Innocents

by Mary Elizabeth

  My entire chest shows, and he can see me—he is seeing me.

  “Open up, Bliss,” he says, sweeping his lips across my cheek.

  Nervously, I lift my lids. Love smiles.

  “My pretty girl,” he says softly. “My princess girl.”

  Thomas brushes his thumbs over my nipples, and I suck in a breath. His touch feels like I have a million little butterflies fluttering their wings beneath my skin.

  Tender, mellow, and conscientious, this touch crosses lines.

  Dropping to his knees, Dusty lays his head in my lap and closes his eyes. I run my fingers through his hair and tell him about things that are not important, like how Rebecka and I took shots, and how I swallowed a sleeping pill last night, and how my mom is making me wear this stupid yellow dress to the dance when I wanted to wear black.

  “You look good in yellow,” he says.

  Precious, never-enough time slips away and eventually Thomas stands up and presses his forehead to my shoulder like it’s crushing him to let me go. My boy’s gentle lips brush up the side of my neck, caressing me until I feel kisses curve into a smile.

  “What?” I quietly ask, under his spell.

  “Sorry about your neck.” He chuckles.

  Pushing him away, I turn toward the mirror.

  “Thomas,” I whisper harshly. “You did that on purpose.”

  He moves my drying hair to the side, inspecting his illegal mark. “You can hide it if you leave your hair down.”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Thanks a lot, Dusty.”

  Stunning in a pink halter dress, the way Becka wobble-walks in heels is laughable. The girl who flip-kicks and nosegrinds her skateboard on the regular holds onto the railing and takes each step down the stairs cautiously.

  “Oh, come on, it isn’t that bad,” Tommy says. She snaps a picture of her daughter.

  This dance is supposed to be laid-back, but by the way my mom and Tommy are treating it, you’d think it was a red carpet gala.

  When Smitty and Oliver show up, it only gets worse.

  We’re forced to take family photos, group photos, and couples pictures in front of the Castors’ mantel. I’m paired up with Oliver despite my insistence that he is not my date.

  Thomas was only home long enough to shower and change his clothes. He slipped out the front door while Becka and I were with his mother, deciding what to do with our hair. Since he left his purple and blue kiss mark on my neck, wearing it up was no longer an option. I settled for sleek and straight.

  Despite his absence, I worry he’ll see the pictures of me and the boy I swore wasn’t my date and get the wrong idea.

  “We’re just friends,” I say, irritated as my mom tries to get us together for another picture.

  Ever casual and calm shrugs. “It’s cool,” he says.

  “He’s cute,” Tommy tells me on the sly, checking out Oliver. She then slips her finger under the cap-sleeve of my yellow dress and says, “I thought you were going to borrow something from Becka.”

  My eyes sweep over to my mother, who’s snapping pictures of Becka and Hal with an outdated, windup camera. The disappointment in my expression must be answer enough for Tommy. She rubs my back sympathetically and tells me I’d look beautiful in rags.

  As far as I’m concerned, I may as well be wearing them.

  Before we leave, I make sure my best friend has her oversized purse. My mom can force me to wear a knee length, lacelike dress I would have liked two years ago out the door, but she can’t make me to stay in it when she’s not around.

  “Have fun,” Mom says as we start to pile into Tommy’s car.

  “I will,” I say.

  “Call me if anything happens.” She kisses my face, smudging my makeup. “You have so much blush on.”

  “Stop.” I move away, trying not to be deliberately disrespectful, but I look pretty with bronze blushes and light pink lipgloss.

  The stern look my mother gives me makes me feel small and embarrassed in front of my friends. A sickening bitterness for the people who gave me life turns my stomach, and it’s been this way for a while. I’m claustrophobic under their ancient concepts and expectations and suffocating in their tight restraint.

  The dress I wanted to wear is not too mature for me; it is gorgeous, and I would have looked beautiful in it.

  It all makes me want to scream.

  But I play my part.

  THE SHORT drive to school offers me the chance to calm down. Resentment is exchanged for eagerness, and after a quick farewell to Tommy, Becka and I leave Oliver and Smitty behind and run through deep beats and easy lyrics toward the gymnasium’s restroom to change.

