Chaste (15 page)

I can’t believe he touched me. Quinn Walker, who jumps if I so much as brush his knee, touched me! Not only that, but he trusts me to do the measuring. Hard as I try, I can’t suppress a smile.

“You sure?”

“Think of it this way,” he says, using my elbow to steer me over to the counter. “We always make more mistakes when we’re learning.”

He takes out a bowl, some measuring cups and a ring of small spoons. Then he brings me a couple of eggs and a container of oil.

“And the mix,” I say, reaching for the box.

“I’ll get that. You should put on your apron.” He throws it across the kitchen.

I slide it over my head and tie the frilly white ribbon in a bow around my waist. Talk about girly. If Mike caught me in an apron like this, he’d laugh his head off. I run my finger down the side of the box until I find the waffle instructions.
Heat waffle iron
.

When I glance at my lab partner, he’s plugging it into the wall.

Combine 1 cup mix.

I pull out the one cup measure, open the box and start to tip the powder into the cup. Then I freeze. Quinn is standing behind me. I feel his breath graze the top of my head as he asks me a question.

“How much do you plan on making?”

He’s never stood this close before. I feel the heat of him coming through his shirt and blink in an attempt to regain my concentration. The words look blurry.

“Eight four-inch waffles,” I read aloud.

“My dad will be home from church soon. I bet he’ll be hungry. We should double or triple it. Do you have everything you need?”

“I just started making it so … uh … I don’t know.”

“Always read through the directions first,” he says, coming to stand beside me. It’s odd how keenly I feel his movements when we aren’t even touching. I look at the eggs and oil on the counter. Then I focus on the directions.

Heat waffle iron.
Combine 1 cup mix, three-quarters cup milk, 1 egg and 2 tablespoons oil. Stir until large lumps disappear.

“Milk,” I say.

He walks to the table, picks up the milk and gives it to me with both hands. Our fingers brush.

For a moment we stand there, neither of us moving as his baby blues burn into mine. If the clock weren’t ticking, I’d think time had stopped. Somewhere in the distance I hear the clicking of a door, but don’t register it until a moment too late.

“Am I interrupting something?” says the redhead in the doorway. A chill runs up my spine at the sound of Molly’s sugar-sweet voice. Quinn turns so fast, I almost drop the milk.

“No, of course not,” he says. “We were just … cooking.”

She has on bright red lipstick, shiny black shoes and a pale green dress that brings out her round doe-like eyes. I’ve underestimated Molly. She’s prettier in a nice dress than in the jeans she always wears to school. Not only that, but she uses it to her advantage when she snakes her arms around Quinn’s neck and gives him a peck on the lips.

My stomach twists. It’s like he’s some inanimate object she can mark as her territory. The dog has peed on the mailbox.

“Where’s dad?” asks Mr. Nice.

“Still at church. I was worried about you.”

Even though she doesn’t look at me, from the tone of her voice I can tell she’s pouting. Guys can be so clueless. Why can’t they see through girls like Molly? I seriously doubt she’s all
that
worried. More likely she heard from Mr. Walker that I was at the house and rushed over here as fast as she could to keep me away from “her man.” She’s such a cheater.

“Did he invite you to church?” she asks me, flashing the fakest smile I’ve ever seen.

Quinn and I shake our heads at the same time.

“Pookie,” she says to him. “You should invite her to church.”

Did she just call him Pookie?
I suppress a laugh. What a terrible pet name!

“Would you like to come to church with us sometime?” he asks me, looking at Molly with such intensity it makes me want to gag.

How odd that he asks me a question without taking his eyes off her.

Molly bares her teeth when she smiles at me again. Her hostility is barely disguised. What game is she playing? I’d rather staple my finger to a table then attend church with the likes of Molly McCormick.

“No thank you,” I say, trying to sound civil.

“That’s what I thought.” Molly’s smile morphs into a smirk. “I grant you the rumor mill isn’t always reliable, but I think it’s true what I heard the other day. That Kat told her friends you’re a brainwashed idiot.”

And the claws come out.

My hands curl into fists at my side. Damn Tasha. That girl can’t keep her mouth shut. If people know about that, who knows what else they know. Did she tell the world about the bet too?
Way to ruin my chances, Tasha!

