CHARISSE MORITZ
Dedication: To the house-flipper, the winemaker, the yardbug and the future mayor of Keystone. Stay awake and live the dream.
Copyright © 2020 Charisse Moritz
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9798651451777
ASIN: B089QXCVDV
CHAPTER 1
Tia:
It’s not my fault. Yes, I just ran over a guy. A hot guy. Sort of. Not that he’s sorta hot. I sorta ran him over. With the family minivan. In the high school parking lot. And he’s actually hot enough to melt the polar ice caps. Gah.
In my defense, I’m overwhelmed. I’m starting senior year in my brother’s Spongebob T-shirt with a suspicious stain on the boob, hair in a ponytail I put up wet and no makeup. There was a chipmunk in a birdcage in my kitchen this morning, which was nearly the last straw for this camel, and I’m pointing my finger at the twins … but that’s another story.
Anyhoo, until he graduated last year, my older brother always parked in the same spot in the high school lot. I naturally expected the space to be empty and all mine. Plus, the family minivan is the size of a zeppelin, as in the airship, not the band. We call it The Ark. The Ark hates right turns and smells like seven kids ride around it, because they do. Like a hot stew of sweat and play dough. And even though I’d already dropped Baby Sis at the primary school and the twins at the middle school, I still had another brother, another sister, and a best friend in the car, all jabbering.
I wasn’t really paying attention. I was preoccupied tallying up gas and electric bills, groceries and all the unpaid essentials that shouldn’t be my problem, but definitely are my problem, and I know I can handle everything if I just focus, plan, and look on the bright side. Deep breath. That’s when Frannie, my best friend with the worst timing EVER, suddenly blurted, “Taz is back.”
She said this with no warning whatsoever.
So I said, “What?” Even though I heard her perfectly.
“Yup. He’s doing senior year with us. Guess where he’s been all this time?”
I gave her a look. At 7:30 in the morning I’d been awake for over two hours, ran four miles, packed six lunches, failed to locate a very important princess lunch box, which led to tears, sacrificed Baby Sis to her first day of kindergarten, which led to more tears, this time mine, and lost the argument over my fifteen-year-old sister’s outfit.
“Juvie,” Frannie supplied with a knowing smirk, which was ridiculous because the girl knows absolutely nothing about juvie. This one time, she hyperventilated when we left our trash on the table at Subway.
Her newsflash caught me forcing a stubborn Ark into a sharp turn and maybe driving a hair too fast. I’ve been in a non stop hurry for the last ten weeks. So again, let me stress, what happened next was not my fault. At least not totally.
Frannie shrieked and there it was, a yellow dirt bike in my parking space. A dirt bike with a dark-haired boy sitting on it, his one foot on the ground for balance and the other resting on the peg. I got a flash of the lanky shape of his shoulders, messy man-bun and helmet tucked under his arm, but my squishy brakes came as a total surprise to him.
The bumper of the Ark tapped the dirt bike. OK, more than a tap. I Flintstoned the brake pedal, but the Ark still launched the boy airborne for a couple of heart-stopping seconds before he rolled across the pavement in a thumpy, bumpy way.
Which brings us to right now and me chanting, “No, no, no, no.” I ram the Ark into park without thinking and then cringe. Rough treatment is always reciprocated at the very worst times and typically leaves me stranded in deserted parking lots. The ginormous vehicle coughs, stalls and throws itself into a whole-body seizure. I’m suspicious it’s epileptic, and I may have just killed it. “This can’t be happening,” I wail.
“Holy fucksticks,” says Mora from the seat behind me, which means my sister owes a quarter to the swear jar. I’ll catch up with her later. I’m frying bigger fish right now. I’ve got a blue whale in the skillet.
“Whoa,” my brother Theo adds. “You totally mowed that guy.”
“Not helping. So not helping!”
“Is that … Oh no,” says Frannie with a moan that’s completely unnecessary. She even hides her face in her hands. “I think that’s him. First day of school and you already ...”
