Gods & Monsters

by Saffron A Kent

  “No,” I tell him, truthfully.

  He throws me half a smile. “Then I won’t.”

  I breathe in through my mouth as my skin breaks out in goosebumps. “I can’t be friends with you.”

  He rests his head against the glass window. “I know.”

  My eyes feel heavy, sleepy almost, but not really. I lower them and look at his hands in his lap. The sunlight is slashing his long fingers and strong wrists. There are smudges around the pad of his thumb. Black smudges. Did he get them from the pencil he has stuck inside the drawing pad?

  “They won’t let me,” I confess.

  “I know.”

  I look up, feeling all kinds of restless. I need him to understand. I’m not a bad person. I’m not doing this to be mean. “I want to be, though.”

  Abel’s watching me in a new way. I’ve never been watched like that. Like if he moved his eyes, I’d disappear and he’d never see me again. His look hits me in the stomach and butterflies explode in my body. I can hear them flapping their wings. I bet he can hear them too.

  “But you always follow the rules,” he comments.

  I nod, but I have a weird urge to shake my head and say no, I don’t. “Rules are important. They keep the peace.”

  The bruise on my waist flares up, making me want to scratch it. But I know that I shouldn’t. It won’t be pretty if I do. It’ll itch more and it might start bleeding like that one time.

  “Peace. Gotcha.” His jaw is tight.

  I fist my dress. “I’m sorry.”

  His smile doesn’t look like a smile should. It’s cold like the winter. It’s all wrong on his face. “Doesn’t matter.”

  It does to me.

  “Our stop’s here,” he says, looking away and shoving the drawing pad into his backpack.

  He’s right. The bus isn’t moving anymore and through the window I see miles and miles of fields and two houses: one white and put together and the other falling apart and weathered.

  I go to put the remaining chocolate in the bag when I stop and address him, “I know that you hate chocolate b-but will you take this?” He frowns at me and I explain, “Uh, you don’t… you don’t have to eat it. I mean, you can just put it in your room or in the fridge. You know, to keep it from melting? That way you can…”

  He wraps his hand around mine, making me almost gasp at the warmth. I’m sure the chocolate is going to melt and drip down from between our joined hands, his skin is that hot.

  “I can what?”

  I don’t want to say it but he’s looking at me with such curiosity. “You can think of me when you look at it.”

  Oh God. I want to die. Maybe there’s a chance he didn’t hear it because I said it super low and he hasn’t taken the chocolate from my hand. I try to pull my hand back, feeling the sticky chocolate slide between our fingers. I’ll need a tissue to wipe that off before Mom finds out.

  He tightens his grip for a second, before letting me go. My offering is still sitting in the middle of my palm.

  “I don’t need a chocolate to think about you.”

  My face is propped up on my hand as I listen to Father Knight talk about the importance of listening to our parents in Bible Study.

  “Obedience is how you show God that you love Him,” he says in his loud, confident voice. “You respect Him. That you recognize He is the creator of all things and that is why…” Father Knight smiles. “He has the authority over all things. Children of God are the obeyers. They are the believers. How can you implement this in your daily life? By obeying your parents. By listening to them. Because parents are the face of God. Got it? Listen to what your mom says. If she says to eat the whole dinner, eat it. She knows best. If your dad says to do your homework before you can play video games, you do exactly what he tells you, okay?”

  He smiles and everyone smiles back.

  I’m usually one of the smilers. But tonight my lips feel too heavy to curve. I’m not sure I like this lesson anymore. I’ve heard it countless times. Children of God obey their parents.

  I obey my parents. I follow the rules.

  But every night, I grip the bars on my window and look at the house with the leafless tree and falling-apart porch. Every night I think about the boy who lives there. The boy who isn’t even my friend. Sometimes I feel so bad that I want to cry, which is stupid; I don’t even know him.

  Abel Adams is not my friend, and he never will be.

