Olivia Twisted (Entangled Teen) (7 page)

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Yes, you do.”

I sigh and swivel the chair back to face her. “Look, she thinks I’m an asshole. So what’s the point?”

“Yeah, well, she also thinks you’re hot. You should be doing more with that.”

Yeah, some hot guy she thinks drugged her.
“Good-bye, Sam.” I turn back to the monitor, dismissing her. I don’t have to turn around to know she’s flipping me off before she heads out the door, no doubt to bitch to Nancy about how I’m not doing my part.

Chapter Seven

“Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts exercises even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature and their fellow men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the somber colours are reflections from their own jaundiced vision.”

—Charles Dickens,
Oliver Twist

Liv

After getting home with the stolen blouse from M, the realization that I took something really started to eat at me. I hung it in the back of the closet, not intending to wear it or the lacy bra. The fact that Sam persuaded me to steal makes me nervous about hanging out with her, so I don’t chat with her during class as much. I make my lunch at the house every day so I can bypass the cafeteria completely to eat alone on the grass outside. Sam seems confused at first, then pissed off when I keep making excuses.

It’s not just her, either. Avoiding her means avoiding Z. The more I obsess about it, the more I wonder if it really was him who drugged me. Why else would he show up at the bar at that moment and offer to take me home when I started feeling so strange? The only thing I remember is putting my hands all over his body and him taking me outside before I passed out. I remember his arms around me and his lips near my face. Sam says they both took me home. But then, he did beat up Tyson. Why would he do that?

Thinking about it all makes my head swim.

A couple other girls invite me to sit with them, but after a few lunches of listening to them gossip about pretty much everybody who walks by, I start making excuses to them as well. Tyson now completely avoids me.

Okay, well, that part’s not so bad.

The solitude doesn’t bother me that much, but I liked Sam. I even liked Z, I guess, so though it’s me avoiding them, it does hurt a bit when they were the only friends I had here.

Z ignores me, too. Although a couple times I’ve caught him watching me. I try not to look at him, try to act like I don’t care, but I can tell by the tiny lift to his lips that he knows better.
Freaking weirdo jerk of a guy who drives me insane.
I’ve mentally called him every name in the book, yet every nerve in my body stands at attention, tickling under my skin when we’re in the same room together.
Stupid clueless body.

Sam is waiting for me at my locker after my last class. Her arms are crossed and I can tell by her narrowed eyes that I better not move past her.

“What’s up?” I ask for lack of anything better to say.

Her mouth drops open. “Seriously?” Then she laughs. “A week of not talking to me and you ask what’s up?”

I fight a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I’m sorry I got you to steal that shirt. Sorry but not sorry. Does that make sense?”

I shake my head. She sighs and wraps an arm around my shoulder. It’s such an honest, friendly gesture, I don’t pull away.

“Look, I’ve spent a lifetime in foster care. I know how it works. My parents died so long ago that I don’t remember them. I bet you went through a lot of crap yourself. Am I right?”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. By the way she’s nodding, she can read my expression like a road map through hell. Even though part of me is still pissed that she talked me into stealing, I miss her friendship too much to stay angry. Most of the other kids in my classes are nice—friendly, even. But their carefree smiles and casual chatter represent the normalcy of their lives that’s missing from mine.

Sam, on the other hand, understands me. She gets it—the crap we go through being lost in a system that cares as much about us as stray dogs on the street. I can be myself with her, which is why I’m suddenly smiling back at her as if nothing’s happened. Stealing that shirt was wrong, but it’s not worth losing my friend over.

After school, I skip the bus and stand on the footbridge to the parking lot, waiting for Z. I’m just going to suck it up and confront him about what happened that night. Sam encouraged me, too, suggesting that I’d feel better if I talked to him. He walks up but stops when he sees me. Other kids slide past us, oblivious to the tension.

“We need to talk,” I say, trying to sound as cold and distant as possible.

“Yeah?”

“Um, I need to know what happened that night.” Damn it, my voice doesn’t sound as strong as I need it to be. I try to summon whatever forces turned me into the girl who had no problem telling Z off the other day, but they seem to be asleep.

He takes off his glasses and crosses his arms, scrutinizing me with those damn sexy eyes. “Why don’t you tell me what
you
think happened that night?”

I stare him down, trying to look braver than I feel. “Tyson told me a guy gave him that drink. The same guy who was at the bar with me.”

Nothing.

