Love in the Time of Cynicism (17 page)

I smile. “Thanks again. Seriously.”

Trent glances at the clock and turns back to me with a smile locked on his lips. “It’s nearly nine, little sister; don’t you have somewhere to be?”

I fake an innocent giggle and bat my eyelashes. “Whatever could you possibly mean?”

“These walls aren’t exactly sound-proofed and you’re the only one who lives here who can’t sing. It’s sad, really, but I’ve learned to live with it. Although I must say you’re choice of music is dreadful.”

“Popular opinion,” I concede with a light-hearted sigh.

“This Rhett kid has a good taste in music?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Of course, why would I even consider being attracted to someone with a similar taste in music as me?”

“Considering your taste in music, I have absolutely no idea. Now get going; I don’t want you to miss out on your weird-ass phone date.”

I practically skip back to my room and turn on the radio. The first notes of one of Rhett’s favorite songs blasts and I dial him. He picks up halfway through the first ring.

“Lightfoot National Orphanage; you make ‘em, we take ‘em.”

Chapter Ten – Anthropological Discoveries

Monday morning, the first day of October and, thusly, the first day we sell special holiday drinks at Ebony’s, which I loather making, is hectic and between the chaos of Mal trying to get out the door and mom attempting to make breakfast, I can’t get a ride to school from anyone and nobody’s interested in letting me borrow a car. This leaves only one option, one I haven’t even considered since freshman year.

The bus.

It’s despicable, if you stop to think about it. A girl who will turn eighteen in June being forced to ride in the same vehicle as poor, disillusioned kids who think high school is going to be the best part of life. No freedom. No respect. And the walk is ridiculously far.

But there are no other options and so, at six twenty eight, I hug Mal goodbye, wish her luck with wedding plans and such, and walk out the door into the peaceful quiet of the morning. The blunt contrast between the dark still of my street so early compared to the harshness of fluorescent lighting and screeching voices hits me immediately and stills my heart. Most girls my age complain about how dangerous the walk to bus stops is and how much it sucks having to be outside when it’s early and colder than seems possible this close to the equator and all-around unpleasant. But I appreciate everything I can about the miserably long trek.

The six thirty sky is always impossible. As the autumn and winter drain into one another, the sky gets blacker by the day. When the school year started, the dawn sky was fantasy blue, clear and full with a haze of shy sunshine peaking over the horizon. Rare, glorious mornings where the clouds caught the light full on and flirted with the sun in shades of rosy pink dotted this season. Then, somewhere around November, these Crayola mornings turn dark and soupy as ink, a cloak covering everything and the only light daring enough to break through is the single reddish streetlamp. Then there are days when the darkness is so heavy with the weight of its stars I fear those streams of white light will rain down at any moment and set fire to everything I’ve ever known.

Today, though, the sky is better than I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe it’s the thought of Rhett tainting my impartial judgment of skies, but this one is just…
perfect
. It’s an old purple fleece, a deep, rich indigo at its center and growing lighter as it stretches over Lightfoot. The edges fray pink at the horizon while leafless black trees hold the blanket overhead.

I crane my neck to memorize the already fading image as I reach the stop sign where a bunch of youths have conglomerated. Unlike in middle school, where we were friends by juxtaposition and spoke to one another out of forced obligation, high school bus stops are a brutal enterprise. No speaking unless it’s in hushed tones and about something stupid. No intelligent life for miles. Only the faint stinging sound of music feeding into someone else’s ears and the deafening din of flighty (ha,
flighty
) birds rustling in the tree we stand under. I huddle closer to my rucksack, my only ally in this hopeless wasteland, until the headlights of our bus pierce the menagerie and vacuum up the teenagers.

Unlike most mornings, Rhett doesn’t catch me before first period, probably because of how abhorrently late the bus gets there. Exactly three minutes before first period starts, which leaves me only a few seconds to migrate through the slogging crowd. In fact, I don’t see Rhett until fourth period Anthropology, where Dr. Sullivan grabs me before I can talk to him.

