Southbound Surrender (6 page)

I’m in all accelerated and college preparatory classes in the morning, like AP Anatomy and History, and I know Piper should be in these same classes. Hudson, although he could hack it if he tried a little harder, isn’t in any AP classes, but our schedules collide in the afternoon. While I sit in fourth hour next to the open window and listen to Mr. Lee talk with his hands about the syllabus, semester, our futures, and the Cold War, I catch a faint whiff of smoke. I look around at the rest of the class taking notes and nodding their heads and realize I should do the same. Everyone in this class will take the AP test at the end of the semester to try to earn college credit and my recent change of heart about college has me thinking I should get my act together.

Then I smell it again. It’s definitely there, and it’s definitely smoke. Cherry-tinged smoke.

I snag a bathroom pass with barely a glance from Mr. Lee and trot down the stairs to the basement. Although students aren’t allowed on this floor, I know I won’t be questioned if a teacher or anyone else sees me. After all, I’m the son of the domain’s owner, Big Dave, and therefore, a lucky frequenter of the supply closets and maintenance rooms.

I count the doors, positioning myself where Mr. Lee’s classroom is a floor above, and I land at Supply Closet A. I get down on my hands and knees to see if the light is on, but it’s black. I listen, waiting to hear a rustle inside the closet, but it’s silent. That’s when I smell the faint hint of cherry smoke again, and I know there is only one person in this school who would smoke a cigar in the middle of class – the girl I’ve been looking for all day.

My hand reaches for the doorknob as I take one last check down the hallway. The hall is empty. All that’s standing between me and Piper is this door. I crack it open a few inches to see light pour onto her body. She’s standing on top of a metal shelving unit stocked with squirt bottles and buckets. She’s wearing tight jeans and a pink shirt. Go figure. She blows a stream of smoke out the open window a few inches above her head before she turns to me.

“Welcome, Cash Rowland. I thought you’d never come,” she says, rotating the cigar with a small movement of her fingers.

The door shuts behind me with a soft click. The cigar’s end glows a dull red and I hesitate for a second, deciding whether I want to turn on the light. Sharing a dark closet with Piper has its perks: mysterious and tempting, just like her. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t want to see her body again, perched up on that shelf.

I don’t lie.

“What are you doing down here?” My hand fumbles along the wall for the light switch. I’ve been in this closet countless times, and I know the switch is right next to the shelf where Piper is standing. I accidentally graze her leg.

“Getting freaky with me already? I barely know you,” she says with a laugh as I connect with the switch and light floods into the small space. Her laughter tickles my ears, and I shamelessly want to ask her to do it again. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and repeat my question.

“What are you doing down here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” She puts the cigar to her lips and inhales a slow, labored breath.

“Do you seriously smoke? Who the hell smokes anymore? Did you know that lung cancer is the leading cause of cancer death in both men and women in the United States?” I ask as she lets out a small cough. “I’ll take that as a no to the first question.”

“Yesterday, I was thinking about the best way to lure you down into a dark space, and I came up with this,” she says, handing the cigar to me. “Just take one drag.”

Her words dance in my head. Yesterday. Luring. Dark space.

“Cue cheesy music of an after-school special about peer pressure, drugs, and bullying,” I say with a crooked grin.

“Just try it. Experience what two hundred dollars tastes like.”

I pull my hand from the safety of my pocket and accept the cigar. Our hands brush up against each other and a warmth crawls over my body. If that’s all it takes to feel this way, a brush of her fingertips, what will I do if this situation escalates? All I can think about is her pouty lips coming toward mine. I want to know what they taste like. I look down at the cigar and realize this is the closest I’ll get for now so I bring it up to my lips and let the smoky, hot flavor burn in my mouth. A peach twist kicks at the end.

Lip gloss. The girl with the peach lips wears peach lipstick or gloss or whatever it’s called. And this part of the cigar tastes like heaven. I stifle a cough without inhaling and hand it back to her.

“So?”

“Two hundred dollars tastes like crap.”

She arches her eyebrows and snuffs the cigar out in a bucket near her waist.

“Except for the last little bit. There was a peach taste on the end. What would you attribute that taste to?”

She smiles that wicked grin that makes my knees weak and my chest soar.