I falter for a moment, then take a deep breath. “You were at the bar with me when I started feeling weird. You helped me out of the building.”

He raises his eyebrows. I didn’t really, truly believe it was him, but now I’m not so sure. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say it.

“It was you, Z, wasn’t it? Not Tyson. What happened when you took me out of there? What did you do?”

Z uncrosses his arms and moves toward me, his eyes suddenly worried. I take a step back and he stops. “I took you home. Sam and I both did,” he says.

“I only remember you. I remember how I… I remember your arms around me. That’s all. It was you.” My voice cracks at the last word, and my hands start to shake. I bite my lip to keep the tears pressing against my eyes from falling.

“Wait, what?” he starts, breaking off when I step back again. I take one more step and slip off the small footbridge into a muddy hole, twisting my ankle and falling on my butt. I try to get up but wince as a searing pain shoots from my ankle.

“Are you okay?” Z asks, reaching down to help me. I shake my head and slap his hand away. He steps back and waits until I manage to get on my feet. My ankle is screaming but I try not to let it show. I shift my weight to my left foot and do my best to ignore the cold, wet mud plastered to my clothes and skin. At least the threat of crying is gone. Now I’m just mad.

“Just tell me, Z, what did you do that night? Where else did you take me before my house?”

“I didn’t take you anywhere. Sam was with us; she drove her car. We took you home.”

“Why are you lying? I remember Sam walking away from us. And why wouldn’t you have driven your car?”

He laughs. Really? Laughing? I scowl and hobble away toward the school.

“Hey, wait, you’re hurt. Let me take you home.”

“Get away from me. I’ve already called my foster parents and they’ll be here any minute.”

I keep walking as best as I can—
damn, this hurts
—hoping I’m not screwing up my ankle even worse. When I reach the building, I sneak a glance back but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Good riddance.

I hobble to the office and use the phone to call Derrick, but groan when he doesn’t answer. I forgot that he’s supposed to be in a meeting and won’t be home until later. Denise never gets back until after five, and I can’t stay here for two more hours. Most people in the office have already left for the day.

I massage my temples with my fingertips, trying to think. When Derrick drove me to school I was surprised at how close we actually live from here, since the bus takes a roundabout trip. It’ll hurt, but I know I can grit my teeth and make it home by walking. I’ll keep my foot on ice the rest of the weekend if I have to. I take off my right sock and wrap it as tightly as I can around my ankle, then stand up and hobble back out of the office. It’s only about two or three blocks to the first light. I can do this.

A block later, my ankle screams that this is going to be a lot harder than I thought. I stop for a moment, debating whether to go back to the school and beg a ride off someone or continue walking. It scares me a little to think of hitchhiking, but maybe the horror stories only happen on the highway.

The low growl of a motorcycle closes in, startling me when it stops next to me.

“Want a ride?”

Oh, crap.
“No, thanks.” I keep moving without looking over, trying to ignore the images of abductions filling my mind.

“Liv, hey!”

I glance over as the guy takes off his helmet and brushes his no-longer-plastered blond hair to the side.
Oh, no. Not Z.
Looking at the bike, now at least I get why he laughed when I asked about him not taking his car that night.

He pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “C’mon, let me help.”

“No.” I continue limping toward the stoplight a couple blocks away, the knives slicing up my ankle into my entire leg. He moves the bike to the sidewalk and rides slowly alongside of me, balancing the growling beast with his feet.

My mind blurring with the pain, I finally stop. “You’re going to get arrested for having that thing up here.”

He cuts the engine and crosses his arms. “So come on, let me give you a ride home. I don’t see that you have any other option, unless your foster parents are planning to pick you up at the corner.”

I look toward the light at the corner and twist my ponytail around, thinking about what happened at the club. Is it possible Tyson made the whole thing up? Or that it could’ve been someone else? Is it stupid to give Z the benefit of the doubt? He certainly couldn’t have taken me somewhere on a motorcycle. And once again, why the hell would I believe Tyson?

The questions fade away as I realize he’s right. I can’t make it home, and at this point, I probably can’t even make it back to the school. I’ll have to cross my fingers and assume he’s really going to take me home. I limp toward the back of the bike. He reaches an arm out to help me mount up behind him.

“So you have a Ducati and Sam has a Camaro,” I say. “I thought you guys live in a group home.”

“I’m impressed. How’d you know this is a Ducati?”

