Exposed (11 page)

My toes curl like they know Paul’s talking about them. I type, “No way. You’re nuts. Or you’ve got some kind of foot paraphilia.”

Now that’s a major Devin-word. She got it last year when her dad helped put away a guy who kept swiping people’s shoes and holding chicks down to sniff their feet. Paraphilia. After hearing about all that, the word lives vividly in my mind, and probably will forever.

“What the hell does *paraphilia* mean?” Paul shakes his shadowy head. “Never mind. Don’t answer that, because I’m ready to pay you twenty bucks for your toes. I’m serious. Show ’em. Show ’em!”

“Absolutely out of your mind.” I send him a bunch of goofy, crazy smileys.

Okay, so he’s obviously trying to make me feel better, but it’s working.

“Try me.” A flash of the upside-down pyramid tattoo to the camera. “Show me your toes, then check your Portal account. Twenty bucks for toes!”

By the time I get the camera back on, I’m laughing so hard I have trouble positioning the computer. It takes some doing, but I manage to bend my ankle and get my feet up to the camera lens and wiggle all ten of my toes at him.

Paul’s right in the middle of typing something back when I hear noises out in the hall.

My heart thumps to a stop again, but this time not in a good way. I type
POS
as fast as I can, then: “Later tomorrow night because we have a game—probably 12,” hit ENTER, then slam my laptop shut.

The noises get louder. Definitely somebody walking. Definitely coming closer.

I put the laptop on the floor near my backpack, slip out of my closet, and push the door partway closed, then fast-tiptoe to my bed.

Whoever’s walking stops at my door.

I yank back my covers and throw myself into my bed.

My breath comes sharp and short, and I want to grab my stomach and chest at the same time. If it’s Mom, I’m so dead. Mom always knows when I’m faking sleep. Dad—well, fifty-fifty. At least I’ll have a shot if it’s Dad.

I pull up the covers, try to force my eyes shut, and try to make myself quit gasping.

The handle rattles, and I hear the door swing open.

My eyes are still partway open, but my vision hasn’t
adjusted to the darkness. I can’t see if I’m doomed or not until I hear Lauren say, “Chan?”

All my energy flows out in one big wave. I almost laugh, then I almost cry. Lauren’s voice sounds sleepy, not completely awake. Probably had a bad dream. Lauren has lots of bad dreams, or at least she says she does, every time she wakes up and comes to my room. Usually with lots of tears and sniffling and other theatrical stuff.

I reach for the Lauren-shadow beside my bed and touch her hair. “What do you need?”

Lauren gives a huge, loud sniff and puts her hand over mine. “I dreamed about bad men,” she says with a movie-diva flair. “I thought I saw a kidnapper outside my window.”

Yeah. Through the shutters and blackout shades, never mind Mom’s prickly bushes and the house alarm. Is this kid
always
rehearsing? Or did she see this on a movie?

Not that it matters.

I learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to fight with Lauren about stuff that might be real in her head, even if it’s not real in the world as I know it. Besides, if I act like I don’t believe her, she’ll cry really loud and wake up Mom and Dad.

I scoot over in the bed and give her shoulder a tug. “Come on. I’ve got to get some sleep before morning. You need some, too, or you’ll snooze all the way through school.”

Lauren sniffs again, then a third time before she runs her hand over her forehead like some nutty chick from an afternoon melodrama.

Somehow, I manage not to groan.

Lauren finishes her dramatic rendition of
Poor Little Had-a-Nightmare Child
, climbs into bed beside me, and settles in quick, drop-kicking my leg a couple of times in the process.

In the interest of remaining Mom-and-Dad-less for the rest of the night, I ignore the pain and start telling her a story about princesses and swans and beautiful ponds and gardens, one of my favorites from when I was a little kid. A few minutes later, when she’s ripping snores in my ear and half shoving me out of my own bed, I wonder if I’m out of my mind. And I wonder about Paul, and whether or not he’s disappointed I had to go so fast.

I hope he got my last send, about parents over my shoulder.

We’ll have to make one up, Paul and me, for this situation.
SOS
. Sibling over shoulder. Almost as bad as parents, but twice as likely to pee on your sheets.

Paul has little brothers. He’ll get it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. At least I hope I will.

Maybe that kitten screen-hider thing will work and I can risk talking to Paul for a few minutes before everyone goes to bed. CONTROL-ENTER twice. I can hit that pretty fast, right?

My eyelids drift shut.

I hadn’t realized how sleepy I was getting when I was in the closet, before Lauren scared me to death. Two late-night chats in a row … but I’d make up for it on the weekend, when I wasn’t practicing or talking to Devin or working on the Emily paper outline.

Oh, crap. The paper. I didn’t do a thing on it tonight.

Lauren jerks and lands another major kick to my thigh.

My eyes pop open and I rub my leg.

That one might leave a bruise.

I sigh.

In the little sister lottery, I think I came up short.

At least I’m doing better in the hot-online-guy department.

When Lauren nails me with another bruise-worthy kick, I get up, grab my poetry notebook, and dig my flashlight out of my bedside table drawer. I don’t worry so much about Mom catching me up in the middle of the night writing at my desk, since Lauren’s invaded my bed. Besides, Mom’s never gotten too upset about my poetry, or snatched it away from me or anything—though she did offer to take me to a shrink once after reading one called “Blood and Tears.”

I love writing after dark. I really love writing late, late, late, when everyone’s out of my face. Everything always seems easier in the middle of the night, when I’m the only person awake in the world.

For a second, I stop writing and think about Paul.

He got my message.