I don’t hear the rest. I fly out the door. Of course it’s him. I’m convinced because the universe has singled me out as the poster child for bad karma. If you doubt me, let’s discuss the ugly stain directly over my right nipple, which I didn’t notice until I was already halfway to school.
The scuffed and battered boy is balanced on hands and knees by the time the four of us converge on him. I crouch down and take a look. There’s an abundance of dark hair flopped over his face, but since I don’t recognize this person, he might as well be wearing a name tag. Of all the people I could run over this morning, this is definitely Taz all grown up. He was terrifying back in middle school. This version probably stomps butterflies, snacks on broken glass and makes fun of 80’s rom-coms. Someday my tombstone will read, Why me?
“Are you OK?” My voice quivers. He’s called Taz because of his last name. More importantly, he makes the Tasmanian Devil look like Winnie the Pooh.
Here’s what you need to know about Taz. In fifth grade, he got suspended for throwing a chair through a window. In the sixth grade, he sent a kid to the nurse for a crack about his shoes. In seventh grade, he flipped a teacher’s desk, got caught drinking at a football game, and supposedly got busy with a ninth grader on the couch in the faculty lounge. By eighth grade he was gone, and I heard the faculty celebrated with a sheet cake.
But here’s a secret. I have a soft spot for the kid he used to be. We shared peanut butter and jelly way back when.
“I’m SO, SO sorry,” I tell him and it sort of kills me to apologize. Let’s remember, he’s mostly to blame. Since I’m on a quest to be a better person, I pepper him with questions. “Are you hurt? Should I call somebody? Dial 911? Get help … something?”
He doesn’t answer, won’t look at me, seems OK, so I try to convince him to his feet. My fingers make light contact. I’d feel safer cuddling Randall Boggs. If you’re a Monsters Inc. fan, you understand I expect him to suck screams from my lips. Instead, he jerks away before he’s fully righted, flinging his hands up and in such a panic he nearly knocks himself back down.
Teenage boys are such flighty creatures, but I take the hint and fold my greedy fingers against my chest. No touching. Got it.
“I didn’t see you there.” Then, because I just can’t stop myself, I blurt, “You did sorta park in my space.”
That gets him.
A jerk of his chin and there, finally, I get a glimpse of his face. Whoa. I thought I remembered. So wrong. Those big eyes are something else. The palest, purest, most amazing blue I’ve ever seen. My heart, brain, and all my girly parts send off the million tingles of drowning in a vat of champagne, and even though I’m eager for more time with those eyes, that’s a quick and definite no.
He zeroes in on the stain on my shirt and obviously the sight of my right boob isn’t spectacular enough to make up for the flattened dirt bike. His scowl is easier to read than Dr. Seuss, and this boy is mad, which makes me sad, in a big way, on our first day. Did you see what I did there? OK, OK, moving on.
Taz is wearing a T-shirt the color and texture of dryer lint, jeans with more holes than fabric, fresh blood on the knees and leather sandals that have walked a thousand miles. He has really big feet, and I find his bare toes oddly attractive. His fingers twitch wildly at his sides before he stuffs them into his front pockets, dips his chin and hunches h
is shoulders. During the last four years, puberty happened, and while it was really, really good to him in some ways, very bad in others, the total result is causing me a few problems.
What happened to him? His face? Who knew he’d get so tall? And the hair? The knobby muscles in his arms? How long have we been standing here with me staring at him? Without him offering up a single word? Too long. We’re drawing spectators from all over the parking lot.
“Are you um …” I point at Taz. “We can help … “ I gesture at his bike. “I could …” I point at myself. Perhaps I could fashion some finger puppets and act out this conversation. Mora snorts, and I’m no longer willing to forgive the quarter to the swear jar.
Frannie pulls at me. “We should go. Before we’re late. Or harmed. He seems fine. And angry.”
Theo squats to examine the dirt bike tangled up in the Ark and says, “Looks like a murder, suicide. Might be nothing left to do but bury them both.”
