Beneath the Skin

by Kyla Stone

  “Hell yes I do! I haven’t left yet. Give me your address.”

  I rattle it off.

  “Pick you up in ten.”

  I wait for him, rubbing my arms and trying not to shiver. I keep thinking I hear noises in the kitchen, but the front door doesn’t open. The seconds tick by. Frank doesn’t come for me.

  Lucas’s Jeep rumbles into the driveway. I jump up and run down to meet it.

  “You look great.”

  I’m in my regular baggy jeans and oversized T-shirt, my hair pulled back in a messy bun. “So does your ride,” I say, kicking aside an empty bottle of Mountain Dew and several crumpled Taco Bell wrappers. The seats are frayed, and the dashboard is gouged in several places. It reeks of stale tennis shoes.

  “Thanks,” he says without a hint of sarcasm.

  There’s a few minutes of silence as we drive down several roads and turn onto the highway. The beach is a good 45-minutes away. “So what do you think of Miss Pierre?” he says finally.

  “You mean all her soliloquies on the meaning of madness? She’s weird.” But in a good way. I do like Miss Pierre, when I’m able to concentrate on what she’s saying.

  “Yep. She’s as nutty as a squirrel’s poop. Do you think it’s true? That we all have the seed of madness inside us?”

  I tug off one of my rings and roll it between my fingers. I’m still tense. It’s hard to think straight. I need white space. “Lucas?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we not talk right now? I’m sorry. I’m just—stressed.”

  “Sure.” I can feel his shrug in the dark. He doesn’t sound pissed. For some reason, I’m glad.

  “Thanks.” I rest my head against the passenger side window and stare out at the rolling farms and scabby forests. We pass through small, tired-looking towns. Xavier’s grandparents live a few miles north of the little beachfront town of St. Joe. After a while, we pull into a ritzy neighborhood with McMansions ringed with spotlights in the fancy, manicured shrubbery, showing off even in the dark.

  Xavier’s grandparents live on the top of a hill. Lucas parks at the bottom of their circular brick driveway, which is already packed with cars. We make our way up toward the house, a slate monstrosity of postmodern lines and edges and huge walls of glass. A girl in a bouncy string bikini is standing at the corner of the walkway, chomping gum and holding a poster sign with an arrow and the words: “Party this way. Don’t enter the house or I’ll kill you. -Xavier.” The girl tilts her head toward the brick walkway behind her.

  We round the corner of the house and skirt the massive patio with a built-in kitchen and grill. A sand path leads down a large dune about 200 yards to the beach. A bonfire flickers and I can see the movement of bodies, black outlines against the moon-silvered waves.

  My stomach clenches. This is a bad idea.

  Lucas touches my shoulder.

  I flinch. “Don’t touch me.”

  He holds his hands up. “No harm, no foul. I won’t touch you, I promise. Unless you ask me to.”

  I remember the feeling of his warm hand on my arm. My pulse quickens. I turn my face away before he can see my cheeks redden. “Trust me, that’s not going to happen.”

  “Okay.” He shrugs. “Ready to go?”

  I’m pretty sure this is Dante’s ninth circle of hell. But where else am I going to go tonight? “Screw it. Let’s go.”

  We make our way down to the beach, trying not to slip in the sand. I have to grab his arm once for balance. Mercifully, he doesn’t make any smart-ass comments.

  The bonfire’s about a yard across. Several guys from the football team are feeding it from a stack of logs piled beside the keg table. Three yellow kegs dispense beer and who knows what else. A mountain of red plastic cups threatens to tip and spill all over the sand. There’s a black Sharpie marker to write your name on your cup. Below the table, an opened cooler is stuffed with water bottles, iced tea, Monster drinks, and Mountain Dew cans. To the right, another folding table holds a couple of wireless speakers thumping out the latest Taylor Swift or Beyoncé song.

  A ring of tiki lamps surrounds the bonfire. Within the ring, groups of people sit in canvas folding chairs or lounge on blankets. The guys wear beach shorts and sandals and the girls wear only bikini tops and shorty shorts or filmy little sundresses. They must be freezing.

  “Who invited you here?” Xavier confronts us before we can enter the circle.

