches for me.

  “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

  I know.

  It’s six in the morning and I can’t cry another tear. Thomas sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me. His face is in his hands and his elbows are on his knees. The alarm on his phone goes off, and I’m supposed to go slide back into bed with Rebecka before she wakes up, but I can’t move.

  Love is draining.

  “I don’t want her here anymore.”

  “Okay,” he answers lowly. The fake bravado he came home with is all gone. “It’s a rule.”

  “It’s not a fucking rule, Thomas; it’s a deal breaker.”

  DUSTY IS easy to forg
ive or I’m easy to convince. Either way, I haven’t seen Valarie at the house once since I told him how I felt. They’re friends, and I hear things about them sometimes—things that make me cringe, things that make me roll my eyes, things that make me a little bit crazy—but he swears it’s innocent.

  We’ve moved on. But it’s different. I’m a little harder and he’s a little sneakier.

  Love turns a blind eye.

  And it’s unpredictable.

  On her mom’s front porch steps, my best friend, with her new passion for heavy black eyeliner and red, red lips, carefully eats a caramel apple, cautious not to ruin the work she had done on her chipped tooth last week. I was both stunned and saddened she had it fixed, but we’re growing up, and suddenly she cares about how she looks.

  “I’m fourteen,” she says with a numb mouth and perfect smile. “Fourteen-year-olds don’t have chipped teeth.”

  I give it a month before she knocks it out again. Because apparently, fourteen-year-olds still attempt gravity defying tricks on their skateboards.

  “Hold this.” She passes me her apple and jumps on her board to join Smitty and Oliver in the driveway.

  We celebrate her birthday. Without cake. Without the party. Just us. Just friends. Lit only by the porch light, it’s cool and crisp among the darkened trees. Laura and Jackie move in small strides on the porch swing, sending creaking sounds out to echo with the clash of wheels hitting the pavement.

  It’s a good birthday night. When Becka stumbles, and Hal keeps her from tumbling and breaking her face like I predict she will, he says, “Be my girlfriend.”

  And because he’s asked her about half a million times, when she says, “Sure, whatever, Smitty,” we’re all happily surprised.

  With Smitty comes Oliver. It’s always been that way. They’re best friends—inseparable and compatible, both quiet and likable. I’ve never paid attention to chitchat, and though Oliver is dating this girl Erin, our friends think he and I would make a cute couple.

  “You guys should kiss,” Becka taunts, pointing between us.

  He stands back with his hands up in surrender, red-faced and lightly laughing, while our pals try to hook us up.

  It’s the exact moment Thomas and the boys come out of the house.

  “Hey, Dusty, little girl Bliss has a boyfriend,” Petey calls out, hooking his arm around the back of Oliver’s neck, holding him in a headlock. Oliver tries to pry Pete’s fingers away but stays calm as the teasing persists.

  “Is that right?” My boy glares down from the porch, right into my eyes. “Who’s the sucker?” he asks, sipping from a bottle of water.

  “Little girl. Princess kid,” he adds, going back inside before I can react.

  An undeserved guilt weighs like mad on my heart, killing the fun factor. I give it ten minutes before I follow him into the house, telling my friends I need a sweater.

  “Yeah, well, it is thirty degrees out here and you are in a dress,” Becka teases as the door closes between us.

  The light in the kitchen is on, but the living room is dark and empty. My heart hammers against my chest, raging and racing, sending an edginess through my limbs. I take the stairs slowly to the top; I can’t barge into Thomas’ room and demand he speak to me, but I won’t spend the rest of the night filled with anxiety.

  I lose my nerve when I see Dusty’s bedroom door is closed. Gunfire and blasts followed by overexcited boys who spend too much time playing video games booms through the hallway from behind shut oak. It’s one thing to go in there when everyone in the house is asleep, but another to do it when my best friend is right outside.

  With a sigh and a little less enthusiasm, I go to the bathroom to wash tacky candy apple from my fingers.

  I open the door to find it occupied.

  Feet parted, head down, Thomas zips his pants as I slap my hands over my eyes and quickly back out of his body space.

  “Sorry!” I say, panicked and scrambling.

  He captures my hips, pulls me into the bathroom, and locks the door. Mischief lifts me onto the cold granite countertop and pushes my knees open to fit his hips between my thighs. Jars of moisturizer and bottles of perfume fall over and roll to the floor, and the heels of my feet hit the bottom cabinet.

  “Hey.” Dusty tilts my chin up. I breathe him in and die a little. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  Drowning in fog, mislaid in his high, Thomas’ eyes dip while his hands slide from my knees up the lengths of my thighs. His fingertips run under the hem of my dress and brush along white cotton underwear, lighting me up. As I lose air, my dress strap falls down my shoulder. My boy pushes it up before touching his warm palm to my scorching face.

  “Why are you dressed like this?” he asks, rubbing the back of his fingers down the side of my throat. “You don’t like the kid, do you?”