“My last foster dad had one. It was his favorite thing in the world. He let me ride it.” I don’t add that I only rode once and it scared me so badly that I never got on the bike again. This one seems bigger, maybe, but not enough to keep me from hating the idea of getting on it.

“Cool.”

“I guess. I live on Green Valley Drive.”

“Yeah, I know. Here, put this on,” he says, swiveling around to hand me his helmet. “I don’t want to be responsible for killing you. Just kidding,” he says, laughing at my expression.

He starts the engine up and idles it for a moment before turning to shout over his shoulder, “Hold on.”

I wrap my arms around his waist and close my eyes, burrowing into his jacket as he throttles the engine. We bounce off the curb and he takes it slow down the street to the light. I start to think that my memory of the motorcycle ride is exaggerated, until he makes the right turn. Then he kicks it into high gear and the bike almost literally flies down the street. I close my eyes and clutch at him in terror, but soon the rumbling of the machine and the wind against my skin kick-starts my adrenaline. I open my eyes and loosen my death grip a bit.

The houses fly by in a blur until he starts to slow down and make the left onto my street. He pulls to a stop in front of the rooster mailbox and idles the engine. I stay where I am for a moment, my body shivering against him.

He peers at me over his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I gasp, removing the helmet and handing it to him.

“Anyone home?”

“Yes, Derrick is home,” I lie. In fact, I’m pretty sure Derrick would give me a lecture if he saw me right now on the back of a motorcycle.

I push myself off the bike, balancing by holding onto Z’s shoulders. He puts his arm around my waist and helps me hobble to the front door. Even with the throbbing pain in my ankle, I am very aware of his closeness, the warmth of his body heating me all the way through. I fumble around my purse for the key and wobble on the step, one hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for getting me home.”

“Sure.” He takes his glasses off and gazes at me for a moment, his hand still positioned on my waist. “Do you still believe I spiked your drink?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know what to think.” The deep gold and green colors shift in his eyes. I wish he’d stop looking at me like that.

“Look, it’s not my style to do something like that. If I wanted to chill out with a girl, I’d just ask.”

“Do you ask a lot?”

The corners of his mouth lift slightly and he puts his hand on the door, leaning in toward me. “Not lately.”

I back against the doorframe, but his eyes don’t relent their grip. My heart is running a marathon through my chest. Despite everything, I feel this weird, scary temptation to kiss him. I wonder what he’d do.

“I have to go,” I say weakly.

He finally backs away. “See you Monday.”

I manage to get the key in the lock with my shaking fingers and open the door. The engine revs to life, and he peels out of the neighborhood as I collapse into the first chair I find. I have got to get control of myself. Even if he really didn’t drug me at the club, getting involved with this guy is
so
not a good idea.

Chapter Eight

Oliver:
And you Dodger, you’re my friend.

The Artful Dodger:
Huh! A friend’s just an enemy in disguise. You can’t trust nobody.

—a film adaptation of
Oliver Twist

Z

Liv is speaking to Sam and me again. I’ll admit I’m glad about that. Girls don’t usually ignore me, but it’s more than that. Her comeback at lunch that day has been stuck in my head. For as shy as she seems, she’s got a fire in her that intrigues me. Part of me wants to push her buttons just to watch that fire ignite again, but that would definitely put me in the ultimate jerk category. Our plans would be for nothing if she pushed me away. Though she still might when she realizes what I’ve done.

At least she seems to have dropped the ridiculous idea that it could’ve been me who drugged her. I don’t know why she’d believe that ass in the first place.

Speaking of…

“Hey, what the…” Tyson’s mouth drops open to see me sitting in his chair.

“Sorry, but I have to sit closer to see,” I tell him, adjusting my glasses. He looks at the teacher.

“You can have Z’s chair,” Walsh says, pointing to my previous desk. “He does need to be able to see the board.”

I return Sam’s grin as Tyson grumbles and moves around to sit behind me. Just in time for Liv to walk in and stop short when she sees me.

“End-of-year seat change?” she asks, sliding past and setting her backpack on the desk next to me.

“Sure, why not? I need to sit closer for my eyesight.”

“But you wear glasses.”

“I know.”

She shakes her head, though I can see the corners of her mouth fighting to lift.

“How’s the ankle?” I ask.

“It’s fine. I can’t run on it, but at least it’s not sprained.”

Walsh starts the class by giving us what she believes is a complex design. It’s stupid easy, though. I’m the first one who finishes, as usual, although a quick glance at Liv’s monitor shows she’s not far behind. Not that I’d tell Sam this, but she was probably right that Liv’s worth a shot.