  “She’s my guest,” Lucas says.

  Xavier pokes his chest. “I was talking to you, too, Pepperoni Head. What do you wash your face with? Fried chicken?”

  “Leave him alone,” Eli calls from his spot on a blanket close to the fire. “He’s with me.” He’s massaging Margot’s bare shoulders. Jasmine stands next to them, holding a cup in each hand and looking like her eyeballs are going to pop from glaring so hard.

  “Whatever.” Xavier grins. His teeth are really, really white. All that grandparent money to pay for braces and teeth whitening. “I guess we can play connect the dots on your face when we get bored.”

  Lucas tenses beside me. “Very funny.”

  Xavier squints at Lucas like he’s seeing him for the first time. He sways a bit on his feet. “How come you look different than Eli? Aren’t you, like, brothers or something?”

  Lucas clenches his jaw. “Cousins. His mom is Argentinian. Not that you really care.”

  “I do, man. I do. I just mean, I never thought an Asian dude’s face could be so red, you know?”

  “Look, you asshat—” I start.

  Lucas interrupts me. “I think we’re done here.” He sounds calm, but there’s a vein throbbing in his neck like it’s a living thing.

  Xavier opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, which he really, really shouldn’t. Not if he wants to keep those shiny teeth.

  “Come on, man!” Eli says.

  “Xavier! Get over here!” Nyah says in a sing-song voice, patting the blanket next to her.

  “Whatever, dude.” Xavier loses interest and wanders back to his group.

  Lucas turns to me. “Don’t insult the alligator until after you cross the river.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Is that some weird Florida slang?”

  “It just means it’s safer to hold your tongue around certain people.”

  I dig my sneakers into the sand. “I can’t do that. I love sarcasm. It’s like punching people in the face, only with words. I mean, I’m not against literally punching people in the face either, if the situation calls for it.”

  Lucas smiles tightly. “If only closed minds came with closed mouths.”

  “Exactly. People are idiotic cretins and I pretty much hate everyone.”

  “That’s what I like about you. You always look on the bright side.”

  I roll my eyes. “You should fight back, defend yourself from those cotton-brained douchebags.”

  “It doesn’t bother me that much.”

  “I call BS.” I point down at his hands, which are still balled into fists at his sides.

  He sighs, unclenching his fists. “Yeah, it sucks rocks. But fighting back just makes things worse. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a skinny nerd. The odds are not in my favor.”

  “They’re assholes. They’ll just stomp all over you if you let them.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “If you don’t react like they want, they get bored and go away. I just pretend I don’t care. They’re not worth a bucket of emu spit anyway.”

  “Is that how people talk where you’re from?”

  “Not really. It’s just stuff my dad says all the time. It rubs off on you. Look, I don’t want this to ruin the night, okay? It’s really not a big deal.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.”

  “Can I grab you a drink?”

  “Sure. Whatever’s in the keg is fine.”

  I’m still waiting for Lucas when Grayson Myers staggers up to me. He clearly started his own party hours ago. He�
��s built like a bear and is nearly as hairy, with a pelt of wiry hair covering his arms, chest, and legs. “You’d be a dime, baby, if you weren’t such a lard-ass.”

  “And you’d be a human, if you weren’t such a Neanderthal.”

  “I’d still tap that.” He says it like he’s offering me a compliment. His breath stinks of stale beer. “Right behind that dune. I’ll even let you—”

  My heart jackhammers against my ribs. “Get out of my face before you find your balls tied around your neck.”

  He raises his cup, liquid sloshing over the edge. “Why you gotta be such a tease?”

  “Are you not hearing me correctly? I’d rather be gnawed to death by sewer rats than voluntarily touch any of your STD-infested body parts.”

  “So, you really don’t want to . . . ?” he asks, making an obscene hand gesture.

  “Sorry, my mom taught me small objects were choking hazards.”

  He takes a step toward me. “Wait. What’d you just say?”

  My muscles tense. I’m already planning a knee-jab to Grayson’s crotch when Lucas comes up next to me. “Is everything okay?”

  Grayson squints. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Is he bothering you?” Lucas asks me as he hands me a cup. His voice has a hard edge to it, one I’ve never heard before.

