BONDED

by S. D. Harrison

  Our eyes meet for a brief moment, his mouth quirking up in a half-smile that, much against my will, takes my breath away. Then his face falls and his eyes return to his book, completely uninterested.

  A part of me wants to walk over and ask what his problem is. Another part of me wants to bury my head inside my backpack and hunt for that piece of blue lint from earlier.

  Focusing on Hamlet is impossible. I’m acutely aware of The Boy’s presence across the room. I never look up, but I feel he is acutely aware of me as well. The thought makes my heart beat faster and my mind cloud over. What is wrong with you, Raye?

  I don’t bother saying goodbye to Mitch after the bell rings. I had my books packed and my bag shouldered in anticipation; as soon as the bell chimes, I am up and out of my seat, flying toward the door.

  I smash face first into a rock-solid, immovable force. I probably would have flown a few feet backward were it not for the two hands grasping my hips, steadying my body. An electric current vibrates over me. I look up, my eyes meeting a pair greener than my own.

  “You should probably watch where you’re going,” The Boy says, close enough I can smell the cinnamon on his breath. His hands are still clutching my hips.

  “You should probably move a little faster,” I shoot back, more flustered than I’m comfortable with. He is way too close. As if he can read my mind, The Boy gently tugs on the hem of my blouse, his knuckles rubbing the skin underneath.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he smirks, finally taking his hands off my body and returning them to his sides. He takes a step back, out of my personal bubble. Finally. Then he turns around and heads down the hall, leaving me standing alone like an idiot with my mouth slightly parted in a comical O.

  “Aren’t you going to be late for class?” Mitch says, coming up behind me. I jump at least a foot in the air, startled. “Have you always been this jumpy?” he laughs.

  “Not like you’d know,” I snap, taking my annoyance at The Boy out on him. I don’t feel bad about it, not even as I watch the smile slide off his face.

  “Raye…” he starts, as though there is something he can say that will make me hate him any less.

  “Bye, Mitch.” I nudge his shoulder, moving toward my next class. I hear him mumble something, but I’m too far away to make out the word. It sounds a lot like ditch.

  Oh well.

  When I walk into my biology class, I fill with relief. The Boy isn’t here. Two out of four periods is already more than I can handle.

  The whole lesson drags on, my mind busy with other, less important things. I usually like biology–well, as much as anyone can like biology–but today I’m not in the mood. The hour and twenty-minute period feels like seven years. When the bell finally rings, I’m out the door first and at my locker by the time it’s done chiming. I’m in such a rush to leave I don’t notice Lindsay standing behind me until I’m assaulting her face with my hair.

  “Ah, sorry,” I say, pulling a few of my hairs from her lip gloss.

  Lindsay’s laugh manages to calm me down a few pegs. “Geez, Raye, since when are you so spastic?”

  “I’m having a weird week,” I sigh, closing my locker and letting her walk me to my car. Lindsay has a free period at the end of the day, but since she doesn’t have a car, she is forced to wait for the busses.

  “It’s only Tuesday.” She rolls her eyes as though, between the two of us, I’m the dramatic one. “Want to go grab ice cream slash drive me home afterward?” She smiles sweetly. Since she lives at the opposite end of town, I only give her rides when we have plans.

  All I want is to go home and forget the past two days, but I always find it hard to say no to Lindsay, even when I want to. She is all too aware of my weakness.

  I toss my head back and groan.

  “Wonderful!” she sings as she reaches for the keys in my hand, unlocks the door, and climbs in the passenger’s side of the car. Less than ten seconds later she is tapping her watch-less wrist to hurry me along.

  I heave a slightly larger sigh and climb in the car.

  There’s only one ice cream place in town, and if you don’t know it’s there, you’ll miss it. Most of their revenue comes from the video rental half of the store, since a lot of people in town have terrible Internet connections and can’t download movies like the rest of the free world.

  “So, why exactly have the past two days been so draining?” Lindsay asks, rearranging the contents of my glove compartment. “More dreams?”

