by Kim Roshell
I let him . . . kiss me. Once.
Sheesh, just the memory sends my stomach into seizures.
Seventh grade for me, sixth for him, I stood in the crowd with everyone else, mesmerized as he breakdanced in the hallway in front of Mrs. Garvey’s class. Did this head spin/flip thing. Landed on his feet right in front of me, bringing me into the spotlight. Puckered his lips. Everybody was pumped, and I was, too. Beckham and his brothers are the Caucasian Jackson Five of dance around here. His oldest brother has even cameoed in a few videos.
In my defense, preadolescence-Beckham was sort of cute. The metamorphosis into how he looks today didn’t begin until later that summer. His breath wasn’t flammable back then, either.
“I’m gonna hurl,” I mutter, oxygen deprivation forcing my need for a deeper breath. Seriously, the smell is doing number on my stomach. I feel like crap.
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t be too hasty, boo.” The funk creeps closer, invading my personal space. “I’ve learned a few things over the years.”
Simply doesn’t pay to go easy on this boy. Thankfully, God nudged the clock during my catnap.
“Too bad none of it included how to get a clue,” I snap, summoning a drop of my usual acerbic rejoinders designated specifically for him.
“That any way to talk to the man you’re chillin’ with tonight?”
Hysterical laughter bubbles in my chest. Man? Puh-leaze. This is the same boy who argued that Adam Sandler has always deserved more respect in Hollywood.
“Nope, but he won’t mind since I was only talking to you. And don’t call me boo.”
“You’re funny, Simone.” His fingernails drum on the back of my chair. I feel a slight tug on my hair. “I like a woman with a sense of humor. I also like a woman who knows when to stop playing games.”
I reach back, slap his hand the same way I would a pesky mosquito.
“I like it when a boy knows how to keep his distance and stay out of my personal space. You should try it.”
He leans closer, setting my neck on fire, and not in a good way. “Quit faking, boo. You know you want me.”
Oh, gag! That apple I ate is downright furious, throwing jabs and hooks. This entire conversation is going to cost more patience than I can afford today.
“Stop practicing without a helmet, Beckham.”
Once again, I should have followed my first mind, wore my hair down. My overpriced flat iron crashed and burned leaving my whole head a mass of jacked-up frizz since I forewent the use of a shower cap last night. Detangling in less than thirty minutes was out of the question, hence the high bun.
“Miss Bruckner? Mr. Glass? Is my lesson interfering with your lively discussion?”
“Not at all, Mr. K. Just bringing the wifey up to speed on what she’s missed.”
“Very good of you, sir, but save it for after class.”
“Sure thing, Mr. K.”
Did I mention the Butt Kisser isn’t my favorite person? Not only am I academically bound to shared custody of a dry good with him, I have to refer to him as husband on any written documentation for the duration of this purgatory. Who will blame me if this whole flour baby project ends in the school’s necessity for metal detectors?
I bide time until Mr. Kelley continues before I swivel far enough in my seat to look the evil toad in the face. I roll my eyes, then face forward again.
“Stop checking me out, girl.”
“Die.”
“Why you gotta’ be so damn mean? I bet you sit at home wondering why dudes aren’t lining up to date you.”
His statement touches a nerve.
The bell rings, signaling the end of this dreadful period, thank God. I slam my book closed and shove it inside my backpack.
“Seriously, Simone,” Beckham slides out of his seat, comes to stand in front of my desk, blocking my quick exit. “Give a guy a chance. We can hang out over break, get to know each other on a deeper level. If you’re lucky, I’ll give you a taste of my improved technique.”
Oh, I. Can’t. Even.
On top of the tornadic activity brewing in my belly, a paralyzing throb that forms and builds in my tensed shoulders, sends a geyser of pain shooting to the top of my skull. The room tilts when I stand and the handle of the basket slipping through my fingers. Baby Stewie tumbles to the floor, his landing made more dramatic by the flour cloud he flings in triumph around my knees.
