Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand (2 page)

“You're gonna look lame in those,” she chastens.

“Nobody's gonna be looking at me anyway.”

“Says you.” She snatches the jeans from my hand. “Skinny jeans,” she orders.

“But-”

“Just do it.”

I grumble, but do as she says. There's no point arguing with her. She's used to getting her way with me. The jeans are so tight, I feel like they're taking fat from clear down by my ankles and squeezing it up to my waist, where it flops over the waistline.

We exit through the window and I push it shut and wedge a stick in beside the hinges to keep it closed without it being latched inside. Kailie's sportscar is in the street and seconds later we're off, flying down the road at well over the speed limit.

Wilkstone Road flashes past and we're at the edge of town where the road splits. One way leads up onto the top of the bluffs, where Kailie's house and other bluffside homes and businesses are, and the other way leads down through a cleft in the rock to the beach below. We head down.

There's a small, gravel parking lot where several cars and a couple of motorcycles are parked. I can see people sitting on the hood of one of the cars and a campfire beyond them, on the rocky beach. Kailie skids into a parking space and we both get out.

People look over, see that it's just me, and turn their attention to Kailie who struts to the end of the parking lot and jumps down to the rocks below. I tag along after, feeling like a pet poodle, all dressed up by my handler. There aren't too many people tonight, because it's a cold night. Only hardcore partiers are at a midnight beach party in January.

The fire throws its amber light over the dark rocks. Its warmth is feeble from this distance, and people sit in small groups talking and throwing twigs into the flames. I barely recognize anyone, which is unusual. Sometimes people who are staying at the Inn come down, and occasionally people from Sequoia Ridge and the other nearby towns show up, but usually it's just Pelican Bluffs. The roar and shush of the waves is almost audible, but the tide's out so there's a lot of slippery, wet rock between us and the water.

A metallic pop lets me know Kailie's cracked open a beer. She tosses another to me and I stumble as I catch it. I don't like the soapy taste; I prefer wine coolers, but since I never bring any alcohol, I don't feel entitled to go shopping for what I want. Kailie feels differently and saunters around as if she owns the place.

I move away from her and go sit by the fire, where the smoke stings my eyes a little, but at least there's warmth. My back is freezing, though.

Across the fire sit Alex Katsumoto, Ryan Schultz, and their group of slacker friends. All of them are talking and jeering except for Alex. Like always, he's dead silent. He catches my glance and stares back at me, unblinking.

I look away fast. The guy's a total psycho. Nobody crosses him, not even teachers or the high school principal. Everyone's just waiting until the end of the year when he graduates and is gone. Not only does he never talk, ever, but he'll often sit by himself, flipping his lighter and staring at the flame. He wears a military style jacket that he probably got at an army surplus store when he was a kid – he used to wear it even in elementary school when it hung past his knees – and keeps his dark hair shoulder length. In this light, it makes him look like the kind of guy you'd see on the cover of a steamy romance novel. He's got the ripped, muscular build for it, along with high cheekbones and eyes with just enough tilt to be exotic.

Kailie lands right next to me, as if she's jumped from ten feet away. She hasn't; I just wasn't paying attention to her closing in, but it's as if one minute I'm alone and the next she's there in a spray of rocks and sand. “Hey!” she whispers. “Jean-Pierre's here.”

My cheeks flush warm. “So?” Jean-Pierre is the high school heartthrob, a nationally ranked chess player who makes smart look
so
sexy.

“So?” says Kailie. “I think he likes you.”

“He does not.”

She jabs me in the ribs. “I told him you were here. He said he'd come find you.” She pinches my cheeks to make them rosier and I shrug away from her attempts to arrange my hair in a fetching way. The losers across the fire all snicker and whoop in approval.

Then Kailie is gone, drawn away by an outbreak of giggles in the darkness. Some group gossiping about something or other. I flip my hair back over my shoulders and shrug deeper into my jacket. A log on the fire pops and shifts as the flames continue to eat it away. The scent of dry wood ash fills the air and I know my clothes will reek of it.

Minutes later, Jean-Pierre emerges from the shadows, wearing a jacket, jeans and warm cap that are all dark colors. In the dim firelight, his skin looks ebony. He pauses as if to warm his hands and whispers, “Hey, meet me in ten?” Then he gets up strides off into the darkness.

Ten? I think. Ten what? Seconds? Minutes? And meet him where? I've never done a secret meeting before. Why does he want to meet with
me?
Kailie better not have made him any promises on my behalf.

I settle for counting to ten, and then get up, stretch and follow him into the darkness.

M
y light-dazzled eyes can't see anything or anyone as I trip my way over the broken rocks of the beach. Fortunately, I'm pale enough to glow and a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Jean-Pierre?” I whisper.

“JP,” he says. “Just call me JP.” Only his close friends call him that.

I have no idea what to say to him next, so I hold out the beer. “Not my thing,” I admit. “You want it?”

“Sure.” He cracks it open and takes a swig. “So what're you doing out at a party like this?”

“I'm with Kailie. I think she's drinking herself into oblivion, so I've gotta drive her home.”

“That's nice of you.”

I shrug. That's the system. I never give it a second thought.

“I know it sounds like a line, but do you come to these parties often?”

“Depends on Kailie.”

“See, I don't. It's hard for me to sneak out of my house.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My parents are strict.”

A lot of people's parents are strict in Pelican Bluffs. Though there are some who fit the stereotype of the rich folks who just buy their kids off, many of the families want very much for the next generation to go to top schools and get top jobs. It doesn't surprise me that Jean-Pierre's are in this category. “Where are they from?” I ask. “Originally?”

“Cote d'Ivoire, or Ivory Coast in English.”

“That in... Africa?”

“Yeah, West Africa. Former French colony. That's why I've got the French name, but I'm probably boring you.”