  “Oliver?” I ask, breathless and shaky.

  Thomas hooks his finger under my flowery neckline and pulls until stitches stretch and break. I get chills.

  “Could you love him like you love me, Bliss?” he asks softly, looking everywhere but my eyes.

  Love is skeptical.

  “I don’t love him at all.”

  I drape my arms over his shoulders and pull him closer, sliding the back of my calves along the back of his. He’s warm through his thin shirt, sweat and weed tinged. He kisses my forehead, and I wonder if I should ask him why he smokes.

  “Stay away from him,” he says evenly, silencing my thoughts.

  With his help, I slide to my feet and fix my dress while Thomas watches. Like knives, his razor-sharp look slivers from my ankles to my lips.

  I spin at his request and laugh as he says, “You’re gorgeous, girl.”

  I blush and gush and know he’s telling the truth

  When I’m heading downstairs, he calls out, “Put on a sweater before I break his face.”

  Love is relentless.

  “WHY DON’T you touch me?” I ask, slipping my fingertip between his lips.

  After midnight, alone in his room, Thomas smokes a joint and I’m on his lap, feeding him candies between hits. There’s a lot about boys I’m unsure about, but I’m not stupid. Barely dressed in small sleep shorts and matching tank top, my legs are draped over his and my chest is near enough that he can probably see through my shirt. He doesn’t look.

  He smiles sweetly, avoiding my stare. “Shh.”

  “Becka and Smitty kiss; I’ve seen them. And you …”

  “Shh.” His eyes are fire-stricken. Thomas’ cheeks go red and his calm demeanor is slowly fracturing. “Please.”

  Disappointed, I close my eyes and fight against building frustration and anger. When I open up, my boy is smoking, as if I’m not seething in his lap. He blows heavy white smoke over his shoulder, and in a moment of surprise, stands up with me in his grip.

  Love is easy laughter and swift-beating hearts.

  I circle my arms around his neck and hook my ankles around his lower back as he falls into bed, between my legs. He flattens his palms on the mattress, and I hold onto his sides as he kisses my forehead and then my neck.

  “What we have is good, Bliss,” he says. “I know you hate when I say this, but you’re young.”

  “I am—”

  Thomas sits up on his knees. “This is where I try to be a gentleman and tell you that we have plenty of time for all of this other shit later.”

  I playfully kick at him and he captures my foot, massaging cold toes.

  “Come on, Bliss. Tell me to be a gentleman.” His eyes are half-pleading, half-pressuring. He looks young. He looks hesitant. He looks his age.

  I smile sweetly and whisper gently, “Be a gentleman.”

  Dusty lifts my left foot and kisses the inside of my ankle before dropping to the bed beside me. The TV’s on but it may as well be static. My mind races, body lights up, and I don’t know what to do with myself. It burns in the pit of my stomach, tickles sensitive skin, and aches in precious spots. It reddens my cheeks and makes b
reathing hard. It’s a craving that sparks when I think or see or touch Thomas.

  “What are we?” I ask, clearing want from my throat.

  Sitting up, he turns down the television and holds a pillow over his lap. “What?”

  “We’re together, right?”

  “Right now?”

  “You know what I mean,” I say.

  He shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess, Bliss.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Our age difference is an easy target and better excuse, but this secret is the Hangman’s noose, and our acts are down pat. We’re star-crossed, but that doesn’t mean we’re any less real. My relationship with Thomas is a betrayal to my friendship with Becka. I lie to her every time I slip out of her bed and into his. I lie to her every time I touch him, ache for him, or tell him I love him.

  We’re dishonest with everyone. It needs to be worth it.

  “It means that I love you, but—I don’t know, Leigh.” Thomas gets out of bed and lights a Parliament by the window. “Do I really have to be your boyfriend? I thought this was good, Bliss.”

  “It is.”

  “Then what?” He flicks ash out the window. “We’re already complicated.”

  “I know,” I admit.

  “You’re my safe spot.” Thomas shuts his window and sneaks back into bed, pulling us both under the covers. “You have my heart. There’s nothing else.”

  “YOU’RE NOT going.” Lucas drops his fork onto his plate. “I’m lenient, but I’m not that fucking lenient.”

  “I’ll come home.” Thomas presses. “It’s not a huge deal.”

  There’s a party at Pete’s for Ben’s birthday, but Lucas doesn’t want Thomas there without an adult around. The attorney’s son isn’t taking no for an answer and has been giving his parents a hard time all evening.

  “Thomas, your dad said no,” Tommy adds. She takes a drink from her wine glass, distant.

  Rebecka and I share a look from across the table. She smiles shyly. Thomas’ attitude toward his family has deteriorated rapidly in the last four weeks. He’s smoking all of the time, and if he isn’t smoking, he’s drinking—or both. His sixteenth birthday is next month, and I don’t know what kind of door it’s going to open, but I can feel it’s going to be dramatic.