“I can drive my own car.” I take a step toward the driver’s side, but he catches my arm before I make it more than a couple of feet.
“Not happening. Keys,” he repeats, palm out.
I sigh dramatically and drop the keys into his waiting hand.
I’m still bitter as he helps me into the passenger’s seat and starts driving toward my home, even though I haven’t told him where to go. He is silent throughout the whole ride, his occasional glances in my direction the only indication he even knows I’m here. When he finally pulls into my driveway, T.K. pauses for a beat before taking a deep breath and climbing out the door.
“Will your mom be pissed if I help you inside?” he asks, opening my door and pulling me out. My response is a laugh. My mom won’t even notice he is in the house to begin with.
I trip over my dress–the part ripped by the brick–and stumble to the ground. T.K. catches me easily, hooking his arm under my legs and lifting me without pause.
“I know how to walk,” I snap, annoyed with all the fuss. I don’t want to say it aloud, but I’m hurt. Why didn’t he kiss me? What did I do to change his mind so quickly? Did seeing me weak and vulnerable turn him off?
“Oh, yeah, that fall back there was graceful as hell, Raye.” He shakes his head, not affected by our bodies so tightly pressed together.
T.K. carries me right up to my bedroom and places me gently on my bed. He hovers for a moment, unsure of what to do and where to look. Maybe he hasn’t lost interest after all.
“T.K.?” My voice is more hesitant than I knew it was capable of. He looks at me, his eyes green orbs of light in the dark. Something about him makes me feel so unexplainably safe. I’m not even nerved from the night’s events. “Thank you,” I say. “For…you know. And I’m sorry...for earlier. I wasn’t sure I was ready before, but–”
“It’s fine,” he says, cutting off my apology. He pauses for a moment to look into my eyes before he finally continues, “I’m sorry, too.”
He turns around and marches out of my room.
I don’t even hear the front door close as he heads out into the night.
CHAPTER 8
For the first time in two weeks, I dream of T.K.
He isn’t black or a redhead or pockmarked this time; he is T.K. as I know him, tall and golden with brilliant green eyes. Even in my dream, his beauty hurts to look at. Dream-Raye is a traitor, completely unable to resist his charm. I may as well be putty in his hands.
We’re standing on the beach, our fingers brushing lightly as we look out to the water. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you forever.” He reaches up to brush a stray piece of hair from my face.
“I’ve been right here,” I reply, startling my dream-self with the warmth in my voice.
“Maybe waiting is the wrong word. Searching,” he corrects, holding my hand to his lips. His touch feels so real I’m almost convinced it is actually happening.
“I’m sorry about today.”
“What did you do now?” I tease, snatching my hand away in a playful way.
Dream Raye is so free, I muse.
“For rushing you; that wasn’t my intention. For the record, though, I tried to avoid it, at least at first. Not that any of it matters now.”
“Avoid what?” I’m confused by his riddles; they are tricks within the trick contained within my head.
He smiles sadly before looking back at the water. “You’ll figure it out,” he says. “Or maybe you won’t. I hope you don’t. I think maybe I’d rather you hate me.” He looks so miserable, all I want is to reach out and touch his face. Dream-Raye may actually have the nerve.
“I could never hate you.” I try to catch his eye, hoping to put an end to his despair.
“I hope so.”
Before I know what is happening, T.K. is leaning toward me, his face mere inches from mine. The moment our lips touch, I’m done. T.K.’s hands travel down the length of my body as though it’s a map he wants–no, he needs–to explore. As I wrap my legs around his waist, he pulls me down to the sand.
I’m laying twisted in my sheets, my face hot and my head fuzzy. Definitely a dream. I cover my face with my hands, embarrassed as though someone watching may know the thoughts haunting my dreams. To think I once believed dreams of death were messed up. Those dreams pale in comparison.
What is happening to my mind?
My thoughts drift back to the night before, to the dance and my abrupt exit. The moment I knew T.K. wanted to kiss me, I freaked. Ran straight to my car and headed home like a giant, human-shaped chicken. I wasn’t ready to let T.K. kiss me. I wasn’t ready to open that part of myself up again. I didn’t want to be ready.
