Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand (6 page)

Stress is something I know how to handle. “Here,” I say. “Lay on your stomach.”

He does and I sit up to dig my thumbs into the flesh between his shoulderblades. He lets out a gasp. “Wow.”

I've given my mom massages for years, ever since she started to get repetitive motion injuries in her shoulders and wrists. I get up onto my knees and throw my weight behind the kneading motion as I force his muscles to unclench, teasing out knots with my fingers. I start with his shoulders and work down to the small of his back, careful not to press on his kidneys. Just as I'm working out the last little knot, he rolls onto his side and pulls me down to lay next to him. Both his hands slide under my shirt as he massages my back, and kisses my lips, pressing his body against mine. His breath on my cheek, the taste of his lips, the feel of his skin against mine, it’s all too much to process.

Now I feel completely out of my depth, and what's worse, I feel like it's my fault our bodies are tangled together. I'm the one who put my hands all over him to make him feel good. “Relax,” he whispers.

But I can't. I didn't even bother to keep the condoms they handed out in health class because they seemed about as useful to me as a guide to Paris written in Greek. Kailie was more than happy to take them off my hands.

Jean-Pierre finally slows things down and shifts to lie next to me again. “You okay?”

I just gulp deep breaths and try to process it all. “Yeah.”

After a few more lingering kisses on the lips, he says, “I'd better get home. I'm pushing my luck, sneaking out twice in one week.” He gets up to put his shoes and jacket back on and leave. As the window bangs shut, my emotions are in a muddle. I just don't know what I'm doing or how any of this is supposed to go.

I
get up and dress quickly, then climb out my window. Everything's clear on my street. I don't know if Jean-Pierre drove or walked, but there's no sign of him as I walk past the dark, sleeping houses. I turn the corner, cross to the forest side of the street, and head towards Wilkstone, and even though I
think
I scan carefully, I don't see Ryan, Alex, and company until it's too late and I'm almost on top of them.

They're all in a runoff ditch just off the road that leads to a culvert that all the local kids like to play in even though it's a death trap. The ditch is deep enough that the sidewalk is chest high for this crowd and when I get close enough to be seen, Ryan leaps up onto the sidewalk. “Hey, hey,” he says.

I freeze, and for a moment my thoughts do too.

“You're out late,” he says.

“Let me past.” I keep my voice steady.

“You can get by.” He gestures at the length of sidewalk. “I'm not that fat.”

A couple of the other guys chuckle.

I lift my chin and step out into the street. One step, then another, I give him a wide berth, only to have him lunge at me so suddenly that I scream.

“Whoa,” says one of the other guys, still in the ditch. I can't see his face.

All of them burst out laughing.

“What?” says Ryan. “You think I'm gonna assault you?”

I don't know what I think he'll do. It's a small town. If he had a history of attacking people, I would know. Still, the way he stands, shoulders squared and face obscured by shadow, is terrifying. This is not what I want to see while out by myself.

I edge on my way, keeping my eyes on them, and then as they fade into the darkness, on where I last saw them, until I'm a good distance away, then I turn and walk briskly towards the bright lights of Wilkstone Road. Even though I glance back and therefore know that no one's following me, I'm relieved when I get to Jacksons.

This is how lenient my mother is. I go into the town mini-mart, am seen by the cashier who is not known for her discretion, and yet know I won't get in trouble for it. The freezer case at the back is my target. I shove open the heavy glass lid and reach down to grab two EVOL Burritos of the shredded beef variety; these are the best frozen burritos on the planet, almost better than fresh made.

The cashier doesn't bat an eye at the sight of me out at midnight on a school night, just rings up the burritos and holds out her hand lazily for money. I pay and leave, bending my steps towards The Shack.

By day, The Shack serves fresh made Mexican food at obscene prices to tourists passing through, but come midnight, Hernan Garcia – the youngest son of the family of owners – takes over. He turns the place into a burger joint, basically, though he's willing to get creative. When I step up to the cut-out counter in the side of the wooden shack and put the burritos down, he squints up at me. “Whattaya want me to do with 'em?”

“Deep fryer.”

“How long?”

“They're frozen, so however long that takes. And two orders of fries and two medium Cokes.” The deal is, he'll do stuff like deep fry EVOL Burritos for free provided we buy something else.

He nods, tears the wrappers off the burritos, dumps them into the wire basket and drops the basket into the deep fryer. Then he rings up two orders of fries and two Cokes and I pay him.

Fifteen minutes later I've got the burritos and the two orders of fries in a paper bag and the two Cokes in the crook of my other arm. Now the task is to get to Kailie before the grease soaks through the bag and makes it tear. That is harder than it may sound. I wish I could hug the bag to myself for warmth, as the cold air tonight is the kind that seeps in even through my warm clothes.

That gives me an incentive to walk fast to the Inn, where I go around back to the rain barrel, which stands just under the eaves. It isn't easy to climb up onto it with the bag of food gripped in one fist and two drinks in the crook of the other arm, but I've had practice. Seconds later I'm on the roof of the first story, tapping on Kailie's window.

Her reading light winks on and she slides the window up. At the sight of me her mouth quirks in a sleepy smile. Warm air from her room spills out into the night.

I hold up the bag and she perks up and grins. “You didn't.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.” She stands back as I climb into her room and we both sit down on the floor and tuck into our greasefest meal.

Her parents are just down the hall, and are pretty light sleepers, so we talk in low voices.

“You are the best,” she says.

“I need your advice.”

She nods, her eyes on her burrito, which she bites into with a crunch. The deep fryer makes the tortilla into a hard shell, while inside the warm beef and melted cheese and cilantro and salsa are a heavenly mix. “Sure, about what?”

