SATURDAY MORNING
Kill me now.
Saturday.
It’s usually my favorite day of the week. I have no school. No volunteer hours. I sleep in, cook an egg, have it on toast, sometimes with bacon, sometimes without. I shower, shave, listen to my favorites playlist on the iPhone, and decide what exciting and new adventure I’m going to go on with my friends.
Not today, though. I should be heading for the beach with Kristen and Shawna, but no. I had the genius idea to sign up for beta club this weekend.
Well, it wasn’t so much a genius idea as it was I’ve been falling behind on volunteer hours for graduation and I need to catch up. Seriously, two hours we’ve been here already, and the sun is barely up itself.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. Or even that I’m not used to the grueling schedule of volunteering on top of homework and extracurricular activities. I do volunteer. A lot. Just not usually on Saturday mornings.
And this is a good thing I’m doing. We’re doing. The streets by Mills and Tower inside the Rapids have always been unkempt. This whole area as a matter of fact. The schools are poor, the families are poor─they barely have any community programs. These people need someone to care. That’s why the beta club chose to come here. To make them understand someone cares.
I, personally, care about a lot of things. Like what’s going to happen after high school.
This is my last year to make a difference. To do things that count. And that part’s easy. I’ve always known who I am in school. An athlete. A friend. A scholar. A volunteer. But college? I don’t even know what I want to do yet. And in just a couple short months from now, it’s all going to come crashing to a halt. Then I’m going to have to make a decision.
I should have already made it. I can’t seem to focus, though.
So for now, I dream of the beach.
It’s a perfect day for it, too. Blue skies, no rain in the forecast. Mom and Dad are sleeping off a late night with friends and are expected to be out of commission for the day.
I’m sure the girls from the team are having a blast without me. Sunning. Swimming…
I’m happy for them.
Really.
I mean, it’s probably one of the last opportunities before school lets out that I have to bond with my friends, that’s all.
I have to suck it up, though, because all these service hours look terrific on college applications. If I get into Brown, Mom is going to be so happy with me.
For once.
“I’m heading down 5th, you coming, Char?”
That’s Darin. Best friend and long standing partner in crime when it comes to all things Cresthill High School volunteering program.
A little overbearing, sure, but what good BFF isn’t?
“No, you go, I think I’m gonna head down here and sweep the trash real quick.” I point down a small alleyway that looks harmless. No exit on the other end, decent enough lighting. Mr. Bartlett, our volunteer sponsor, is just across the street. I’m good.
Darin eyes the road. “You sure? Want me to come help?”
I shake my head. “Nope, I’ll catch up as soon as I’m done.”
I’m already halfway there before he asks again. Out of earshot. Or so he thinks.
I grin secretly to myself for the little bit of alone time I’m about to enjoy with zero guilt.
I’m stopped short when I see what I can only describe as mesmerizing.
Normally, graffiti is considered vandalism. We scrub it down and or paint over when it pops up, which happens a lot, but…
“Wow.”
I’m awestruck at the stunning artwork I’ve stumbled upon. The colors, the details.
I can see every fold in the curtain that’s seemingly being pulled away from the brick. On this side, it’s gloomy. Depressing even. With greys and blacks mixed together to form one big looming storm cloud but on the other side─if I were to step through the opening of the pulled curtain…
It’s like Neverland.
The clouds almost seem as though they’re moving and the colors cast by the sun kaleidoscope across the hill off in the distance . Reaching out, I glide my fingers along the letters and numbers at the bottom of the curtain. They’re equally beautiful in their own right.
HG17.
Initials, I assume. I don’t bother trying to think of anyone I know. No one in my circle lives around here. But 17… is it an age? A year? A length of time?
It’s…
“Well, hello there.”
The normally friendly words are deceiving. I hear the ulterior motive seeping from each syllable my visitor groans out.
My heart beats a little faster. And I’m sweating all of a sudden. This boy doesn’t sound as though he’s trying to make a new friend and this small alleyway doesn’t seem quite so harmless after all.
Regardless, I turn and smile. It’s what I do.
Even when I don’t want to.
“Hi.” I point up at the intricate mural I’ve discovered as a distraction. “Is this yours?”
He laughs and gives me a menacing grin. “Not by a long shot, honey.”
He tilts his head, inspecting me from toe to head in a creepy, I don’t even want to know what he’s thinking, sort of way. He runs his hands through his bleached blonde, greasy hair and licks his lips like I’m his next meal.
“Do you…” I choke on my words. My mouth has gone dry, despite my attempt to stay cool. “Do you know who─”
“Don’t you worry about that shit, girl.” He strides toward me. That’s when I see the others. Two more boys join him from the street. I peer around them to check if Darin is gone already. He is. So is Mr. Bartlett.
Crap.
“I got something a little more interesting for you to check out.” He grabs his crotch as he steps closer and I back up even though I specifically told my feet to stay put. It doesn’t take long for me to hit the wall and I am seriously regretting coming down this damn alley. I have nowhere to run. Nowhere.