  “No,” I reply cautiously, my hands tight on the wheel. It’s not like I can tell her I’m convinced my dream guy–metaphorically speaking–has enrolled in our school. She would have a field day. “Working with Mitch has been harder than I thought it would be,” I answer instead. It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth, either. I can handle Mitch most days, but with everything else–The Boy, my dreams, and my blurry mind–it is the straw that breaks the camel, or rather, my sanity.

  “Tell Mr. Base you don’t want to do it. Seriously, Raye, you shouldn’t have to spend so much time around him. It’s been one day and look what it’s done to you,” she says, waving her hand in my face.

  “I can handle him, Linds. I just need to adjust. It’s been years. I’m over it.” Lindsay eyes me skeptically; she doesn’t believe me for one second. I can’t blame her. She was a first-hand witness to the wreck I was after Mitch. Not that Mitch himself was the singular cause. I maintain the breakup was nothing more than bad timing.

  “Promise me if it gets to be overwhelming, you’ll let me know. Maybe we can ask Shawn to push him around a little.” She smiles, her teeth gleaming in a Cheshire cat way. It’s obvious she’s already enjoying the idea.

  “I think Shawn would have to acknowledge your presence for that to work,” I laugh. I can’t remember the last time Lindsay’s brother paid either of us any attention. Rather, I simply choose not to. It was a little over a year ago when I told him I no longer required his services.

  Shawn had been my go-to guy for various substances, not that I will ever admit that to Lindsay–she would blame herself for my spiral and likely have one of her own. When I stopped getting high, I stopped seeing Shawn. No need for Lindsay to ever find out. Even thinking about her reaction makes me cringe with guilt.

  “Don’t know,” she says, pondering. “He might pay attention to a suggestion like that. You know how he is.”

  I do.

  I really, really do.

  Shawn Cruz is not the sort of guy you want to mess with. His revenge will be tenfold, and he’ll love every single minute of it. I shake off the standard chill that creeps over my skin whenever I’m forced to think about him for more than a handful of seconds.

  When we pull up to the ice cream parlour, Lindsay practically flies out of the car and into the store before I even turn off the engine. They only carry a limited supply of her favourite pralines and cream ice cream, and she is always worried they’ll run out before she places her order. It has happened maybe twice over the span of our lifetime, but still. Better safe than sorry.

  The store is small and smells of chocolate and popcorn, a selection of ice cream and frozen yogurt on one side and a selection of DVD and Blu-ray discs on the other, with a cash register in-between.

  Lindsay and I used to come here almost every day in elementary school. Her mom would pick us up from school and drive us over to the shop, and we would sit and eat ice cream and browse the new movie releases while she ran errands down the street. Ice cream was cheaper than a babysitter, and the Cruz’s had to save wherever they could. I would tag along for fun rather than necessity.

  “It’s a lucky day for both of us!” Lindsay cheers as I make my way toward her place in line. “They have pralines and cream and chocolate and peanut butter.”

  “Well, the universe definitely does owe me.”

  We place our orders with Kelli, the store owner’s daughter. I’m silently thankful she is the one working today, because her mom always takes twice as long
to fill up the cones–and she’s skimpy with the ice cream. Fresh out of high school, Kelli understands the importance of getting your money’s worth.

  Right before she hands me my cone, Kelli’s azure eyes flick to the left. She drops my beautiful waffle cone filled with chocolate and peanut butter goodness all over the counter, splashing me with flecks of ice cream in the process.

  “Who is that?” she says, not caring about my ruined cone. I turn my head toward the door, trying to figure out whom Kelli’s referring to.

  Holding the door open as a few others make their way into the store is The Boy. That figures. I immediately turn my face back to Kelli, who is still staring with her mouth open, her long brown hair falling into the spilled ice cream. She doesn’t seem to notice.

  Lindsay saves me from speaking. “That must be Marcella’s brother.” She smirks, her eyes taking on a dangerous gleam. “Damn. Talk about good genes. Hey! Marcella!” she shouts, summoning the group over.

  “Lindsay!” I hiss, only loud enough for her to hear. She ignores me anyway.