But last night’s dream suggests something a little different. Maybe I’m ready after all, and my subconscious is trying to point it out. I don’t love T.K. like I had Mitch. I know that. But I also know I could, someday, if I let myself. The knowledge scares me more than I’m comfortable with.
After last night, T.K. probably thinks I’m absolutely crazy. For the first time, I wish I had a cell phone. I want to explain; I want to apologize. I actually feel bad I may have hurt his feelings. I can’t believe I genuinely care.
I pull myself out of bed and head to the bathroom. I can’t find my dress from last night anywhere. I try to remember what I did with it after I got home, but the evening after I left the dance is fuzzy.
Hiding myself under a pile of blankets, I curl up on the couch with some cereal and watch cartoons until it becomes a reasonable hour to call Lindsay. She answers on the first ring, as is her standard.
“Raye! Where did you run off to last night? One minute you’re practically on top of T.K., the next, poof! You’re gone. Did you hear what happened to Shawn? My parents are freaking out. I guess some guy jumped him, Liam, and Trevor outside the dance. They were pretty high slash drunk though, so who knows what they did to provoke it.”
I can practically hear her shaking her head over the phone. Lindsay loves Shawn, but she isn’t completely in denial about the kind of guy he is. For some reason, the idea of him getting beaten up makes me happy, although I don’t fully understand why. We were sort of friends once, weren’t we? I should definitely feel bad.
“Is he okay?”
“Well, his face looks like a giant purple balloon, and the doctor says he bit his tongue badly at some point, so he’s having trouble talking, but otherwise he’s fine. Poor Trevor has a broken arm, though. He was crying like a baby when they were setting it.”
I don’t even know who Trevor is, yet hearing about his pain brings a nasty smile to my face. When did I become such a heartless monster?
“Do they know who did it?”
“They couldn’t remember,” she sighs. “They all describe a fuzzy, blank feeling in their heads, which isn’t a big shock. Who knows what drugs they took? Mom found a ton of stuff in Shawn’s jacket. She and Dad are insanely pissed.”
Unlike Lindsay, her parents have most definitely been in denial about Shawn’s illicit behaviour. Knowing them, he’s probably grounded for life. To them, it won’t matter Shawn is technically an adult. He’s living under their roof, and his behaviour will not be tolerated.
“So, did they pull you from the dance early? What happen with Marcella?”
“Yeah, they did. My mom called a little after you left crying about how someone found them on the side of the road and called an ambulance. I left right away, obviously. Marcella was great though; her and Chane convinced T.K. to drive me over to the hospital. That’s when he told me you bailed on him. Not cool, Raye,” she scolds. I picture her finger wagging in the air.
“I know, I know!” I say, toying with the phone. “I sort of freaked out when he tried to kiss me. I’m going to apologize on Monday though, don’t worry.” I take a breath in and blow it back out slowly. “I think I like him, Linds.”
“Obviously.” The smugness in her voice is nearly tangible.
We hang up shortly after, Lindsay about to go to the
hospital to see Shawn, and I determined not to over think everything that has happened. I keep thinking back to my dream, about how at ease I was. For the first time in nearly three years, I hope I can find place. No walls, no fears–just Raye.
∆∆∆
Monday morning takes forever to arrive. I spend all weekend going over what I want to say to T.K. in my head. I have a thousand different versions, none of which come out the way I want them to. I’m sure he’ll forgive me for running away from his kiss, but I want to make sure he’ll try again, eventually. If I’m going to try letting someone in, talking to T.K. is step one.
I don’t see him until he walks into math class, right after the morning anthem and right before Mr. Okar begins his lesson. He must have done amazingly well on our last quiz to avoid a lecture about promptness. I try to catch his eye throughout the period, but he doesn’t seem to notice. When the bell rings, he is out of his chair and out the door before I’ve even set my pencil back down on my desk.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down next to Lindsay for lunch, yogurt and vegetables in hand.
