Chaste (18 page)

“It’s a matter of escalation,” he’d said. “By throwing that punch, you put everyone in danger. You’re lucky that blow knocked him out because if it hadn’t, things could’ve gotten worse. We’re talking bleeding, broken bones, trips to the emergency room. More danger, not less.”

Yeah, I’ve got it. I have some serious problems. Apparently, I’ve become more of a screw up than Amy.

I picked at the fading calluses on my finger-tips, thinking how much I missed my cello, because for one thing, it’s never ordered me around. And for another, it’s never gotten angry. Even after neglecting it all weekend, I knew it’d still be there. My fingers itched when I thought of practicing. I hadn’t touched my cello for days.

“Do you hear me, Mr. Walker?”

“Oh, I hear you,” I said. “What you mean is that it doesn’t matter that Kat needed help, that Mike was a jerk or that I defended her.”

He slammed the palms of his hands on the table and started the lecture again. Honestly, I don’t know why I spoke my mind. If I’d been smart, I would’ve kept my big mouth shut, maybe clasped my hands together and said something more humble like, “Sorry, Mr. Bates. Forgive me, Mr. Bates. What can I do to make up for what I’ve done, Mr. Bates?” Humility must not be in my genes, because even though I’d been taught to apologize my whole life, the best I could do was hold my tongue.

On the plus side, he gave me another five-day suspension when he could’ve expelled me. I should be grateful, instead I’m tired. Tired of trying to do what’s right when I’m starting to question what “right” really is.

For my father it’s simple. Follow the rules. Respect authority. Do what they tell you and keep your nose clean. But for me, things have never felt more complicated. When I think back on the incident in the hall, I can’t help but play out different scenarios. What if I’d done what the principal wanted and run to get help? Would Kat have gotten hurt before the teacher showed up? Would my zeal to follow the school’s rules have made my physics partner feel abandoned? What kind of person leaves a friend in a time of need?

A knock startles me out of my thoughts. “Would you get that?” Amy asks.

I shut my book and walk to the door.

Kat is on my front porch.

“You didn’t get into trouble, did you?” I ask, moving aside to let her in the house.

“I got a warning for being difficult,” she says. “My dad is mad, but Mike got it worse. A five-day suspension—”

“Just like me,” I cut in. “Three strikes, you’re out. That’s what the principal told me. One more mistake, and I’m out on my butt.”

“That’s so unfair.” She snorts. “They should give you a medal.”

“Knucklehead of the year,” I joke.

She flutters her lashes, sidles closer and squeezes my bicep. “You’re my big strong hero.”

Her flattery affects me. Who are we kidding? Her very presence affects me, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, her hand on my arm. My mind turns to mush.

“Um, thanks,” I say.

“I’m going to gag if I hear anymore of this conversation,” Amy says from behind me. She puts a hand on my shoulder and frowns at my physics partner. “Quinn is grounded. He’s not allowed to spend time with friends. No phone calls. No internet. No letters. No nothing.”

“What if I take him against his will?” Kat asks, winking at me. “Cause Quinn and I have a project to work on. You don’t want him to fail, do you?”

Amy puts a finger on her chin as if thinking. If my dad were here the answer would be no. But my sister has a certain interest in my happiness. She’d probably say it’s all for Elijah, that miserable babysitters make for miserable babies. I, however, think she’s too embarrassed to admit she cares. I try to suppress a grin when she gives her consent but a big goofy grin still appears on my face.
Macho guys don’t wear corny smiles
. I run to my room and grab my cello before anyone can see.

“Are you gonna play for me?” Kat asks as I load my instrument into her Jeep.

Before I can answer, Amy calls from the porch, “Be home by ten. If dad finds out, he’ll kill me.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Take care of our boy.”

She rolls her eyes and steps back into the house.

Kat steps on the gas.

My fingers grip the chair, and I cling for my life as Kat speeds by the houses in my subdivision. Riding with her is like having an out-of-body experience. I might not be dead yet, but I know I’m gonna be.

A prickle of panic travels up my spine as trees and street signs go by in a blur. We pass stores, a few houses, a pedestrian. The light turns red, and I lunge forward, my seatbelt tightening across my chest.

