by Pat White
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kiss you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I grab him by the shoulders and go in for another kiss, trying to prove that not only did he mean to kiss me, but he wants to keep on kissing me.
Weaving my fingers through his hair, I pull him closer, aching to feel it again, the warmth, the connection.
Instead, he puts his hands on my shoulders and breaks the kiss. Embarrassment floods my cheeks. I’m truly out of my mind throwing myself at him this way.
“We can’t do this,” he says, looking into my eyes. This time I look back, thinking maybe a HULU would explain why he’s being such a jerk.
As if he reads my thoughts, he snaps his gaze from mine and glances over my shoulder.
“Being connected to me is like having a flesh-eating virus,” he says.
“Now, who’s the drama queen?”
“Trust me, they’ll abandon you: your friends, teachers, even your parents. No one wants their daughter to be associated with a juvenile delinquent.”
“Which you are not.”
He glances down. “I’m whatever people think I am.”
“Then make them think differently.”
He bursts out into a cold, heartless laugh. “You’re so naïve. There’s no changing who I am, and there’s no changing what will happen to you if we’re connected. So just forget it, okay?”
I have no intention of forgetting the kiss or the warmth that lingers on my lips. I’ve got to believe he’s pushing me away because he cares about me. That’s something, right?
“Let’s go.” He starts up the trail.
I interlace my fingers with his and he doesn’t pull away, not as long as cedar and pine trees offer us camouflage.
When we get close to the sidewalk he slips his hand from mine. “You go first. We shouldn’t be seen together.” He scans the street, as if looking for danger.
“Thanks.” I smile at him.
“For what?”
“For listening.” I kiss him on the cheek and he clenches his jaw. “Later.”
I step onto the sidewalk and head for home. My emotions are like a tangle of weeds. I have an ally, someone to shoulder the heavy load I’ve been carrying; someone to help me brainstorm ways to stop Greg.
I don’t want you being alone with him.
That’s quite a demand from a guy who cares about me but won’t allow it to go anywhere.
I wonder about his family. I’ve never seen a mom-type go in or out of their house. Did she die? Are his parents divorced? Doubtful. No mother would intentionally leave her sons with an abusive father.
If she died when he was young, I can’t imagine what kind of scars that would leave on someone like J.D, an old soul. I’m thinking the deepest scar must be fear, fear of being abandoned again.
By someone he loves.
I’m tempted to stop and talk it out with him, but I’ve become pretty good at noticing the little things too. I read his body language loud and clear. He needs distance not more true confessions.
Fine, I’ll leave that for another day.
In the meantime I need to formulate a plan to expose Greg and stop his revenge plans for Mr. Cooper. This feels more serious than a high school prank. Someone who thinks it’s okay use violence to make things right needs professional help.
As I climb the last hill to our neighborhood, I sense J.D. behind me. I smile to myself and drift into a fantasy about us wandering through the halls of Evergreen High together as boyfriend and girlfriend.
Whoa, girl. Slow down.
A month ago if someone were to tell me I’d be falling for the guy who nailed me with his car I’d question their sanity.
But I don’t question that kiss.
It was perfect.
“You need a ride?”
I’m startled out of my daydream by Greg, who has pulled over to the curb.
“Hey, hi,” I say. I’m totally spent, unprepared to play the part of cheerful Catherine.
Greg glances in his rear view. “What the hell? Is he bothering you?”
“Who?” Although I know the answer. I glance over my shoulder at J.D. then back at Greg. “I didn’t know he was there.”
“He’s stalking you.” He shoves the car in Park.
Gotta move fast before Greg does something stupid. I pull open the passenger door and hop in. “Thanks for the ride. The whole uphill thing makes me a little dizzy.”
He isn’t listening. He’s glaring into his rear view mirror.
I reach over and touch his cheek. My fingertips itch at the connection.
“Ignore him,” I say. “That’s what I do.”
Greg looks into my eyes but I focus on his forehead. Coward. I should try to see into his mind again, figure out what the pea brain is planning and when.
But right now I’m exhausted and I can’t let him go after J.D. J.D. needs to stay out of trouble so he won’t be expelled or sent to another school.
If he was ever sent away…my heart clenches with grief.
“I’m going to destroy that kid,” Greg says, “because of what he did to you.”
But I know it’s not about me. It’s about Greg’s ego.
“Don’t waste your energy on him,” I offer. “Wanna take me home and help me with Lit?”
His scowl melts into a smile. “Sure.”
He shoves the car into Drive. I feel like I’ve mastered my box of mind tricks.
As we pull away from the curb I glance into the side mirror.
J.D. stops walking and shakes his head in disbelief.
* * *
I feel like I’m in a scene out of a TV show from the fifties. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with perfect boy while Mom serves us cookies, fresh from the oven, with organic milk. On his way to the garage to build shelves for his “man space,” Dad stops in the kitchen and shakes hands with the Evergreen football star.
And as we sit here eating warm cookies, the high-pitched squeal of Dad’s buzz saw echoes through the kitchen window every few minutes. I wonder if Dad is randomly cutting things into pieces as a form of therapy.
