Handcuffs (26 page)

Then we left. We got back into the Saab and sat. It should’ve been awkward, as nervous as I was, but I don’t remember it being awkward at all.

“I’d like to get your opinions on a few songs before I take you home, would that be okay?”

I agreed, though it made me even more nervous when he pulled into the parking lot behind the skating rink that had closed three years earlier. A world-famous make-out spot. He pulled way over to the side, by a line of trees, and turned the key to where the car was neither off nor totally on. He hit a button on the stereo and kind of leaned back, and we listened. He watched my face intently.

“Creep” by Radiohead.

“It’s about infatuation and longing,” I said. In a weird way it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard, but some part of me hated it, because I had felt those things, I felt them about him, the longing and the wondering. Knowing I’d never be good enough.

“And self-loathing,” he said.

“Yeah, self-loathing. Have you ever felt that way about a girl?” I couldn’t believe I asked him that, and yet, I found I needed to know.

“Yeah.” Long pause. “Listen to this one.” He played a song by the Ramones, then one by the Clash. He didn’t say anything. I liked his car. It felt exciting and comfortable at the same time. Like good things could happen there, but they weren’t guaranteed. Does that make sense? The car was a good place, being beside him was perfect, and yet it didn’t mean that I would necessarily be happy. But right then, being near him was enough.

He took me home. He did not kiss me. I was so ready. My body was aching. I almost leaned in for it, but he never made a move.

“I’d like to take you out again,” he said. Some stupid voice inside my head was yammering that I would always remember this moment, that it was the greatest moment ever, and though I wouldn’t want to admit it, I was so happy that in a way it was.

“I’d like that.” My voice came out a whisper. When did I get so lame?

“I might send you some more songs. See what you think about them, since I have your e-mail address. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Absolutely the weirdest date I’ve ever been on. First a fancy white-tablecloth restaurant, then a crash course in his favorite music, and no kiss, even though my heart was hammering its way out of my chest.

I didn’t even know how to begin telling Raye about it. That same night this guy Ty took her to a pizza place and a horror movie. She was using him to get over Ian, we both knew it. There wasn’t any way I could share the experience with Raye. Telling would diminish it.

The next weekend I visited the basement for the first time. He put on some music and we lay together, not touching, on his floor on the striped comforter.

“This is the first time since I got kicked out of Penbrook that I’m glad.”

“Glad?”

“That I got kicked out. That I’m here now.”

“I’m glad you’re here too.” The music swelled, guitars and drums and a throbbing urgent need that I understood at last. He kissed me then. Our mouths came together, and for the first time I understood the magic of kissing, understood the movie-star kiss that lasts for minutes and has to be seen from four different camera angles. Before, there was this awkwardness with various boys, a certain vague feeling that someone wasn’t doing something right. With him, it was crazy intense emotion just rushing through me. Little to no fumbling.

He never asked me to be his girlfriend. He never introduced me as his girlfriend. Everyone just eventually realized that we had become a couple. Everyone except Kandace Freemont. Marion did a whole page on her blog about it.

He kept looking at me with that hungry look. When we were alone, when we were in a crowd, when we were in bed, when he slid me over onto his lap as we sat in his car and listened to music. I was always afraid that I would do anything for him. Now I am sure of it.

“Raye, your bank has a regular ATM, right?” She goes to her bank whenever her dad sends a check to her mom—like for her senior ring or whatever. They have a really complicated custody thing going on. I don’t really understand it, but I need the use of an ATM as quickly as possible.

“You aren’t going to tell me what happened?” Why does
it was amazing, tho
pop into my head right now? Stupid, stupid Kandace Freemont. If only it could’ve been smooth, like kissing him.

“Not yet, Raye. Maybe you can tell me how things were with Ian?” I’m stalling because I don’t know how to talk to her about this.

“Yeah, maybe. I wish we could go someplace. Are you still grounded?”

“Honestly, Raye, I don’t think that my parents care anymore. Why don’t you pick me up at about five tonight? We can go to the mall. That way they can stop me if I’m still under house arrest. Will you take me to the bank on the way?” I want to go with her, to forget about the butterflies devouring my stomach and maybe have some fun. To prove to myself that I can still have fun, even when he isn’t around.

“Sure.” She kind of shrugs. “Cute Cookie Guy has been seriously missing you. He says all the M&M cookies are getting hard and moldy waiting for you to come and buy them.”

We smile at each other, and it feels good.

“I’ve almost gotten the Sbarro pizza out of my system. It’s time for a big slice of pepperoni.”

“Okay, it’s a date.”

“Raye? Do you think that maybe he doesn’t want me anymore, now that he got what he wanted?” It’s hard to say this, to even ask.

The bell rings before she can answer.

32

I
t’s almost time for fifth period, and the concert band is filing into the band room. Raye goes out into the main part of the classroom and I try to slip out the side of the band-practice-room door. I’ve missed all of my history class and I need to make it into advanced British lit without Mr. Leonard spotting me. You would think that with all the years of being quiet and unobtrusive I could slip unnoticed from one place to another, but no such luck. Standing right in front of the door that connects the auditorium to the rest of the school is Marion Henessy, holding a clarinet.

She looks so awful that I almost laugh. She’s wearing tight flared jeans that accentuate the fact that her thighs are dumpy, and a little tight short sweater that accentuates the fact that her chest is flat and her stomach isn’t. It’s almost enough to make you feel sorry for Marion. Almost.

