WTF? Family? For all it means to me, he might as well be talking about a ball and chain I’m forced to drag around. It’s a good thing he’s not a mind reader, cuz I’m silently shouting so loud that blood should be trickling from my ears. I clench my teeth and pressure builds in my head as my brain swells with a mix of panic and anger.
He halfway smiles, making a “huh” sound and jerks his shoulders. “You think I can’t handle your dad. Right? He’s a bully, big and mean, but this isn’t the playground. I’ll fight him in a courtroom, and I’ll win. I’ve already started burying him in paperwork. He’s been informed. If he gets released, if he makes contact with you, he’ll be right back inside before he can say your name.” He hesitates and then, “Your statement would help. You’ve never spoken up about the abuse, but I’ve seen the photographs from after the accident.”
Accident? Is that what we’re calling it? From my end, it sure seems like everything’s been pretty goddamn deliberate. But hey, Step Douche saw some photos. Probably read the official report. Guess that makes him a fucken expert. Can somebody buy this jackwad a clue? Dear Old Dad doesn’t give a running rat’s ass about court orders and paperwork. He’s had years to stew on me piloting us into the tree. About the gun I pointed at his head. About all the ways I failed him. If the door to that prison swings open, I’m dead.
“I can’t undo what’s been done,” Super Tool says. “I can, however, make a difference in what comes next. As long as you stay out of trouble, you won’t be sent back or sent away, and no one will hurt you again. You have my word.”
His word? That’s just awesome. I’m getting stabbed from every direction, bleeding from more wounds than I can count, new threats showing up every day, and there’s nothing like a promise for protection. Goddamnit. He needs to quit. Quit talking. Quit promising. Stay outta my head. I don’t want to hear anymore.
“Listen to me, Gib. Calm down. I realize you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I swear to you, things will be better for you from now on.”
This is a million papercuts. Every word a fresh wound, and I’m bleeding. Fuck him. Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck it all.
He stands up, and I flail backward, thinking here it comes, here it comes and nearly fall down the goddamn stairs.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he chants and shows his hands. “Take it easy. Hold on. Listen, listen. I took responsibility for you Gib, and I did a shit job of it. I’m sorry, OK? I hope we can start again. Get things right this time. Can we do that?”
My eyes sting. I don’t wanna swipe at them but can’t have them spilling. Can’t let snot run down my face. That’s fuel for abuse, an invitation for humiliation. So I sniff and blink, sniff and blink, bite down on my own gullibility and crush it between my teeth.
“Hear me out?” he pleads.
I should run. Before he gets to the end of this joke and I’m the punchline. Why won’t my feet fucken move?
“Gib? Look at me.” He presses his index fingers to the pads of his thumbs and bounces his hands up and down as if he’s conducting an orchestra. But it’s just me standing here. Just me he’s playing. “You’ve been working after school on the grounds crew. The money you’re earning is creating a college fund. A whatever fund. For you when you graduate. The direct deposit was my idea. It’s for your benefit, and the arrangement was supposed to be explained to you. I thought you understood. I assumed you were being provided for. I was under the impression you were spending your allowance on drugs, alcohol, instead of getting yourself a coat or some shoes. I mean, you don’t even have a pair of goddamn socks.”
Allowance?
He fishes in his back pocket, finds his wallet and pulls a credit card. “Here. I want you to have this. Buy whatever you need.” He waves it at me. “It’s for you. Take the card.”
I stare at it, hear myself breathing too fast, through my nose, and my thigh suffers the dig of my fingers.
Step Douche eases two slow steps toward me, leading with the card. I can’t find the trick, can’t decide what to do about it. When he gets within arm’s reach, I turn inside out. Jitters rush to my extremities. My friggin eyelids tweak. It’s all I can do not to curl into the fetal position.
“It’s OK. I swear to you. Take the card, Gibson.”
I shift forward, snag it and step right back.
He smiles and nods at me. “Good. Good.” Folding his arms across his chest, he nods some more. “I don’t know what your plans are, but it’s just me and Jamie here today. On Sunday mornings, we usually whip up a batch of special recipe pancakes, maybe throw a football around in the backyard for a while. And we’re thinking of heading to the mall for new sneakers.”
