by Callie Hart
When I stop in front of him, not giving a shit that we’re causing an obstruction to our fellow classmates, or that the football team jocks outside Jacob’s locker are still drilling holes into the side of Alex’s face, he huffs softly under his breath, allowing the smallest suggestion of a smile to form on his face as he brushes his fingertips over my cheek. “Damn, Parisi. I don’t think you’re ever gonna stop being the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs.
I lean into his hand, briefly closing my eyes, enjoying the warmth of him, just for a second. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”
He hooks his index finger through the belt loop of my jeans at my right hip, tugging me closer to him. Close enough that he can dip down and whisper into my ear. His hot breath makes me shiver as it skates over the skin of my neck. “I’m not beautiful. I’m a handsome bastard. And don’t you forget it,” he growls.
Goosebumps break out on my arms and over the entire expanse of my back. “Cocky,” I accuse, angling my head back just enough that I can make eye contact with him. “You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Moretti. When the hell did your ego get so damn big anyway?”
His dark eyes glimmer with pleasure as he tugs on my belt loop again, closing the small gap between us so that our bodies are flush. “The day you agreed to marry me,” he whispers. “If a girl as stunning, smart, kind, and brave as you is willing to get hitched to me, then I must be pretty fucking amazing, right?”
I shove him in his chest, laughing. “Maybe I just pitied you, ’cause I knew how heartbroken you’d be if I said no.”
“Well, that’s true. I would have been fucking devastated if you turned me down,” he says. His eyes are still full of mirth, but his expression becomes a little more serious as he takes me by the hand, pulling me into the little alcove next to a water fountain. “Seriously, though, Argento. You don’t need to follow through on this if you’re not ready for it. My mom married Giacomo so quick, she had no idea who he really was—”
I hold up a hand, pressing it against his chest, cutting him off before he can wander too far down this road. “I know exactly who you are. And I want to marry you more than I’ve ever wanted anything, so stop talking right now before I begin to worry that you don’t want me and I have a panic attack, okay?”
Alex leans back against the wall—all six foot three of him pure muscle, arrogance, and vulnerability, hidden behind a wicked smirk. He works his hands beneath the hem of my t-shirt, his palms burning into my bare skin as takes hold of me just above my hips and grips me tightly. “Does that mean you’re gonna go with me to this stupid fucking prom thing, then?” he asks. From his tone, you’d think this was an off-the-cuff remark, but I know Alex. I know that he’s probably been stewing on this question ever since he arrived at Raleigh High this morning. He’s acting way too casually about the question for it really be of no concern to him.
Trying not to laugh, I marshal my features into a stern expression and look him in the eye. “I don’t know. Senior prom’s a big deal. I think you’re supposed to make some kind of grand gesture when you ask a girl to be your date to such an auspicious event. Y’know…jump out of a plane and land on the school field, holding a placard or something.”
“You’re not serious,” Alex deadpans.
“I think Gareth Foster’s organizing a flash mob in the cafeteria at lunch for Stacey Jones.”
He’s gone a little pale. “I don’t really think synchronized dancing is a good idea, Argento. You’d lose all respect for me.”
“Maybe you could read a poem about how awesome I am in front of the entire year?”
“Or maybe you’re fucking with me,” he answers, arching an eyebrow suspiciously. “Seeing as how you’d glue my mouth closed before you’d ever let me do that.”
I do laugh now. “All right, all right. You got me. No outlandish prom invitations required here. I think it’s safe to say I’ll happily be your date to every party and event from here on out until the end of time. Gotta say, though…I’m surprised you even want to go to prom.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically, leaning his head against the wall behind him. “And why’s that?”
“Prom goes against everything you stand for.”
That crooked smile of his makes another appearance. In a heartbeat, he’s spun me around, pressing my back against the wall, and his lips are mere millimeters away from his own. Now that the prying eyes of Raleigh High’s student body have been blocked out by the tumbling dark waves of his hair, he lets himself smile fully—a cautious, secret smile that feels wonderful pressed against my mouth when he kisses me. He leaves me breathless and stupefied when he inches back a little. “And what, pray tell, do I stand for, Silver Parisi?” he whispers.
“Non-conformity. Anarchy. Chaos. Mayhem in general.” I reel off the list, still reeling inside my head, too. Fifty years down the line, a kiss from this man will still send me spinning out of control, I already know it.
“Looks like you do know me,” Alex says quietly. “You’re right. I never once thought I’d willingly signing up to go to a high school dance, but…y’know what, Argento? Prom’s normal. It’s a rite of passage for a girl in high school. I don’t want you to skip it just because I’m a salty bastard who hates everyone and everything in this world apart from you. You deserve to witness the entire, ridiculous spectacle. And…more than anything, you deserve normal. After everything you’ve been through, and all the shit that’s still not resolved…you deserve one night where all you have to worry about is what dress you’re gonna wear, and if you’re gonna be able to dance all night in your skyscraper heels. So yeah. Prom. We’re doing it. And it’s gonna be the best night ever, because I said so. The end.”
“The end?”