Today, my teacher’s wearing
plaid dress shoes
and a dark tweed jacket meant for someone about fifty years older than Sullivan. “How’s that assignment I gave you a while back going? With Rhett?”

“We haven’t gotten anything done,” I admit with a glance at Rhett, who gives me a broad smile like it’s the first time we’ve seen each other in months. Like we didn’t spend an hour talking last night as we do every night. “We’ve mostly been getting to know one another for a while now.”

He waggles his eyebrows in a very suggestive way most teachers wouldn’t dare. “Would you like to say more about that?”

“He’s a great guy, no matter what anyone else thinks.”I don’t tack on the more stalker-ish things I’ve noticed about him – the color of his eyes, the pattern of dark freckles on his hand, the way he bites the end of his pencil when he’s thinking up a new poem. “And we’ll get it done eventually, I promise.”

“While I’m more than thrilled two of my most brilliant students are hitting it off-” He stops, motions Rhett forward to join our powwow. “I went to the poetry reading Friday night, by the way. Amazing stuff, Rhett, really solid performance. I got completely lost in the literality of it while simultaneously-”

“
Anyway
,” Rhett and I interrupt at the same time.

“Yes, of course.” He shuffles, then takes another sip of his coffee from a mug shaped like a penguin that one of his daughters painted for Father’s Day. “Glad you’re hitting it off, but I need that paper tomorrow. I know I never give you deadlines; unfortunately, I prattled on about this one so much my supervisors want to see it and have it published in this month’s literary magazine, so…”

“Done,” Rhett agrees before I can reply how crazy that is. He winks at me and I nod without any further hesitation. “We’ll work on it all night if we have to.”

“Please don’t hit on my favorite student right in front of me.” Dr. Sullivan rolls his eyes with a pointed sigh and replies, “You two go out onto the courtyard or wherever for this period and get it done. Edit tonight and bring it back before first period. I’ll come in early just for you.”

He writes us passes and off we go. As we’re going through the halls, Rhett, still wearing his leather jacket even though it’s technically against school policy, takes my hand in his. My nerves electrify and heat up as I almost stop moving, fearful that my hand is sweaty or, because of my lack of hand-holding experience, I will somehow mess up this simple relational milestone simply by being myself.

Rhett picks up on this shift and asks, “Not a hand-holding person, Cordelia?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I answer because I don’t want him to let go. His fingers are soft and smooth as they trace small circles on my thumb while we walk. Once the initial angst dies down, I’m left with this mushy warm feeling fused to my insides, the likes of which I’ve never felt. It seems altogether too feminine to belong in my head but altogether too wonderful to stop.

He draws closer to me and bumps into my shoulder as he pushes open one of the school’s side doors and we bound to the small cement square where the school’s graciously placed benches and a few tables. Our hands mingle with one another in some intricate dance I don’t know the steps to until we’re sitting on one of the benches next to one another, hands, separate, reaching for notebooks and pencils.

“Before we start,” he begins quietly. As if someone might hear us where there’s no one. “Can we talk again? Like we did the other night, I mean.”

“Sure,” I reply, sitting up straighter and staring at his caramel eyes. “I don’t really have any secrets worth mentioning, but it’s worth a go.”

He laughs and takes my hand once more like he can’t get enough, “I seriously doubt that.”

“Try me.”

“Will do.” He stops to think while tracing small circles on my pale wrist. “Tell me about your first boyfriend. The one you mentioned the other night.”

My throat clenches up and I pull back from him sharply, then regret the instantaneous reaction. I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood as I say, “Sorry, it’s just-”

“I knew there was something.” He smiles as if he’s accomplished something terribly important as memories of Eric wash over me. Sunlight has started to come through the clouds and it falls, too warm and exposing, across my skin. More worry hits me as Rhett speaks once more, this time quoting me with a meaningful glance. “If this is ever going to happen, I need to know more about you. Your past.”