“Parker Prescott.” She brandishes the clarinet like a sword and then points it at me. She sounds pissed. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Have you been avoiding me?”

Yeah, like we’ve talked even once in the last year. How am I going to avoid that? She walked out when I walked into the Gap. I imagine myself saying,
No, I’ve been in a sex-induced daze, write about that on your blog, you bitch,
but of course I don’t. I don’t even have to answer because she keeps talking.

“You tell your sister to stay away from Kyle. She already ruined his life once. You tell her not to call our house because I will hang up the phone.” She’s actually waving the clarinet now. I take a step back to keep it from connecting with my face.

“Since when is being the object of a freak job stalker’s obsession ruining someone’s life? Just leave us alone, Marion.” She wants to blame Paige, and by extension me and the rest of the family, because Kyle screwed up. I’m so unbelievably tired of this.

Marion’s mouth drops open. Because I stood up for myself? I shake my head;
half of that response didn’t make a damn bit of sense. I stomp out of the auditorium. Sit through advanced British lit even though being this close to him makes me fear I will spontaneously combust.

I don’t talk to him. Ms. White is lecturing and I don’t have a chance. I want him to say something perfect and wonderful to me. I’m afraid that if I talk first I’ll say something reprehensibly stupid, so I just take notes and glance over at him once in a while. Several times he catches my glances. The second time he smiles. He leans toward me just a little bit, and then Ms. White turns around and he stops, jots something down on his paper. Class goes on. After class I have to hurry to meet Raye. He knows this, so we don’t really have any time for more than this blissful thirty seconds where we look at each other.

“I’ll e-mail you as soon as I get home, okay?” he says. Um, sure, that’s okay, that’s perfectly, perfectly, wonderfully okay. After an entire day of waiting, just hearing his voice is enough.

Raye drops me off at home a few minutes earlier than usual. She’s driving straight over to her dad’s because he wants to talk to her. They’ll go the deli down the street like they always do and Raye will just eat chips. I wonder how weird it would be to have one parent living way across town. One parent actually hating the other. At least we haven’t had to go through that.

“Good luck,” I tell her as I climb out of the car. She’s hoping to ask her dad some questions about college, but she’s nervous that he’ll be a jerk about paying, just to make her mom mad. Uncomfortable stuff.

“Let me know if he calls or anything.” She’s all concerned about my nonrelationship and the possibility that I will get hurt.

“Okay.” I give her a tight fake smile and walk up to the house. I go in the front door, walking just a little sideways so that I don’t have to look directly at the Century 21 sign. Paige is sitting at the kitchen table.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I live here, retard.” Oh God. She is totally hungover. I can see the signs now that she has raised her face from where it was pressed against the table. Red eyes, skin that looks bruised, stretched, thin. Before, she was always like this on the weekends after a big party. If she wasn’t too grouchy sometimes she would tell me about how great it was, all the funny jokes and the guys who flirted with her. Now it’s just kind of sad.

“Sorry,” I say, and start to tiptoe my way out of the kitchen.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says, and puts her head back down. My parents never realized how often she was like this. They used to play tennis on Saturday mornings before we let our club membership lapse. Leaving me alone with the monster who had had too many tequila shots. Only, now I’m not as intimidated by her as I was when I was younger. I’m actually very sorry for her; she looks like hell.

My brother is sitting in the hallway outside my door. He knows better than to bother Paige when she’s hungover.

He hands me a rumpled piece of paper. It has a sticker on it that looks like an award.
Excellent
is written in blue block letters underneath.

“My spelling test,” he says. My brother, he’s just sitting there, waiting for me. This is exceptional because he can’t sit still for more than like thirty seconds, honestly. I feel bad. It’s like with all the chaos in our lives, he just gets ignored. You would think it would be hard to ignore him, but really, after a while, the hyperactivity just sort of becomes constant movement that blends into the wallpaper, and you don’t notice it anymore. I wish I had more time to spend with him.

He’s a cute kid, when you can focus on him. He didn’t get the cold husky eyes. He got Dad’s warm brown eyes and dark hair. He’s small. I’ve seen him with other boys his age and they are so much bigger than him, so much bulkier. I guess that all the running and jumping burns a lot of calories.

“Did you get all the words right?” He nods and smiles. I mean, he’s in a special kind of class, so they might put
excellent
on it regardless, how would I know?

I crouch down in front of him, the spelling test still in my hand, and for a minute I want to wrap him all up in my arms and hold him. I remember how little he was, how I used to sit and watch him when he was a baby, to see what he would do. It’s amazing how sweet a kid he can be when he’s still for a minute. I want to grab him and keep him here, but then he starts to bounce. We look at each other. He can’t help himself. He starts jumping up and down, like a little pogo boy. A Mexican jumping bean. You can’t even tell the kid is reasonably cute when all you can ever see is a blur. He takes off down the hall, leaving me holding the paper, sticker, excellent comment, and all.

In my room I sit down with the big notepad. It has a few drafts of my house plans. These are the very last ones. Between the slush in my locker and my temper when I wadded the last one up, I’m down to just three of them. I smooth the pad with my hand and feel weirdly remorseful over all the ones that got destroyed. I get the pencil from my desk and add an addition to the back of my dream house. It’s a big play area with padded walls and lots of drums and sliding boards. If possible, it should have soundproof walls. It’s a dumb thing to do, but it makes me feel good to think that Preston will feel at home when he comes to stay with me someday in my imaginary house.