I’m sure he did.

Will he show up in chat to find me late tomorrow night, after the game?

The poetry-feeling gets hold of me, and somehow it seems like everything’s going to be all right. That I’ll get everything I want, and more.

So, yeah, Paul probably got that last message I sent. And he understands.

But … will he show up tomorrow night?

Yes
, I scribble in the margin of my paper.
He’ll be there. I know he’ll come.

The soul selects her own society,

Then shuts the door;

On her divine majority

Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing

At her low gate;

Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling

Upon her mat.

I’ve known her from an ample nation

Choose one;

Then close the valves of her attention

Like stone.

Emily Dickinson

REALITY

Endless, ceaseless, faithless

There is no depth to the water

Splashed across the bathroom floor,

The water that won’t wash you away.

Broken, shattered, twisted,

There is no hope in the acrid fire

Eating away the letters and notes,

The fire that won’t burn you away.

You, you’re alive but you died.

I don’t want to see you.

I don’t want to touch you.

I don’t want to feel you

All around me.

I don’t want to remember your eyes.

The joy, running to you in the autumn air,

Dry leaves swirling as you let me in,

As you throw your arms around me.

Do you know how much I miss you?

You walked away.

You left me

With the scars of your actions,

And I shower and burn and try again

Not to stare at the line in my life,

The line that cuts down the center

Of before and after You.

Chan Shealy

“Maybe you just need to try something new—something fresh.” Stroke, the new drummer who transferred to WEHS from Northside, keeps trying to grab Devin’s arm as we head to the gym parking lot to do our game walk-through. He’s tall with really long arms, and his fingers brush her elbow. “Give me a chance. Come on, baby.”

Devin stops so fast I almost trip when I put on my own brakes.

She props both hands on her hips and winks at Stroke, but her voice comes out low and quiet. “You call me baby again and we’ll see who cries.”

Devin’s smile makes
me
step away from her.

“Besides,” she says, “I’m taken.”

Stroke puts a little distance between himself and Devin. “I just heard you don’t waste time on local losers. So if there’s a tryout list, put me on it.” He shrugs, keeping up an I’m-so-handsome grin. “I’m no local—and no loser, either.”

As he struts off, I glance at Devin, then groan at the smile on her face. “You are
so
not considering that guy. He’s all mouth.”

She’s still watching Stroke fade into the gathering crowd of band members ahead of us. “He’s cute. And good with those sticks.”

“But you just said yes to Tevo, and Tevo’s nice, and—”

“You have raccoon eyes.” Devin’s tone dares me to say anything else. “Better use heavy cover-up this afternoon, or the Bear’s gonna let you have it.”

Look the part. Play the part
. Yeah. Right. Okay.

I’m already feeling sorry for Tevo, Devin’s boyfriend du jour, as I do my practice and take position to rehearse lead-out. Not much I can do, though, so I leave it alone.

Thankfully, the Bear spends most of warm-up hollering at freshmen, not examining my eyes. I don’t drop a toss, and I keep rhythm pretty well, even though Devin gives me a few worried glances. When we get back to the lockers to change, she asks me how much sleep I’ve gotten.

“Not much.” I extend one of my bruised legs. “Lauren’s having more nightmares and she got in my bed last night. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could tie her feet down so she couldn’t kick me.”

Devin rolls her eyes. “Your mom needs to get that child some pharmacological intervention. This whole scared-all-the-time thing’s just not normal.”

“She was in my practice garage as long as I was last night.” I keep my gaze on the lockers as I slip my dance shoes out of my bag. “If I hear ‘My Favorite Things’ one more time, I really might vomit raindrops on roses.”

“Whiskers on kit-tens,” Devin sings as she smooths her hair, and I scream loud enough to shut her up.

It’s not like I don’t want to tell Devin about the chats with Paul, but … actually, I don’t. Well, I do, but … not. It feels complicated.

As we pull out our leotards, we ignore Ellis the witch-monster and her whole entourage, and they ignore us right back. No time for crap. Not right before the game, anyway. If I give her a black eye, it’ll just make us all look bad.

Devin and I lotion up and powder up, then pull on our tights and strapless bras. Devin does my hair and I do hers, complete with the light purple glitter spray we special-ordered to match the leotard. Devin also does my eyes, because I always get the liner too thick. I take her advice and use cover-up to conceal the dark circles earned from my late-night chats and Lauren’s I-had-a-nightmare kicks. Like always, my heart starts to race when we pull on our leotards and do the final inspection, first in the mirror and then for each other.

Almost time.

Nearby, Ellis and her minions finish their fancy dos and makeup, and Carny and the freshmen and other sophomores are already dressed and doing little twirls
and tosses, muted, since we’re still inside. Right outside the gym door, the clang and whistle and whine of instruments warming up mingle with the increasingly louder crowd murmur. And the popcorn-hamburger-hot-dog smell filling up the airspace definitely makes my stomach growl.

The Bear steps into the locker room wearing her best purple and gold warm-ups, with the team logo embroidered on the cuffs, thighs, and back. “Are ve ready?” she asks in her room-grabbing voice as she takes baton cases from the sophomores who have to carry the flags.

“Yes, Coach!” we yell back, just like the football team does with their coach.

A rare smile graces her sharp face. “Then line up. Ve march!”

She bangs open the door to the parking lot with a flourish, and a blast of cool air makes me shiver. The sophomores head out first, holding their folded flags. The freshmen go next, then Devin and me, and the seniors and the Bear bring up the rear.

The band members see us coming, stop warming up, and snap into line as the band director barks at the jazz section.