I feel my body shaking, so I know he sees it. And it makes his disgusting smile widen.
“Y-you should know,” I swallow down my nerves. Or try to, anyway. “I’m a black b-belt, and I h-have pepper spray.” I grab my backpack off of my shoulder and begin furiously pulling at the zipper to try and find the damn bottle. I know it’s in there somewhere.
The crotch-grabber chuckles loud and takes a peek over his shoulder at his friends. He nods and they turn to keep watch while he...what?
No matter what scenario I can think of, none of them sound good.
Where in the hell is the freaking pepper spray?
“What’s going on, Z?” Another voice from somewhere beside me asks. I turn to see a boy, a very tall boy, standing at a door I hadn’t seen before. It was hidden by the grafitti.
Art.
This tall boy, with ripped jeans and t-shirt, leans against the jam and flicks a toothpick onto the ground. As I inspect him further, I see a pierced eyebrow above his left eye and a visible scar that runs along the side of his neck. And something that looks like a tattoo on his forearm.
In all honesty, he doesn’t look much nicer than crotch grabber.
His stance seems relaxed but I feel a tension building even from where I stand. Like he’s ready to fight if need be. Over me? Instinct tells me, although these two know each other, there’s bad blood there, or bad history at the very least.
Z straightens up a bit and gives our new visitor a half nod.
“S’up, Heath?”
“Not much. Opening early on account of some damn do-gooders cleaning up the streets this AM. What’s up with you?”
Do-gooders?
Does he not see me standing here?
Z shrugs and grabs his crotch again. It’s like he has some sort of itch there or something.
“Just...you know...” he eyes me. “Introducing myself to the new girl, here.”
The other boy, Heath, finally sees me. But barely acknowledges me. “Don’t you have
better things to do than terrorize the upper side kids?”
The boys that were with Z are gone, I notice when I look to see what his answer is.
Huh.
Z thinks about it for a few seconds. He gives me another once over, and I’m compelled to pull my jacket around me a little tighter when he does it. It crosses my mind there may be a stand off here but then his whole demeanor changes and he huffs out like it’s not worth it.
“Yeah.” He turns and waves over his shoulder with a sideways peace sign. “See ya, Heath.” He doesn’t say another word to me. He simply goes about his business elsewhere. I hope no one else around here finds themselves alone in a poorly lit alleyway with nowhere to go today.
When I can’t see him anymore, I catch my breath and turn to say thank you to the stranger that stepped in on a potentially dangerous situation, but all I’m thanking is a door, half way closed already.
I grab it.
I think.
Despite the potentially horrible situation that just dissipated and all the signs pointing toward “this is not a good idea”, I throw my backpack over my shoulder and step inside.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing.
I tug my lip between my teeth, thinking.
I shouldn’t do this. I mean, I narrowly escaped what could have been a terrible situation. I should simply go catch up, as fast as possible, with Darin and Mr. Bartlett, but I can’t help myself. I’m curious. So, I follow the dark hallway toward a dim light and low music playing, around the corner and into a…record store?
I expected squatters. Drug addicts. Maybe even a drug deal going on, based on the dilapidated state this place is in. Instead, I get vinyl albums and band posters.
Who buys vinyl albums anymore?
As I search the lobby, I find the boy from outside, behind a register, counting something.
Inside, I see him a bit more clearly than out in the alleyway. He must spend a lot of time in the sun. He’s got a tan that rivals any of the boys on the lacrosse team. I’d be willing to bet it’s not from sunbathing, though.
There’s another toothpick between his teeth now. And his sleeves are rolled up. He reaches over and turns the music up. He must like this song.
Actually, it’s not bad. I don’t think I’ve heard it before, though.
As I approach him, he doesn’t look up at all. He simply continues to count, and I see now, he’s counting bills.
“Hi.” I try to talk over the loud song that’s playing but either he doesn’t hear me or he doesn’t want to break his concentration.
“I just wanted to say thank you for...” I scream. I don’t want to take any longer than I have to. Who knows if this one is any better than the last. Maybe he simply didn’t want crotch-grabber invading his territory.
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn't…” This is ridiculous. He can’t hear me. And he clearly doesn’t care if I’m thankful or not.
“Anyway.” My voice is lower now. And I go to leave, through the front door, this time. When my hand reaches out to pull it open, the music disappears. It stops me dead in my tracks.
“Do you even have a clue how stupid that was?” he asks.
“Excuse me?” I turn to face him again. He looks angry. At me? What did I do except try to help clean this place up? For him, no less.
“Don’t they teach you in volunteer class to stick with your group? Never go it alone? All that shit?”
“I’m sorry, did I offend you by trying to make this neighborhood a better place to live?”
Really.
He laughs. “There’s no making the Rapids a better place. But no, you fucking offended me by being an arrogant dumb ass.”
“Excu─”
“So arrogant that you thought it was a good idea to wander off from your goddamn do-gooders and get yourself noticed by one of the more violent people in this neighborhood.”