After an hour of me asking Greg questions I already know the answers to—thanks to J.D.’s notes—I’m about to scream. The pretense is draining me, which is dangerous because I might blurt out something inappropriate.
Like the truth.
The good news is I’m starting to think I can influence Greg with my charm instead of having to go brain diving and drown. He seems to respect me, and is taken in by my sweet nature.
“So are you starting in the big game against Skyline, Greg?” Mom asks.
Thanks Mom. I glance at Greg. Red splotches color his cheeks.
“No, Ma’am. I’m benched for a few games.”
“An injury?” Mom asks with sympathy in her voice.
“Nah, I screwed up.”
I’m shocked. Maybe there is a human side to Greg Hoffman. Maybe I misinterpreted the HULU.
“I shoved J.D. Pratt away from your daughter and got busted for it,” he explains.
Not exactly the truth.
“That boy,” Mom hushes, putting another cookie on a Christmas plate. “And what was his punishment?”
“Another free pass. He’s Mr. Cooper teacher’s pet,” Greg says.
Mom points her spatula at us. “He’ll get his, don’t you worry.”
The image of Dad wielding the shotgun makes me shudder.
“Catherine?” Mom questions.
“I think I need a nap.” I smile at Greg. “Thanks for your help.”
“Sure.” He stands and shakes Mom’s hand. “Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Westfield. Tell Mr. Westfield I said bye.”
He’s so sincere, so polite.
And oh, so dangerous.
“Of course.” Mom smiles. “I hope to see you back on the field soon.”
I walk Greg down the hall and reach for the front door. He stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“There’s a party at Stuart’
s tonight,” he whispers. “Wanna go?”
“I do, I really do, but I’ve got a family thing.” I roll my eyes for effect.
“Text me if you get done early?”
“I will.”
I won’t. I’m not going to put myself in that kind of situation with him again, not until I’ve got my plan figured out. I mean being with him in the presence of my cookie-baking mom and saw-wielding dad is one thing, but going to another party alone with him? Not a good idea.
I open the door and we step out onto the porch.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
“Cool.” I smile.
He goes in for a kiss.
A month ago I would have given my Evergreen Cheer pin to have this guy kiss me in public.
Today I hold my breath. I wish it had been J.D. sitting in my kitchen, Mom serving him warm cookies, Dad shaking his hand.
I wish J.D. was kissing me on our front porch.
Greg presses his lips against mine and immediately goes in for a tongue assault. I pretend to like it. Not easy. His tongue flits around my mouth like it’s on the hunt for something. I’m really not enjoying this.
And I accuse him of being phony?
With my hands to his chest I break the connection. “Whoa. In broad daylight and everything.” I tease.
“I don’t care who sees us. I want everyone to know we’re together.”
I smile. I’m doing a lot of that lately when I’m not sure what to say. I don’t enjoy lying, yet standing here letting him kiss me is one big, fat lie.
“Later, babe,” he says, breezing down the front steps to his BMW.
He gets behind the wheel and honks. I wave as he drives off, a little fast, a little reckless.
Then my gaze catches on J.D. standing on his front porch with his hands on his hips.
What does he want from me?
He puts up his arms, like he’s saying, “What the hell was that?”
I shrug.
He marches down his porch steps.
I automatically back up. He’s coming over here?
The high-pitched squeal of Dad’s saw tweaks my eardrums.
I shake my head “no” to J.D. and wave him off.
He looks both ways. He’s going to cross the street.
Bad, bad idea. Mom will shout for Dad. Dad will sprint down the driveway clutching his chainsaw, ready to slice J.D. in half.
The shrill cry of the saw echoes from the back yard.
With a gasp I dart inside the house and slam the door. Closing my eyes, I grip my moonstone choker like it’s a magic stone.
Please stay away. Please, don’t come over here.
“Catherine?” Mom says. She wanders toward me, drying the cookie sheet with a red-checked towel.
I think she’s going to ask why I’m upset, why I can hardly breathe.
“It looks like everything’s going well in the romance department?” She winks.
I offer a strained smile. “Yeah.”
“Greg is such a nice boy.”
I giggle. It borders on hysterical. She doesn’t seem to notice.
A knock vibrates against the door and I shriek.
Chapter Nineteen
“Catherine, what’s the matter with you?” Mom reaches around me and opens the door.
I hold my breath.
“Hello, Bob,” Mom says.
Bob? Our mailman?
I peek around Mom. The middle-aged, postal guy stands on our porch holding a box.
“I need a signature for this one,” he says.
“Sure,” Mom signs. “Probably more tools for your father.”
“Could you take this out to Dad?” She passes the box to me, but I’m distracted by the sound of shouting across the street.
The three of us glance at J.D.’s house.
With a violent grip of J.D.’s arm, his dad yanks him toward the front steps. “You’re not going anywhere, you ungrateful, lazy, sonofa—”
J.D. interrupts him, but I can’t hear what he says.
His dad whips his head around and glares at us. “What are you looking at?”
Just then Dad joins us in the doorway. “What’s going on?”