“Yeah.” He nods, as if that has sealed the deal and finalized the whole thing. The steely look in his eyes says he’ll brook no argument on the matter…which is actually fine by me.
I haven’t even contemplated prom. Even with all of the posters and the notices and the announcements being shoved down our throats at every turn, actually buying as ticket and attending the event seemed so preposterous that it never crossed my mind. Now that Alex has lodged the seed into my mind—buying a dress, and dancing with him in front of everyone, and just getting to spend the night together as two teenagers in love? Shit, that sounds pretty spectacular to me.
35
ALEX
A shrill blast of the bell signals that class is about to begin, and Silver kisses me quickly before darting off into the crowd. I make it three steps past the row of lockers, heading for the science block, when I notice Zander leaning against the scuffed and scratched metal of a locker door, idly staring at his fingernails. He pretends to start when he notices me standing in front of him.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, beaming. I groan, hurrying past him, but the persistent fucker falls into step alongside me.
“If you’re about to give me shit for asking my girlfriend to go to prom with me, then don’t bother, okay? I’m not embarrassed about it, so there’s no point cobbling together any cutting one-liners.”
“Dude! I’d never mock you for wanting to show Silver a good time. I think it’s highly commendable that you wanna take her to prom. I was thinking about asking our lovely Billie Halliday to go with me, for your information.”
“I don’t think Halliday’d be stoked about your using her stripper name outside of the Rock, man.”
“Duly noted. Duly noted. You’re completely right. That wasn’t cool. I take it back.” Zander spins to avoid a gaggle of freshmen girls who are loitering at the bottom of the stairwell, staring at us with eyes the size of saucers. “If I was about to admit that I’d accidentally overheard your conversation—”
“You were eavesdropping, Hawk.” I thunder up the stairs.
“If I was about to admit that I was eavesdropping on your conversation with Silver, then the whole prom invitation would hardly be the most surprising element of wha
tever I had or hadn’t overheard, now, would it?” Zander muses.
I pause mid-step, turning around to face him. Suddenly, I realize why he’s following me like a lost fucking dog. He heard our conversation. He overheard all of it.
Fuck.
Zander grins, slapping me on the shoulder. “I’d say congratulations, but from what I’ve seen of the holy order of matrimony, commiserations might be more appropriate. Still, what the hell. I say go for it. Follow your hearts and your hormones and all that other weird shit. Now…have you thought about dates? Venues? Themes? I’m gonna need as much information as possible.”
Horror courses through every inch of my body. This…this is a fucking nightmare. No one was supposed to know about this. Not yet anyway. And especially not Zander. “Why the hell would you need as much information as possible?” I ask in a worried tone. Worried, because I already know the answer…
A broad smile splits his face apart. “Well, how the hell am I supposed to perform my duties as best man if I’m left out of the loop?”
36
SILVER
It’s tough to concentrate in History. I mentally cycle through my wardrobe, weighing the pros and cons of every single dress I own before coming to the conclusion that I need to buy something new for the occasion.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have bothered panicking over my clothing options. It would have been a futile exercise. Kacey would have monopolized all the sirens’ time, making us give her feedback on the dresses she picked out for herself. Once she’d selected the perfect little number that hugged her curves and emphasized her tits, she’d have picked out our dresses for the rest of us—dresses that were still nice and still worked well for our body types, but that were also not quite right somehow. A little too long, or a little too tight, or a little too gaudy. It was our job as Kacey’s minions to make sure our shortcomings highlighted just how perfect she was by comparison. With Kacey now gone, the knowledge that I can wear whatever the fuck I want is a dizzying breath of fresh air.
Class ends, and I’m still floating in a daze as I traipse out into the hallway. I’m so distracted by prom plans that I don’t register what I’m seeing for a second. It’s the awkward silence that’s pressing down on the hallway that initially brings me back into myself, and then it’s the weird way that all of the other kids in the hallway are all looking in the same direction, their bodies angled toward the same focal point.
Next to the door that leads to Raleigh’s south exit, Zen MacReady stands, staring down at her feet, clutching a folder to her chest; it looks like she’s trying to use the binder as some sort of shield to fend off the incredulous, suspicious glares of her former subjects.
Once upon a time, you could spot Zen a mile away by her hair. Either in a teased-out afro, or braids, or some wild, outlandish color, Zen’s hair always made her stand out from the crowd. Courtesy of the cat fight she had with Rose Jimenez outside the front of school, her hair’s all gone now, though. The red beret she’s wearing obviously covers the top of her head, but it can’t hide the shaved sides of her head.
Timidly, she pushes away from the wall, navigating a pathway through the frozen forms of our classmates, her eyes diligently glued to the floor.
“Bitch,” someone hisses under their breath. A male voice. A voice filled with malevolence.
“Whore.”
“Lying cunt.”
A wall of heat rises from the pit of my belly. It begins as a small flame of anger, licking at my insides, but quickly my temper fans that flame and it becomes a roaring inferno, raging through every part of me.
This should not be allowed to stand.
Day after day, I endured this kind of treatment, and nobody did anything about it. Just like they are now, the guys and girls I grew up with stood by and observed as I was humiliated and publicly shamed. Well, I won’t stand amongst them. Not today. Not ever.
