Very Wicked Things (27 page)

I WENT TO school on Monday, angry and ready to confront him, but as soon as I got to my locker I caught snatches of the buzz.

Details were sketchy, but Cuba’s mother had died sometime over the weekend. Some said on Saturday and some said Sunday. It was hard to tell truth from fiction, and I wouldn’t piece it all together until later that day when I saw Spider at lunch.

Worried, I tried to call him, then text him, and then call again. But his phone was off. I kept picturing his face, the dread on it as he dialed his mom from the Porsche on Friday. And even though it wasn’t about me, I felt a load of guilt settle on my shoulders.

Swallowing my pride, I approached Emma in the halls. “Can you tell me anything about Cuba’s mom? I haven’t heard from him.”

She cocked her head and considered me, making me shift self-consciously in my harem pants and Beatles T-shirt. She gave me a patronizing pat. “Just leave him alone, honey. He doesn’t want to see you. He said so.”

“You’re lying. He cares about me.” And we’d just had sex.

She smiled sadly. “I’m not, and I think you know it. Do yourself a favor and forget about him.” She cut her eyes at Matt Dawson, her sometime boyfriend, and blinked rapidly as if she were upset. “Men are users. All of them.”

I slumped against the closest wall. Was it true? And why would he talk to Emma and not me?

At lunch, Spider and one of his randoms had the scoop. Because Emma liked him apparently.

“She shot herself with a gun sometime over the weekend,” Spider told me, taking a bite of his pasta.

I blanched, pushing my food away.

He munched. “He’ll be okay.”

Anger and grief slammed into me. “He lost his mother. I know exactly how he feels, and he’s not okay. He won’t call me!” My hands clenched.

I left there and ran to the library, using my phone to google his father. Sure enough it was all over the internet.

Mary-Carmen Hudson, wife of millionaire Archie Hudson, the Dallas Mavericks part-owner, was found Friday evening at her home, the victim of an apparent suicide with a .38 caliber gun. She was 47.

According to a statement released by the Sheriff's office, she was still breathing by the time paramedics reached her home in Highland Park, but later expired at Dallas General Hospital early Sunday.

Mary-Carmen, a native Brazilian, met and married Archie Hudson while they both attended Baylor University. She worked in marketing for several years and was heavily involved in several charitable organizations in the Dallas area. She served a term on the board of directors for Briarcrest Academy for four years.

Hudson is preceded in death by a daughter, Cara Marie.

Tentative funeral arrangements are for a memorial service in Rio de Janeiro. Her body will later be cremated and distributed over the Gulf of Mexico.

I went through the day like a zombie, praying he’d get in touch with me. God, I just wanted to hold him. I just wanted to be there for him.

But the question was…did he still want me?

TUESDAY ARRIVED AND still no Cuba.

Wednesday came and went.

And then Thursday and Friday.

By the next school week, I was listless, drifting through the hours, constantly checking my phone and Facebook statuses, but Cuba rarely used his account anyway, but I prayed to see him post anything.

By the time Friday morning came, it had been two weeks since I’d seen him.

I was a complete and utter wreck.

I drove up to the school and in the distance saw his car. Elation and dread both collided within me, causing a kaleidoscope of emotions. He hadn’t called. He’d hadn’t emailed. I didn’t know what to expect.

I hurried in the door, my book bag banging against my hip as I walk-ran down the halls toward his locker. I came to a stop, nearly tripping when I saw he wasn’t there. I checked his homeroom class. Nada. Finally, I rounded the corner and found him propped up against the wall outside the library, a gaggle of girls surrounding him while the guys hung back like guys do when they’re not sure what to say.

Emma was on his right, her arm crooked in his, as she gazed at his face. She and Matt had recently broken-up, and I swear I could see right then that she wanted my man.

I couldn’t breathe he was so beautiful and sad at the same time.

“Cuba,” I whispered, but no one heard me except for the underclassman who bumped into me. Students milled around me, but I didn’t notice, my eyes taking him all in, the dark circles under his eyes and the jeans that didn’t quite fit. A vast emptiness flitted across his face, and oh, I recognized it. I did.

He’d lost hope.

And in that moment, my already big love for him grew. It changed and shifted into something as deep as the ocean and bigger than the universe. My soul ached for his; my body yearned for his touch. I didn’t want to exist without him in my world.

And this was no high school crush or first love like ordinary teenagers experience.

Because I was not ordinary and neither was he. We were both survivors who’d managed to find each other amid the chaos.

I wanted to be his bird of hope. I wanted to be the reason he chose to carry on.

He nodded at something Emma said, his body shifting in my direction. Butterflies took flight in my stomach and my nerves were stretched raw. See me, see me, I wanted to yell.

He started in my direction, and as if he read my thoughts, he gazed up at me. His face whitened as he stalked down the hall still followed by his entourage. The closer he got, the colder his eyes grew.

He paused in front of me and time stood still. I waited for him to say something, anything, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave me a short nod, like
Hey, babe, nice to see ya
.

And then he kept walking, his eyes sliding right over me like he didn’t even know me. I screamed inside my head for him to back up and greet the girl he loved.

But he didn’t. He didn’t.

His journey continued past me, and like a fool, I turned and watched.

