Why Me? : A Possessive High School Romance (Young Adult Version)

by Silva Hart

  I debate ditching the scene but spot Lexi weaving unsteadily through the neighbor’s yard by herself. She’s wearing a crotch skimming, brown leather mini skirt with a turquoise t-shirt. A bag big enough for only a driver’s license and cell phone dangles limply from her wrist. Her long, golden hair shimmers down her back.

  I have to admit the girl is damn fine. I still don’t know why she’s suddenly latched onto me when someone like the quarterback or class president makes more sense. She looks like she’s about to fall over any second, and her ridiculous platform shoes aren’t helping matters. I park along the side of the street and get out to help her.

  “Hey, you,” a sweaty, fat cop rushes up to me, grabs my wrist, twists my arm behind my back, and slams my head onto the hood of my car. My fight-swollen cheek meets metal and hurts like hell, but I’ve been in enough situations with cops to know it’s better to let them do their thing and let it all work out however it’s going to. He pats me down and cuffs my wrists.

  “Hey,” Lexi screams from across the street.

  I shake my head at her as the cop leads me to a patrol car. I wish I could tell her to hide and I’ll be there in a few minutes, but I can’t.

  “Getta loada this guy,” a cop standing at a breathalyzer says, gesturing to my face. “Someone out there doesn’t like you very much.”

  “You should see the other three,” I grin.

  “Shaddap,” the first cop snarls and twists the cuffs so they cut into my wrists.

  They hold the nozzle to my lips and tell me to blow. I bite back what I want to say and do as they tell me. Disappointment flashes across their faces when they see I don’t have a drop of alcohol in me. They uncuff me and move to the next kid in line.

  Getting away from all the police activity, I walk to the yard where I last saw her. “Lexi,” I hiss, peering under bushes and into shadows. Having only one good eye doesn’t help.

  I finally find her sitting on the ground against the back of a house, holding her knee. There’s a good-sized scrape on it and blood is trickling down her leg. She looks up at me with those Barbie doll eyes and raises her arms to me like a toddler begging to be picked up.

  I scoop her up. She curls against me, wrapping her arms around my neck, her breath hot on my skin. She’s traded out the patchouli for a lighter vanilla perfume that sends my head spinning. Vanilla is one of my favorite scents. I pull her closer to me. She clings to me, tears dripping from her eyes. “Oh my God, Jett,” she says over and over again.

  Setting her down in the passenger seat, I walk around the car and climb into the driver’s seat. “Where do you live?”

  She looks at me through clumped lashes with mascara streaked down both cheeks and a smear of pink lip gloss on her cheek. She looks like something out of a horror movie. “Oh my God, Jett. What happened to you?” She reaches a finger to touch my swollen eye, and I pull away.

  “I had a fight tonight. I told you that.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does that always happen when you fight?”

  The question irritates me. “No.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “Don’t take me home yet. Please?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I dunno, but I can’t go home right now.”

  I can see what she means.

  Chapter 7

  We end up at The Overlook where I’d held Anna for so long only hours ago. I park as far off to the side as I can so we’re deep in the shadows. We sit, looking out over the city lights and the stars. I can’t help but think about my evening with Anna. I roll down my window and light a cigarette. Lexi leans her head on my shoulder.

  “Do you like me, Jett?”

  God, here we go. “Sure.”

  She looks up at me with her clown face. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  “Sure,” I repeat, resigning myself to the conversation-with-a-complete-drunk that I’m in for.

  “I think you are one hundred percent, spectacularly, over-the-top gorgeous,” she sighs, as she snuggles against my arm.

  I give an incredulous exhale. “Since when?”

  “Since always. You’re always by yourself, never seeming to need anybody. You’ve always been like that. I was kinda jealous,” she slurs.

  Is she shitting me right now? “Why didn’t you talk to me before yesterday?”

  “I dunno. You were always so …” she searches for the right word, “mysterious.” She raises her face to me. “I was afraid of you. I mean, look at you. You’re the poster boy for badass.”