My heart is pounding a million miles a minute. Kat brushes my fingers. A gesture so intimate my thoughts stall.

The light turns green.

“Hold on,” she says. “This hill is fun when you take it fast.”

She steps on the accelerator while I squeeze her hand. When we get to the top of the rise, the road below us drops. It’s almost like being on a rollercoaster.

“Woo Hoooo!” someone screams. I realize it’s me.

It feels like forever since I’ve let loose. Responsibilities have ruled me for years: homework, practice, cooking, vacuuming, changing diapers, feeding Elijah. If my mother were here, she’d talk about bridling my temper and reining in my baser instincts. I have problems giving up control. Without a sense of purpose I feel adrift, but when was the last time I actually had fun?

I rub my thumb along the back of Kat’s knuckles, thread my fingers through hers and give her hand a warm squeeze.

When she smiles, my stomach flips. And that’s when it hits me, I want Pastor Jackson’s daughter to like me.

It’ll never work. First, Kat’s heard nothing but bad stuff about my religion. Second, she would just as soon insult my beliefs as give me that kiss she claims I owe her. Third, she could never take me home to meet her parents because there’s no way they’d ever approve. But none of that holds a candle to the most important reason this would never work. She brings out every vice I’ve ever tried to hide—my temper, my insecurities, my lustful thoughts.

I let my eyes fall to her perfect mouth. Then I let them take the forbidden route from her glorious neck to her cinched in-waist. My body stirs when I get to her behind, firm and round with just the right amount of plump.
Bad Quinn!
I force myself to look at the radio. Where’s the Mormon Tabernacle Choir when you need it?

The skidding of the Jeep’s tires brings me back to reality. Kat and I are in the driveway of a ginormous house with mullioned windows and a front made of stone. As my physics partner climbs from the Jeep, I take a moment to look around. There’s a Lexus in the driveway to my right, a Mazda Miata parked a few doors down and a Jaguar idling at a stop sign. It’s like a paradise for stuck up snobs. I can’t believe Kat lives here!

She slaps her forehead with the palm of her hand. “You hate it.”

“Huh?”

“You look like you’re going to hurl.”

“No, no, it’s just, everyone’s so … rich.”

“Mike lives next door. So we should probably hurry.”

I grab my cello and follow her through the door. The front parlor is bigger than the first floor of my house. There’s a diamond pattern in granite under my shoes, a bathroom to my right, an office to my left. Every step we take reverberates.

I’d love to play my cello in here.

We walk into the living room and Kat pushes aside some stray boxes. The blinds are closed. The lights make a humming sound. The carpet looks more gray than white. I rub my eyes to clear my vision, but the color doesn’t change. Squares on the wall indicate there used to be pictures. The room feels empty without them.

“Where are your family photos?” I ask.

“My mother took them down after Roland died. Too hard to remember. Too hard to forget. She’s here, you know?” Kat motions to the parlor. “In the office, playing her games with the headphones on. So quiet you wouldn’t know she’s alive.”

“That must be hard.”

My mother might not be around, but at least I know she’s doing something with her life. When she comes home, she’ll turn her attention to me, cook a meal now and then, acknowledge her kids when they walk through the door.

Kat runs her nails along the corner of the couch. “When you first realize your brother is never coming home, you couldn’t care less about a bunch of stupid pictures. There are so many angry distraught people in your life, all you want to do is tune them out.” She explains. “Then after a while, you get used to all that distance. You’re home turns into an office, your parents to untouchable ghosts.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, at a loss for words. Casually, I move behind my cello, putting a barrier between me and Kat.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?”

“Putting up walls.”

“I’m not.

“Uh, yeah you are. You just stepped behind your cello.”

“It gives me a sense of control,” I say.

“It took weeks before you stopped with The Great Wall of Books on our lab table. Now you’re hiding behind large curvy objects. Are you afraid I’m going to eat you?”

I shrug.

“Relax. You have enough control for the both of us.”

I’m not sure she’s right. Lately I’ve not done so well in the self-control department. And in my house, nothing matters more.

“Did you tell your friends what happened with Mike?” I ask.

“Nah, I’d rather they not know.”

