Touching Melody (A Forever First Novel) (12 page)

When teachers prepare you for college, they never mention the dark underbelly. They talk about the classes, finding a major, living on your own, socializing with peers your own age, and getting a degree. They don’t say anything about the parties, the drinking,
and the drugs. They leave out the boys, and the way our bodies thrum for more than books, studying, and tests. They don’t tell us what happens at night, when classes end and real life begins.

That’s where the
authentic learning takes place. The difficult decisions that affect the rest of your life. The real teacher—when the sun no longer hangs in the sky and the moon glistens against a blanket of darkness.

“There’s another party tonight,” Gina says half-heartedly. She’s lying on her stomach, her Psychology book propped open. I’m not sure if she’s reading it or just looking at the pictures. Psychology is her major. “Want to go? I know how much you love the booze.”

At the thought of alcohol my heart lurches, craving the numbness. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Forcing my face into a mask, I glance up from the Sudoku puzzle I’m working on. Gina’s smirking, as though she realizes what’s going on inside my head. That my body is screaming “yes” and my mind is saying “no.”

Without giving anything away, I say, “I have that paper due in English. I was
gonna work on it in a little bit. Plus I need to do laundry. I should probably—”

She holds up a hand. “Yeah, me either,” she says, snickering.

I let my mask falter and release a giant sigh. “Good.”

Gina looks better. Seems a little better too. She’s showered. Wearing cutoffs and a white tank.

“Want to do laundry together?” I ask, false hope in my voice.

Neither of us has been to the basement laundry room since our
Resident Assistant gave us the tour.

She puts her forefinger to her lip and looks at the ceiling, as though she’s
trying to answer the mysteries of the universe. Finally she says, “Hmmmmm, it’s an exciting prospect. But no. I’ll have to pass. Have fun though.”

I laugh. “I will.”

She flips on her music but keeps it down, and I go back to working on my puzzle. Out of the blue, she asks, “So when are you going to tell me about your tattoos?”

“Huh?” I raise my head, feigning innocence, though there’s no point. Of course I should’ve known she saw them. Gina doesn’t seem like she would miss anything.

“Don’t play coy. I saw two when I came in this morning. I never would’ve guessed you were the tattoo type.” Her face is lifted, waiting for me to answer, but I’m caught off guard. I’ve thought about telling her, but the timing’s been off.

And now? She’s dealing with so much. How can I further weigh her down with my problems?

Gina closes her book and stands. “Let’s see them.”

My heart starts to race and I press my arms to my sides. She’s standing in front of me, moving her hands,
directing me to raise my shirt.

I shake my head. “I’d rather not right now.”

She spins around and throws herself back on her bed. “I spilled my guts to you this morning. Told you stuff I’ve never told anyone, and you can’t even show me your tattoos? Lame.” She flips open her book, whipping the pages so hard I think she’ll rip them.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you about them. I do.
They mean something. They aren’t random or silly. They’re important.”

“Yeah, whatever. You’re a tragic soul. You’re life is hard. Blah. Blah. Blah.
And boo-hoo.” Gina stops flipping pages and glares. “You’re nothing special, you know. Whatever problems you think you have, someone always has worse.” She slams her book shut, slides on a pair of black combat boots. “I’m out of here.” She flings open the door. There’s a guy standing at the opening, his hand raised to knock.

“
Hey.” He waves nervously.

“What do you want?” Gina asks in a huff.

“Is—” he pauses and looks at the card. “Maddie Martin here?”

I notice he’s holding something in his hands.
Like a present. I climb off the bed. “I’m Maddie,” I say, curious.

“Of course it’s for you. The virgin tattoo girl.” She pushes past the guy, knocking him out of the way.

I step closer. “Who’s it from?” I’m thinking maybe my aunt and uncle sent me a present. They seem to sense when I need a pick-me-up.

The friendly smile he wore moments ago vanishes. “Look, Maddie
, I have no clue. Do you want this or not?” He holds out the bag like it contains poison.

“Yeah, okay.” I take the card and the pink gift bag. The guy walks away, shaking his head. “Thanks,” I holler after him. He raises a hand, but keeps walking.

I close the door and sit on my bed. The card had my name on the outside. Inside are two words:
Call me.
With a phone number underneath. Nervous butterflies flutter in my belly. I set the card on the bed, push aside the tissue, and look inside the bag.

It’s a cell phone. I pick up the card again. If my aunt and uncle were the givers they would’ve signed their names, or at least had the delivery guy put their names on the card. But all that’s inside the card are the two words and a phone number.

I pull the phone out. It’s one of those prepaid ones. Opening the instructions, I figure out how to turn it on and then find out how many minutes I have. It says 5000, and that they can be used for texting.

A rush of excitement shivers down my spine. I’ve always wanted a cell phone. I’ve always wanted to text. But who sent it?

I go back to the card, searching for nonexistent clues. The phone pings in my hand, and I jump. Then a message pops on the screen.

Call me
, Freckles!