  I blow smoke out the window, not sure I want to hear anymore.

  Of course she continues. “You always seemed so dark and moody and … strong.” Her breathy voice blows beer at me as she leans closer. “Like you’re not afraid of anyone or anything. And you’re always getting into trouble and acting like it doesn’t bother you. You never back down. Nothing can touch Jett Dixon.” She reaches up to stroke my cheek. “And you’re absolutely, positively the hottest guy in school.”

  I snort in disbelief. No one’s ever said that to me before.

  Her hand rubs up my thigh. “But you’re just a great big teddy bear, aren’t you? A knight in shining armor who came to rescue me. I can’t believe those stupid cops put you in cuffs. I’m so sorry about that.”

  Her hand inches higher toward my crotch. “Come on, Lexi. You’re drunk. You want to go home now?”

  “Do you?” she asks, a teasing tone in her voice as she slips that velvety hand under my waistband.

  My breath hitches and I grab her wrist, stopping her movement. “Let me take you home. You don’t know what you’re doing right now.”

  Her seeking fingers make contact. I groan and release her wrist, allowing her hand to continue. My head rolls back. I’m utterly powerless. She clumsily climbs over the console and straddles me. Again, the girl works her magic before collapsing back into the passenger seat.

  I light another cigarette and gaze at the spot where I’d held Anna just a few hours ago. Grimacing, I gaze up at the sliver of moon. Anna deserves better than me.

  Finishing the smoke, I flick the butt onto the asphalt. “What’s your address?”

  There’s no answer. Glancing over, I find Lexi passed out. The moonlight dances over her classically beautiful face. Even the make-up smeared all over it can’t hide how stunning she is. If ever a porcelain doll came to life, this would be it: the face, the eyes, the hair, the proportions, everything. And she’s been watching me? Thinking I’m hot? I shake my head. It’s too hard to believe.

  Her revelations make me see her in a new light though. Maybe I’m not just a notch in her belt after all. It’s weird for me to think about, but she’s actually been kind of nice so far. She might be a little messed up, but aren’t we all?

  I gently brush strands of hair from her face. I don’t know how long this whole obsession-with-Jett thing she has going on will last, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing. I’ll enjoy the holy hell out of it for as long as it does.

  Opening her bag, I peer at her driver’s license and let out a whistle. Upton Heights. She’s even richer than I thought. Just as I grab her license, her phone lights up with a text. I pull it out and read it. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it’s not like she’ll ever find out.

  It’s Carlton Galloway. He’s probably the richest kid in the entire school and one of the jock assholes. Classically handsome in the buff-boy-next-door kind of way.

  Gallows: Hey Pepsi! Make it home ok? Let me know.

  Cute. They have pet names for each other. Right. Of course. I shove it back in her purse. What did I expect? That I was the only game in town for a girl like her? That’ll teach me to think she’s actually interested in anything more than my body.

  I head straight for her house. When I get there, a huge, brass gate blocks my entrance. “May I help you?” a clipped voice blares from the speaker that hangs at car window height on my left.r />
  “I’m here to drop off Lexi.”

  A buzzer sounds and the gate slides apart. I drive down the longest driveway I’ve ever seen to the biggest house I’ve ever seen. A stone fountain splashes in the center of the driveway loop in front of the house. The statue is a boy and girl kissing under an umbrella that water flows over.

  As I pull up, the door opens and some butler looking guy complete with tails, cummerbund, and white gloves walks down the steps and scowls into the car. I give a friendly wave to signal that I’m not a threat as I get out. “She’s just had a little too much to drink, but she’s fine.”

  His furrows deepen.

  “I’ll help you carry her in.” He must weigh a hundred and five pounds soaking wet, so he’s certainly not going to do it. Cradling her in my arms, I walk up the steps and into a lobby that has a black-and-white marble floor and is as big as my kitchen at home. “Where do you want her?”

  Lexi stirs and squeezes her arms around me. “You’re amazing, Jett,” she breathes in a drunken mumble. “You’re just so, so amazing. Oh my God.”

