Blue Rose (A Flowering Novel) (3 page)

4

“You need a calculator?” I asked him. He was so focused on the classwork in front of him.

He looked up, like it was alien to him that someone would speak to him, like it was the first time someone had
said something nice.

“Um, no… I…”

“I don’t bite,” I told him and tried to smile. I knew it probably looked freaky and crazy. I’d taken to wearing dark eyeliner and black lipstick, to make myself as ugly as they all said I was. It didn’t stop the guys from randomly grabbing my ass or “accidentally” brushing my boob at the locker or in gym class or, really, anywhere. But while their bodies seemed to want to be near mine, they were hateful. Yesterday, one had slipped a hand over my breast in the lunch line and, when I backed away, he tripped me and kicked me in the middle of the cafeteria after we’d paid. The vice principal came over, but the guy, whose name I don’t even know, said it was an accident. It was always an accident, and I’d learned that nothing I said mattered.

Jack looked at me and his eyes went wide. They were so blue. Innocent. I’d already developed a massive crush, but when he looked at me, I really felt beautiful. Not the dirty beautiful that everyone else saw, but good. I felt like I was worth something.

“I know. I mean… no one really talks to me. I’m a loser.” He said it so matter of fact, like even though he’d only been at the school a few months, it was the only truth he knew. It amazed me how much power the words of strangers had. They didn’t know me, and they didn’t know him, but they defined us. We were nothing but a reflection of their ideas of us.

“Jack, right?”

He nodded. “My dad killed my mom. She was a drug addict. He’s going to be in jail for a while. I saw it all.”

“Okay,” I replied.

“So you don’t have to talk to me. Because it’s okay.”

“Alana,” I said. “I mean, that’s my name. Alana. I’m a loser. A slut. A nasty whore. I don’t have the right to judge you.”

He looked down at my classwork paper. “You aren’t using your calculator?”

I shook my head. “No, do you need it?”

“No. I’m done. It was easy.”

I laughed. “Right? Why is she giving us an entire class period?”

He looked around the room and leaned closer, whispering. “Alana, I hate everyone here.”

I whispered back, “I think we can be friends.”

****

Later that day, at lunch, I had just found a seat by the window when he sat across from me. I was used to sitting alone.
He didn’t say anything, and he had nothing to eat. He looked up at me, though, after a few minutes, and his eyes did it again. I hated my body, hated the way I looked, hated that somehow I owed my body and my looks to everyone else. But when Jack looked at me, I wanted to let someone touch me. I wanted him to hold me. He felt like safety.

It didn’t even make sense. He was just a broken kid, like me. H
e always wore the same threadbare hoodie. Most days, it covered his head. He was cute, but awkward. His hair was too long and usually greasy. His Chucks were a little too big, so they looked a little like clown shoes. Yet those gorgeous eyes were all I cared about. I hadn’t considered guys at all. I didn’t find them attractive, and I certainly couldn’t see the appeal of sex or of intimacy. With Jack, though, the thought of him near me didn’t make me nauseous.

“Do you want my orange?” I asked him.

“Are you sure?”

It wasn’t a groundbreaking question. But it was how I knew that what I naturally felt for Jack was right. Because no one had ever asked me that. No one had asked if I minded, if I was sure, if something was okay. They just took things.

“Yeah.”

He took it and I handed him my knife. It was flimsy plastic and wouldn’t even pierce the rind, so I took the orange back and peeled it with my fingernails. Jack just watched me and
, when I handed him the orange, now peeled, he smiled. His upper lip curled more than it should have and he looked silly, smiling at an orange. But he drew the same smile from me.

“Thank you,” he said, and he pulled two slices free from the whole and handed them back to me. I didn’t eat them right away. I
just watched him eat his part. He was messy and he ended up covering himself in the juices. He unzipped his hoodie after the orange squirted down the front. Underneath, he was wearing a washed out blue T-shirt with a train on it. He looked ten.

“Nice shirt,” I teased.

He looked down. “I live with my grandmother. She has no concept of clothes.”

“It’s cute.”

He smiled again and it was less awkward this time. “Do you live with your grandmother, too?”

I was wearing a huge black sweater over baggy black pants. “No. I just… I don’t like people looking at me.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

He didn’t tell me
that I was too pretty to dress the way I did; he didn’t say my body was too good to hide. He just went back to eating his orange, letting the juice spill all over the train shirt. We were fourteen, but I already knew Jack would always be the only thing that mattered in my future.

5

I wish it didn’t hurt. I wish seeing him, knowing that it was too late, didn’t feel like dying a small death a hundred times over. At the concert, I watched him watch her. She’s so pretty. Blonde, sweet, a little awkwardly imperfect, and he loves her so much. I don’t think he even knows that he does. Even when he tried to explain it, he couldn’t make sense of his need, but the cracks between us have grown. Life is starting to tear us apart.

