Gods & Monsters

by Saffron A Kent

  “The guy who deliberately pushed you. Today? This morning? At school.” When Abel still gives me a confused look, I swat his bicep. “You don’t remember, do you?”

  Smirking, he shakes his head.

  “How can you not remember?”

  “Because I was looking at you.” He says it so simply, like it wouldn’t make me hyperventilate or blush.

  I clear my throat. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be looking at me, but paying more attention to the world.”

  “Yeah. I don’t think that’s happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just have that kind of a face.”

  “What kind of a face is that?”

  “The kind that’s hard to look away from.”

  Right. Cue hyperventilation.

  So yeah, Abel isn’t anything like Sky. He’s in a whole ‘nother category.

  Even though my mom picks me up every day from school and she has spies all over, we’ve found ways to be creative. Mostly we sit far apart at lunch, me on my side of the fence, with Sky and a bunch of other girls, and him on his side, leaning against a tree, biting into his favorite fruit, an apple. Still, we pretend to be eating together. Or I make it a point to wait for him to arrive at school, at the start of the day. We stare at each other from across the dirt path and sometimes luck’s on our side and there are only a few people around, and I give him a little wave and a smile. His answering lopsided smile makes my heart race. I even made him an apple pie for his fifteenth birthday. Got the recipe from my mom and everything, saying that I wanted to learn how to bake. Mom was super happy.

  Abel and Evie for the win!

  We can’t see each other much during the day, but after school, I see him almost every afternoon up at my treehouse. Thank God, Mom hates going into the woods so my treehouse is a safe area. In fact, we do our homework together. Well, I do mine; Abel draws.

  One day I find out that almost every drawing in his sketchpad is of me.

  For an entire minute, I don’t move. I can feel my heart beating and those darn butterflies kicking up a racket inside my body. I can feel the rush of my own blood as it raises goosebumps, running along my veins.

  “This is me,” I whisper stupidly after a while.

  “I told you, you just have one of those faces.”

  Our heads are bent over his sketchpad, and together we see every little drawing he made of me. Me. Evie Hart. I mean, no one has ever paid me much attention. Of course, I’m not neglected but I’m also no one’s muse. I wish I could think up synonyms for that, but my brain is mush.

  God, he’s so talented. An artist.

  In most of the pictures, my hair flows in the wind, my dresses have pretty flowers on them, my calves are streaked with mud and I’m barefoot. In some, I’m surrounded by corn fields and in others, I’m at school bent over a book, or inside the treehouse, writing in my journal.

  Abel tells me that the one in the cornfields is inspired by the first time he saw me. I was out in the fields, all wild and pixie-like with flying yellow hair.

  “Your skin was red like apples,” he says and then, he goes ahead and takes a bite of the apple in his hands, sucking up all the air and leaving me to choke on my butterflies.

  For my thirteenth birthday, he gives me a sketch of myself. But his real love isn’t sketching, no. Abel Adams’s real love is photography. He has hundreds of photos on his phone. He always carries his camera with him wherever he goes. He has shots of the fields, the school grounds, the church and so many other places that I’ve never even visited, even though I’ve lived here forever.

  I tell him that he’s the most amazing photographer and he’s destined to be the greatest artist ever. But all he does is laugh, sadly.

  “I guess, it makes me feel invisible. Being behind the lens. It makes me feel that no one can see me. No one can know where I came from, how I came to be. Who my parents were and what they were to each other.” He shakes his head, his eyes almost on the verge of leaking but somehow, hold the water in. “It’s stupid.”

  I hug him. Tightly. So I can absorb all his pain. So I can make him see what I see. An artist and a strong boy.

  “But Abel, you stop time.”

  “What?”

  The other day we got a ton of rain. The mud path leading up to the woods looked like a running stream of dirt. I’ve never been a fan of rain; I like the sun better. When it was over though, the world was so much brighter. The green, the brown, the blue. I wished it stayed that way forever – without the rain, of course. And it did. Because Abel captured it all through his camera.