Of course, Mr. Kelley has a direct view of my stellar parenting skills, which I already know will result in a major deduction of points, but a sudden wave of nausea leaves me too unsettled to care. Before Beckham can take a step back, I’m in his face. A warm zing of triumph washes over me at the sight of his unchecked flinch and trembling chin.
Even more fitting, my nails are coated with Knock ‘em Dead Red today. I use a perfectly polished tip to poke Beckham square in the chest.
“What is the deal with guys and this sudden need to prove something with me over break?”
“Don’t get mad, boo—wait, what guys? I’ve got competition?”
I ignore him, jab him again. “For real, shouldn’t you both—”
Poke
“—concentrate on day dreaming about your—”
Poke
“—girlfriend—”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. That’s why I’m free to kick it with you. Wait, who’s this other dude pushing up on my wifey?”
“—and how much you love her or how she wants to get back with you even if she hasn’t said it yet?”
“Who loves me? You mean Nia? Because we haven’t been together together. I asked, then I thought she hung up on me, so—”
“Hush! And didn’t I tell you don’t. Call. Me. BOO?”
“My bad.”
“Don’t get it? Spending a week together will only make everything worse! So, you’ll know stuff about me. So what? How does talking on the phone all night erase what we did? Can you explain that? Can you?”
“Uh, I don’t know yet, but can I get your number?”
“No!”
“All right. Can you ease up with that finger?”
“No!”
“Please?”
“What if something goes wrong? What if we mess around and kiss again? Then what, Mr. Tell-Me Who-You-Are? Have you thought about that?”
“I think about it a lot, actually. We can go ahead, do it again right now if you want?”
“No, I do not want! I want you—”
poke
“—to forget that kiss ever happened. I want you to stay away from me so I don’t lose my closest friend the same way I’ve lost nearly everyone else in my life, and I want . . . I want . . .”
Oh. No. No, no, no, no, no.
Have I lost my mind? Am I really wondering?
I’m a raving lunatic!
What are the chances the floor will open and swallow me right this minute? I’m probably a full shade darker than my fingertips right now.
“Can you forget this whole thing, Beckham? Please?”
“Uh . . .”
I don’t wait around for his answer. I snatch my bag from the floor, and bolt for the door. The pointy edge of one of my books punishes my hip as I do this awkward run-walk, certain to leave a bruise. I keep moving, get halfway to the restroom before I remember I left Stewie lying at his “father’s” feet. For less than a second, I consider turning around to retrieving my dependent. A gurgle in my stomach nixes the idea.
Thankfully, the bathroom isn’t crowded. I make it just in time, too grateful to care about what my knees are coming into contact with.
Pinned to the floor, my mouth waters, a final warning that the apple is about to make an encore appearance.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Control is a bit of a myth, especially when a chick’s involved.
—Ryan
Whit
Knock, don’t knock?
I’ll feel like shit if I wake her.
Then again I’ll be stir crazy by dawn, having lain awake wondering if she’s, like, hacked up a lung, or something. The clock on the dash reads 1:37 a.m. Hardly an appropriate hour for arriving on anyone’s doorstep, especially when they aren’t expecting you, but it’s looking like my only option since Simone hasn’t answered her phone.
Discovering more about Simone hasn’t derailed my constant thoughts of her. The exact opposite, actually. Everything I’ve learned has made her more enticing. I’ve made the futile effort of keeping my head down just so I wouldn’t spend entire class periods staring at her back. At best, I’d have earned a D minus on a grading scale.
I think I’m losing my mind. One minute, I’m in control, the next a restless mess. She’s on my brain ten times as much. Swear on a stack of Bibles, the more I look, the better she gets.
Complicating matters, Ashley asked if we could “seriously” talk when she gets back. Mama made things even more awkward by inviting her to stay for supper, which left me stuck for over an hour (thank God she still had packing to do) pretending things aren’t weird between us—all while checking the clock every five minutes, praying I wouldn’t be late picking up her best friend. Granted, Simone and I haven’t exchanged a word since our last wee-hour text conversation, but I wanted to follow through on making sure she got home safely after I made such a fuss about her not finding another ride. So much for that worry
Guess I could drop these bags at her door, do a ring and run.