I knew. I knew when he went away to school that it would happen. I’m surprised we lasted as long as we did. Even in high school, after we broke up and just fucked for fun, I still thought there was nothing but me and Jack. Sure, I tried with Dave, but Jack was the sun that I orbited. He tried to leave me once for good. It was the same math room where we’d met. They came to tell me that he was in the hospital and I felt the loss, even though he’d failed. I’d never understood singularity
before but I did then. Gravity and all the forces of space and time folded over me and there was nothing but pain.

But that night, at the club, it was so final. Suicide, fights, even the distance of college… none of those things could come between us like him falling in love could. I don’t know why I wasn’t ready. But I wasn’t. And seeing his eyes, the way he looked at her… he hasn’t looked at me like that in years. And even if she never speaks to him, it’s irreparable. The foundation is shattered.

I notice I’ve dropped the cigarette. My hands are shaking. I try to bend down, to pick it up, but the world turns watery. I’m in a tunnel, with one of those old-fashioned scuba masks on, and everything is distorted. I feel my legs start to give out, my body slide away from the bench, and I bite down hard on my lip.
Focus
, I tell myself.
Nothing is going to hurt you. You’re in the park.
I manage to sit upright against the bench, but the shaking continues. The reverberations of anxiety echo through every nerve. I hate this. Why don’t the stupid pills work?

I’m tempted to go back to Melinda’s office, to ask for something else, to beg her to fix me, but why? As much as I liked her and already feel comfortable talking to her, no one has been able to fix me yet. The damage was done too long ago. I’m like a house built on a rotting foundation, the wood eaten away by termites over time. Even if you hire an exterminator, the house will fall down. Because the termites might
be gone, but the wood still slowly splinters and breaks until it can’t hold up everything else anymore. My termites are long dead, but I feel the sinking every day.

There’s no one to call, no one to rescue me. I focus and concentrate on breathing and, once I can see again, I stand up, stomp out the cigarette just in case, and head to my car. Maybe I’ll go to the bar. At midday during the week, there is bound to be some lonely guy there. I know what my purpose is now and I embrace it. As long as I control it, as long as I choose it, it doesn’t matter if it means nothing. It doesn’t matter that I wonder every time if I’m just adding more weight to the collapsing foundation.

Fucking fall. It’s not even four o’clock and it’s starting to get dark. Wood smoke fires are starting and I can smell them as I cross the street to the office lot to get my car. I hate the fall. For all its beauty, it’s nothing but the dying of the year. Everything is just waiting for winter, waiting for death, hoping to make it out alive after the thaw.

I don’t know. I’m sure I’m overthinking it; there are actually few months
that I do like. Most are linked to something bad. Halloween is just around the corner. I hate Halloween most of all.

****

The bar is pretty empty, but as expected, the few men in the place are alone. I look down at my ensemble. The fraying hem and the loose heel aren’t visible to strangers. Like most of me, they’re secret, the broken parts I keep to myself. My shirt clings to my chest; I unbutton the top two buttons for added effect. It usually doesn’t take much, but why not make it easier? Still, I’m twenty, beautiful, and willing to have cheap, anonymous sex. I could be wearing a housecoat.

There are three guys – one at the bar on a stool, one in the booth in the back, and one sitting at a small table. The guy at the bar is old and ragged; he reminds me of my stepdad and I get chills.
Cross him off the list.
The one at the table looks nice. He’s actually dressed well and fairly attractive. But he’s wearing a wedding band. If possible, I like to avoid getting wrapped up in that. It’s not their wives’ faults that the men they married are weak. Sometimes, though, my anger at my mother wins and I do it anyway. Because what other secrets are the women hiding? What else are they pretending isn’t happening?

I approach the booth and slide across from the guy drinking. He’s got three empties already. I hope he’s been here
for a while, because drunk often means useless. At least for my purposes.

“Hi,” I purr, and he looks me over. He isn’t subtle, focusing on the cleavage spilling from my shirt.

“Well, well. What are you doing here?” he says.

I undo one more button, revealing the edges of my lacy pink bra. “I’m not going to waste your time. I’m looking for something, and I figured this was the place to come looking.”

“Yeah, well, you may have found it.”

I slip my foot out of my shoe and run it upward along his leg.
He reacts a little when I begin to rub circles on his crotch, but surprisingly, it’s a subtle reaction. It looks like the beer is old and he’s still with me. That’s good. It also feels like he’s definitely going to be up to the challenge, and he’s well-equipped. It’s better when there’s a chance I can come. It’s much easier for me to come with Jack, or if Jack’s there. I know a lot of it’s emotional with him, but he’s also an unbelievable lover. I guess it makes sense; we basically taught each other everything we know. Well, in my case, everything I
wanted
to know. However, I prefer these casual afternoons to end being worth my while. I may only be good for one thing, but why not try to get something out of it, right?

“So, where to, boss?” I ask.

He lets out a raspy laugh. “Don’t you want to get to know me first? Ask my name?”