Got it. I need to find someplace else to be. I’m wondering how fast I get arrested if I try out the credit card.
“I’d like you to spend some time with us,” Step Douche tells me. “C’mon, Gib. Let’s introduce you to your little brother. Play some catch.”
I think through what he just said, trying to make sense of it.
“Gib? What do you say? Give us a game?”
I tuck my chin, let my hair flop over my face, because I can’t look at him when I admit, “I don’t know how to, uh … play catch.”
He laughs at me. Fucken laughs. I jerk sideways and whack my shoulder off the wall just as he says, “Let me tell you a secret. Neither do I. I’m no athlete. I can’t throw a decent spiral to save my life, but the boy wants to play, so I toss the ball and pretend.” He shrugs and forces a smile. “Jamie won’t know the difference. He won’t care. The kid has been so anxious to play with his big brother, when I told him I was coming up here to talk to you, he made me hold off breakfast until you came home.” He rocks back on his heels, then tacks on, “How about we start with pancakes and go from there? OK?”
I think about Tia West, the way she faces everything head on, expecting the best, never even considering the worst. So I take a chance and say, “OK.”
CHAPTER 52
Tia:
Monday morning, I lean against the Ark in the high school parking lot, a perfect blue banner stretched tight overhead, the shiver of fall in the air. I spot Taz as he walks toward the school with hands wedged into front pockets and his everything compressed into the most narrow shape possible. Maybe he’s practicing to slip through a door crack.
With his eyes firmly on the sidewalk, my extra time spent on outfit, hair and makeup is wasted. Everything about me screams of trying too hard and wanting too much. The thing is, I haven’t had any contact with Taz since Saturday night. Nothing but crickets. While I wanted to call, text, hunt him down, Frannie said absolutely not and pointed out the fine line between a generous spirit and a desperate loser.
All I need is the L stamped on my forehead. At this moment, I am officially desperate. I crave Gibson Tazmerek more than anything or anyone ever. This boy is it for me, and it’s scary. Terrifying. I expect to be treated like a dandelion. He’s going to pull me by the roots and blow my fluffy little seeds of hope into oblivion.
I step boldly into the unknown and force myself to call out, smile, wave and present a target. I am the opposite of all of Frannie’s instructions, forfeiting all the power, because with Taz, that’s what it takes. And when those eyes finally lift and search mine, I see it plainly. Vulnerability. And oh holy moly, he is a brand new boy in fresh jeans that fit him, a long-sleeved navy blue Henley and pristine white sneakers on his feet. Somebody went shopping. Somebody isn’t even scowling. Somebody is so hot, I could get third degree burns from three feet away.
He saunters straight up to me and deep breath, deep breath, but not too deep, because hello ... low neckline and push up bra.
Looking me over, taking a few extra seconds to do it right, his mouth curves up just a bit at the corners. “Hey.”
That one word is all the encouragement I need. I throw my arms around his waist, press my face to his chest and he smells good. Super amazing good, but I shouldn’t comment because that would be weird. Been there, done that and it did
n’t go well. So I just hug, press us so close together there’s no space between, no clear line where I leave off and he begins. I’d like to crawl inside and never leave. It’s his own fault. That smile he gave me Saturday night is a keepsake in a heart-shaped box, and I can’t stop lifting the lid, taking a peek and grinning like a loon.
Ever so lightly, his fingertips land at my hips. His chin rests on the top of my head and after a sharp inhale, he relaxes. He settles as if he’s searched his whole life and finally found the perfect place to be. Gibson Tazmerek is at peace, and he’s squeezing me back, sorta.
The world spins around us. Cars pull into the parking lot, doors slam and unleash footsteps and chatter. Maybe we draw attention in our little bubble of contentment. I don’t know, don’t care. Minutes or centuries pass while we soak each other up, determined to hang onto this moment that is just ours, just so special, for as long as possible. It’s perfect. Until I slide my palms up his back, venturing less than an inch before he rips away and proves we have a ways to go yet.