There’s light peeking through those curtains. If she answers, I’ll hand over the loot, leave. If her aunt comes to the door, I’ll explain why I’m here at such an unhospitable hour, hand over the loot, leave.
Simple.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, take another peek at that tiny shaft of light.
Don’t be a wuss, Devereaux. Just do it. I snatch the keys from the ignition, proceed up the drive before I can talk myself out of it.
Five quick knocks and a doorbell ring later, I’m pivoting on my heels and heading back down the steps when the outdoor light flicks on. I spin around, ready to explain. Simone’s aunt, a pretty brunette I’ve seen only a handful of times, peers out through a small crack, then opens the door a tad wider.
“Whit?”
“Uh, apologies, ma’am, Know it’s late.”
“Yes, it is,” she affirms, checking her watch. Frowns. “Are you looking for Ashley? Because she isn’t here, hon.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am, I know. I want Simone. To check on her, I mean.”
“I see. Is she expecting you?”
“No, ma’am.” I add a head shake for emphasis. “Heard she was sick, and I uh, wanted to drop these off.” I raise the bags. “We haven’t spoken, actually. I was supposed to give her a lift. Her co-worker said she left early. Tried calling. Think her phone may be off.”
I really am sounding more and more like a stalker these days.
She leans a hip against the doorframe, crosses her arms. “I saw you there the other night. You give her rides home often?”
“No, ma’am. Only once. Bad weather. Truth, this is the closest I’ve ever been to the front door.” Don’t know why I add this information. Just feels right.
“I see.” She nods towards the bags, a faint smile softening her expression. “Looks like your hands are pretty full.”
“Yes ma’am, a little.”
“I heard you were responsible for saving Simone in that pool. I’ve wanted to thank you. What you did,” she says, her pretty green eyes going misty, “I can never repay you.”
“Don’t owe me nothing, ma’am. Just glad I got there when I did.”
As if I’ve passed some final test, she steps aside in silent invite. “I can’t allow you to stay long. It is late. Simone needs rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Granddaddy would say never look a gift horse in the mouth, so I don’t. I hustle over the threshold, hip check the door before Ms. Katie can change her mind. “Thank you.”
I didn’t lie when I said I’ve never been inside. Closest I’ve ever come is the driveway, believe it or not. Even those times haven’t been regular occurrences. Ashley told me Simone’s cautious about visitors on top of her understandable phobia of riding in cars. Rare moon when she agrees to ride with anyone, including Ashley. Mostly, she walks wherever we’re all meeting, or simply doesn’t show. She might be the only person in our graduation class with an unused driver’s license.
Ms. Katie—she a Bruckner, too? I really should ask this gracious woman’s surname—leads me through the humongous foyer and down a dimly recessed-lit hallway past what appears to be a formal living room, into a huge modern kitchen which spills over to the right into an even larger family room. A widescreen TV is mounted over a fireplace, currently paused on whatever movie I interrupted. Two plush beige sofas, a mound of covers piled high over one, a huge square coffee table nestled inside their right angle, and what I think might be a massage chair, still don’t use half the space in the room.
I nearly plow into Ms. Katie when she stops short.
“You have company, love.”
One dainty hand appears from underneath a cocoon of blankets followed by a slender arm reaching skyward in a lethargic stretch. I wait, mesmerized by Simone’s struggle to free herself, my heart near bursting when she finally emerges like a butterfly from her swaddling.
She wobbles, lifts herself into a seated position. Twists until she’s full-on facing us. Blinks like she’s reconciling reality with her semi-conscious state. A shiver seizes her body almost immediately, despite the room’s warmth.