  Let loose, my girl kicks off her shoes and I slip into them, feeling more like myself. She helps me unbutton yellow lace and helps me into the black, curve-hugging Bodycon dress that fits perfectly over my curves and covers enough with the high neckline.

  Becka wolf whistles. “Holy shit, Bliss. You’re hot.”

  More confident than I was when I left the house, I turn toward the mirror to fix my makeup while my girl bends down to tie her Chucks. I redden my lips and apply so much mascara my eyelashes feel heavy, but my green eyes glow. B thinks my hair should be bigger, so she teases it with a round brush.

  It gets stuck.

  “Rebecka!” I shriek.

  “Oops.” She laughs, biting her bottom lip. “I’ll go find help.”

  Pulling on the brush makes it worse, so I stand in front of the mirror with too much makeup on and too much skin showing, and I laugh.

  My heroine shows up with Jackie and Laura, and mercifully, they’re able to out-maneuver and unwrap the brush without pulling hair out of my head. When we’re all teased, bumped, and polished, we take a few photos and hide our bags in the back before making our entrance to the dance.

  Basketball and sweat scented, the gym is still a gym, transformed into a tropical paradise that’s complete with paper palm trees and virgin piña coladas with coconut extract. Teachers and other chaperones with plastic leis around their necks eat stale cookies and keep a close eye on the crowd of dancing teenagers. The music—loud, upbeat, and censored—pulses through my legs, rattling my bones. When the smoke machine goes off, puffing unpleasant smelling fog, I smile.

  “Come on, Bliss,” Becka shouts over the music, leading me out to the dance floor.

  I’m not a great dancer, but in these shoes, anything’s possible. Blue, green, and yellow lights flicker across the gym as I dip, rock, and sway. Becka’s hands are on my hips, and when the beat allows, we go low.

  Everything else falls away. I’m just a girl having the time of her life.

  We’re dancing to a song about finding love in a hopeless place when I see Thomas sitting at a table with his hood up, sipping from a bottle of water. Surrounded by his friends, I can tell by their too-loud laughter and over-exaggerated movements that they’re high on something, and whatever they’re drinking isn’t virgin.

  When our eyes meet, I flip him off and keep dancing.

  I’d all but forgotten we’d come with Oliver and Smitty until they show up with leis. Oliver places purple plastic flowers around my neck and says, “Welcome to paradise.”

  “Where’s Erin?” I ask, brushing my fingers over his gift.

  He answers, “I like your dress. I liked the yellow one, too, but—”

  Fanning my face with my hands, I cut him off and ask, “Want to get something to drink?”

  Cool and calm nods.

  Before I take a single step in the direction of the refreshment stand, my heartbeat skips and I sense Thomas close by, right behind me.

  “Dance with me,” he whispers into my ear.

  My boy slides his hand under my hair to the back of my neck, pressing his warm fingers into the mark he left on my skin as he pulls me back. The spicy scent of liquor is heavy on his breath, and his hoodie smells like pot, but his blue eyes expose a different type of reckless—one I don’t know. Burning to the touch, Dusty takes my hand a
nd spins me around, pulling me against his chest.

  His heart is racing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Dancing with my little sister’s best friend,” he says. “Isn’t that in the job description of the older brother?”

  Unconvinced he’s not irrational and too high, I peek around the gym, past an uncomfortable looking Oliver. The Sluts are huddled together, staring at me with their ruler, whispering amongst themselves. Becka’s dancing with Petey and Ben, laughing while the boys twirl her between the two of them.

  “Are you trying to kill me with this dress, little girl?” Thomas asks.

  “Maybe.” I beam.

  I glance over my shoulder as love clutches over his heart and leans his head back, pretending to die with a smile.

  The song changes to something a little slower, a little older. Thomas solo-steps and snaps his fingers with no inhibition, and it’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.

  “My dad taught me that when I was younger,” he says, bringing me near.

  “I like it,” I say, looking into low-lidded and dilated eyes. With my arms circled around tense shoulders, I finally ask, “What are you on?”