  Just then, Eli leaps up from his blanket. “Let’s liven this party up!”

  “Look, a distraction!” Lucas points.

  Grayson obediently turns his attention to Eli. Eli stands up and drains his cup in three swallows. “In this evening’s episode of American Ninja Warrior, we’re going to leap a flaming pit of fire while avoiding the painful frying of our balls!”

  A bunch of guys cheer. Grayson raises his fist and yells, “Hurrah!” The girls squeal and make faces.

  “Don’t be an idiot. That’s dangerous.” Margot tugs on his arm.

  “She needs your balls later!” someone shouts to explosions of laughter.

  Eli gives Margot a sloppy kiss. “For later, my dear.”

  Margot has the decency to blush.

  Eli tosses off his shirt, ab muscles rippling. He raises his arms and gallops around the ring. Everyone chants, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

  This is why Eli is so popular. He’s not only a golden Adonis in human form, not only the star receiver of the football team and Margot Hunter’s boy toy, he’s also wild fun at parties. Lucas and I watch from the outskirts. For a second, I wonder how Lucas feels, suddenly thrust into the glow of popularity and found wanting. He’s so close to the glow, to the coveted inner circle, but not in it, tolerated but not included. Does it bother him? It doesn’t seem to, at least, not as far as I can tell.

  Eli folds into a gallant bow. Then he shoves his hair out of his eyes, plants his feet in the sand, and runs toward the fire. Lucas goes rigid beside me, nervous for his cousin’s safety. But Eli is an athlete. He sails easily over the flames and lands on the other side with a foot to spare. The crowd erupts into cheers.

  “Who’s next?” he shouts, beating his chest.

  A dozen guys leap up, eager to show off their skills.

  On the other side of the fire, I see Arianna sitting on a bench of bleached driftwood. It takes me a few seconds to place the guy and two girls sharing the bench with her. It’s the Bible club group, the ones always trumpeting their meet-at-the-pole prayer groups and brownie bake sales for the homeless and Friday night Bible study/make out sessions. Arianna’s one of the only girls wearing a one-piece.

  She looks up, and her eyes meet mine. I’m the first to look away.

  Lucas clears his throat. “You know, with that guy back there. I would have folded him up like a lawn chair. If you’d asked me.”

  “I didn’t need any help.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I thought you were all anti-violence.”

  He shrugs. “I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to defend a lady’s honor.”

  “I can defend myself, thank you very much. Besides, chivalry is ridiculously outdated.”

  “Maybe. I still believe in it, though. Wanna walk?” Lucas nods at the water.

  I don’t know what I’m doing here. I sure as hell don’t belong. But Lake Michigan is beautiful. The waves slap the shore and the horizon seems to stretch out forever. I want more of it. Lucas seems so different from the rest, different than the Xaviers and the Graysons of the world. I might actually want to walk with him, crazy as it sounds inside my own head. “Whatever.”

  We have to pass Margot, Jasmine, and the rest of her crew lounging on their blankets. Margot is telling a story, some epic prank about filling a girl’s locker with tampons they’d colored with a red Sharpie. When the girl opened the locker, the tampons spilled out everywhere, all the guys yelling and leaping away like they were bloody bombs. They did it to Deirdre McClintock, a shabby girl with too-thick glasses and frizzy hair the color of dishwater. There’s a rumor going around that she’s a lesbian. I don’t care whether she is or isn’t, but I know exactly where that rumor originated.

  Jasmine laughs so hard, she starts snorting. Then her voice breaks and that loud, honking laugh I haven’t heard in four years escapes her mouth. Her eyes bulge in embarrassment. She covers her mouth with her hands.

  “You sound like a pig, Jazzy!” Peyton shouts gleefully.

  “A drunk donkey.” Margot shoves Jasmine’s arm.

  Iron fingers squeeze my heart. I remember that laugh, from the time at Delia’s Ice Cream Shoppe when we got kicked out for flicking each other with spoonfuls of frozen yogurt, or the time in seventh grade when she convinced me to skinny dip in her pool, and her parents came home early just as we frantically yanked on our swimsuits, giggling hysterically the whole time. She didn’t care how her laugh sounded back then. The pain is like a small explosion in my chest.