  The butler and I both freeze at these words. We exchange looks and I shrug, hoping she doesn’t say anything more. Following him up the curved staircase and into a room that’s easily twice the size of my bedroom, I lay her gently on the massive four-post bed, remove her shoes, and pull the covers over her as the butler looks on.

  We leave the room, and the butler closes the bedroom door behind us. “And who should I say had the pleasure of escorting Miss Lexi home this evening?” His tone drips disapproval as his eyes sweep over my dirty white t-shirt, bandaged cheek, and swollen eye.

  “She knows,” I say and walk out the door without a backward glance.

  I’m sound asleep, sprawled across my bed on my back and wearing nothing but gray sweatpants, when a wooden rod comes crashing down across my stomach. “You get into police trouble, boy?” Disoriented, I curl into a ball. What the hell? More blows land on my ribs and shoulder. “I told you what would happen if you got into police trouble again,” Tony snarls.

  He's seriously doing this? Again? I try to catch the rod, but it’s moving too fast. Rolling to my feet, I charge at him. My bruised shoulder rams into his solar plexus and pushes him against my chest of drawers. The lamp crashes to the floor, the bulb bursting in a scatter of glass. My keys, wallet, brush, and everything else that was sitting on the dresser flies off with a clatter.

  “You want a piece of me?” Now fully awake and alert, I scream into his face, frothing with rage at his cowardly tactic. I want to kill him. I want him dead.

  Whiskey fumes blow into my face as he struggles to regain his breath from the impact. He takes another swing. I grab the rod, wrench it from his grasp, and cock my arm to bring it down across his head.

  “Stop,” Mom shrieks, appearing in the doorway in her ratty pink bathrobe. She jumps at me and grabs the rod, trying to wrestle it out of my hand. Of course she would take his side. Always has. She’s no match for me, but I let her twist it from my grasp.

  Tony cocks his fist and that’s all I need. I let him have it. A pivot-punch to the kidneys and an upper-cut to his jaw and he’s down. I didn’t pull the punches at all. Sobbing, Mom bends over him.

  I grab my wallet, keys, a t-shirt, my jacket, socks, and sneakers and punch a hole in the hallway wall as a reminder to him to never try anything like that again before slamming the front door behind me as hard as I can. In the Mustang, I light a cigarette, inhale deeply, and rub my eyes with the palms of my hands. God, what time is it?

  Examining my still stinging shoulder and stomach, I find red welts raised like a braille message of cruelty. I gingerly pull on the t-shirt. He’s lucky he’s still alive. He better be nice to Mom. She’s the one who saved his sorry ass. Not my problem if he isn’t though; she chose a drunk, abusive loser over her own son. Tony may have gotten me on the outside, but she hurt me on the inside.

  I need to leave, get away from this hell hole. Nothing is going to change, so why do I keep thinking it will? Just because I’m muscled-up now doesn’t mean he respects it. He’ll continue to drink, the alcohol will continue to make him mean, and he’ll continue to think of ways to attack me. It might be in a rapid series like lately or it might be out of the blue after several months of quiet, but it will keep happening. Expecting anything different is only insanity.

  Chapter 8

  Turning the key in the ignition, the clock shines 9:42. It’s Saturday. I tenderly touch the bandage on my cheek and check it out in the mirror. A black and burgundy crescent rims my right eye. Green and purple lace the cheekbone under it.

  Ivan sure did a number on me in the ring last night. At least I have some cash in my pocket from winning two matches before that happened, and some of the swelling has gone down. I can see out of both eyes now anyway.

  I order breakfast at a drive-through window then motor around aimlessly while chewing on it. Naturally, I end up at One-Eyed Mike’s. Mac’s here. Of course he is. He always is. But then I guess the same could be said of me. I see with some satisfaction that his temple sports a blackened knot the size of my fist.

  After warming up, wrapping my wrists, and sliding on my worn, boxing gloves, I work the heavy bag. Mac comes up to the one hanging beside mine and sends it rocking with a steady series of jabs. He’s wiry bordering on emaciated with protruding cheekbones and a testy set to his mouth, a mouth that runs like a squirrel with its tail on fire. He’s always latching onto someone and talking them to hell and back. Why me? Why today?