“How’d it go?” Straight to business, I guess.
“I haven’t spoken to him yet.” I don’t mean to sound annoyed, but I’m starting to think T.K. is avoiding me.
“You both have a free period next, don’t you?”
I nod my head and return my attention to my yogurt, hoping to drown out thoughts of avoidance. By the end of lunch, I have managed to convince myself I’m over thinking things and have re-prepared myself to apologize the moment I see him, even if it means shouting it from across the library.
Except T.K. isn’t in the library during our free period, and according to Lindsay, he leaves school immediately after the final bell. He doesn’t even stop at his locker.
“It’s official. He hates me,” I tell her the next day before lunch, my voice muffled by the inside of my locker. I trade my textbook for my wallet and groan, slamming the metal door behind me. Lindsay is resting her back against the locker next to mine, her head tilted up to the ceiling, squashing her bun. “What aren’t you telling me?” I recognize her I’m-hiding-something look.
“I don’t want to tell you,” she says, still not looking at me.
I cross my arms. “Lindsay Grace Cruz, you have five seconds.”
“Marcella mentioned T.K. had a date last night,” she blurts, talking so fast I almost don’t hear her.
“Wait, what?”
“Some random sophomore girl I’ve never heard of. She said he was out late. Please don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Linds.” I can’t fully process what she’s said. Maybe Marcella was wrong. I know T.K. likes me.
He does.
Right?
I eat lunch in silence, glaring occasionally at Marcella, as if T.K. potentially going on a date with another girl is her fault. Lindsay keeps shooting me worried looks, but she doesn’t mention T.K. or his sophomore again.
When I walk into the library during my free period, I walk straight around Mitch–who is waiting for me to help him with his Romeo and Juliet essay–and head straight for the table where T.K. is sitting, his arm wrapped around a beautiful brunette with caramel skin and hazel eyes.
I hate her instantly.
“Can we talk?” My voice comes out shakier than I intend. He takes his sweet time before finally looking up at me. His eyes are icier than I remember, a new glint freezing the emerald. Frustrated, he pushes his seat away from the table and walks toward the furthest row of books, not bothering to look back to see if I’m following.
“What’s up?” He slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Who’s the sophomore?”
“Her name’s Addie.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.
“Why was your arm around her?” I cross my arms over my chest, pretending to care less than I do. It has only been a few days. How could so much change?
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.” I recoil at the blunt, aggressive note in his voice. T.K.’s eyes soften for a fraction of a second before they narrow in annoyance.
“I thought… I mean… At the dance, you seemed pretty interested. In me, I mean.”
He shrugs. “Things change.”
“I don’t understand. What changed?” I brace for whatever his answer may be. My chest feels heavy and weird, a separate being from the rest of my body.
“You made it pretty clear you’re not interested, Raye, I’m doing what you asked.”
“What happen to not getting scared easily?” I counter, more hurt than I want to admit. I feel my heart wither up and crawl into a corner of my chest.
“I’m not scared. I’m not interested. Not anymore.”
“I don’t believe you.” I look into his eyes, searching for some indication this is all a big joke. They definitely aren’t as warm as I remember. Something really has changed.
I hold my breath, trying to contain whatever emotion is trying to wiggle free. I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m ready; can’t he see that? Or does it no longer matter?
“You don’t have to believe it for it to be real.”
Addie is back in his lap before I’ve released my breath.
∆∆∆
The next two and a half months involve a lot of self-scolding.
I’m so angry with myself for letting my guard down. Did I truly believe T.K. was different? Or was I so confused by all the weird, messed up dreams my defenses temporarily shut down? What happened to my conviction it wasn’t him in the dreams to begin with? After everything, after all my rules and effort, how did I let insanity wrap its nasty little claws around my mind? Worse yet, my heart?
That’s what feelings get you: confusion, pain, and insanity.
It doesn’t matter. T.K. and the soft spot I once had for him are a distant memory.