“That’s what I taste like.”

God, Piper Sullivan.

I briefly consider how long I’ve been gone from Mr. Lee’s class. I’ve never technically skipped a class before, and I definitely never smoked a two hundred dollar cigar in a closet with a girl before. Make that
the girl
. Piper wasn’t just any girl. Like Big Dave said, today is the beginning. So I say to hell with Mr. Lee’s class and a syllabus and the Cold War. I decide that today is the beginning of many firsts so I give Piper a long look before I sit down on the ground with my back against the door.

“Since I’ve already tasted you, it’s only appropriate that I get to know you.”

“A man after my heart,” she says as she jumps down and sits across from me. The closet is maybe four by five feet. It’s just Piper and me and a mop and a ridiculous amount of cleaning supplies in twenty square feet. She slides her feet on either side of mine. My white, knock-off Chucks against her pink flats look, well, pretty damn great. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, I already know that you like to lie, eat Twinkies, skip class to smoke cigars that you stole from your dad who is a freakin’ neurosurgeon, applied to Princeton, and live vicariously on a dangerous edge while always wearing pink.” I count each point off with my fingers. “I’ve got one more hand and five more fingers. If I ask you five questions, do you promise to tell the truth, nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“First of all, thank you for noting that you have five fingers on your hand. Should I uncross my fingers when I answer your questions?” she asks as she puts her hand up to her heart. “Okay, I promise to tell you, Cash Rowland, the truth. You have five questions. Choose carefully.”

“Why did you move here?”

“My neurosurgeon father is determined to discover why the population in Appleton and its surrounding communities are plagued with higher rates of cancerous brain tumors than anyone in the nation,” she says. “Bonus footage, we moved here from Chicago where I spent the previous seventeen years. One down, now it’s my turn.”

“We really have higher rates of cancerous brain tumors than anyone in the nation?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Yes, it is. If you have a 4.0 GPA and got a respectable – not perfect, I might add – 2280 on your SAT, why haven’t you applied to any colleges?”

“I did now, over the last two days. I have a few more to fill out, but my dad and I don’t see eye-to-eye on the whole college thing. He doesn’t think I should go. Well, let me rephrase that. He believes I should really think hard about what life means and what journey I want to take on this ride called ‘life.’ He doesn’t want me to fly into college with my head in between my ass without a clear direction of my spiritual path. Big Dave is the custodian here. So this is his closet by the way. He also has an MBA from Cornell so he’s probably the most over-qualified janitor you’ll ever meet.” I shrug my shoulders. “But I’m really into all my science classes. Biology and Anatomy specifically, so I’ve been thinking about, funny enough, med school.”

“A doctor?” Piper scrunches up her nose and pinches it. “For real?”

“Maybe. My turn. Are you seriously going to Princeton?”

“I hope not. I secretly hope they don’t admit me, but I know that’s not going to happen. My dad went to Princeton and claims it was the best education for his future. He’s a distinguished graduate and donates a ridiculous amount of money every year. Blah, blah, blah. But I figure he can’t make me go there, technically.”

“It’s a really good school, though.”

“I know.”

“What’s with the pink?”

“I like pink.”

“That’s it?” I ask incredulously.

“Yeah, and you totally wasted a good question. How did your mom die?”

“In a car accident when I was a baby. I was in the car but didn’t get hurt at all. I don’t remember anything about her, but I have some pictures of her. She was beautiful and funny. I guess she was hilarious,” I say. “I’m sure I would have liked her. Obviously, I would’ve loved her because she’s my mom and all, but you know, some parents can be handfuls.”

“I think I would have liked her, too.”

“Your mom. How did she die?”

“Brain cancer,” she says flatly.

“No,” I whisper.

“Well, it’s not exactly as tragic or surprising as it sounds. She was a patient of my dad’s when he first started out. Everyone warned him not to get involved, but he did. They thought the cancer was gone, so he pumped one in her and voila, out I came. She died on my second birthday.”

“Jesus, Piper. That’s
tragic
.”

She points up to the small statue of Jesus hanging on the cross above her head and puts her finger to her mouth to shush me. “We’re in a holy place. Well, Rodolfo knew what he was getting into –” she starts.