  With his lips above my ear, Dusty whispers, “Ecstasy.”

  “Oh,” I say, shocked wordless.

  He closes his eyes and takes a breath, dropping his hands to my waist. “I want to feel you, Bliss.”

  “Then come home,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head tightly, moving his hands back up my back. “I can’t.”

  Moving in small circles, the heaviness of the week weighs on me. There’s nothing easy about being with Thomas, or not being with him. It’s near impossible to look Valarie in the face every day knowing she’s had parts of my boy he won’t let me near. I lie more than I speak truth, and it’s all for this person who won’t come home with me.

  Stupidly, I cry.

  “Baby.” Thomas groans. “Stop.”

  “I’m trying,” I say, accidently stepping on his foot.

  “Try harder.”

  “Don’t go,” I say quietly, drying sadness from my eyes on his hoodie.

  Hidden from reality in the center of the school gym, Thomas’ hand slides up the back of my neck, into my hair. Carefully gripping at strawberry blonde roots, he tilts my head back and exposes my neck.

  Brushing his lips over the possessive bruise, he whispers, “You should have worn your hair up.”

  The song hasn’t ended, but love moves away and lifts his hood over his head. He pats Petey’s shoulder as he passes, who reluctantly gives Becka back to Smitty.

  At the edge of the dance floor, Valarie waits in a blue maxi dress with eyes that match Dusty’s. He drapes his arm over her shoulders, and once the rest of their group joins them, they leave.

  Together.

  It’s the last day of school and I couldn’t be happier. Mom thinks I’m catching a ride to the Castors’ with Tommy, but she and Lucas left for a business trip this morning and won’t be home until after the weekend. Ben’s giving us a ride, and we’re halfway to his car when I remember I didn’t clean out my locker.

  “Take your time, Bliss. We’ll wait,” Petey calls, pushing Becka on her board while Thomas and Ben wait against the trunk of his BMW.

  As I hurry into the building, my white and colored-gem flip-flops smack on the bottom of my feet and my backpack bounces against my lower back. The hallways are mostly empty save for a few students getting those last signatures in their year books.

  At my locker, I drop my book bag at my feet and circle in my combination. The first thing I see is a folded up piece of notebook paper. I smile, reaching in for the secret.

  It’s a one word letter: summertime.

  Shoving the note into my pocket, I start going through old folders, older reports, and long forgotten assignments. I make a face when I find an old apple and dump everything into a trash bin. I’m almost done, pulling down pictures when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  I turn around with a handful of photographs and sigh when I see Brandon Miller.

  “What’s up?” I ask, lifting my Jansport from the ground. “I thought seniors were finished yesterday?”

  He grins, and it’s kind of, sort of odd, because he’s not supposed to be here. He’s graduated. He shouldn’t be talking to me.

  “I had to pick up something from a teacher,” he says.

  “Oh.” I don’t want to be rude, but I’m ready to go.

  “So,” Brandon begins, “I was wondering if—”

  The double doors I came in through five minutes ago open up. I smile. Brandon doesn’t.

  Becka’s on her board but jumps off and stands back while Ben, Thomas, and Pete walk toward me and the heartbreaker that doesn’t know when to quit. I straighten my backpack while my heart beats anticipation.

  Brandon takes a step back, and for someone who claimed not to be afraid of a few sophomores, he looks like he might be.

  Ten feet away, my gang of troublesome misfits closes in, but all I see is Dusty wearing a pair of knee length, black skinny cutoffs and a white V-neck. His old-school black and white Vans squeak on the floor as he approaches. Blonde-brown hair peeks out beneath the Yankees cap that’s set far back on his head, and his hands are slack at his sides, but I know.

  Wild love steps past me, hitting Brandon in the mouth with his closed fist, dropping him to his knees in one fluid motion. Thomas hits him again, solid and blunt sounding, and again, striking until Brandon’s on his back, pathetic in his attempt to defend himself.

  Dusty lifts the fallen by the front of his shirt. “How many times do I need to tell you to stay away from her?”