I decide not to notice the way his hands fly up or the overly bright flare of his eyes. No need to comment on the heavy breathing, agitated fingers and obvious panic. Not here and not now, because this isn’t the time or place and more importantly, he still won’t talk to me about it. I hate that he carries so much inside and all on his own. I wish opening him up was as simple as a padlock, because I’d already be smacking at him with a hammer.
I keep my smile and say, “Ready to go in?”
He is grateful, maybe embarrassed, cheeks flushing and fingers diving back into his front pockets. So much for holding hands. My level of disappointment is out of proportion. We don’t need to commit to matching tattoos or be obvious. We’re not there yet and have nothing to prove. I’ll keep telling myself that.
It’s enough to walk into school side by side. There’s no more talking, no more touching, but we make it through homeroom and the next few classes with a low dose of fidgeting and snarling. Mr. Westin is so reassured by my taming of Taz, he dares to venture out from behind his desk. I’m tempted to point at my boy, spread my arms and declare, “Look what I’ve created.”
I’m so busy accepting accolades, I’m late to lunch. That’s a lie. I’m late because I spent ten minutes searching the senior wing for wherever Taz disappears to at this time of day. When I finally sit down at my regular table in the cafeteria, my girls are waiting like a flock of seagulls. Not the nineties band with the weird hair. They are squawking birds, desperate for scraps.
“Spill, spill,” chirps Trish.
“We need the deets,” Lana demands.
“Share, share, share,” Renee chants.
I woke up Sunday morning brighter on the inside, shinier on the outside. But whatever I started with Taz, it’s new and uncertain. So I act clueless and say, “What?”
“What?” Trish mimics. I knew it wasn’t going to work. “You’re blushing.”
“You’re wearing makeup,” Frannie announces.
“You combed your hair!” Renee points at me.
“Just look at that generous display of boobage,” adds Lana.
I’m a little offended. I know I’ve been a bit lax with my appearance, but my gal pals act as if animal control should’ve scooped me up and tagged my ear. I turn on Frannie, “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing!” She snorts a laugh and holds up her palms. “I didn’t need to say a word. Everybody saw you and Taz, plain as day, tangled up like a pair of lemmings in the parking lot before school.”
Forgot about that.
“There are rumors,” confides Renee, “that Taz almost smiled on his way to English Lit.”
“Wonder what could have gotten into that boy?” Trish blinks at me. “Or should I ask, who did that boy get into?”
For that, I throw a grape at her.
“Hey!” Trish yelps. Swiveling to face Frannie, she says, “Hey!” again and pelts her with the grape. “Why is some guy named Mutt calling YOU on MY phone?”
“He called?” Frannie blossoms into a giddy pink.
“Oh yeah. We talked for twenty minutes, until the smoke detector went off when my panties caught fire. Is this Mutt guy as hot as he sounds?”
“No!”
Trish hones in. “You sure? You wouldn’t be fibbing to keep him for yourself, would you Frannie?”
Frannie shakes her head too hard, stabbing at her salad with a plastic spork. “Of course not! He looks like one of the Peanuts characters.”
“Which one?”
“Does it matter?”
Trish waggles her hand. “Shroeder’s got a look.”
“I see that,” says Lana. “He’s got the musician thing going on.”
“Mutt’s a musician,” I supply.
Twisting a strand of hair around her finger, Frannie shoots me a glare then blurts, “With a name like Mutt? Pul-ease. He’s the bassist. They’re always the weird ones.”
“You’re doing that hair thing,” Renee points out.
“What hair thing?” Frannie freezes in mid twirl of a curl.
“The thing you do when you’re lying!” Trish snaps.
My bestie wrinkles her nose. “So, you got his number then?”
“You are such a ...” Trish starts then suddenly goes wide-eyed and whispers, “Well this is new.”
I swing around, check behind me and find Taz standing in the doorway, shoulders hiked into earmuffs. As far as I know, he hasn’t been back to the cafeteria since the first day of school. The silence he now causes is impressive. We all watch as his eyes scan slowly from left to right and stop on me. I catch my breath but can’t catch my heart. It’s long gone.