  “You do. Look…” I pull him forward so he can see what I see. “You stop time. I don’t think you can ever be invisible. You’re too talented for that. It’s like you froze the world in this moment and it’s going to stay like this forever and ever and ever.”

  I feel him smirk, his cheek extremely close to mine. “Ever and ever, huh?”

  I nod enthusiastically, looking at the photo, even though I want to look at him. I want to study those darn lips again.

  Why do I keep thinking about them?

  But he’s so close. I don’t know if I can handle looking at him.

  “Maybe I’ll stop time now,” he whispers, his warm breath blowing across my skin and waking up goosebumps.

  “Why now?” I whisper back, like we’re in church and aren’t allowed to talk any louder than this, which is stupid because we’re at the treehouse.

  “So you never leave me.”

  I don’t say much after that because I’m fidgety and blushing. Though, I do realize something. Something pretty epic.

  Abel Adams is a god.

  Because only gods can stop time and freeze moments, if they want to. Only gods can do what he does with a camera.

  Today’s a sad day. I’m leaving Abel.

  For an entire month.

  My nana, Mom’s mom, she’s sick and Mom wants to go see her while school’s still out for the summer. If I’m being honest, I hate going to see my nana. She’s like my mom, only worse. Every time we visit her, she tells me all the things that are wrong with me. My wild, unruly hair; my running legs; my penchant for the colors pink and yellow and red; my love for the outdoors.

  Basically, I’m a heathen and my parents — my mom especially — is super unlucky to have a daughter who is anything but a lady. This might be where my mom got all her ideas about heathens, devils and monsters. From her own mom. No matter how hard I try to behave and be good, nothing makes my nana like me.

  This year I’m not even going to try. I’m too bitter. I won’t be able to see the boy next door for an entire month, when I have seen him almost every day for the past year.

  My footsteps are unenthusiastic as I trudge up to the treehouse for our last evening together for a while.

  He’s already there when I climb up, drawing in his pad, and I settle beside him. I’m so lethargic and depressed that all I want to do is put my head on his shoulder, settle my nose in the hollow of his throat and play with his silver cross. I want him to nuzzle his cheek in my hair and fit his arms around the dip of my waist.

  He makes me feel safe and warm. His body is so solid and hard and firm that I know nothing can touch me while I’m touching him.

  Though I don’t know when we graduated to sitting like this — maybe it was around Christmas when the air used to be so cold that I needed his soft sweaters and warm chest — but this is how we sit now. I’ve often wondered if friends sit like this. If friends talk in whispers like we do. Other times I think that everything is so natural to us that why should I question it.

  Before I can move closer to him though, he fishes something out of his backpack. It’s a cellphone. A tiny flip phone that people used years ago.

  “I’m not allowed to have a phone until I go to high school,” I tell him, staring down at it like I’ve never seen a cellphone before. It’s true though. I can’t have any electronic gadgets until I’m fourteen and in high school. I use my dad’s comp
uter to do homework, or go old-style: library.

  “I know.” He starts pressing buttons. “See, that’s why I got you a small one so you can hide it easily. Keep it on you all the time, got it? You don’t want people accidentally finding it lying somewhere. And I put in my number already, okay?”

  “You want me to bring it with me to my nana’s house?”

  Dumb question. I know. But I can’t bring myself to ask the right ones. I’m too anxious, whereas only a few seconds ago, I was too tired to even want to breathe.

  “Yeah,” he says cautiously.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” His voice is sharp and his features even sharper.

  I swallow. “I-I don’t…”

  His sigh is frustrated. Shaking his head, he throws the phone inside his backpack. “Forget it.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder, my fingers tracing the softness of his t-shirt, the firm muscles. For some reason, I want to touch those muscles without the fabric. It jars me, completely throws me off, so I take my hand back and wring it in my lap.

  “Abel, don’t be mad. Please?” I whisper apologetically. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t want to fight.”