Whether from the heat of the flames attacking what looks like freshly added logs in that fireplace, or seeing Simone’s unguarded expression, my whole body tingles with an unexpected surge of heat. The place feels like an inferno to me.
Good thing I’m not a betting man because I’d have lost a bundle from laying everything on Simone faking illness in order to avoid me. For days I’ve denied myself the pleasure of the visual feast that is her. Right now, she looks—
Well, honestly, she looks under the influence of something illegal. Even from a distance—not too far, but far enough—her reddened eyes look glassy. Dark, sallow crescents color her eyelids.
Don’t matter. She’s still gorgeous. I can’t take my eyes off of her. Stare as she sways like a drunken, human metronome. Don’t think I realized how badly I needed to see her until right this second.
And, her hair. It’s a frizzed-out beautiful mess, all wild and loose, nowhere near the tamed styles she wears for school. Closer to those curls I still imagine brushing the underside of my chin, only now they’ve taken on this new dimension, straining towards the ceiling like they’re in search of a plug into some invisible energy source.
Wonder if she’ll let me touch it? Not because of some bullshit racist compulsion to test its texture, either, but because I dream about the way it felt against my skin.
“Hey,” I manage around an inexplicable lump forming in my throat.
“What are you doing here, Cowboy?” she croaks, plucking the front of a tattered green and gray Parkland Hills Middle School Phys. Ed t-shirt molded around her frame.
Coming over tonight? Best worst idea ever.
I step from behind her aunt, though I’m easily a full head taller. Lift the bags hanging at my sides higher, as if they explain everything. “Didn’t know what you needed.”
“Huh?”
I repeat what I already told her aunt about going to her job.
Her eyes slide closed, honest remorse visible on her face. “I forgot.”
“S’alright. I, uh, brought you meds and stuff. Juice, water, few snacks. Case you ran out.”
“What time is it?”
“Er . . . late.”
“That, it is,” Ms. Katie affirms. “Why don’t you go ahead, set those bags over there on the table? Simone can look through them when she feels up to it.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, ma’am.”
Chill out, dude.
Translation: I close the distance in two embarrassing strides. The closer proximity ratchets my pulse into the danger zone. Par for the course, anymore.
“Don’t get too close. I’ve got cooties and the dragon,” Simone warns.
Cooties, I know, but— “Dragon?”
“Bad breath.”
Hilarious. “No worries,” I assure her with a wink. “Can’t remember the last time I was sick. As for the other, nothing a toothbrush and mouthwash won’t take care of, yeah?” My suggestion is greeted by a noisy groan of protest from her tummy. Her face blanches to an unflattering shade of gray. “Good lord, woman, what’s festering in there?”
“Dunno. All I had was an apple at lunch. I felt fine until I didn’t.”
“An apple is responsible for the carnage that old lady made me clear away?”
After twenty minutes of waiting in the parking lot, I ventured into Tate’s, convinced Simone was hiding inside, waiting for me to leave. Her co-worker cut my search short, informing me that I was wasting my time.
I toyed with the thought she might be covering for Simone, helping her ditch me. Must’ve done a horrible job of masking my skepticism because she marched me around the back of the building, pointed at what looked like a lost kidney with a side of lung. No way could anybody have faked that.
Fingers wrapped around the cigarette she’d lit as soon as we stepped outside, that lady pointed toward a water hose coiled next to a stack of pallets. Took a quick puff of her cancer stick, told me, “Have at it, lover boy.”
So I did.
“She didn’t,” Simone moans.
I grimace.
“Sorry.”
“S’okay.”
Who needs an appetite?
Afterward, that same woman informed me that Simone was banned from the premises for at least the next seventy-two hours, and strongly advised I not come back looking for her any time sooner.
I hopped in my Jeep, headed sixteen and three quarters’ miles south to the closest 24-hour pharmacy, emptied my wallet on as many remedies and supplies as my frugally spent fun money could afford.
“That wasn’t just the apple. Mr. Tate forced a bowl of soup on me when I got to work. Came right back up.”