  If I needed a reminder of that, I got it the day after I had that conversation with him on the bus. My mom and her friend Mrs. Weatherby ganged up on him while he was getting out of the store, where I get all my supplies for school. My mom was frowning, even more so than usual, her dark-haired bun making her look severe. Not to mention, Abel was frowning too.

  God, I hated standing by our car and watching it happen.

  Someone on the bus told their parents and their parents told my mom about the fact that I talked to him. She was furious. Even letting her ride her anger wasn’t effective. She pinched and shook and pulled my hair. She yelled over and over that I was not to associate with him. The bruises that I got that night were some of the worst.

  I was pretty sure she was saying something nasty to Abel. I hated, loathed that. He didn’t even do anything; it wasn’t even his fault. I was the one who sat with him. Me. He never even invited me. It was so unfair. When he left and passed me by, I begged and begged in my mind for him to look at me so I could apologize but he never did, though I could see the hard lines of anger on his face.

  I haven’t seen him since. Not around school or in town or even at church. My mom’s forbidden me to ride the bus. She’s the one who takes me to and from school every day, before she goes to do important church things.

  When Bible Study’s over, Sky and I walk out of the church. She knows something is going on with me. I told her it’s Mom.

  “One of these days, I’m gonna put your mom in her place, I swear,” she grumbles. I love her for caring about me so much.

  I ride back with my mom. At home, she declares I’m being too restless and fidgety so she lets me go to the treehouse after dinner. Thank you, God. I haven’t been to the treehouse in days. Mom’s kept me too busy at the house or at the church with the upcoming neighborhood cookout.

  “But be back in an hour. Or no more treehouse for the next two weeks.”

  I promise and dash out of the house into the fresh air. As I run down the dirt path, I pray to God that I see him. Maybe he’ll be in the woods like he was that one time. I promise I’ll run toward him rather than away from him.

  Maybe if you stay a little longer when I’m around instead of running away, we can get to know each other.

  At the ladder of the treehouse, I look around, but there’s no sign of him. It’s all silent and quiet, just the way it usually is. Disappointment is so thick and heavy that it droops my shoulders.

  I climb up and come to the landing and as I’m hauling myself up, I see a dark shape propped against the wall. My shriek is out of my mouth by the time I realize I know who it is.

  It’s Abel.

  He’s here. Inside my sunny yellow treehouse.

  “Jesus fuck,” Abel curses and whips his white earphones out at my scream. “You scared me.”

  I stare at him from where I’m crouched at the entrance. He’s here. Here. How’s he here? He looks huge inside my favorite place in the world. A giant. His legs are stretched long and he almost touches the opposite wall with his dirty white sneakers.

  “Pixie?” He frowns at me with a curious smile. “You gonna get in?”

  My lips part as I lose my breath at the mention of his nickname for me. A burst of energy makes me hop inside and throw myself at him, hugging him tightly. I bury my nose in the hollow of his throat, smelling apples. God, I’ve never felt so excited about smelling apples. And gosh, his t-shirt. Even though it’s black, it’s the softest thing I’ve ever touched.

  “You aren’t mad that I snuck into your treehouse?” he asks, wit
h a smile in his voice.

  I don’t know why but I freeze at his words. It could be because suddenly I become aware of his arm around me.

  Of course, dummy.

  This is a hug. Of course, his arms would be around me. Only I’m kinda shocked at myself for hugging a guy, hugging him. It was purely instinct. Something that I didn’t think through.

  Oh my God.

  I’m hugging Abel Adams. This can’t happen, like, at all.

  I jump out of his embrace, horrified. Abel’s looking at me with a frown as I slide back and prop my spine against the opposite wall. But then his frown clears, and he knows why I did that.

  We watch each other for a few silent seconds. I have so many things to tell him, apologize for my mom’s behavior and ask him why he wasn’t at church or why haven’t I seen him in so many days. But I keep mum. My words aren’t cooperating in this moment.

  “I know this is against your rules,” he whispers, at last. “But I couldn’t…”

  “Couldn’t what?” I ask, matching his whisper.