  Recognition lights up Marcella’s face as she drags her party toward the cash, cutting the line. Between her and The Boy are two others, whom I assume are their younger brother and sister.

  The girl is petite, nowhere near five feet, with silver ringlets I presume are some big-city fashion trend. Somehow, even with the weird hair, she is stunning.

  The younger boy is tall and lanky, slightly less beautiful than his siblings. Where their beauty is more in-your-face, his is subtler with dark brown hair and light brown eyes. I detect an ethnicity in him I don’t notice in the others, which makes me wonder if he’s adopted, not that I will ever ask. The closer I look at him, the more prominent the differences become. He actually looks a little sickly, as though he’s undernourished. The kid needs a cheeseburger. Or five.

  “Hey, ladies!” I try not to cringe as Marcella saunters over, her voice still sickly sweet. “I guess this is where everyone comes to hang out.”

  “Only when it’s still warm; give it a couple more weeks and it’ll be deserted,” Lindsay says, licking her ice cream cone. A still-transfixed Kelli is cleaning my cone off the counter in-between unsubtle glances at The Boy. I give a frustrated little sigh as I pretend to be interested in the conversation.

  “Lindsay, Raye, this is my sister, Chane,” Marcella says, fluffing the girl’s ringlets.

  “Bonjour,” she replies, a blush creeping onto her face. Her accent is extremely French, unlike Marcella’s and The Boy’s. Marcella said her family was only in Montreal for a handful of months, so I don’t understand how Chane picked up an accent. It’s probably fake.

  “And these are my brothers, Darien,” Marcella continues, gesturing toward the younger boy, who nods his head at us, “and T.K.,” she finishes, shrugging in the direction of The Boy.

  My eyes betray me, shifting to T.K.’s. He’s staring at me, his jade eyes locked on mine. I wonder how long he’s been watching me. Instead of saying hi like a normal person, T.K. takes a step forward and brushes his hand across my face. He licks his finger.

  My body freezes, leaving my eyes wide and incredulous. Lindsay chokes back a laugh beside me, and I hear Kelli drop her ice cream scoop on her freshly cleaned counter.

  “You had chocolate on your face.” T.K. shrugs, walking away to find a table.

  I snap my mouth shut and look toward the counter, trying to hide the cherry colour of my face. I’m certain this is what heat stroke feels like.

  “Don’t mind him; he can’t help himself.” Marcella rolls her eyes before giving her order to Kelli, who hands me a fresh cone.

  “He can take chocolate off my face any day,” Kelli replies rather than process the new order, “Or anywhere else for that matter.”

  I’m mortified.

  Turning to Lindsay, I ask if there’s any left.

  “No. He was thorough.” She laughs, delighted with my horror.

  I want to die.

  “You’re walking home,” I say, falling into a chair at a table as far away from T.K.’s as possible. It takes a considerable amount of effort not to look up and toward his table.

  “What? He’s gorgeous.” Lindsay adjusts her chair so she can watch him from afar like a match-making stalker. Sometimes, I wonder why she bothers pretending–at least with me–but it is none of my business. I let her continue to watch him, playing along with her charade.

  “Jesus, Linds, be more obvious?” I say, focusing on my ice cream.

  I taste nothing.

  “If you ever dream up a boy like that, you have to notify me immediately.” I cough, spitting out the ice cream in my mouth. “Ew,” she says, still laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this flustered, Raye. It’s adorable.”

  “Shut up. I’m fine.” My face is still betraying me with its colour. I chance a look back at T.K. He is still watching me, his eyes narrowed slightly as he replies to something his brother said.

  By the time Lindsay says we can leave over a half an hour later, my nerves are so on edge I’m worried permanent damage has been done. The more I look at T.K., the more convinced I become he is the one I dreamt about. The more I think about that, the more convinced I become I’m losing my freaking mind.

  The second I arrive home I change into yoga pants and a loose t-shirt, determined to focus on anything that isn’t related to my dwindling sanity. I make fresh gnocchi and pesto sauce for dinner, throwing a plate for my mom in the fridge before retiring to the living room. I put on a mind-numbing movie involving lots of shooting and running on rooftops.