  He scoffs as he zips up his bag, almost tearing it apart in the process. “Look, it was stupid anyway. I thought we could keep in touch while you’re gone. Talk or text or something. I thought it’d make things easier. Bearable. But I guess this is kinda too much.”

  I go up to my knees and cup his cheek; I’m dying to anyway. His jaw is pulsing as he looks up at me. “Make what bearable?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  His Adam’s apple vibrates with his words, just like my heart. “Tell me anyway.”

  Abel grips my wrist tightly. I rub my thumb across his cheek, trying to loosen up his expression. It’s so fierce and straining.

  “Ever since you told me you were leaving for a fucking month, I haven’t been able to sleep. Because I feel like if I close my eyes, you’ll be gone. I don’t wanna miss a single moment of you being in the next house so like a fucking perv, I keep staring at your dark window, imagining you asleep in your bed, praying to God that…” His thumb grazes the flickering pulse on my wrist. “That somehow my Pixie is dreaming about me.”

  My Pixie. He said… my Pixie. I’m his, aren’t I?

  My pulse jumps. I bet he can feel it on his thumb, sticking out of my skin, trying to break free with every leap it makes.

  As I look down at him and his intense expression, I realize this is the big bang. This is how boys with golden hair and angry expressions crash into your life. This is how stars collide and worlds are made. This is how all love stories start.

  Is this ours?

  “W-we’re not just friends, are we?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  The entire last year flashes in front of my eyes. The way I wanted to talk to him, be his friend against all the rules. The way I hugged him without a thought, only on instinct, when I saw him here at the treehouse. His playful comments that made me blush. The way he spends hours making sketches of me. The fact that all I ever do is think about him. The way we are drawn to each other.

  “Does that mean you’re my… boyfriend?”

  Even though his eyes are burning hot, his lips twitch. “You figured that out, huh?”

  I frown, suddenly feeling stupid. “Well, you never asked me to be your girlfriend. Boyfriends are supposed to ask their girlfriends that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” I sniff, trying to move away, but he tightens his hold. “Let me go.”

  “Never.” He says it like it’s a promise. I shouldn’t feel all melty and tingly but I do. “Will you be my girlfriend, Pixie?”

  He’s looking deep into my eyes and it’s doing something to me, apart from making me feel all soft inside. “No,” I whisper, trying to keep my giddy grin from popping out.

  Chuckling, he hangs his head. My fingers sink into his hair and I shiver with how soft it is. All golden and soft and smooth. I want to rub it all over my face, my lips, even. That gives me a pause. But my heart isn’t stopping. It’s galloping at the thought of putting my lips anywhere near Abel Adams.

  He lifts his eyes and I forget all about his awesome hair. They are just so brown and shiny and his lashes are the most beautiful lashes I’ve ever seen. “You’re gonna make me beg, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Biting my lip, I shrug and the brown in his gaze glimmers. Glitters, shimmers, glows.

  “What can I do to change your mind?”

  I pretend to give it a thought. “Chocolates. Buy me tons of chocolates.”

  “Done.”

  “And then get me a bunch of flowers.”

  “All right.”

  I giggle but then raise my eyebrows, trying to look haughty and stern. “Well, then come back later and ask me again.”

  Abel chuckles. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He straightens himself up so that we’re the same height, even with him sitting and me on my knees. “How about I convince you some other way, right here, right now?”

  My eyes go to his lips again. Immediately, automatically, like something inside me already knew what he meant. Like I already carry that knowledge somewhere deep. My tingles surge, almost knocking the breath out of me. “N-no, I just want chocolates,” I lie.

  “And flowers, right?”

  “Yes. So, um…” I move away from him, my hands nervously fisting my dress. “You should come back later.”

  “Yeah, not gonna work for me.” He uncurls my hands and threads our fingers together. “How about you agree to be my girlfriend right now and we seal it with a kiss and I bring you all the stuff you so sweetly demanded the next time I’m here?”