I laugh a little, hoping we can all share some humor and forgiveness, maybe turn this into an inside joke we write about in each other’s yearbooks in June. Taz backs further away. Guess not. He glares at his unfortunate bike, seems about to speak, then looks over his shoulder toward the school.
I move toward him. Now that I’ve seen his face I can’t unsee it, and I need to ... I don’t know, make it all better? One step from me is all it takes. He’s off. I watch him lope across the parking lot, my morning’s optimism stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
CHAPTER 2
TAZ:
She’s fucking with me. Just because she can.
The plaque on her desk reads Principal V. Sanderson. The V is for Vivian. She is a typical Vivian. Narrow nose, shiny dark hair, stiff blouse and skirt with pearls. V for Vivian studies my file. It’s thick and follows me around like herpes. I wait and hope the hum of the clock drowns out the growl of my stomach.
I sit in a hard plastic chair and trap my left hand under my ass. It’s scraped and sore from skidding across the parking lot. My right hand spazzes, fingers digging, digging, digging into my thigh. I’ve lost control of it.
“You’ve been given every chance,” V for Vivian says. “This is your last opportunity. Your success or failure will be up to you.”
It’s never up to me.
Her eyes flick to my face. There’s a quick flinch before she gets distracted by my hand.
I curl and crush my knuckles against the chair.
“Let me be clear,” she goes on.
She is a pane of glass.
“I will not allow you to disrupt my school or reflect badly on me. I do not permit wild dogs to roam our halls. I do not accept havoc in the classroom. Your difficulty with simple rules and civilized behavior will not be tolerated under my watch. I will not hesitate to call in the authorities and wash my hands of you.”
I quit listening. Calling me a dog? Threats? Nothing I haven’t heard, and I get it already. I’m defective. Nobody wants me around. How about snap a flea collar on me and let me get the hell outta here?
V for Vivian has gone silent. She waits. Whatever she waits for, I am a disappointment. She rubs at the lines above her nose, swiveling her chair left to right with a squeak, squeak, squeak.
I don’t like it.
“Mrs. Kincaid will print a copy of your schedule, provide a locker combination and lunch code. There is money in the account for your meals.”
I perk up. The lunch code is good news. The stolen pack of crackers from the gas station ran out yesterday.
“Ms. Robbins will expect you fifth period for counselling. She’ll report directly to me, and you will cooperate. Understand? I will remain totally informed. Should you cause the tiniest wrinkle, I’ll know about it.” She picks up a pencil, glares at me and starts to tap, tap, tap, making her lack of rhythm a problem for me. I bite my bottom lip and let my fingers go nuts. The tapping stirs me up in a bad, bad way.
“I look at you, and I don’t see a young man putting his best foot forward, determined to succeed,” she informs me as if her opinion is some big surprise. “Poor attitude, insubordination and violence are all too prevalent in your records. I know better than to hope for the best.”
I know better than to hope for anything. I know better than to fight back. Tried it before. Got my ass stomped. Every time. So I swallow it, the same as a pie eating contest. I’m eating shit pie and anger piles up in my throat.
“Gibson? Look at me. Do you understand the consequences of your actions?”
My eyes skitter across hers, quick as cockroaches startled by the light.
“Use your words,” she tells me.
I have none. My nails scrape at the fabric of my jeans.
“Gibson.” It’s a warning. Since there’s nothing she can do that’s worse than I’ve already survived, those don’t work on me.
She huffs and tilts her face toward me. “You will wait in the outer office for one of our student liaisons, who will show you around, get you acclimated. Make sure to behave yourself.” She waits, then says, “You can go now. I’m finished with you.”
I almost laugh. I’m not that lucky. She’s only just gotten started with me.
CHAPTER 3
TAZ:
I sit in another plastic chair. This one has a gimpy leg. I brace my feet to keep it from tilting left. If I’m not careful, it rattles and sets me off.
There is a secretary behind the counter, a very short, dumpling-like woman with a gigantic nest of hair balanced on her head. She printed off my schedule, called me hon and told me to wait for the student whoever-the-fuck to show me around a school the size of a suitcase. The Dumpling repeatedly checks to make sure I haven’t moved, probably expecting this psycho to leap over the counter and mangle her.
