Touching Melody (A Forever First Novel) (7 page)

It’s been a week since I’ve seen Kyle, and I’m glad.

So glad.

Not!
My insides ache for him.

I search for him, too.
Especially in the cafeteria, and at English. He’s the TA of Ms. Spears' class. Doesn’t that mean he’s required to be there? He isn’t around, though. I can’t help but wonder why. Is he okay? Is he avoiding me?

I’ve been keeping busy. Going to my classes, practicing piano, and
doing homework. Professor Jenkins, my music teacher, loved the piece I played for him. Said I have a real future—whatever that means—and asked me to play a duet for the end of year Winter Gala. I agreed, of course. Playing will guarantee me another full ride scholarship. Next Monday I’m supposed to meet my partner so we can choose our song and begin practicing together. The Professor didn’t give me a name. He was mysterious about it.

The prospect of doing something musical calms my nerves. It means less time to spend thinking about Kyle.
Less time to pine.

I hope.

Because it seems no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about him.

The paper he wrote his phone number on is folded small and stuffed in my back pocket. It feels like a fifty-pound weight. Every time I move, I feel it. I keep pulling it out, studying it, deliberating.

In the coffee shop.

On a bench in the Mall.

In my room after Gina is asleep.

When I get out of the shower.

I want to throw it away. Toss it, and every thought of Kyle, right in the trash. I manage to do it once. Five minutes later, I pull it out.

“Why don’t you burn it?” Gina asks when she walks into our room and catches me staring at it again. She pulls a lighter from her pocket and flicks it on. “Go on, set the sucker on fire.”

Like a moth I move toward the flame, holding the paper out. It’s a good idea. If I torch it the unpleasant thing will be gone, and I can’t gawk anymore, even if I want to.

The heat licks my fingers and catches the edge of the paper on fire. But I can’t go through with it. I blow it out.

Smoke caresses the air, twirls it in its arms, and all I can think about is Kyle.

“Damn it,” I
say, grabbing my music.

“You can run but you can’t hide,” she laughs, sniffs.

I glare. “I can try,” I say, heading to the door. Before I open it, I ask, “Are you sick?” Her nose has been runny for days. Since the day after the party. I’m concerned.

Gina shakes her head, clears her
throat. “Maybe just a cold or allergies. All the freakin' tumbleweeds are getting to my sinuses.” She grabs a tissue and blows her nose.

“What about the other day? We still haven’t talked about it
. Is everything okay?”

She waves me off but I catch a glimmer of sadness cross her face. “I’m good
; better than good actually, and Friday night we party again.”

“I’m not—”

“No excuses. I’m going to give you a makeover.”

I nod and push my lips into a smile. “Sounds fun.” It doesn’t sound fun. I’m worried about her idea of
a makeover. But I get the feeling she needs something to look forward to.

I close the door and walk to the elevators. Several others students enter as well.

When the doors are closed a girl with straight black hair asks, “What’s burning?” She’s searching the elevator for the culprit. I’m guessing she smells the burnt edges of the paper tucked away in my pocket. I keep my eyes down, staring at all the shoes. Converse equals easygoing. Docs are the equivalent of rebel. High, strappy heels? She’s trying way too hard.

I look up. Her effort seems to be working. The guys take turns ogling her. I’m just a phantom, a ghost loitering in the back. No biggie. I prefer it that way. Really, I do.

A phone vibrates, and one of the guys pulls his cell out of his pocket. His fingers click across the screen. He’s texting.

That’s another thing. I don’t have a cell. My aunt and uncle don’t believe in them, and I can’t afford one on my own. Gina already told me I could use hers to call Kyle, but I turned her down. I could also use the phone in the commons area. Neither option sounds appealing, and I’m glad.

Really.

Truly happy.

I don’t want to talk to Kyle.
I won’t call him.

If he wants to talk, he can find me.

Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me.

Please find me.

Kyle

“You’re an idiot. How are you my son?” He backhands me across the face. Shoves me into the counter.

I don’t say anything. There’s no point when he gets like this.

“Are you deaf?” He punches me between the shoulder blades, and my cheek slams into the cupboard.

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away.

“You have one job. One damn job.” He picks up the pot of burnt spaghetti and throws it at me. “Can’t even cook spaghetti. Pathetic. Your mother is probably rolling over in her grave. Embarrassed she gave birth to someone so dumb.” The hot pan strikes my back and a searing pain makes me yell out against my will. Red sauce is everywhere. I turn around, watch him pour himself a shot—his fourth—and gulp it down. “Make me something I can eat.” He takes the vodka bottle and the shot glass and leaves the kitchen.

It takes me more than an hour to get
all the red sauce, water, and noodles wiped up. My back feels like it’s on fire. I do my best to ignore it. When I’m finished I make my dad a ham and cheese sandwich and set it on the table. If things have gone the way they normally do, he’ll be passed out on the couch.

Sure enough, he’s asleep, the bottle drooping in one hand, empty. I cover him with a blanket and go to my room.

