Chaste
Authors: Angela Felsted
Table of Contents
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THIS …
I turn and look Kat in the eye, determined to unsettle her the way she unsettles me. But she doesn’t flinch; instead she looks right back. Her green eyes, framed by long dark lashes, pull me in like a tractor beam. I swallow and focus on a chickenpox scar to the left of her eyebrow. Getting hung up on Kat’s eyes is the last thing I need.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah?” I unzip my backpack, pull out my book and flip open my text. My eyes focus on some random words. Not that I’m reading or anything.
“If you want to kiss me, I’m game.”
I shake my head.
“Oh, come on. We’re alone. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. I promise not to bite … well,” she says. “Not unless you want me to.”
She puts a hand over her mouth to hide her laugh. It’s a nice laugh, deep and sexy.
“Not a good idea.” I need to say something snarky, anything to keep her from looking at me like a girl in one of my late night fantasies.
“You only date Mormon girls?”
I narrow my eyes at her …
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” she says as if she knows me.
“You wouldn’t know truth if it bit you in the rear end.” I tap my sneakers on the metal bleachers. “It isn’t about religion, Kat. It’s about staying chaste.”
Chaste
ANGELA FELSTED
© 2012 Angela Felsted
Cover Art from Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Jessica Bell
All Rights Reserved. No portion of this book may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated, or otherwise used without the express written approval of the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN: 978-1480210608
For Caleb, with gratitude.
1
Quinn
Nice.
That word pretty much wraps up who I am. Everyone knows it’s true. I have a nice smile, a nice family—even my reputation is nice. And although I don’t
feel
nice most days, acting the part is what I cling to, because well-trained Mormon boys know their place. They respect women, love children, and put their lives on hold to help a person in need, even if that person happens to be their messed up sister.
“Waaaaaaaaa!” My three-month-old nephew wails as I shove a newly warmed bottle into his mouth. That kid can eat like a maniac. Thankfully he can’t eat and scream at the same time. My left arm cradles him, my right hand holds his bottle, and my butt nudges open the bathroom door, which makes a loud creaking sound. Elijah squirms. So I rock him back and forth until he resumes sucking. If I’ve learned one thing from my sister’s stupid choices, it’s that taking care of a baby is hard.
Turning on the bathroom light, I blink as my eyes adjust, and then glance at myself in the mirror.
I am so screwed.
Elijah has spit up on my T-shirt, leaving a big, nasty wet spot on my arm. The circles under my eyes look like bruises; my hair stands up at odd angles; and there are red lines on my cheeks from the corduroy stripes on the couch cushions.
“Quinn, you want breakfast?” I hear my father’s tired voice in the hall.
Man, I wish my sister was home. If she didn’t have a night job, my life wouldn’t suck. As things stand, I don’t know how I’m going to get through the first day of my senior year.
“Sure,” I say. “Can you take Elijah while I get ready for school?”
He holds out his arms, and I hand my nephew over, careful not to let the bottle fall as we pass him between us. My dad—in his tattered bathrobe and Homer Simpson slippers—tickles my nephew’s chin until he smiles and coos.
I walk to my room and grab a blue T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The fleece blankets on my bed look way too soft. Even with my comforter smashed into a ball next to my pillow and the sheets coming off, I want to lie down and take a nap.
Instead I undress and put on deodorant, combing my hair and flexing my muscles in front of the mirror. I think about sitting in my lifeguard chair while Molly McCormick lies by the pool in her little black swimsuit. Every night I dream of taking that thing off.
“I made toast,” my dad says through the door, and I take a deep breath, pushing away my fantasy. When Elijah cries that kills it even more. I hope my sister gets home from work soon. We share a car, and I don’t want to take the bus to school, especially since I promised my friend Preston a ride.
“Give me a sec,” I say.
“Huh?” My dad has hearing issues, an unfortunate side effect of playing in an orchestra for more than twenty years. It probably doesn’t help that he refuses to wear earplugs either.
“I said, give me a second!”
By the time I open the door my dad has already gone downstairs. I wash my face in the bathroom before heading to the kitchen. When I get there, my sister sits at the table dressed in her night guard’s uniform. Elijah is in her arms.
“He’s dozing off.” Amy smiles.
“Lucky you,” I quip, hoping she doesn’t hear my sarcasm. Don’t get me wrong, I love my nephew. He has a cute toothless smile and the roundest blue eyes. But if Elijah’s dad had stuck around, I wouldn’t be so effin’ tired all the time.
“Do you think Ray will call today?” Amy asks. Her eyes widen with hope as they do every morning when she asks this question. She’s way too forgiving. Ray abandoned her the moment he found out she was pregnant.
“He’s not coming back, sis,” I point out, biting my tongue to keep from saying what I really think. That she needs to get over him. That he used her and left. That Ray, for all his macho swagger, is nothing more than a loser.