“Um,” I stammer our. My legs rearrange themselves and I fold my arms over my chest as a lump rises in my throat. Rhett’s important to me. This is important to me. I can tell him. I told Trent. Even though panic’s bubbling in my chest like the moment I found out about mom and Michael’s baby, words tumble out nearly without my control. “We dated for a long time. He’s three years older than me and goes to some theater school in Florida now.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Don’t interrupt,” I snap. “Sorry, I…” My throat, suddenly dry, closes as I swallow. “If I’m going to share, it’ll be on my own terms.”

“Deal.”

My eyes follow the path of a lonely goose waddling over the yard. It squawks and searches for its family and I’m struck by a sudden sadness for this creature. I hope it finds its family soon. My lungs pull in a long breath as I say, still staring at the goose, “Everyone thought he was perfect. And so did I. Until we kissed. He was my first, I was probably his twentieth.” I wait to continue as I attempt to formulate the right words in my head for something I haven’t spoken about out loud enough times to know what to say. With my brother, the words came without end but now, when I want more than anything to be open and honest with Rhett, nothing comes out. And when I speak again, it’s so soft he leans in to hear me and the words. “That’s when things got bad. He told me he was in love with me the same night I told him I wanted to break up. He, well, it’s-”

Rhett slides closer to me and runs a hand over my freezing arm. “We don’t need to talk about this now if you don’t want. I know how hard you’re trying for me.”

“No, I’m fine.” The gift of speech returns to me and I say it all at once. “That first night, he hit me. I mean, it was obvious how strong he was. But I never, ever thought-” I suck in a shaky breath. “And then I couldn’t leave. I was trapped there. He apologized so much, told me he’d never do it again and he needed me to stay with him and think about what this would to our families and don’t tell anyone please god don’t tell anyone because he’s got a scholarship and anything I said could ruin his life forever. I didn’t want to ruin his life. I just wanted him to get away from me. So I shoved him away and told him if he ever touched me again, there’d be hell to pay. Even then I knew it was an empty threat. My brother was away at college and I couldn’t hold my ground against someone a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. I was
so stupid
. Still am, for Christ’s sake. Can’t even-” I realize I’m near shouting and stop myself from going any further.

“So you broke up with him?”

I shake my head and feel the stupid, childish, biting heat of tears against my eyes. They fall to my lap without consent and I put my head down into my free hand to stop Rhett from seeing me so weak, so desperate for his attention, so helpless.

“Hey,” he whispers, “we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

Rhett’s fingers run through my hair and to the nape of my neck. He brings my head to his chest and hugs me tightly; it’s not romantic in the slightest, more like ‘we’ve both been through shit and even if I don’t really understand yours and you can’t quite get mine, I’ll be here for you.

“I stayed with him,” confess into the rainy scent of his leather jacket. “Because…what else could I do? Mom swore we were going to get married once I graduated. My friends were jealous. On the outside, we were fine. We laughed and talked. But, when we were home alone and he tried to kiss me, I couldn’t bear to look at him. All I could remember was the sound of the flat of his hand hitting my cheek, the jarring backlash of my head spinning. But I couldn’t leave, so it went on.
For six months
. Until the night he graduated from high school, I was with him. Some stupid freshman who thought she could handle everything he was putting her through. When he left for college, I had the guts to tell him that when he came back, I wouldn’t be waiting.” I say my next thought more to myself than Rhett. “He called me a bitch. Pushed me too hard. Apologized. Like saying sorry to a plate you dropped on the floor will glue it back together. And I still remember the taste of blood on my lips when he kissed me goodbye.”

For a while, one infinite moment of us, we’re there on that bench outside of our school and he’s holding me and I’m crying ever so slightly and I can feel myself falling too hard, too fast but I don’t care because he’s here and, for now, that’s enough.