“I'm kind of involved with Jean-Pierre.”

She stops mid-bite, opens her mouth, and pulls the burrito away. “Since when?”

“Friday.”

“Are you serious?”

I nod.

“Um... wow. Okay.
Wow.”

It stings that she's
that
surprised, but I can't get mad at her for being honest. She isn't wrong. “I'm just... I don't know how all this works. He says he doesn't want a girlfriend.”

“Well, sure.”

“What's that mean?”

“That you aren't his girlfriend. Clearly he just wants to mess around.”

“Mess around like, go all the way?”

“Go all the way?” she mocks me. “What are you, in sixth grade?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Better than you do, yeah.”

“What do I do?”

“If you're into him, have fun with it. If you're not, don't bother. What do you need my advice for?”

“So how does this work, then?”

Kailie sets her burrito down, clasps her hands together, and looks at me. “It's simple. If you like making out with him, do it. If you want to sleep with him, do it. If you don't, don't. He moves on. End of story. Seriously, you can't figure this stuff out for yourself?”

I stare at the floor, my cheeks burning. “I barely even know how to kiss.”

“Please...”

“And sex is like, way scary to me.”

“Scary? This is sex we're talking about, right?”

“Yeah-”

“Well it's not scary. End of discussion. What do you want to talk about now?”

Her dismissal feels like she's planted the heel of her hand on my chest and shoved, hard. I went out of my way to be nice, bringing her food, so I don't know why she's lashing out at me with so much condescension. “It's not like you have it all figured out.”

“Better than you do.”

“Oh really? Howabout we talk about how you drag me out to beach parties in the middle of winter so you can go mooning after Ben?”

“What?”

“Maybe I don't want to sleep with Jean-Pierre because I don't want it to make me a slave for him like having sex with Ben did to you.”

“What do you even know-”

“Gimme a break. I know you. I saw what happened that one beach party when you came back to the car all in a daze, and how after that he hasn't returned your calls or-”

“Stop it-”

“-your texts, or-”

“Now!” She can't raise her voice, so she grasps my wrist for emphasis instead. “You want to hurt me because I gave you a dose of reality? Fine. Go ahead. It won't change the fact that you're a pathetic baby when it comes to dating. Oh wait, you haven't even done any dating, have you?”

I wince. It's one thing to endure Kailie's anger when it comes out of nowhere, but when it's my fault? That's a real nightmare. “Sorry. I was out of line.”

Kailie doesn't argue. She scarfs the rest of her burrito down, slurps her Coke until only air comes up the straw, then says, “I gotta sleep. You good to get home?”

“Yeah.” I take her garbage with me as I climb out the window. She'd get in serious trouble if her parents found it.

As I hop down off the roof, shame settles like a fist-sized rock in my chest. Here I came to ask Kailie for advice, and I end up insulting her. Way to go, Madison.

The wind is a lot worse now, and my phone says it's 1:37 a.m. I duck my head and walk as fast as I can, eyes on the path in front of me. Wilkstone Road is empty, save for a housecat that stalks along the other side of the street. It pauses to glare at me, eyes green and eerie.

I head for the crosswalk, even though there's no traffic, and nearly run smack into Alex. My scream chokes off at a squeak.

He stares down at me, disgusted. From the slight weave in his stance, I can tell he's drunk. On a Monday night.

“Could you get any creepier?” I snap.

He arches an eyebrow.

“The no talking thing? Pair it with a maniacal laugh and you could totally be a supervillain.”

He chuckles.

“Not quite maniacal, but if you follow me home, I am
so
calling the police.”

“Got a switchblade? I could chase you with it if you prefer.”

The sound of his voice is shocking, but what he says isn't. It's exactly what I'd expect. “So you can talk.”

He shrugs.

“And you're still a creep. Get out of my way.”

He steps aside and I dart past and across the street. A glance over my shoulder lets me know that he's continued on his way without a second glance at me. That's when I realize how upset I am. I just took on Alex by myself. I'm lucky he didn't really pull a knife and chase me. Ryan, I can believe, is all talk. Alex, not so much.

T
he next day, Kailie isn't at the corner for our usual walk to school. I wait until five minutes before the bell, and then run. It seems, as I dodge the crowd up the steps and weave my way to my locker that I see more heads turning my direction than usual, but I ignore it.

The sound of someone saying my name and a burst of giggles does get my attention, though, but when I look to see who it was, everyone in the crowd around me is smirking.

I toss my books into my locker, grab my things for homeroom, and focus on getting to class on time.

But even in homeroom, everyone turns to look at me when I walk in. I stop in the doorway, only to have someone smack into me from behind.

“Oh,
sorry,”
the person says. A look over my shoulder tells me it's Claire Chung, who is so short she comes maybe to the middle of my chest. Bullying is not her usual thing.

I look around, confused.

“Maybe you should log onto Facebook more often,” Claire whispers at me, loud enough for the whole class to hear and laugh at.

My cheeks burn so hot that I'm sure I'm red as a tomato. I go slip into my seat and try to ignore everyone's stares. For once, I'm grateful when the teacher walks in, bangs his textbook down on his desk, and starts barking orders for us to get out our homework.

After class, things are worse. Now people are pointing and laughing at me in the hall. I turn the corner and someone grabs my shoulders and slams me into a row of lockers, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I slide down to the floor, push my hair back, look up, and before I can focus, the person kicks my face so hard that I wonder if I've ruptured an eye. My nose feels like it's broken in no less than five places.

“Who do you think you are?” a female voice shouts. “You think you can booty call my man?”

I touch my face gingerly and my fingers come away with a smear of bright red that drips onto the floor. I can barely focus.