She sniffs back tears and glances at the baby. “Oh my heck, Quinn, you put his diaper on backwards. And look at all that dried up milk on his cheeks. Don’t you ever wipe his face?”
“Elijah doesn’t care.”
“Well, I care,” she huffs, narrowing her eyes at me.
I shrug. “You weren’t here.”
“I’m his mother.” She flips her frizzy brown hair. “I know what’s best.”
“Then take care of him yourself.”
Color drains from her face. We both know that’s not going to happen.
Two years ago, after Amy went to college, my mother went back to work. Since she plays the violin and is good with people, the Adagio String Quartet hired her as a publicist and tour manager. Crazy as that made her schedule, she refused to change jobs when my sister got pregnant. Last week, my mom left with the quartet on their three-month tour to Europe. A trip she’d been planning for well over a year. My parents met at The Julliard School; so my dad understands my mother’s need to work in the music business. But because he spends much of his day teaching high school students how to play the drums and most of his nights as a percussionist for the National Symphony, he doesn’t have the energy to stay up with a baby either.
That leaves me.
“Fine, Quinn, have it your way. Put the diaper on wrong, let his face get dirty, lay him down flat when you feed him. I’ll be the one taking care of him when he gets a bunch of ear infections.”
I hold up a finger, “Says the girl who can’t say no.”
Now I’ve done it, pushed her too far. I can tell because her face turns red. “Like you have any idea,” she snaps. “Mr. I’m-So-Perfect. You’ve never even kissed a girl. So how would you know?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I kissed Molly McCormick on Saturday. My lips landed on her nose when I closed my eyes. Talk about clumsy.
“Shut up,” I blurt.
My sister storms from the room. I’m not feeling nice this morning. Maybe I’ll go to hell for losing my temper. When I turn around, I notice my dad sitting at the kitchen island eating toast as if everything in our house is fine. He pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose, puts down his breakfast and drags a chair to the middle of the floor.
My jaw clenches as I think of Amy. The nerve of her, criticizing me, when
I’m
the one doing
her
a favor.
“Have some charity toward your sister,” my dad says. “She’s in a tough spot.”
I sit in the chair and wait for my dad to put his hands on my head. Every year on the first day of school, he wakes up early to make me breakfast and see me off with a blessing. Closing my eyes, I release my anger in one slow breath. He’s right. I was much too hard on Amy.
The moment I feel the weight of my dad’s hands on my head, all my worries vanish. Unlike Ray, my father isn’t a loser. He takes care of his family. As he speaks words of counsel and comfort over me, my stress level drops.
2
Katarina
I jump at the sound of my mother pounding on my bedroom door.
“Open up, Katarina,” she says.
Maybe she wants to act all maternal. Make sure I’m awake for once. The thought warms my heart. So I pull the satin scarf off my head and step across the room. My high heels sink into carpet as I turn the handle and pull open the door.
“I need you to fix the computer,” she says, dragging a hand through her thinning hair. My stomach sinks.
“Oh.”
I notice the wrinkles around her mouth for the first time. Her clothes need a good washing. Her emerald-green eyes look utterly dull, and for a second I understand why so many of my friends have asked if I’m adopted. It makes sense since I take after my dad. My mother and I look nothing alike. Her hands are pale where mine are deep brown. Her hair is strawberry-blond where mine is jet black, curly and rough as a Brillo pad. I spent hours straightening it last night. My mother doesn’t even look like she combed hers this morning. Nope, our green eyes are the only thing we have in common. Part of me wonders how this tired, run-down woman can be my mother; another part feels sorry for her. She’s been like this ever since my brother’s funeral.
“The internet isn’t connecting,” she says, shaking her head with irritation as she looks at the barely-there basketball jersey I’ve cut short. “What on earth are you wearing?”
“Roland’s old jersey.” I tap the number thirteen on my chest. There’s no way in hell she would’ve let me out the house looking like this six months ago. My jeans are skin-tight, my earrings chunky, and I’m wearing a gold belly ring to show off the piercing I got last week.
“Why are you wearing Roland’s clothes?” she asks in a rough voice, sounding as though she has gravel stuck in her larynx.
Oh crap! I hadn’t meant to hurt her. As my chest constricts with guilt, I step forward and give her a hug. Her shirt stinks of the Kung Pao Chicken she ate last night. Her arms stay stiff at her side.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
She pulls away. My words drop like a feather in a vacuum. It shouldn’t sting, but it does. I wish she would yell at me and demand I take out my belly ring, anything but this dreadful silence. Instead all she seems to care about is that I’m wearing my dead brother’s shirt. I pull the jersey over my head, throw it in my hamper, and put on a sleeveless half-top.
“I wish you could move on,” I say, smoothing my hair back with my fingers. It’s true. Both of us know it. Even if she won’t admit it.