  When it’s finally an acceptable time to go to sleep, I pass out instantly.

  My dreams are filled with train tracks and a small girl with wavy black hair.

  CHAPTER 4

  I’m developing bags under my eyes.

  It has been over a year since I’ve seen the puffy purple crescents, and I’m not in the mood to welcome them back.

  All night I dreamt of that creepy little girl, waking up only to close my eyes and see her face again. I’m certain I’ve never met her before, but I can’t shake the familiarity of her face. Whenever I try to focus on her features in my mind, my head immediately fills with a fuzzy sensation that makes me want to throw up my previous night’s dinner.

  I pause in my morning routine to sneak into my mom’s bathroom to steal a tube of her expensive concealer before retreating to my bathroom to hide the purple marks. Three layers later, I look almost human. I sigh and throw the tube in my drawer to piss my mom off–she doesn’t mind if I borrow her stuff, but it annoys her when things randomly go missing.

  It’s the small joys in life that keep me going.

  “Good morning, Raye,” she calls from behind her paper as I clomp down the stairs.

  “Hey, Mom,” I reply, searching for my travel mug and filling it to the brim with fresh coffee.

  “Are you coming home after school?”

  “Yes, Mom.” I toss a cereal bar into the pocket of my mauve cardigan and head to the door.

  “Do you feel like cooking? I can pick something up.”

  “I’ll cook, Mom.”

  “Okay, honey. I’ll see you–” I slam the door, cutting off the end of her sentence.

  When I pull into my usual parking spot, I notice a shiny blue Audi parked next to me, similar to the one my mom drives, only a newer model. Lindsay is sitting on the hood beside Marcella, with T.K. and Chane off to the side. T.K.’s eyes find mine the second I step out of my car.

  My cheeks don’t feel as warm as they did yesterday–a small blessing. At least one thing is working in my favour.

  “Raye!” Lindsay calls when she sees me. “Isn’t this car incredible?”

  “It looks like my mom’s,” I say, walking over to her. I glance down at my watch–ten minutes earlier than my usual arrival time. My restless night and hurriedness to escape the house must have thrown me off. I try to think of an excuse to leave, but my useless brain comes up empty. I suppose I can handl
e a few minutes of company. Clutching my travel mug to my chest, I start playing with the snap lid.

  “Tell me again why you wanted a Honda?” Lindsay is in the middle of patting the Audi as if it’s a baby; I’m afraid she’s going to start cooing to it.

  Back when I earned my license, my mom offered to buy me any car I wanted. It was less about love and more about wanting someone else to pick up groceries, but I took the offer nonetheless. Lindsay tried to convince me to go the sports car route, but I’ve never cared for cars, so I went with a Honda: fast, reliable, not too flashy, and reasonably priced.

  Lindsay wasn’t impressed.

  “Why would I need a flashy car?” Around here you may as well put a giant Rob Me sign on your forehead. I realize too late my comment may be considered an insult to the Audi owners.

  T.K. coughs into his arm and Marcella gives me a pouty look I think she intends to weaken me. “I like my Audi,” she says, joining Lindsay in patting the hood.

  “You mean you like my Audi.” T.K. crosses his thick arms over his chest. I wish he wouldn’t.

  “We share it,” she says, more to Lindsay than to anyone else.

  “You can’t even drive.”

  “Go away, T.K.”

  “I’m going to head inside,” I tell Lindsay, still clutching my mug. “It’s kind of cold.”

  “Liar,” she says, smiling to soften her harsh tone. “But go on. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  Thankful for the permission, I shoulder my bag and step around the Audi toward the front doors. “She’s not as bad as you think,” T.K. says, matching my stride. I didn’t realize he was behind me, and it’s not a welcome surprise. I focus intently on the peeling paint of the school doors.

  “I don’t dislike her,” I say, not completely lying.

  “You don’t particularly like her, either.” I watch as he lifts his eyebrows, challenging me.

  “I don’t particularly like anyone.”

  “Oh,” mock-enlightenment fills his voice, “is that why you always have that pissed-off look on your face?”