Quickly, I break through the forming crowd and slip my arm through Zen’s. Her automatic response is to flinches at the contact. When she looks up and sees who’s dared to take her by the arm, however, her fear subsides.
“Silver. You don’t—I don’t expect you to—” She gropes for the right words, but I already know perfectly well what she wants to say to me.
“I know. I don’t have to stand up for you. I shouldn’t have to, either. I reckon I’ve been dealt enough abuse to last a lifetime. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? No one should have to deal with this shit. And what kind of hypocrite would I be if I stood by and let these assholes do this to someone else?”
Zen gives me a weak, broken smile. She’s sorry. I know she’s sorrier than she’s ever been before in her life. Now that she’s experienced just how foul this kind of treatment tastes, she knows what it must have been like for me to endure it day after day, week after week, and she doesn’t like it one little bit. “I wanna be invisible,” she whispers, so softly only I can hear her. “I just want to be no one. I just want…to disappear.”
How many times did I say that exact same thing to myself? I couldn’t count that high if I tried. It was all I repeated to myself inside my head for months. That desperate wish seared itself into my very soul. I smile sadly as I take a deep breath and begin to guide Zen down the hallway. “If you become a ghost, they win,” I tell her. “If you make yourself small for them, it’ll never be enough. They’ll demand that you make yourself smaller and smaller still, and they’ll cheer you on as you do it. You can’t hand over victory to them like that. You have to raise your head, lift your jaw, look them in the eyes, and tell them no, Zen.”
“I did tell them no.” Zen’s voice breaks. She’s referring to Jake, Sam and Cillian, and the night they assaulted her on the concrete beside the Weaving’s family swimming pool. The cops showed me the photos of Zen trying to fight the boys off when I was in the hospital. I witnessed the fear on her face; I saw how hard she was trying to fight them off. She probably screamed no! stop! until her throat was raw and bleeding. Her panic must have excited Jacob and his monstrous friends to the point of frenzied madness.
“Just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean you can ever stop saying it, Zen. It might be easier to just give in, shut your mouth, lie down and let the wolves pick over what’s left of you. Do that and it’ll be so much harder to get back up again, though. These assholes on the football team are never going to let up if they think you’re weak. You stand up to them and you take their power away from them.”
Zen doesn’t look cheered by my instructions, but she makes an effort to stand a little taller. She even lifts her gaze from the floor, though she stares straight ahead, doing everything in her power to avoid making eye contact with anyone. People begin to turn away, shuffling off in different directions, heading for their next classes. Three guys grouped together on the left-hand side of the hallway stay firmly put, though. I don’t really know them at all, but I know their names. Kyle Braiding. Lawrence Davis. Naseem Khatri. They’re part of the ‘Jacob Weaving is God’ fan club, founding members, if memory serves, and from the cuts and scrapes on their faces, they’re also amongst the football players who tussled with Alex and Zander recently.
Kyle leers at Zen as we walk by them, eyeing her loose sweatshirt like she’s actually wearing provocative lingerie. “Damn, MacReady. I always knew you were smoking, but shit. Jake showed us those shots of you on his phone. I nearly came in my pants on the spot. Ain’t no point in hiding away those luscious curves now, girl. We all seen what you workin’ with.”
Zen digs her fingernails into my arm, her body tensing. “Ignore him,” I whisper. She tries to quicken our pace, urging me to hurry forward, but I hold her back. I make her walk at an easy, regular speed, refusing to give Kyle or his friends the satisfaction of watching Zen scurry off, afraid.
“God, this was a mistake,” Zen mutters, her voice riddled with anxiety. “I shouldn’t have pushed to come back to school so quickly. Mom said this was a stupid idea, but I wouldn’t listen…”
Last time I
saw Zen, she was laid out on a hospital bed, tagged and drugged, and it didn’t seem like she was close to being released any time soon. Clearly, I was wrong. There’s a story here—I have a lot of questions. I don’t even know how to broach the topic of her pregnancy—but it’s going to have to wait for another time. Right now, all that matters is that we get out of here without her breaking down in front of the football team. “You did the right thing. It’s gonna be okay. Come on. Let’s just get you to class.”
Zen’s shaking from head to toe as we walk past the guys. We’re successfully past them and I’m beginning to think we’re free and clear of their bullshit…for now…when something hits me in the shoulder, really hard. Dark brown liquid showers all over the place, soaking my shirt and my hair, drenching Zen at the same time. It splashes in her face, running down her neck and soaking into the collar of her sweatshirt.
For a horrible second, I worry about what kind of liquid we’ve both just been soaked with—I saw on the news that a woman in L.A. was recently attacked and had a bucket of piping hot diarrhea dumped over her head—but then I see the dented Coke can on the floor at our feet, still spraying fizzed up soda out of its partially cracked opening, and I’m overcome with relief.
It’s just Coke, Silver.
It’s okay, it’s just Coke.
The thankful reassurance that I plays out in my head quickly morphs into something angrier, though.
They threw a can of Coke at you, Silver. They threw a can of fucking Coke at you.