Quinn’s mouth hangs open so wide he looks like he’s catching flies with it. Is he going to ask me if it’s true? Oh, please no. I don’t want to lie! My palms break into a cold sweat.

“Molly?” he hisses, then whispers something into her ear. She blushes and looks at the scuffs on the kitchen floor. Speechless for a solid ten seconds. Wow.

“Sorry, Kat,” she finally says.

My hands unclench as I let out a breath. My fingers tingle and blood flows back into them.
Safe for now
.

Then the redhead from hell speaks again.

“I bet you wouldn’t get caught going to early morning seminary in a million years.” She laughs.

My muscles tighten as my defenses go up. What does she know about me anyway? This girl with parents who come home at a reliable hour every night, whose mother bakes her cookies and does her laundry? How dare she make assumptions!

“Was that an invitation?” I ask.

She clamps her mouth shut, but Quinn nods. “I’d love it if you’d come,” he says, flashing me a smile that makes my knees go wobbly.

Molly snorts.

Quinn gives her a sharp look.

“What?” Molly says. “She isn’t coming.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say, because nothing feels better than proving Molly wrong.

Her face turns so red, a burst of satisfaction races through me. Then I think of what I’ve agreed to—waking up at a crazy early hour to listen to a bunch of religious nuts interpret scripture while watching my lab partner and his girlfriend wind themselves around each other like vines. Maybe the teacher will try to convert me.

I sigh, hoping I’m wrong about the brainwashing thing, amazed at the lengths I’ll go to just to win a bet. Then again, this is my camera we’re talking about. With that thought, I wave goodbye to Quinn, put on my shoes and walk out the door.

As soon as I step outside, a brisk wind hits my face. And I revel in it, going so far as to lower the top on my Jeep to let the cool air whoosh around me. Who cares if the leaves are turning yellow and the days are getting shorter? At least when I’m cold I know I’m alive.

The seat below me rumbles when I rev the engine. I remember that I put my cell phone on vibrate hours ago. The screen lights up when I pull it from my purse.
Thirty-four missed calls
.

Hmm, wonder who those came from? I sift through the numbers, groaning as Mike’s name pops up over and over and over again. Maybe it’s dumb, but I can’t resist dreaming about moving to a deserted island, somewhere warm and tropical where obsessive manwhore Mike can’t find me.

I’m about to put my phone away when my father’s number pops up on the neon green screen. Damn! He never calls. Maybe someone died.

No.

I push the thought from my mind because it makes me think of that night. The one where I turned off my cell phone and rode the DC metro for hours. The one where I discovered there’d been a fatal accident and I’d never speak to my brother again.

When I walk into my house, my parents are sitting on the living room couch looking at the newspaper and some colorful brochures. The house is clean. Clean! The boxes are gone, all except one. Someone has placed my shoebox filled with Mike’s old love letters in the middle of the coffee table. The top is open and the papers are spread out. Dread courses through me. This is bad.

“Sit,” my father says, pointing to the overstuffed chair across from him. If there’s one think I won’t take, it’s being talked to like a golden retriever:
Sit Kat. Stay. Roll over. Good girl!

“It’s Sunday. Aren’t you supposed to be sermonizing or something?” I ask him as I stare into his angry eyes.

Contrary to common belief, brown eyes aren’t always warm. Case and point, my father’s gaze could freeze the sun.

“Pastor Melon is covering for me,” he says.

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing as I picture Pastor Melon, with his chubby cheeks and half-bald head waving his arms at the Sunday crowd. The last time I heard him speak, I had to leave early because every time he got worked up, I thought of a righteous Pillsbury dough-boy about to explode. And now, with my father staring daggers at me, I have this urgent need to giggle, and I can’t decide if my surge of delirium is connected to Pastor Melon or to the fact that I have my dad’s attention. Finally. Somehow in the last few hours, I’ve gone from invisible to worth noting. Maybe hell has frozen over.

“Since when do you let others do your job?” I ask.

His gaze intensifies. The air around us crackles.

“Sit,” he says with a menacing whisper, pointing at the overstuffed chair.

My mother’s so white, she looks as if she’s going to faint.