  I can’t feel it. I won’t let myself feel it. I let the anger erase the pain, let it crackle through me and burn everything else away. Instead of bypassing their blanket, I stride right up and kick as hard as I can. A bucket’s worth of sand sprays Margot, Jasmine, and Peyton.

  “Hey!”

  “What the hell?”

  They scramble to their feet, their drinks tipping and spilling onto the blanket as they brush out their bikini tops and scrape their hands through their hair.

  “You psycho bitch!” The side and back of Jasmine’s shorts are wet from her overturned beer.

  “Someone should put that skank out of her misery,” Margot says softly.

  Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I’m ready to finish this, right here, right now. “Oh yeah? Cause so far, the best you can do is repeat the same three insults ad nauseum. Ooh, scary. You want me? Come get me. Let’s go. Or are you too much of a pussy to actually fight me?”

  They all glare at me, but none of them makes a move. “That’s what I thought. You’re all malignant, lily-livered cowards. Every single one of you. Get out of my sight.”

  “Let’s go,” Lucas says, tension in his voice.

  “Don’t lose your rectal matter,” I mutter. “I’m coming.”

  “No one likes you,” Peyton yells at my back as I walk away.

  I stick up both of my middle fingers.

  Most of the crowd is still focused on Eli, Xavier, and a few others brave enough to leap the fire. No one else stops me as I walk down to the water’s edge. I spin my rings, my fingers trembling. I never feel much during a confrontation. It’s afterward my emotions tangle in my gut. It’s afterward I think about the before, what it was like when it was me and Jasmine, and no one else mattered. What it was like to have a friend. Pain and loneliness grip my heart and won’t let go.

  I feel Lucas beside me. “Come on. Let’s walk it off.”

  I almost want to apologize to him. But what for? This is my life. I’m that girl everyone loves to hate. He’ll see soon enough there’s no point in hanging around someone like me.

  We walk along the shoreline. The breeze is chilly away from the fire, nipping at
my skin, flinging my hair behind me. The waves roll and crash, the white foam just missing my shoes. The pulse of the water ebbs and flows, ebbs and flows. It’s like the river, only so much bigger, grander, like the whole thing could swallow all of this up, make it disappear. The pressure in my bones lessens. The nasty tangle of anger, hate, and fear slowly unwinds itself. For now.

  “I think Miss Pierre is right,” I say finally. “There is a sliver of madness in all of us. Depending on what happens to us, we might go mad. Or maybe it happens in pieces, only sometimes. Or maybe some of us use that little sliver of madness, when we need to, to do what has to be done.”

  Lucas is quiet for a minute. “Maybe some forms of madness can teach us something, give us what we need, like Lear. Unless it grows too big and takes you over. Back in Florida, we were reading Sylvia Plath’s Bell Jar. Imagine sticking your head in an oven, how committed you’d have to be to dying.”

  “Or filling your pockets with rocks and wading into a river, a la Virginia Woolf.” I imagine the weight of it, the water rising higher and higher with each step, then the choking, can’t-breathe sensation when the water fills your nostrils, your mouth, your throat, spills down into the cavities of your lungs. Was she afraid? Did she change her mind, when it was already too late?

  “Like Hunter S. Thompson, Hemingway, and even Jack London, depending on what you read.”

  “You’ve actually read all these people?”

  He pauses. “Are you going to think less of me if I haven’t?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughs. “Well, there you go. Then I have. I’ve read Leaving Las Vegas three times and To the Lighthouse until even I wanted a room of my own. Just don’t ask me what they’re actually about, okay?”

  I roll my eyes.

  Lucas kicks a strand of seaweed. “There’s also Curt Cobain, Robin Williams, Marilyn Monroe.”

  “You seem to know a lot about suicide.”

  He pulls his pink lighter out of his back pocket and flicks it open. The flame flickers in the breeze. “My mom’s dying of cancer now, but she overdosed on pills when I was twelve.”

  I glance at him. There’s real pain in his voice. Something stirs deep inside me. We both know something about broken mothers.