Liv squints at her computer, tapping away. So serious an expression for something so basic. Her hair falls forward as she looks down at her keyboard. I combat the urge to sweep the dark waves over her shoulder so I can see her face.

I open the Windows command prompt and input her computer’s name, obtained as soon as I came into the classroom this morning. I quickly type out the prompt and watch as the message pops up on her computer:
Time’s almost up.

Her head jerks as she stares at Walsh, who is at her own computer, typing away. I almost laugh out loud and type in the next message:
Go for a ride after school?

Liv cuts her brown eyes over to me, her lips slightly parted in surprise. A strong desire to taste those lips ripples through me, the intensity almost overwhelming. She faces her computer again to type her response, a tiny dimple forming in her cheek as she smiles.

No.

I frown at my monitor.
Why not?

Have to go home.

Why?

She doesn’t respond at first. Her fingers move to the keys, then away, then back again to hover as she frowns.
Just something at home
, is all she types. She closes the window and switches back to her assignment.

She’s a bad liar. There’s nothing she needs to go home for—she doesn’t trust me. Not that she should. But still.

“You’re not done?” I tease in a low voice as she taps out code for the assignment.

“Shut up, I’m almost there,” she snaps. Unfortunately, her voice isn’t so low.

“Miss Westfield?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

Walsh shakes her head. “See me after class, Olivia.”

Liv’s face flushes pink and she drops her gaze. I turn back to my screen, trying to brush off the speck of guilt I have from knowing what’s coming.

…

Liv

The rest of the period lags on until the bell finally rings. After everyone files out, I walk up to Ms. Walsh’s desk. Sam gives me a sympathetic look as she leaves the room.

“Miss Westfield, I’ve noticed you’ve been inattentive in class lately. Is everything okay?”

I clear my voice. “Yes, ma’am. I guess I’ve been tired.” Stupid excuse. What am I supposed to say, that having Z next to me makes it hard to focus on anything?

“Well, you need to get better sleep at night if that’s the case, but I don’t know…maybe this class is a little more advanced than the ones you took at your old school?”

I stare at her. Is she serious? My last school’s computer programming class makes this one look like first-grade work. “What makes you think this is hard for me?”

“Well, your low test score, for one. Tests are worth so much in this class. A low C is still passing, of course, but it can easily slip to a D. I don’t want to see that happen.”

I grow cold. “A C? I shouldn’t have gotten a C on the test.”

She sighs and pulls up my grades. “A seventy. Like I said, I’m concerned because I have nothing else to base this on.”

I start to argue that there’s no way I have a seventy on such an easy test, when Z walks back into the class. “Ms. Walsh?”

“Yes, Z?”

“I overheard what you said to Olivia. If she’s having a hard time, I could help her out.”

Is he kidding me?

Ms. Walsh smiles and claps her hands together. “Really? That’d be wonderful. Olivia, this will be perfect! Let’s see…” She peers down at her agenda.

I scowl at him, receiving a smirk in return. “I don’t think so, Ms. Walsh.”

“Now, now, Z is the best. You two can meet here after school in my classroom, starting tomorrow. Z, will this be okay with your—?”

“Absolutely. No problem there.”

I start to shake my head and say again that I don’t need a tutor, least of all him, but Z seems to anticipate it. He looks at Ms. Walsh. “You’ll probably want to let her parents know so they won’t be worried when she shows up late after school.”

“Of course I will. Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The smug vibes radiating from him make my blood boil. I elbow him hard in the ribs as soon as we walk out of the classroom.

“What’s that for?” he asks, rubbing his side.

“Seriously? What the hell was that, making Ms. Walsh think I needed extra help? I don’t know why she said I’m making Cs. There’s no way.”

“You don’t like it? Do something about it, then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Show me how good you are.”

I’m tempted to smack the stupid grin off his face. “Look, let’s get something straight here. You might think you’re clever with the
basic
hacking trick you pulled on me earlier, but I’m not going to entertain you with everything I know. And I don’t need you getting all cryptic on me. If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I walk away quickly, forgetting that he’s in my next class and feeling stupid when he walks into English Lit behind me. He’s super friendly during class and at lunch, carrying on lively conversations with Sam and smiling at me as if I’m not staring at him with an evil expression. He knows I’m pissed, and I hate that he doesn’t even acknowledge it.