I carefully take off my shirt. At the mirror over my dresser I turn, trying to see the damage on my back. It’s angry red. Red sauce is in my hair, on my back and jeans, but I don’t care. Now that I’m alone I let the tears fall. Exhausted, I fall face first onto my bed and am almost asleep when there’s a light tapping on my window, and it slides open.

Maddie crawls through and flips on the lamp next to my bed. I hear her gasp.

“Is he passed out?” she asks. No need to specify. We both know who she’s referring to.

I nod, sniffle, and turn so I can see her face.

She strokes my forehead where I’m sure there’s a bruise from its collision course with the cupboard. “Be right back.”

I don’t say anything. Just let the tears fall. When she
comes back through my window she’s carrying her first aid kit. If I weren’t in so much pain I’d tease her about it.

“How long ago did this happen?” She sits on the bed next to me.

I shrug. Look at the clock. “Maybe a couple hours.”

She sighs. “In that case, I’m going to apply some
aloe ointment.”

She unscrews the lid on a tube and squeezes
clear stuff onto her fingers.

“It doesn’t look like it’s blistered. Just red. But this still might hurt. I’m sorry.”
With fingers light as feathers, she spreads the cooling liquid over the burn. It does hurt, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

“Thanks, Maddie,” I say when she’s finished.

She presses a water bottle against my shoulder. “You should take these.”

I gingerly sit
. Take the water and two pills from her hand. After they go down I hand the water back.

“No, drink it all. You need it.”

I obey and chug every last drop.

“Good.” She smiles. I
turn onto my stomach. She covers me to my waist with my sheet. “Will you be alright?”

I nod. “Sure.”

She touches the lump on my forehead. “Too bad your hair isn’t longer. You could cover this up.”

“I’m a guy. Bruises are part of growing up,” I say, repeating my dad’s words.

“See you tomorrow.”

“
Night, Freckles.”

She grunts
something indiscernible as she climbs out the window and closes it.

“Maddie,” I whisper, wiping the steam from the mirror over the sink. I gently bang my forehead against the glass, stare at my reflection. “Maybe she can’t stand the sight of you. You’re part of her past, a past that involves death.”

Or maybe she just doesn’t want a guy she knows is broken.

I want to ask her.

There’s an Alpha frat party to
night. I’m obligated to go. It’s black tie. I get dressed, hoping against hope I’ll see her there.

9

Maddie

He Likes the Kinky Stuff

“You look hot,” Gina squeals.

I hop off the chair and check my reflection. She’s lined my eyes in smoky grey liner. A darker shade of gray is on my lids, and she’s put on several coats of mascara. On my lips and cheeks, she put light pink lip-gloss and a touch of blush.

She’s also fixing my hair. Curling it with a thick curling iron. The end result is
soft, romantic.

I wonder if
Kyle will like it
, I think, and then mentally kick myself.

“Wow, Gina.”

“Yeah, I know. The guys are going trip over themselves to get your digits.” She pushes me back in the chair. “Especially one boy in particular.” She sniffles. Still has a cold or allergies, it seems. “I got the scoop for you, by the way.”

I turn to face her. “The scoop?”

“Yeah, the scoop about Hottie TA.” She spritzes some of my curls with hair spray.

I clear my throat. “And?” I don’t want to give anything away. He doesn’t
seem to know me, so I’m going to pretend I don’t know anything about him. Like the fact that he used to sleep with a nightlight. Or that he would tickle my back so, so gently while we listened to music. His favorite band was The Cure, and he said he wanted to be a poet when he grew up.

Once he wrote me a poem. My aunt threw it away, but I have it memorized.

You make me laugh.

I’m torn in half.

When I’m with you I feel whole.

I’ll never let you go.

That’s the Kyle I remember. Sweet. Kind. Caring.

Ass-grabbing Kyle doesn’t even register
, but I know it’s him. Just a version of him I don’t understand. Plus he has no idea who I am.

“Earth to Maddie. Come in, Maddie.” Gina snaps her fingers in front of my face.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, and smile. “Thanks again for fixing me up. I love the dress, though the shoes make me wobbly.”

She sniffles. “You’re welcome.” She shrugs. “Now do you want the scoop or not?”

“Sure,” I say, standing. Following Gina to the door. It’s ten-thirty at night. The perfect time to get the party started, according to Gina. I have to admit I’m excited about trying alcohol again. The liquid is warmth and peace. It’s numbness, and feeling everything good. It makes me bold.

“His name is Kyle Hadley,” she begins.

That I already know.

“He’s
a sophomore, and apparently Bitchy Spears thinks he’s a genius.”

I didn’t know
that. Maybe he still writes poetry.

Her eyes meet mine. “He’s kind of a slut.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” She snickers.

“It’s…” I shrug. I have no idea what to say.

She continues, “And word is, he likes the kinky stuff.”

“What?” My eyes blink several times. “What do you mean by ‘kinky?’”

“Shit, roomie. Have you been living in a nunnery? Whips. Handcuffs. Hell, I don’t know. There are several levels of kink.”

I open my mouth. Close it. My heart is pounding. Handcuffs? Whips? I’m way out of my league. My brain can’t even attach those things to making love. If that’s what Kyle wants, then he’ll never be interested in me.