Ignoring the stir he creates, Taz paces a straight line to our table and folds into the empty chair on my right. I give him a smile so gigantic it hurts my face and say “Oh good, you made it.” I then set half of my sandwich on a napkin in front of him, as if this was planned, no big deal at all, and follow up with introductions. “Frannie, Lana, Trish, Renee.”
I want to beg them, please be nice to him, please, please, please. He’s got his fingers tangled together under the table, lips pressed into a flat seam, and the silence is worse than getting sprayed with a stranger’s sneeze. Why can’t I think of anything to say? Something. Anything.
In a panic, I announce, “He plays guitar!” at a volume and speed that suggests I’m competing for prize money. “In a band. With Mutt. The guy who called Trish. And we saw them. Me and Frannie. They’re amazing. Really amazing. Really. Truly.”
Someone please send up an emergency flare on my behalf. I widen my eyes at Frannie.
“So … um … ah …” She flounders. “Yes, yes, I agree. Amazing. Definitely. Definitely was …very much ... that.”
And my best friend has turned into Rain Man. She will not, however, be taking home the Oscar. I check for help elsewhere and find Trish pretending to retrieve something off the floor and Renee hyperventilating behind her bangs. I kick Lana under the table.
“Ouch!” she jumps and scatters the grapes across the table. “What the hell was that?”
I tilt my head forcefully toward Taz.
“Oh! Um, hmmm, so Taz, you’re in a band?”
For this moment to be any more painful, we’d need to bring up heavy period flow. I’m actually considering it when we all catch sight of Ms. Robbins on a direct and dedicated march toward our table. Her stilettos crack like gunshots against the floor, and the change in Taz is instant and startling. Whatever demons torture this boy are no longer in hiding. They scream in his eyes, contort his fingers and suck the color from his skin.
Our school counselor slaps her hands on the table, leans in and her necklace, some sort of pendant, dangles in my yogurt. I should tell her. I don’t. It’s a small detour from my quest to be a better person, and I promise to make up for it later.
“Gibson, you need to come with me,” she snaps. She then allows him all of two seconds and nearly shouts, “Now!”
For four e
xcruciating seconds, he doesn’t move. It’s so uncomfortable, my eyeballs sweat. Then he jerks from the chair so fast and violent the metal legs screech against the floor. My friends yipe.
With everybody watching, Taz follows the counsellor as far as the doorway, where he pulls up short. She takes several more steps before realizing she’s lost him. Doubling back, leading with her pointer finger, Ms Robbins stabs at him and I’d pay a lot to hear the words spewing out of her mouth.
Adrenaline floods my veins, heating my cheeks, accelerating my heart. I feel protective of him and am tempted to intervene, despite knowing it would make no one happy. “What’s going on there?” I mumble.
“I think your guy skipped counselling,” Renee offers. “I usually see him going to Ms. Robbins office when I’m on my way to French. But not today.”
I wonder if that’s why I can never find him at this time of day. I’m so preoccupied, I actually startle when a red rose lands on the table in front of me.
“For you,” Brandon announces as he settles into the chair Taz vacated. “I’m making it official. You said if you were nominated, you’d be my date.”
This morning, the homecoming candidates were announced and yours truly was among them. My excitement level is somewhere along the lines of getting one more squeeze out of a flattened tube of toothpaste. Yay me.
“Hmmm.” I squoosh my lips to the side and roll my eyes. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“You know you wanna bust out your killer dance moves.” Brandon grins at me, takes my hand and threads his fingers with mine. “C’mon. You in a sexy little dress, me incredibly hot in a suit, the romance of a high school gym at night. I’ll even treat you to a romantic dinner for two at Chipotle.”
I fake a laugh, untangle my hand from his and glance back to check on Taz. He’s still stationed in the doorway, still getting chewed on by Ms. Robbins, but his eyes are honed in on me. They’re narrowed into laser beams.
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 25