  He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I notice the veins in his neck are thick and green, and they are so tight. In contrast to that, his brown eyes are all liquid. “I couldn’t not see you.”

  I sniff. “I’m sorry about whatever my mom said to you the other day in town. She’s…” I shake my head, bringing my knees up and resting my chin on them, wiggling my toes. “She’s not very nice. To anyone, actually.”

  At this, his frown returns and gets really fierce, frankly scary, or something that’s supposed to scare me. But I’m not afraid of him. I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid of him.

  “Even to you?” His eyes flick over my face like he’s looking for a scar or a sign or something.

  The bruises on my waist and thigh sting more than usual. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. “I’m used to it,” I whisper, sniffling and shaking my head.

  He doesn’t believe me. “Pixie, if she –”

  I cut him off and ask, “What’d she say to you? Like, what exactly did she say to you?”

  He doesn’t say anything for a beat, simply studying my face. I paste on a sweet expression. Sweet and innocent, like I have no care in the world, like my bruises aren’t throbbing. But I don’t want to talk about that when we can talk about so many other things.

  Sighing, he rests his head on the wall. “Nothing that people haven’t been saying ever since I got here.”

  Oh. David and Delilah.

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” His face is resigned, and a little bit hurt and a little bit angry.

  I shake my head, immediately. “No.”

  He barks out a short laugh. “You can’t lie for shit, Pixie.”

  Something happens to me when he says that name. I feel both warm and excited and restless. “I, uh, I’ve thought about it. About them.” His face becomes hard and I rush to explain, “I mean, like, I don’t think what others think or what my mom thinks. I’ve never thought that they were bad or anything.”

  “Yeah? You don’t think that they were insane? You don’t think it’s fucking weird and gross that they fell in love when for all intents and purposes, they were brother and sister?”

  He spits out the words like they are poison. And maybe they are because it’s not… right or natural for siblings to ever fall in love with each other, and make a baby.

  Monster baby.

  Abel Adams is far from a monster, though. He’s quiet and he makes me feel warm and he’s… cute. Like, really, really cute, with his lopsided smile and messy hair, and even his black t-shirts. And he’s so tall. Gosh, I never thought I’d like tall people… or guys. I’ve never thought I’d feel about a guy the way I feel about him. It’s strange and exciting and inexplicable.

  But going back to his question, I reply, choosing my words carefully, “It’s not ideal. But maybe they had a reason.”

  “They had a reason, all right.”

  “What was it?” I blurt out without thinking.

  Gah, I need to think. He’s melting my entire freaking brain. Before he can get mad about it, I say, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. In fact, you don’t have to say anything at all. I’m sorry.”

  I’m staring at my toes, trying to get my embarrassment under control, when he says, “They were lonely, I guess. I overheard them one time, talking about this town, and I insisted that they explain. Mom didn’t want to but Dad finally did. He explained how things were bad for them back home. They had only each other. How their father, my grandpa, was abusive. He’d…” He shakes his head, grimacing, his face on the verge of crumpling. “He was a drunk. He’d beat them, starve them, I think. I don’t know all the gory details but I put pieces together. They had no choice but to turn to each other. Dad said that Mom was the only spot of color in his dark life then. I fucking called bullshit. I called it for a long time. I hated them, couldn’t stand the sight of them. Took me a long time to accept that my parents were not normal or whatever.” He looks up then, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaw trembling. “But they’re my parents and I love them. And now they’re gone and I keep remembering what Dad said about Mom.”

  Abel doesn’t give up, though. He doesn’t let his tears fall like I’m letting mine. He’s strong. So strong, and his story is true. Not like the other stories and gossip about them that I’ve heard over the years. Upstanding citizen, my foot. I can feel it. My own bruises tell me that it’s true.

  That affects me so much. His non-crying crying affects me so much that I abandon all right and wrong, and crawl up to him. This time my hug is well thought out. I’m doing this with all my senses. I wrap my arms around his tall, big body and press my ear on his chest.