  “Nice luck last night, kid.”

  I don’t need him on me today.

  “The thing about luck though is it doesn’t last.” He continues his steady prodding, his bag rocking rhythmically.

  My fists slam into my bag, sending it swinging. First I get physically attacked and now verbally. Seriously? Do I have some kind of target on my back today or something?

  “And once it’s gone, what do you have?” Jab. Jab. Jab. “Nothing but a swollen eye and bruised cheek.”

  Gritting my teeth, I move to the speed bag and start drilling it. This takes a lot more precision and concentration, so maybe I can block out Mac’s relentless mouth. I’m nearly trembling from the effort it’s taking not to swing at him.

  He stays on me, poking at the neighboring speed bag. “You know what luck is? It’s the opposite of skill.”

  I drop my fists and turn to face him, breathing hard. “You know what’s funny?”

  He stops and faces me, standing close, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Enlighten me.”

  God, I want to bash in his ferret face. “The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

  “Hey,” One-Eyed Mike calls across the gym. He strides toward us. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

  As much as it kills me, I step back. There is no way I’m pissing off One-Eyed Mike and jeopardizing my membership. Not because of this asshole.

  “Come on,” he says. “You know the drill. Let me hear the rules.”

  Mac puts his gloves on his hips and, for a second, I think he’s actually going to challenge One-Eyed Mike. I will him to challenge. Please get kicked out of here and go find another gym to make miserable.

  But then Mac snorts a laugh. “We were just talking, man, but you wanna hear your rules?” I’d never speak to One-Eyed Mike in that tone. One-Eyed Mike crosses his arms and stares Mac down. Mac shakes his head. “We weren’t doing nothing, but okay, fine.” He puts on a dopey grin and recites in a sarcastic sing-song, “One, don’t make things personal.”

  Taking punches can get some guys pretty heated, so this is our number one rule for a reason. But it’s ironic that Mac had to say that one. He could take an incorrect food order personally.

  I follow, “Two, treat this place as if you pay the rent and the equipment as if you bought it.”

  Mac continues, “Three, don’t come in drunk or high and no drinking or smoking on the premises.”

  “Four, pay on time.”

  �
�Five, no bullying, harassing, intimidating, or being an asshole.”

  “Six, don’t mess with anyone’s lady.” One-Eyed Mike had to add this one after it caused more trouble and drama in the gym than all the other rules combined.

  “All right, we understand things?” One-Eyed Mike looks between us. We both nod. “We good here?” More nods. “Now go sweat it out.”

  Mac turns back to the speed bag, while I take my gloves off and pile weight onto the bench press bar. After such a rigorous session that I couldn’t lift a tissue to blow my nose if I wanted to, I slump onto a bench along the wall.

  Ivan wanders over, sits next to me, and rumbles in his thick accent, “You don’t look too bad off. How you feeling?”

  “Like a Swedish tank rolled over me.”

  Ivan laughs. “Sorry about that, kid, but I had to get you down fast. As soon as you smashed into my jaw first thing, I knew you remembered our little chat.” He leans back against the wall. “It’s true what they say: loose lips sink ships.” Glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, he asks, “You tell anyone about that?”

  “Nah.”

  “Smart lad. Keep all the goods for yourself. You’re no skvaller.”

  “A what?”

  “You don’t gossip. What you are is a right kämpe! You’re a natural in the ring, kid. You got a feel for it. You’re just a bit green still is all.”

  I gnaw on the inside of my cheek.

  “I was only able to lay you out because you tried the same move twice. If something works once, don’t use it again right away. Don’t establish any patterns. Keep changing it up. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did last night.”

  It’s actually good advice.

  Ivan pats my knee. “And don’t let Mac get to you. Keep ice in the stomach. Stay the ögat av stormen, the calm in the storm.” He holds his sledgehammer of a fist out and I bump it with mine.