“Fine,” I say, plopping onto the black, cushy leather. “What gives?”

My dad leans forward on the edge of the couch, places his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. His gaze is so direct I have no choice but to look back at him. As he speaks in his softest voice, his tone takes on a gravely edge.

“This morning as I drank my coffee and read my morning paper, I was looking forward to my sermon. I skimmed the usual headlines. I read about budget cuts, social agendas, the president’s latest bill. Life was good. I was thinking how much I love my wife and daughter when I came across this.”

My mother hands him the paper, which he opens to one of the sections in the middle before spreading it out on the coffee table. Damn! There’s a picture of me … on the roof … making out with Mike. His hand is up my shirt, my shoes have fallen off and my lacy white panties glow like starlight against my skin. Please, no. I glance up at the headline, “Pastor’s Daughter Gone Wild.”

“Shit!” I blurt.

“Watch your language,” my mom says.

Not knowing what else to do, I bury my head in my hands. How could I be so stupid? By tomorrow the school will be buzzing. I know just what the gossips will say too, that I can’t keep my clothes on and have slept with half the basketball team. It’s not even true, but the picture will be proof.

Then it hits me, my dad isn’t here because he cares about me. He’s here to preserve his reputation!

My stomach sinks.

“Tasha’s parents want us to pay her medical expenses,” my mother says. “Whatever possessed you to punch her in the nose?”

“It was self-defense,” I say, my voice rising with anger. I stare daggers at my father. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the paper, would you?”

“I trusted you,” he says in an even voice, always cool, always in control.

His tone cuts into my heart like an ice pick. It freezes my organs and makes me prickle with dread. I glance at my shoebox and shiver.

“You searched my room,” I whisper.

“Because I can’t trust you,” he repeats. “I know you’re hurt, that you miss your brother but … you know God’s law. How could you sleep with Mike?”

It’s a good thing the question is rhetorical, because the last thing I want is to discuss my sex life with Dad.

As I pick at the lacy edge of the Walkers’ apron, I think how ironic it is that Quinn thinks my values are so different than his.

Okay, fine! So I’ve not exactly been a good Christian girl lately, but I doubt my father has any idea what it’s like to be me. He’s so ancient he’s forgotten what it’s like to crave the touch of someone who makes you tingle. Add to that his “youthful indiscretions,” his sex-filled days before he found religion, and he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Why was he allowed to explore where his hormones took him when I’m told to pretend mine don’t exist?

“When I’m older and a preacher, I can talk about my sinful years. How Jesus changed my life when I accepted Him,” I say, quoting his conversion story.

I want to see him lose control, punch something, scream, anything to prove he has a heart. His face turns to stone.

“You’re to behave,” he says. “Stay away from Mike Duvall. If I see another picture like this, read another headline like this or find any more letters like these,” he says, pointing to the shoe box on the coffee table, “I’m sending you to Foxcroft.”

My mother passes me a pamphlet. It has a girl with long brown hair on it riding a horse.

“Foxcroft,” I read. “An award winning all girls boarding school.”

“I have a friend on the board of directors,” my father continues. “She’ll pull some strings to get you in.”

“But.” My mouth goes dry. “You wouldn’t. Not when I’m almost done with high school.”

“Don’t try me.”

My mother walks around the coffee table and puts a hand on my arm. “Only if this continues,” she says.

I crumple the brochure into a ball. “If you cared about me, you wouldn’t issue an ultimatum!”

Pushing off my mother’s hand, I run up to my room.

In the mirror I almost don’t recognize myself. My hair has gone frizzy like a brillo pad and looks completely wrong with the ultra-feminine apron I wore home from Quinn’s house. With my fingers, I pick at the knot, pull the apron over my head and fold it up. My video camera sits on a shelf above my desk. My hands start shaking as I think about the bet. Quinn would hate me if he knew. Since when do I care about his feelings?

I lift the apron to my nose, disappointed I don’t smell baby powder. He invited me to seminary tomorrow. Let’s hope my father never finds out.

25

Quinn

The sound of my nephew’s contented sigh brings me into his room before seminary. It’s easy to forget how scary Friday night was as I watch him sleep. His chest rises and falls in an easy rhythm as lights from the window make silver squares on his yellow onesy.