Not long after our library showdown, he returns to his old seat in math class, far behind me where I don’t have to see him. Since he and Marcella never liked each other to begin with, I don’t have to see him at lunch or at cheer practices either, and once my tutoring sessions with Mitch end–he gets his grade up to a seventy-six for midterms–I am able to spend my spare period locked in my car in the parking lot, reading and avoiding human contact.
On the rare occasions I do have to interact with T.K., our exchanges are short and snappy, typically involving a clever insult on my part, which he almost always deserves. He spends most of his time with his various girlfriends–he has already worked his way through Addie, Lisa, Daniela, Lee, and Nina–avoiding any and all eye contact with me.
“It’s actually getting a bit exhausting,” Marcella says in English one morning. The first snowfall is upon us, coating the windowsill with fluffy powder. “I told him if he’s going to change it up every two weeks, I’m not going to bother learning their names.”
The only good thing that results from my brief flirtation with emotional warmth is my new friendship with Marcella. Once I decide to give her a chance–for Lindsay’s sake–I discover she’s actually okay to be around. Her disdain for her brother doesn’t hurt, either. Need a digging insult for T.K.? Marcella is your girl.
“Who is it this week?” I ask, not caring, but secretly hoping she’s a cow with excessively hairy arms and bad hygiene.
“A freshman named Hailey: small; perky; too blonde.” Marcella rolls her eyes. “Have you heard from Lindsay yet?” Her eyes dart to her blank cell phone screen. She has it surrounded by her binder, hidden from Mr. Base.
Shawn and his friends were released from the hospital about seven weeks ago, but his tongue never fully healed. He’s been in speech therapy for a month and a half, and somehow it has become Lindsay’s job to make sure he actually attends. It involves a lot of missed classes, and both Marcella and I are starting to worry about her grades.
“I don’t understand why her parents can’t take him. Or why he can’t take himself. She doesn’t even have a licence. He drives h
imself anyway.” Her voice flows with annoyance. It isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.
I shake my head. “Neither of them can afford to take the time off work. Shawn would never go alone. It’s amazing they’ve managed to keep him sober all this time.”
After the attack, Mr. and Mrs. Cruz ransacked Shawn’s room, hunting down every pill, cigarette, and drop of alcohol they could find. Now Lindsay is under strict babysitting duty when they aren’t in school, and sometimes even when they are. Her parents’ priorities are so skewed. I’m mildly shocked they didn’t pull both Lindsay and Shawn from school and lock them in the basement.
“Let’s pool our money and invest in a real babysitter,” Marcella suggests, pretending to flip through her copy of Lord of the Flies so Mr. Base won’t scold her for talking.
“Don’t tempt me.”
When class ends, Marcella and I head down to lunch; I’m relieved to find Lindsay sitting at our usual table, eyes on Shawn from across the room. I’ve never seen him look so venomous.
“What’s wrong with him now?” Marcella hugs Lindsay in hello. I notice they hold on for a few beats longer than necessary.
Lindsay sighs, pushing her homemade salad around with her fork. Her hair is pulled up into a perfect ballerina bun, but she looks absolutely exhausted. “He threatened to stab his speech therapist today.”
I’m not surprised, but Marcella’s eyes grow wide. She doesn’t know Shawn. The only thing that shocks me is him refraining from stabbing his speech therapist.
“Maybe you should give him his pills back,” she suggests, unwrapping a sandwich. “I hear withdrawal is a bitch.”
I look up to see T.K. pull a bleach-blonde Barbie doll onto his lap and immediately lose my appetite.
“If I thought it would help, I probably would,” Lindsay replies, closing her eyes. “He has a week left, and he’s talking okay, but it’s far from perfect. Our insurance won’t cover any more after this. I think he’s feeling discouraged.”
I don’t want to tell Lindsay Shawn’s problem isn’t a low self-esteem; it’s a grandiose sense of self-importance. Knowing him, he hates the babysitting more than he hates the inability to form proper sentences. It’s only a matter of time before he reunites with his supplier and returns to his influential role as top dealer at Stonewall High. He’ll feel better afterward.
BONDED Page 9