I lean across the table, ensuring maximum exposure of my tits bursting from my shirt, and lick my lips. “I don’t give a damn about your name. I came here looking for someone to fuck me. Are you gonna be that someone?”

He coughs and tries to move out of the booth, no doubt to pay his tab or whatever. I press down hard on his crotch as he moves, to remind him why he’s in a rush. I’m already losing interest. Maybe I should just call Jack. Maybe I should go home and read or something, but I don’t want to think about the panic attack in the park, or about Melinda and my memory of my dad. I just want someone to bend me over and use me. Better yet, I want to come. I want to feel something other than fear or the dull ache that resides inside my belly and keeps me awake at night.

He doesn’t take long to pay his tab, which is good because I’m already starting to get bored. He sits next to me and takes my hand in his, like we’re heading out to go ice skating and to share a milkshake or something.

“My place?” he asks.

Hell, no,
I think. Neutral ground, so there’s no awkward leaving and exchanging of phone numbers or whatever. I want to get out of this with an orgasm and without knowing his name.

“I was thinking something less… relationship-y,” I tell him.

“Where do you want to go?”

“The bathroom? No one’s here. We can use the women’s room.” Since I’m the only girl in the place, I don’t think there will be a mad rush to use it.

“It won’t be long that way,” he says.

“I told you, buddy. I’m looking for a fuck. I don’t want to snuggle. So are we doing this or what?” He’s starting to irritate me. Maybe I should have gone home.

“Too bad. I’d been hoping to taste that sweet pussy.”

That’s more like it.
Dirty I can do. Dirty I know. He doesn’t want to cuddle; he just wants to do more to me than we can do in a shitty bar bathroom.

“Fine. There’s a motel nearby. I’ll pay. You can follow me.”

“I’ll drive,” he offers. “Maybe you can get a head start, if you know what I mean.”

“You can follow me,” I repeat.

It’s a ten minute drive. I’m pretty horny, and I’m also extremely anxious. The worse the anxiety, the more I tend to make bad decisions. I know this is one of those bad decisions, but I decided a long time ago that if men were going to take this from me anyway, I’d give it away first. It’s better to choose to fuck a stranger in a motel than to go to school and have someone shove his hand up your skirt while you’re just trying to get a bottle of water from the damn vending machine. I know that everyone thinks it’s my fault, because I’m pretty and I’m a slut and I dress like I do, but I was none of those things at eleven – and where the fuck did that get me?

I go in to pay for the room and gesture down to the last door on the right. #17. Somehow, this place is even sleazier than the one I went to with Jack and… Aaron, was it? Something like that… a while ago. The paint on the door is chipping and the key barely turns before the door’s standing wide open. Some security they’ve got.

I shut the door behind me and lock it. He looks at me and I strip down to my bra and panties while he watches. He starts to rub himself, but he doesn’t undress. Apparently I have to do everything.

“Why don’t you let it breathe?” I suggest.

“What?” he asks, his hand going to town over the front of his jeans.

“Take it out. Stroke your cock. I’ll watch.”

I lie down on the bed and he unzips. He’s not as big as I’d thought when I was rubbing him under the table, but he’ll do. He fumbles a little trying to get his jeans off while he strokes himself quickly. It’s already near bursting.
He better fucking last long enough to get it inside me.

I pull my panties down and unbuckle my bra, tossing them both to the floor. “I believe you said something about
tasting my pussy,” I remind him and spread my legs. He doesn’t even take his shirt off and he trips over his jeans, which are still wrapped around his ankles, as he moves to the bed. Jesus. Is he a fucking virgin? My God.

He shoves his head against my cunt and starts licking me, but he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. I try to shift my hips to hint at where my clit is, thrusting against him to get some enjoyment out of it, but he just goes to town like it’s a snack. I give up and lean back. His cock was throbbing badly enough that he’ll give up sooner rather than later. He just better not come before I’m done.

As expected, it’s not even five minutes before h
e lifts his head and faces me.

“I’m-”

I cut him off. “We came here to fuck. I’m not stopping you.”

There’s no real foreplay, but I run my hand over my clit a little to get myself further along.
I reach over to my purse, hand him a condom, and then he pushes into me, groaning. He doesn’t have a lot of moves, but I angle my body so that his one move helps me and I close my eyes. He makes weird grunting sounds as he thrusts and I try to tune him out. I think of Jack, of his eyes, of the way he kisses me, even though he hates kissing. I think about his body and how his hands feel on mine. I tighten myself around the bar guy I’m fucking and I imagine Jack deep inside of me. It’s really a lot like doing it myself, but the orgasm comes. Just in time, too, because he’s moving off of me and filling the condom within seconds of the last tremor.

I don’t even clean up. I just get dressed, thank him, and drive
home, telling myself that the tears are simply a natural response to the relief of an orgasm. I miss Jack so much. He texts me again, but I delete it without responding. I can’t bear to be around him right now.