  Okay, so… I didn’t hear anything else except sealing it with a kiss. And of course, my heart chanting yes, yes, yes.

  “Y-you want to kiss me?”

  “Fuck yeah. Ever since I saw you.”

  “But that was a year ago.”

  “I know.”

  My eyes and mouth both go wide. He’s been thinking of kissing me for twelve months now. All those things I’ve been thinking while staring at his lips and analyzing how his lower lip looks softer than his upper lip, and how it’s also thicker and redder… Has he been thinking about those things too?

  Well, duh. What else would his staring mean, right? I don’t know why I’m so shocked. I should’ve known.

  His eyes drop to my lips and he whispers, “Can I kiss you, Pixie?”

  It’s a good thing he’s holding my hand and our palms are connected because I would’ve crumpled to the floor at that tone. His voice is raspy and thick. I keep thinking that one day I’ll get used to how different his voice is but so far it hasn’t happened.

  I’ve wanted this for so long, but now I’m nervous. I don’t know what to do. Should I press my lips to his or like, nibble as I do my chocolate? It looks so easy on TV.

  “Just one kiss,” I whisper, figuring it’s a good place to start. If I suck, he won’t know and I can sort of learn from it, too.

  “You want me to die, don’t you?”

  “No, I—”

  He looks up. “Okay. Just one.”

  “P-promise?”

  “Yeah.” He nods and I feel his hair tickling my forehead, reminding me how close we are. I’ve never been this close to another human being. I didn’t even know people could get this close to each other.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  Oh God. Oh God. Abel Adams is going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me on the lips.

  Oh Gawd.

  I feel his breath before I feel anything else. On my lips, like a feather. Like a warm feather. It grazes the seam of my mouth and traces the shape of it, making me feel… cherished. How can his breaths touching my skin make me feel like that? But it does.

  Then I feel the heat of his soft lips on mine. I was not expecting it to be this soft though. Like a pillow or a cloud. It�
��s such a shock to my system that I have to grab onto his hand even tighter. Because if I don’t, I’ll fall under his soft, fragile kisses. Delicate, dainty, gossamer-y. Even though the last one isn’t technically a word, I’m going with it.

  I’m also going with moving my own lips. I don’t think they can stay still, even though they are nervous and trembling. I sweep them over his lower lip and almost lose my breath with how sweet it tastes. I think it’s all the apples he consumes on a daily basis.

  I can’t stop tasting him, now. Our kiss is slow but so intense that my heart pounds louder than it’s ever pounded.

  All of these sensations never prepared me for this next one. The one where Abel opens his mouth and sucks my lower lip in. It’s wet. God, so wet. But it’s also sharp and tugging and I gasp with how strange it feels. Strange and a tiny bit painful. No, actually it’s a lot painful but the pain isn’t coming from my mouth. It’s coming from the bruises on my waist.

  Abel lets my lip go with a pop. “Pixie? Fuck, was that… was that too much?”

  When did his hands go to my waist?

  I’m grabbing his shirt for balance but he himself is unsteady right now. Wild eyes and heaving chest. He’s clutching my dress at my waist, pressing on the tender flesh. He lets go when I move away from him, my eyes watering.

  “I —” I fall back on my heels and put my arms around myself, massaging the wounded area, trying to soothe the pain.

  Abel’s eyes are even more frantic than before. “What’s wrong? Did I… Fuck, did I hurt you?”

  I can’t take his agonized expression. “No. It… It wasn’t you.”

  He’s in the process of plowing his fingers through his rich hair when he stops and makes a fist before letting the strands go. “Then who was it?”

  “No one.” I fake-laugh. “It’s nothing.”

  “Pixie,” he warns.

  “Abel.” I giggle brokenly.

  “You can’t lie for shit, you know that, right?” Then something occurs to him. “Is it your fucking mom?”

  Yeah, he isn’t a fan of my mom.

  I’m ready to deny it but he knows. Gah. How does he know everything?

  “What did she do?” He’s shaking.