There’s also a girl flitting around the office, looking busy doing nothing. Her shoes scuff against the floor. It’s driving me out of my freakin’ mind. How hard is it to pick up her goddamn feet?
I recognize the girl’s brown curls and bouncy tits from the parking lot. Bouncy girl pretends not to stare at me, but my face calls her attention back again and again.
I keep my eyes down and frig with a recent gift from the Step-Douche. It’s a tracking device disguised as a phone. I’m supposed to carry it at all times and am allowed three locations. School. Work. Home. My stepdad, AKA Step-Douche the Super Tool, goes through the phone every night. I save nothing, have no music, no games, and my only contacts are Step-Douche the Super Tool, my boss and V for Vivian. They each have an all-access pass to dick with me and make the most of it.
When the student whoever-the-fuck finally shows up, it’s Princess Barbie, proud owner of the world’s ugliest minivan. She must have drawn the short stick, so I don’t get why she smiles at Bouncy Chick, at the Dumpling, at the whole wide world. She even smiles at me, the recycled piece of garbage she got stuck with. She glows. What the hell’s wrong with her?
“Hi.” Little Miss Barbie waves, even though we’re less than two feet apart and neither of us is boarding the bus on the first day of kindergarten. Now she holds out her hand, maybe thinking we’re going to shake, which we aren’t. The smile wobbles but hangs on. “I don’t know if you remember me?”
Seriously? The blood on my knees is still wet. So yeah, I remember her steamrolling my nuts in the parking lot. I didn’t stick around long enough to check my bike, but I’m guessing it’s toast. Sure, it’s a total piece of hammered shit and not even kind of legal, but better than my sandals for getting me places. So thank you, Barbie, for wrecking the one thing I had going for me.
“Not from this morning. Sorry again about that. I can pitch in to fix your bike, come up with the money somehow, help you get it to a mechanic, whatever you need me to do, but I mean ...” She rolls her hand, her nervous energy turning into an irritating stream of babbling. “I know you from before. From when you used to go here.”
She catches her lower lip under her teeth and finally gives me a quiet to fill. I stare at the stain on her tit. It makes her
uncomfortable, which is half the reason I do it.
“I shared my lunches with you back in grade school? Under the stairwell? Peanut butter and jelly from a brown bag? Ring any bells?” She waits again, this time adding a bounce of her heels. She’s obviously a glass-half-full kind of gal. Her optimism finally drains into the bottomless pit of my silence.
“So ah, OK no worries. I’m Tia West, your student liaison. Anything you need, just ask.”
She spreads her hands, tilts her head, and we partner up for another dosey-doe of awkwardness. Not sure what she expects. I could use a blowjob but doubt that falls under the just ask offer. Not from a girl like her. Not for a guy like me.
“All right then. You’ve got your schedule? We’ll take a quick tour, show you where everything is and find your locker. It’s an activity day, so homeroom is extra long. We should be able to get you all set before the bell. And we’re in the same homeroom, so … um … that works, I guess. Ready?”
Ready? Are we planning a trek through the Himalayas? Do we need to saddle up the donkeys, consult the maps, ration our water? What’s to get ready? I don’t answer dumb questions, so I say nothing. I don’t answer any questions, so I always say nothing. She’ll catch on.
I count to ten. Bingo. She leads the way out of the office, giving a wave to Bouncy Chick behind the counter, who rolls her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.
Princess Barbie takes me around the school, pointing out the cafeteria, gym, classrooms and lockers. Wow. It looks just like a shitty cafeteria, gym, classrooms and lockers. The high point is the broken water fountain. Barbie talks the whole time, pretends it’s no big deal I don’t respond, and I keep waiting for her to ditch me. I’m guessing she wants to ask, doesn’t dare, but is dying to know what wrecked my face. I’m used to it. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“Your schedule?” By the forced sugar of her voice, she’s asked more than once. She lost my attention somewhere around the nurse’s office. “I need your locker number.”
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 1