  He lets Brandon crumble into a ball before he kicks him. The sound of air leaving the high school graduate’s lungs levels my spine and leaves me speechless. Brandon’s lip is split and his nose is gushing, pooling on the pale tile underneath him. His perfect face isn’t so great anymore, and when he coughs, gasping for a breath, he sputters, and a drop of blood lands on my foot.

  “Do something,” I say, choking on syllables.

  But no one moves, so I take a step forward.

  “Stay the fuck back, Leighlee,” Thomas says without looking up.

  When Becka whistles and yells, “Security!” Pete and Ben finally step in, pulling Thomas away from the broken heartbreaker. But my fighter’s determined to make sure Brandon never forgets that little sisters are untouchable.

  When all three boys fall on the floor, I freak out.

  Between the blood, the loss of air, and the guards on their way, I scream. While Ben struggles with Thomas, Petey stands and slams my locker closed before scooping me up and running after Becka, who’s ahead of us, racing through the doors on the opposite end of the hall.

  But I’m worried for Dusty.

  Like some kind of psycho girl, I’m calling Thomas’ name as his best friend carries me away.

  “He’ll be fine.” Pete laughs, lugging me out into the parking lot. Harsh sunlight momentarily blinds both of us, and Petey almost falls.

  I scream. Again.

  Right before I really start to panic, Ben and Thomas come crashing out of the school building, laughing and running like their lives depend on it.

  Disarming the car alarm, Ben and Pete jump into the front seat of the Benz while Becka, Thomas, and I crash into the back.

  “Drive,” Dusty calls out, grinning, hyped-up and electrified.

  We lean to the left as Ben peels out of the parking lot, and when we’re clear of school grounds, we erupt in a bubble of nervous, adrenaline-filled commotion.

  Without thinking, I rub my fingers over love’s busted and bleeding knuckles and say, “Way to start the summer, Thomas.”

  To which he says, “You have no fucking idea how good it’s going to be, Bliss.”

  Roman candles and Saturn missiles spark and whistle. Bigger fireworks light up the night with flares while smoke and the scent of black powder blows with the breeze. Dogs bark and
locusts buzz while kids ride their bikes up and down the streets. As other families relax together, sipping lemonade and cold Coronas, I’m sitting on the roof, listening to mine tear itself apart.

  “How could you not ask me about this?”

  “Why? So we can do this? She’s fifteen for Christ’s sake. We—”

  “Fifteen!”

  “It’s a precaution, Luke. Climb off your fucking high horse.”

  Dad found Rebecka’s birth control. I don’t like it either, but Mom’s right.

  “We give them way too much freedom.”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  There’s a glass-crash sound in the living room, and I know Dad threw his scotch. Mom would never think of wasting a perfectly good drink, even in anger.

  “She needs a lock on her door. They both do. I’ll show you fucking precaution.”

  Mom’s quiet for a beat. I light a cigarette and smoke with my knees up and elbows across them.

  “You want to start laying rules down now? So she can run away?”

  The attorney is the quiet for a turn, and the opportunity to push him further isn’t wasted.

  “So they can run away together, and she can scrape by in some ice-cold one bedroom apartment while he’s out sticking it to his secretary?”

  Dad throws something else, or knocks it over, shaking the walls underneath me between more crash sounds and seething, hateful shouting. Dragging smoke slowly against my unsteady heartbeat, I stare at the other rooftops, but I’m not really looking.

  I’m listening. I’m absorbing all of it.

  Love can forgive, but life doesn’t forget. Especially with kids.

  Everything my parents were and are, I am. Good and bad. My dad’s determination and my mom’s warmth; his smooth talk and her nonchalance; a quick temper and a sharp tongue; excessiveness, jealousy—I’m all of it. Every one of their instabilities and all their resentment flows through me. I’m volatile at best, and this—

  “Like that’s what I wanted, Tommy? Like any of this is what I fucking wanted?”

  This is what I will be.

  “I wouldn’t have looked at that cunt if you would have bothered changing out of your robe and showering once in a while, long enough to be a fucking wife—”