“No, not really.”

“Howabout you?”

“Um... I'm from here, I guess. I don't know where my mom moved from, and I don't remember my dad.”

“Your mom not like to talk about her past?”

“My mom doesn't talk about much of anything other than clay and pottery. She's driven.”

“Sounds like she's more than driven. You know your grandparents, at least?”

“Nope.”

“You sure she's not some kind of fugitive from the law or something?”

“Nope. Wouldn't know.”

He laughs, which is a relief. Mom's obsession with her art has been raising teachers’ eyebrows all my life, back to the day when my first grade teacher took me aside and asked me if I felt loved and safe at home. “There's living for your art,” my fifth grade teacher once said, “and there's escaping life altogether with an obsession.” I'm the first to admit that their fears aren't unfounded. If I was lying on the kitchen floor with a bleeding head wound, my mother might very well step over me to get to her workshop in the shed and her precious pottery.

“Family can be overrated,” he says. “I shouldn't say that, but some days, when my grandparents
and
my parents are on my back about my grades, I wish I were an orphan.”

“Well, I guess I don't know what I'm missing, so I can't really miss it.”

By now we've walked well away from the campfire, which is a tiny glow in the distance. The endless ocean is on our left and sheer cliffs on our right. He finishes off the beer with a long pull, then crushes the can and stuffs it in his pocket. See, that's how things are in Pelican Bluffs. Underage drinking gets you in trouble, but littering on the beach, that gets you in
serious
trouble.

Jean-Pierre stops by a waist high boulder and turns around to lean against it. “Here.” He reaches out for me to lean next to him.

I do and he slips an arm around my waist. Adrenalin surges in my veins as he leans over and nuzzles my ear. “This okay?”

In reply, I turn to look at him and he kisses me on the lips. Don't panic, I think. Pretend like you know what you're doing. The truth is, though, that I've never kissed anyone before. I'm certain I'm doing it all wrong, and when our lips part, I'm sure he's going to laugh at me.

My phone rings.

I pull it out and answer. “Hi, Kail.”

“Okay, I'm super bored now. Let's go.”

“Um... well-”

“Where are you?”

“Uh...”

“And why are you breathing so hard?”

“I'm not-”

“Just get back here, okay? I want to leave. Now.”

“Okay.” I hang up. To Jean-Pierre's querying look, I say, “I'm sorry. I've gotta drive Kailie home.”

“Right now?”

“I...” Madison, I think, you are a moron. Why didn't you stall with her? Claim to be much farther away?

“It's all right,” he says. “Listen, for right now, can we just keep this between us?”

“Y-yeah. Okay.”

He kisses my cheek. “See you 'round.”

Confusion swirling in my mind, I jog back across the rocky beach towards the fire, my heart pounding like I've just run a marathon.

I find Kailie throwing rocks at Alex, because apparently she's lost her mind. “You creep me out!” she screams. “What's with the silent act all the time?”

He just stares back at her, shifting slightly now and then to dodge a rock. She doesn't have great aim.

“Okay, we're going home.” I grab her arm and haul her towards the parking lot. “Sorry!” I call over my shoulder, though why I'm apologizing to Alex, I'm not sure. I wonder how he even got on her nerves in the first place.

Kailie stumbles as I haul her towards her car.

“How much did you drink?”

“Dunno. Don't care. I'm so
mad
at him.”

“Well, he's gone now, so it's okay.”

“He never showed up!”

“Who are we talking about?”

“Ben.”

“Oh, Ben? I thought Ben wasn't coming.” Ben lives in Sequoia Ridge, and I didn't see anyone from there at the party.

“He coulda showed up.”

That lets me know she's had more than a few drinks in a very short span of time. I'd hoped to ask her what, if anything, she said to Jean-Pierre, but while she's like this, I won't get much more than a lot of angry swearing as an answer. “Give me your keys,” I say.

She fumbles them loose from her pocket and drops them on the rocky ground. It takes me a minute of poking around to find them, during which time Kailie starts to yell obscenities to the stars.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Let's go.” I get her to her car and fold her into the passenger seat, then walk around and climb into the driver's seat. I don't have a license, but that's beside the point right now. Pelican Bluffs has one police officer, and he's not always on duty at night.

My friend passes out and slumps with her cheek smushed against the window. I start the car, ease it out of its parking space, and drive us to my house, where I try to get Kailie out without dumping her on the ground. She groans, but doesn't throw up, which I'm grateful for. “Okay,
okay
, I'll walk.” She gets unsteadily to her feet and I close and lock the car door behind her. We crunch across the rock garden, and then it's not easy to get her into my room through the window, and there's no way I can get her to move any further than my bed, which is fine. I yank her boots off, wrap my comforter around her, and fall asleep next to her on the mattress.

“F
un night?” That's Mom, standing in my doorway. “Fun enough to be worth ending my career?”

I sit bolt upright and look at the clock. It's five a.m. and Kailie's still asleep beside me. “Get up,” I tell her. “Kail, get up.”

Here's the thing. Kailie's parents own the Pelican Sky Gallery, which is where Mom sells her pottery. The last thing Mom needs is for them to find Kailie at our house when she should be safe in her own bed.

Kailie mutters something and tries to push me away, but my bed is a daybed and I'm lying on the side against the wall, so when she tries to push me, she ends up almost pushing herself onto the floor. She startles, then settles back down, still asleep.

“No.” I shake her. “You have to get up and get home, now. Before your parents get up.”

Her eyes snap open. “What time is it?”

“Five,” says my mother.

Kailie swears, jumps out of my bed, and digs around on my desk for her keys, which I produce with a jangle. “Thank you! Sorry! Thank you!” She darts past my mom and a second later we hear her go out the front door.