I wring my hands, not sure how she’ll react to my next question. “Why do you hang out with jerks?”

“You don’t even know them!” she says.

“John’s a good guy,” I tell her, inferring John is the only one.

She doesn’t deny it. “So what if they’re jerks. They accept me.”

“Don’t you mean the person you pretend to be?”

“Shut up, Quinn. You don’t know anything! Girls don’t like me. They haven’t since I grew hips and a chest. Roland’s friends can be downright nasty, but at least they don’t dump you when their boyfriend smiles in your direction!”

“So … um… are you gonna give me a tour of the house?” I ask in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

“Leave your cello here and follow me,” she says, as she leads me up the stairs.

After ascending such a fancy staircase, you’d think the hall would be just as impressive. But it’s clogged with boxes and tables and appliances. When I run my finger along a random lamp, an inch of dust comes off.

“So you collect things,” I say.

“My mother,” she explains. “The whole house looked like this until my dad came home on Sunday. That’s one event I wish I’d seen, my father burning my mother’s junk.”

She opens a door to her right. “My brother’s room.”

Unlike the living room, the walls are filled with pictures—framed photos of a tall boy wearing a basketball uniform surrounded by other players, family photos, pictures of him goofing off, a wall of trophies next to a wall of signed jerseys. I stare open-mouthed at the red and white Bulls jersey, Number 23 with Michael Jordan’s signature at the bottom.

“He’d been accepted into Duke,” she says from over my shoulder. Her voice is even and eerily calm, as if her brother meant nothing to her. I don’t believe that for a minute.

“Don’t you care that he’s gone?” I ask.

“He’s more present now than when he was alive,” she says. “My father insists this room stay intact, that the furniture is dusted, that the bed stay half made, the right side of his blanket tucked in, the left folded back, the pillow half-covered as if it’s been slept on—”

“You sound jealous,” I interrupt.

“Damn it, Quinn. Now you’re talking like my shrink.”

“But if your mother spends all her time trying to forget Roland, and your dad spends all his time trying to remember him, where does that leave you?”

“You sound like a stupid Mormon ad, Quinn,” she mocks. “‘Family, isn’t it about … time.’”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever pity me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“To feed me a bunch of psychobabble bullshit?” she cuts in. “To criticize my family, to tell me how I should feel, to use a clich� to explain away my life? Not nice, Quinn. Not nice at all.”

I trail behind her as she goes back down to the living room, wondering if I hit too close to home. Did Kat lose more than Roland when her brother died? Did she ever take the time to grieve? Despite what she says, I do feel sorry for her. It isn’t fair that the weight of her parents’ grief has fallen on her shoulders.

For the next half hour Kat and I sit on the living room couch while we go over the details of our physics project. We make a list of things we’ll need: my cello and bow, rosin, an oscilloscope to show us the sound waves. Then she asks me to play for her, and I get in an hour of much-needed practice as I put my worry and anger into music.

After I put my instrument away, Kat sighs and rises from the couch. “Sorry I snapped at you.”

“No worries. I shouldn’t have judged.”

“It’s true.”

Her words feel like a slap. I look at the floor.

She takes a step forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t get it.” She laughs softly. “Everything you said is true. My parents hardly notice me, unless I’m getting into trouble.”

“That must be hard.”

“Roland,” Kat goes on, staring at the wall over my shoulder. She grits her teeth. “Treated me like shit. I was nobody to him. The annoying little sister who tagged along. Unless he got into trouble, of course, then it was my job to rescue him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everyone’s a saint when they die. Cruel or not, he got the last laugh. My pain means nothing now.”

For the first time it strikes me how hurt and lonely Kat must feel. Don’t get me wrong, I know she has a ton of friends, but she acts so different when we’re alone that I doubt she ever talks to them. Not about this.

She weaves her fingers into mine, and a current of static runs up my arm. My heart stutters when I look into her eyes.

“I wish I could kiss the pain away,” I say.

When she stands on her toes, I lean my forehead onto hers, stroke her chin with the back of my finger and try to clear the fog from my brain. She smells so good my blood runs hot and my body stirs. I shut my eyes and imagine her skin on mine, her hands and chest and legs pressed against me.