  “Hey,” he whispers, wiping the tears off my cheek. “I didn’t say that to make you cry.”

  I must look like a mess, running eyes and running nose, all red and splotchy. This can’t be a pretty sight for Abel. But he keeps wiping my tears off and shushing me.

  How can I not be friends with him? How can I not break the rules for this boy? He’s nothing like what people think he is, and that makes me cry even harder.

  Abel hugs me to his chest and I slobber all over his t-shirt. He rocks me, murmuring sweet, soft words.

  “Stop crying, Pixie, all right? Go back to arguing with me about chocolate and fruits and how you’re not afraid of me even though I bite.”

  My chuckle turns into a hiccup. “Chocolates are much better than fruits. Everybody knows that. And I know you don’t bite.”

  His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Yeah, this is much better.”

  “I…” I hiccup and look up at him. “Can I… be your friend?”

  He’s surprised; I can see that on his face, feel it in his fingers that twitch in my hair and on my back. “You wanna break your rules. For me? The town’s monster?”

  I fist his shirt; somehow my hands find the silver necklace and clutch it right along with the fabric. “You’re not a monster.”

  He cups my cheeks in his big palms, almost drowning them. “That’s not what they think.”

  I growl, “They are stupid. All of them are stupid, okay? And I hate them.”

  Abel’s lips twitch into a smile. “Remind me never to mess with you.”

  “Duh, I’m dangerous.”

  Shaking his head, he laughs. But then his eyes get dark and even more liquid as he runs his thumb over the apple of my cheeks, tickling my skin. “It’s not gonna be easy, Pixie. They’ll make it really hard for us.”

  My heart is beating really fast and butterflies are flapping their wings inside my tummy. I’ve never felt more excited and more scared in my entire life.

  “Doesn’t matter. My dad says all good things in life are hard.”

  “I wonder what he’ll say about this.”

  “Maybe one day we can tell him. He’s much cooler than my mom. So? Can I be your friend?”

  His smile makes my heart pound harder. It’s lopsided and I can already tell that it’s his signatur
e smile. He presses our foreheads together, our noses almost bumping into each other.

  “Fuck yeah.”

  Abel and I have been friends for about twelve months.

  He said it wouldn’t be easy and they would make it hard for us. They have, in a way. I can’t talk to him where people can see us. Like, at school. I see him outside his building at lunch, but I can’t go say hi to him.

  He’s easily the tallest guy in both schools combined. He always sticks out and more often than not, he’s alone. There are a few people who talk to him and sometimes they hang out together over lunch, but mostly, he’s by himself. Usually, the meanies talk about him but never to him. Some of the popular gangs pass him by, giving him glances, being rude, and I want to jump across the fence and punch them. I never realized I was as bloodthirsty as Sky until I met Abel.

  Abel doesn’t care though. His eyes are always on me. It doesn’t matter where we are, at church or in school or on the street. If I’m close, he’s looking at me. The weird phenomenon that happens when we’re around each other has only grown. It’s like our senses are fused.

  Well, even without the weird phenomenon, it’d be hard to look away from him. It seems like every day he grows a few inches taller and a few inches broader. His eyes get richer and more maple-syrupy, and his lopsided smiles have only managed to make the butterflies in my stomach crazier. Lately, I’ve found myself studying the shape of his lips. How they stretch when he smiles and how they circle and curl around words. It’s actually embarrassing, the way I’m fascinated with his mouth. I’m a certified weirdo.

  I should not be staring at my friend’s lips like that, right? You don’t constantly think about your friend like I do. I definitely don’t think about Sky that much.

  But something makes Abel Adams different. Maybe it’s the way he keeps staring at me from across the distance. No one exists for him but me.

  “Did you see Josh Anderson? God, I hate him so much. He was so rude to you. Like, hello? You bump into someone, you stop and you say sorry. Where are the manners?” I huff one day, referring to one of the meanies.

  “Who the fuck is Josh Anderson?”