No one answers.
J.D. sees us watching him, turns and heads for the house.
His dad shoves J.D. face first into the stairs.
“Uh,” a gasp escapes my chest.
“Whoa,” mailman Bob whispers.
J.D.’s father climbs the stairs, stepping on J.D.’s hand. With a cry of pain, J.D. snatches his hand back and clutches it against his stomach.
I want to race over there with ice and ibuprofen and chocolate chip cookies.
“Thanks, Bob.” Dad shuts the door.
I square off at him. “Someone needs to do something.”
“It’s none of our business,” Dad argues.
“It’s abuse,” I counter.
“He probably deserved it.”
“Adam,” Mom scolds.
How can my own father be so heartless? I guess it’s because his heart was broken when he lost his perfect daughter, thanks to the degenerate across the street.
I brush past them and race upstairs. I can’t look at my parents right now. Their indifference, their callous reaction to what just happened disgusts me.
J.D.’s father shoved him into the front steps. Face first. Did he break J.D.’s nose? Was he bleeding?
I pace my room as anger rages through my chest. That bully abuses his son in public and no one cares?
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and dial 9-1-1. Hesitate. Can’t hit the Send button. If I do the cops will knock on our door and ask questions. Mom and Dad will be pissed if they find out I care about J.D., and Dad will whip out the shotgun or one of his power tools and…
“I have to do something.”
I could call children’s services but they’d probably take weeks to investigate. I need to do something. Now.
Wait, what about the cop J.D. checks in with? Detective Ryan, yeah, that’s it.
Sliding into my desk chair I search the local non-emergency police number on my computer. I press the number on my cell and hope I don’t regret this decision.
* * *
“After you’re done with the front deck you can start on the back,” the old man said from the screen door. “You’ll finish sanding this weekend and stain the next.”
J.D. glanced up and squinted against the sun. “I’ve gotta do clean up at Mr. Cooper’s later.”
“Then you’d better work fast.”
“I need more sandpaper.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes sir.” He held up the last sheet.
“Always got excuses,” his dad muttered and slammed the front door.
J.D. went back to sanding the front steps, discolored from wear and tear, and J.D.’s bloody nose. He couldn’t believe the old man assaulted him in public.
In front of Catherine and her parents.
J.D. was on his way to let Catherine have it for kissing Greg the psycho. Leading Greg on was dangerous.
But as J.D. started to cross the street he caught sight of her wide eyes and stiff posture. He recognized that look. He saw it on his brother’s face every time the old man got close.
Fear.
Catherine was afraid of J.D.
His shock immobilized J.D. long enough for the old man to grab him and make a scene.
J.D. stayed down on the stairs, not wanting to enrage his father. J.D. avoided looking in the direction of Catherine’s house again. He couldn’t handle the disgusted expression he knew he’d see in her eyes—disgust at his weakness.
The old man peeled out of the driveway and headed for the hardware store, but he’d most likely end up at McHugh’s Pub. Good, it would keep him away from the house for a few hours, giving J.D. some peace.
He rubbed sandpaper against the wood, back and forth, harder each time, channeling his frustration. The physical exertion helped to relieve the anger building in his ch
est.
She’d kissed Greg Hoffman.
And it looked like she enjoyed it.
Swish, swish. He pressed harder, back and forth, his arm straining with the force. Maybe if he worked himself into a state of exhaustion he’d pass out and forget what he saw.
Forget she’d kissed someone else.
When he only wanted her kissing him.
His lips tingled with the memory of her sweet taste and slight whimper as she leaned into his chest.
“Having fun?”
J.D. glanced over his shoulder at Detective Ryan who was coming up the sidewalk.
“Does it look like I’m having fun?” J.D. turned back to his chore.
“Hey, kid.”
J.D. put down the sandpaper and turned around. “What?”
Detective Ryan eyed J.D.’s swollen nose and scratched cheek.
“What happened?” Ryan said, his tone flat.
“I tripped.”
Detective Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Uh-huh. We have a witness who says otherwise.”
“What, did Hoffman tell you we got into a fight? I haven’t seen him all day.”
“I believe you. Is your father home?”
J.D. stood. “Why?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“No.”
“No, I can’t talk to him?” He shot J.D. a wry smile.
“No, he’s not home.”
The detective glanced at the house.
“See for yourself,” J.D. motioned.
Detective Ryan refocused on J.D. “Like I said before, I believe you.”
“Yeah, right.” J.D. fell to his his knees and continued sanding.
“It goes faster if you work with the grain,” Ryan offered.
J.D. didn’t answer. He didn’t like the Detective showing up unannounced, asking about his dad, asking J.D. about his nose.
“I’m not your enemy, J.D. Just,” Detective Ryan hesitated, “call me if you need anything.”
J.D. slammed his fist on a wooden step and glared at the detective. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to help you.”
“You can’t.”
“I can if you’ll let me.”
J.D. ripped his gaze from Detective Ryan, fearing he might spill his guts and end up in foster care. He glanced across the street and spotted someone spying out an upstairs window.