I stare at the words on the phone, and my heart starts to beat fast like a runaway freight train. The piece of paper I carried in my pocket for more than a week.
The same words and the same numbers.

It’s Kyle.
And he remembers, including the nickname he gave me.

Who is this?
I text him back, pretending not to know the truth. I push the gift bag off my lap. Leaning against my pillows. Several seconds pass and I start to wonder if he’s going to respond. I try to relax and focus on my Sudoku, but the numbers on the page look like a blurry mass.

I think about Gina and the way she huffed out of the room. Sitting up, I punch her number into my phone and type a message.

Sorry Gina. I want to tell you about my tattoos. I was just in shock. Hope you’re okay. By the way, this is Maddie and I now have a cell.

Within seconds she responds.
Who gave you a phone?

I pause, debating whether I should tell her. Then type
:
Kyle.

She texts back.
Are you still a virgin?

I blush. The heat blooms through my whole body. Why would she ask me that? What does my still being a virgin have to do with Kyle
giving me a phone? Unless…

“Ugh,” I shout at the ceiling. I’m not
easy.

Yes!!!

Nothing kinky?

No!!!

Would you tell me if you and Kyle did get kinky?

There were no handcuffs
or whips involved.

I didn’t realize you were that kind of girl.
We can work something out if you’d like.

Her message co
nfuses me. I start to text back and realize I didn’t text the last part to Gina, but to Kyle.

Shit! I toss my phone away as though it’s a red-hot coal. I bury my face in my pillow and scream with humiliation. I’ve done plenty of embarrassing things. Like the time my shoe caught on the hem of my skirt when I stood after playing my song at a piano recital. That’s why I wear ballet flats now. No heels to worry about. Or the time I went down a slide at the waterpark and my top came off, which is why I no longer wear bikinis. Then there was the time I wore white pants to the grocery store. A little boy pointed, and asked if I was going to die because of all the blood. And there’s more
, many, many more. But in all those times, in all those places, never have I been more mortified than I am right now.

My phone is at the foot of my bed, and I hear it ping. I sit, desperate to know what it says, but at the same time terrified.

I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care what he thinks.
I say the words over and over in my head, but I do care. A lot. Even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though my brain is telling he isn’t worth it.

What would my parents think? Am I honoring them with my feelings for a murderer’s son?

Another ping. I can’t resist. Ever so slowly I pick up the phone, turn it over and read the text.

It’s from Gina.

No response. :(

I hurry and text
her back.

Texting shame. I sent the message meant for you to someone else.
The words handcuffs and whips were included.

OMG. Who?

Kyle.

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

I can’t respond to that. She’s laughing at me. I’m sure that’s what Kyle is doing too. My face blisters hot.

Maddie, why won’t you call?

This time I check the number. It’s from Kyle.

I send back.
You call me!
I would call him, but the idea of dialing the numbers, forcing myself to realize I want to talk to him. Each digit bringing me closer to the inevitable. I’m not brave enough to do it. But if he calls, then all I have to do is answer. Or ignore it.

Fine. I will.

The phone rings. The ringtone is a minuet. I stare at it, recognizing the number. It’s Kyle. He really called.

Gina pushes open the door.

I click ignore, and stuff the phone under my leg.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” She’s fidgety, and seems a little out of it.

“So you
wanna talk?” I ask, patting my bed.

She shrugs. “It’s okay. I was thinking I might go to the party tonight after all. I need to get out.”

My heart drops into my stomach. “Really?”

Gina laughs. “No, not really. I just wanted to see your face.”  She throws herself onto my bed. “I’m dying to know what possessed virgin girl to get tattoos.”

15

Maddie

Thanks For the Chat

Gina and I talk and talk and talk until we can’t talk any more. I tell her everything. About Kyle. About my parents. About my shrink named Abigail. I tell her about the tattoos, how they relate to the seven stages of grief. And show them to her.

Turns out she’s afraid of needles.

I’m an only child. And I always wanted a sister. Gina has taken the role. It took eighteen years. I can’t help but think of those cackling senior girls that put us together. Maybe they are smarter than I gave them credit for.

Gina is a foster kid.
Raised in the system. She was dropped off at a homeless shelter when she was a baby. No note. No explanation. Her home life was a series of rejections, beatings, and starvation. When she turned eighteen a lawyer contacted her and informed her that a trust had been set up in her name. It was anonymous. The only condition on receiving the money was she had to graduate college. Which is why she’s here.

And I’m grateful.

“How often do you talk to your shrink?” Gina asks.

“Before I started college, it was once a week. I haven’t talked to her since getting here
, though. What about you?”

“Sometimes daily. Luckily
Luca is available 24/7.” She wriggles her eyebrows playfully.

“Luca? Is that your therapist
's name?” I want to be clear. She’s giving off the vibe that there might be more than just talking going on between her and her shrink.

“Yeah. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.”

I blanch.

“Don’t worry. Nothing’s happened. Yet. Luca says I put myself in dangerous situations so I’ll need more therapy. He isn’t wrong.”