“He’s a tosser,” Spider bit out next to me as I struggled with my thickened throat.

Later I went to lunch, but Cuba never showed. Needing to see him, I walked the halls until I found him outside on the lawn passing a football with some players.

I came out with a mission to find out the truth.

When he took a water break, I went over to him, pretending like he hadn’t dissed me already.

“Cuba, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. You must be devastated…” I trailed off at the scathing look he gave me.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes not meeting mine head-on. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me.” His body shifted to leave.

“Wait, what‘s going on with you and me? I’ve tried to call you for two weeks and left you messages. Are you okay? Tell me what you’re thinking.” I paused, dread making my voice wobbly. “Do you blame me for making you late?” Even though there were two of us in that car.

He ignored my question and turned to walk away, and I followed, hating myself for chasing him down like some stupid underclassman girl.

He cut his eyes at me when I came up beside him. “This conversation is over. I have a class to get to and a ton of make-up work to do, Dovey.”

His tone made me pause. But then again, maybe his nasty attitude was about his grief.

I swallowed my pride and followed him again.

The bell rang, and he picked up his backpack and took off for the entrance at a fast pace.

“Cuba!” I yelled, my frustration finally erupting.

He halted, his back rising and falling rapidly, but he hadn’t exerted himself. “What?” he ground out.

“You said you loved me,” I bellowed, my voice carrying to others. Several of the girls giggled; the boys smirked.

He flinched and muttered something.

“Whatever you have to say, say it to my face,” I told his back, wrapping my arms around myself. Afraid I might crash to my knees. Scared of what he would say.

And wasn’t it awful that I was tempted to beg him to tell me he loved me? And then a memory of my mama begging my father came to mind, and I cringed.

I never wanted to be my mama. But this was Cuba, and he loved me. Right?

Spider came up beside me and tugged on my arm. “Let’s get out of here, Dovey.”

“No, if this whole thing’s been a game to him, then he’s going to own up to it.”

Cuba turned and stared as if he were memorizing my face, but then broke our gaze and looked around the quad, his expression frozen.

I fisted my hands. “Tell me you love me or tell me you’re a bastard. Pick one.”

He laughed, looking back at me with hard eyes. “You want the truth? I never had a dream about you. I never gave a shit about watching you do ballet. And FYI, I tell all the girls I love them, Dovey. It makes it easier to fuck them.” And then he turned and walked out of my life.

Something delicate and fragile inside me died.

My legs wanted to buckle. I wanted to crawl in a hole and never show my face again. Students were shaking their heads and murmuring, watching him leave, and then turning to me, watching as I brushed by Spider and fled back inside. Running into the bathroom, I got in the last stall and hunkered down.

Agony hit me as I replayed his words. I doubled over, clutching my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think straight. I wanted to disappear.

“Dovey, if you don’t come out, I’m coming in there,” Spider yelled into the open door of the bathroom.

I huddled in the corner on the floor, laying my head down on my knees. I rocked.

“Incoming,” he called out to anyone who might be listening, causing a riot of giggles from the girls still waiting for class to start.

My stall door was locked, but it didn’t stop him. He crawled underneath, his face grimacing at the dirty floor as he weaseled his way inside.

I surprised myself when I started giggling at the sight he made. “You’re crazy.”

“Just proves I’m a real friend. And, shit, this loo is dirty,” he said.

He maneuvered himself all the way in until he was sitting next to me. He took out a cig and lit up. And when he held it out for me, I took it and inhaled deeply, letting the menthol burn my lungs.

“I’m never falling in love again.” I handed him back his smoke.

He spoke around his exhale. “The best way to get over someone is to jump right back in. I know. I do it all the time.”

“I gave him my virginity,” I mumbled, picking at my nails.

“I’m going to kill that mutherfucker,” he bit out, pinching his cigarette out with his fingers.

“Don’t even go there.” It killed me to think of Cuba hurt. Or Spider. I loved them both.

He sighed and wrapped an arm around me, and we sat on the tile until my belly rumbled and twisted and gurgled. I swallowed convulsively and stood, holding on the side of the stall.

“Spider, I know we’re friends and all, but I’m about to be—”

Sick. I hunched over and threw up in the toilet. He hustled to his feet and rubbed my back as I retched until there was nothing left but dry heaves. Water came from my nose and eyes but it wasn’t tears. It wasn’t. It was just water or a runny nose or something—oh hell, it was tears. They blinded me.

“I haven’t cried since my mama died and now look at me. I’m a mess,” I said in between sniffs.

But I’d never felt this way before, like I might die without him. I clung to the hard walls of the stall and let it all out with my tears. It spilled out of me. Every hope I’d had for us, every dream I’d had that he loved me as much as I loved him. I broke in that bathroom.

After a while, I wiped my face and mouth with tissue paper. There. Maybe that was all. But I knew it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

I’d always thought of him as some fine Greek god like Apollo, known for his beauty and athleticism. God of music and healing, he protected you from evil and gave you peace. Now, I knew the truth. He wasn’t Apollo, but Ares, the god of war. Dark and vicious, his only goal was to cause discord. To ruin lives.

And he’d ruined mine. Nothing of me would ever be the same.