“Your dad’s name is Rodolfo?”

“No,” she laughs. “Sorry, I let one sneak in there. His name is William Sullivan. And I should really count that as a question, but I’ll let it slide because I like you.”

Her eyes crinkle in the corner as if she’s made a sudden realization, and she slips her hand in her pocket and retrieves her phone. She holds it up and says, “Cheese.”

No questions asked, I smile just like everyone else does when someone holds up a camera and directs you to say cheese. I don’t think about taking a picture of her at the time, but by the end of the day, I am torturing myself over what I didn’t do – how I didn’t capture a snapshot of her beautiful face when I had the chance.

I shake my head and realize that spending the last five minutes in a closet that smells like cigar smoke and antiseptic with a girl who has a propensity to lie has been the single most meaningful experience in my high school career. It probably sounds depressing, but it’s not.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asks.

“Pink. Or maybe it’s peach. I think they’ll tie for first place.” A smile spreads across my face, and I clasp my hands in front of me. My hands are sweaty, real sweaty.

“This is getting heady, Cash Rowland.”

“Yes it is, Piper Sullivan, and I’ve got one more question.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s a big one. I hope you’re ready for it.” I don’t know if I am ready to ask the question, but she’s here and it’s all I’ve been thinking about since I first laid eyes on her four days ago. I’m nervous as hell, but I’m going for the gold.

“Whatever you got for me, I’m ready. I’m always ready.”

“Can I kiss you?” The question slips from my mouth before I can reconsider. My chest is wound tight waiting for her answer, and a bead of sweat drips down my back. Too many silent seconds pass, and I panic. My breathing becomes irregular and I lean forward about to tell her to forget it when she whispers. Her voice barely brushes the air between us, and I listen. I listen real close because Piper’s whisper is like the sound of an angel.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She parts her lips and pushes her hands against the floor, leaning in until she’s only inches from me. I wet my own lips before moving that last inch to meet the soft peach lips that have plagued my dreams for the last four nights. She tilts her head and closes her eyes. I lightly hold her jaw in my hand and move her face toward me until I press my lips onto hers. I taste all her peach and smoky glory. Our lips move against each other, and I swear fireworks are going off on top of our heads. It’s a moment of pure bliss exploding through my body, and I never want it to stop. I never want to be without Piper and these dynamic, peach lips.

Then it happens. I feel a spark near my right nipple.

Luella.

I’m breathless while I press my lips feverishly against Piper’s and try to ignore the spark that begins to fade into complete blackness. She leans harder into me and my hand weaves through the back of her blonde locks.

Suddenly, the door swings open and a blast of fresh air swirls between us. Piper snaps her head back and looks up. I turn around and follow her gaze up to Big Dave’s face.

The relief I feel seeing Big Dave quickly disappears when Principal Watkins with his bald, shiny head steps out from behind him.

“Cash?” Big Dave folds his arms across his chest. I can’t quite tell if his face is chalked with disappointment, shock, or pride. Maybe it’s all three.

“Ms. Sullivan and Mr. Rowland, in my office, now.” Principal Watkins’ face is clear. It’s red and his hairy blonde eyebrows are furrowed down and his busy mustache is twitching, and I can’t help conjuring an image of Dr. Seuss’s Lorax in my head. He looks exactly like the Lorax. All he needs is an orange bodysuit.

He’s mad. I mean, real furious with us and our closet debacle.

But you know what?

I don’t care because it was worth it.

Everything about Piper Sullivan is worth it.

Chapter 5

I’m the meat in a Piper and Big Dave sandwich with a Watkins pickle on the side. We’re sitting across from Principal Watkins in his office like three trouble-maker kids about to get slapped on the wrist with a ruler, a real holy and spiritual one. Except one of the kids is actually a parent who said with a glint of a smile, “I have no words for you.”

We’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. Waiting. The crucifix on the wall behind Principal Watkins looms over us all, judging and holding guilt above our heads, and I think that there are too many Jesuses suffering in this building. This place is depressing as hell with its gray cement walls, tortured Jesuses, and open-armed weeping angels. Everything is miserable except for the supply closet in the basement. Now that place, that twenty square feet of space is the beacon of hope.