After school, I take the bus home and log on to the computer as fast as usual to do my math work, until I remember that Derrick said he’s going to be late today. I lean back and take my time, enjoying the privacy of doing my work without Derrick’s constant attempts at conversation.

Damn it. Starting tomorrow I’m going to miss out on the only time I have to do my assignments before Derrick gets home. Thanks to Z, who I’ll be stuck in a room with, alone, after school…

I forget where I’m going with that.

The computer whirrs and gives an error message when I try to open Internet Explorer. Damn it. I wish Denise didn’t care if I could download a better browser. She’s so worried about me getting viruses and going on sites I’m not supposed to. I’ve even caught her looking through the computer history. Which, of course, is the simplest thing to erase if I really wanted to go on “questionable” sites.

I slump heavily in my chair but jerk up when I remember the other computer in the house. After grabbing the Wi-Fi password from the user accounts menu, I move to the front windows to make sure that Derrick’s car isn’t pulling up unexpectedly, then slip into their bedroom, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. Denise would have a hundred fits if she knew I was in here.

Derrick and Denise share a large walk-in closet, occupied by hanging clothes, a neat row of shoes, and plastic boxes of, well, stuff. I sigh. This may take a while.

I open the first box to find purple and pink plastic flowers. The next box contains smaller boxes with cell phone accessories. The box under it—various computer and economic publications. I flip through them, mildly interested, until I see a magazine sandwiched among them featuring a woman flashing her boobs on the cover. I immediately drop the other magazines on top of it and close the box.
Yuck.

There are more boxes stacked on the shelves above the hanging clothes. A stepladder is conveniently tucked in the back of the closet, so I open it and climb to the highest step, looking around until I spot my black laptop bag in the very back. I grab it but slip off the step, falling sideways into Derrick’s suits. I try to regain my footing, but instead land on shoes and boxes. A couple of the boxes are turned sideways, their contents sliding out. I set my bag down and hurriedly try to sort the shoes and papers into their appropriate boxes.

As I put the last paper back into the large box, my eyes land on a folder labeled
Olivia Westfield
. I open it to see a small picture of me stapled to the top of the first page, which lists my basic information. My foster paperwork. The documents Derrick and Denise had to fill out are here, too. I guess Julia gave them copies. It’s pretty generic—statements about why they want to be foster parents and a list of references and stuff. I’m pretty impressed, actually. Derrick must have been the one to fill out most of it, since it appears to be a guy’s handwriting, but there’s information about Denise, too. And questions about their childhoods. The answers are all about wanting to show love for the foster child and crap like that. I flip through the pages, but one response catches my eye, mostly because I can tell it’s Derrick’s handwriting, though it’s Denise’s form.

Have you been in a previous marriage or long-term relationship?
Previous marriage to Alejandro Santos. One child, age two years. Both deceased via car accident.

Denise was married before and had a child who died? No wonder she’s so withdrawn. How did she get together with Derrick, then, and why did she tell me she couldn’t have kids?

The rest of the page is also filled out in a slanted version of Derrick’s handwriting. It looks like he tried to fudge Denise’s writing on almost the entire questionnaire. I wonder why Julia didn’t notice. He lists out the strengths of their relationship from “her” perspective as loving, expressive, open communication, etcetera.

I somehow doubt that, if she had filled out this page, she would have said the same things.

A glance at my watch reminds me that Derrick will be home any minute. I stack the papers to put back in the box carefully, but one more thing catches my eye: a CD without a case is sitting at the bottom of the box. I pull it out and flip it over. There are no marks, no labels. I start to toss it back inside but change my mind and slide it into my laptop bag. It would be interesting to see what else child services says about me and my past. Quickly closing the box and placing it back under his clothes, I tuck the stepladder against the wall and leave the closet.

I run out to my room and hide my laptop bag in my closet, just in time to hear Derrick whistling in the house. My heart is hammering. Maybe I should’ve checked the plush carpet to see if any imprints of my shoes were left behind?

Before Derrick even asks, I offer to help him make dinner, mostly to overcome my guilt. He shows me how to cut the vegetables his way, on the slant, and talks the whole time about marinating steak and stuff. I try to show interest, and he seems thrilled about it. Actually, I feel pretty happy myself. I have my laptop back and can do my homework tonight from where I should have been doing it this whole time—in my own room. I can enjoy surfing the net and forget all about the fact that I’m stuck with Z tutoring me after school tomorrow.

Though I somehow doubt it’ll be that easy to forget.