“It’s not like I went looking for trouble, you know. I just─”
“Just what?” He steps out from behind the register and heads toward me. “Came here with your perfectly pressed clothes, your cheerleader’s ponytail, your bright eyes and bushy tailed fucking attitude, and thought it was gonna make a difference?”
His eyes are trained on me and the closer he gets, the faster my heart beats. Only I’m not scared this time. I’m...mad. I am not a cheerleader.
“I happen to be captain of the varsity volleyball team, two years running, thank you very much.”
“Oh,” he says with the utmost sarcasm he can in one sound. “I’m so sorry, volleyball captain’s ponytail, then.”
With his brows knit together and his jaw tightening every time he shuts his mouth, I’d swear I personally kicked him or something.
I kind of want to.
“Am I supposed to apologize now for having nice things or taking care of my hair?”
“No.” He’s right in front of me now. Glaring down at me from what feels like ten feet up. The tattoo on his arm catches my attention again but I don’t stare at it too long. I don’t want to make him think I’m judging him over it.
I’m only judging him based on his attitude. Which stinks.
“You’re supposed to apologize for being uneducated about how this neighborhood, that you’ve come to help clean up, works.”
He uses air quotes for certain words and I’m again feeling as though he questions my intentions here.
But why do I care?
“I─”
We stand here for a moment, staring at each other like this is the negotiations for world peace. In the end, I nearly break into tears. I said nearly. Because he’s totally and completely got a point.
I’m an idiot.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It was stupid, and naive, and I just wanted a few minutes alone. Then I saw that mural out there, and…” I have to sit down. The gravity of what just happened outside finally hits me and my knees completely go out on me.
Luckily, there’s a couch at the front of the store that I collapse into. I let my backpack fall to the floor as I sit.
When I peek back up at him, to see what else he’s got for me, the boy, Heath, seems surprised. Confused maybe. Instead of lecturing me some more though, he sits down next to me, not quite as angry as before.
“Rookie mistake,” he says, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. As if he was preparing for a full blown all out fight and all he got was a hug.
He leans back into the couch and lets his head fall back so he’s staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve seen worse.”
I release a small laugh. “I find that hard to believe.”
“You’d find a lot of things around here hard to believe. Trust me.”
He lets his guard down for a moment and closes his eyes. He’s tired. From more than just getting up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday, it seems.
“I’m Charlotte, by the way,” I tell him softly. “But everybody just calls me Charlie. Charlie Sweets.”
He lifts his head slightly and turns to open a single eye, directed at me.
It’s the same response I get from most people I meet.
“Any relation to Willy Wonka?”
I roll my eyes, but I’m not annoyed this time. And I don’t correct him over the fact that to be connected to Willy Wonka, my last name would have to be Bucket. The fact that he knows the story makes me appreciate him a little more, actually.
He almost smiles when he closes his eye again and rests his head back against the couch. He reaches a blind hand across his body, toward me. “Heath Gooding.”
I shake his hand. It’s not what I would have guessed. His skin is a bit rough, yes, but the way he takes my hand in his is warm and protective.
I don’t want to let it go. “I meant it when I said thank you, by the way. I know I put you in a difficult position out there. I don’t take it lightly what that boy was─”
He pulls his heated touch away and I pout.
Pout? What is wrong with me?
/> He lifts his head and looks straight into my eyes this time. His gaze takes my breath away, momentarily. And why do I have goosebumps? “I put myself in that position,” he tells me. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
For the first time, he gives me a fully committed grin. Sort of. When he pushes himself up off of the couch, I look for a way to make him stay.
“Why do you work at a record store?” He stops and turns, then looks around at the albums that engulf the aisles. I’m half afraid I might have offended him again. So I clarify. “I mean, isn’t this a dying business?”
One of my senior classes at school this year is economics. We’re discussing smart business investments right now. This does not seem to fit that category.
Heath steps up to one of the racks and his expression lights up. “Not really. I mean mainstream, yeah, probably, but you’d be amazed how many collectors still come by to pick up one of their favorites from back in the day. Or search for a find they know they can get a pretty penny for on eBay or something.”
“Oh,” I’m surprised to hear he’s actually thought about it and this isn’t just some job he got to pass the time. “So, the store does make money?”
He laughs. “No.”
“Then─”
“Vinyls are a dying breed.”
As I watch him speak, I notice how his lips seem soft. Experienced. I have no idea how lips can look experienced, but honestly, his do.
“The only reason to run a business involving albums is...love.” He finishes his speech and I’m lost.
“Love.” This is not something I would expect an obvious roughian to base his career moves on.
“Love of song. Love of music. Love of art.”
The way he says that word. Art. It suddenly reminds me of why I’m here. In this store, that is. The wall. Outside.
And it all makes sense.
HG17.
“You’re HG.”
“What?”
“Your painting? Outside, I mean. On the side of your building.”
He seems slightly embarrassed all of a sudden, but he nods anyway. “Buck, he’s the owner, he hates a blank canvas. He let’s me paint every few months. By then it’s in dire need of an update anyway.”
What the Heart Wants: An Opposites Attract Anthology Page 28
