Toxic Bad Boy (5 page)

When I got downstairs just
after six, my dad stood in front of the coffee pot, wearing a robe
and pajama pants. Obviously just woken up, his wavy hair lay
untamed. He gazed at me with a worried expression. “You need to dry
your hair, Gianna. It’s cold outside.”

I dropped my backpack on
the floor and hopped up onto a barstool. “By the time I leave for
school it’ll be dry, Dr. Thorpe.”

He let out a sound
reflecting something between amusement and annoyance. On his way
out of the kitchen he walked past carrying a cup of coffee, pausing
to kiss me on the forehead. My dad had never been a morning person
and I suspected he drank coffee until noon most days.

I’d had little appetite in
the weeks following leaving the hospital but I finally gained back
the weight I’d lost. Taking my instant oatmeal into the living
room, I picked up the remote to put it on a channel airing a music
documentary. The program was about a band from the ‘90s which Caleb
loved.

I started
crying.

It was a good thing I
hadn’t put on eyeliner. My unstable emotions often surprised me
like this. Bringing my feet up onto the couch, I set my bowl onto
an end table. My therapist advised me not to hold back tears, to
let it all out. Sometimes I supremely disliked her.

The idea of being on
antidepressants scared me. I’d already lost so much of myself and I
was afraid of losing more. As horrible as I felt, I refused to let
my emotions be controlled by drugs. I’d rather be strong enough to
heal on my own. My dad remained undecided and my mom was horrified
at the thought of her daughter being medicated for mental
problems.

I understood that
prescribed drugs were a godsend to some people, but I couldn’t help
thinking it would be like giving up. As if Josh had defeated me
more than just physically and I’d be waving a white flag of mental
surrender.

The shower shut off
upstairs in my dad’s bathroom. I turned off the TV and raced up the
stairs to my room before he could notice my blotchy face. I closed
my bedroom door and sat down at my desk, pulling Caleb’s last
letter from the bottom drawer.

I’d read the letter four
times since receiving it two days ago. It was written on binder
paper in pencil. His handwriting had a slight forward slant and he
must push down hard when writing because the pencil marks were
thick and dark. My fingers ran over the word I liked most,
love
.

I missed him so much it
was like a physical ache. I realized he sensed the distance I put
between us now, but I couldn’t help it. It was as if a glass jar
trapped the tender words and openness I used to share with him. The
emotions were there inside the glass jar, clear to see and trying
to flutter out, but unable to escape.

My love for him had only
grown in our time apart. The problem was my belief that Caleb
deserved to love someone more worthy. I’d ruined his life, got him
sentenced to confinement. Loving me had only brought him
trouble.

If Caleb got to know me as
I existed now, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
Being stuck in juvie, he didn’t understand how pathetic I’d become,
afraid of my own shadow and on my way to being labeled the
weird girl
at
school.

Returning his letter to
the bottom drawer, I slammed it shut and logged onto my laptop. My
email contained another new message alert from Facebook.
Impulsively, I clicked on the link, going onto Facebook for the
first time in months. My inbox was full of messages from people at
my old school, three alone from Seth. I was ashamed of them knowing
what happened to me.

As I deleted the messages
without reading them, I pretended I’d also erased their knowledge
of the attack. Urgency coursing through me, I then moved on to my
friends list, deleting almost everyone. Cece would notice and ask
me what was going on. I’d probably lie to her again.

I reached Caleb Morrison
on my friend list and tears formed again.

It was twisted how I could
talk to him on the phone every Saturday, putting on a strong front,
but totally lose it when I was alone in my room looking at his name
on a computer screen. While speaking on the phone we verbally
tiptoed around each other, making a conscious effort not to upset
the other person. My
I love yous
were heartfelt but guilt ridden.

At times there existed a
sense of numbness, a disconnection with reality that haunted me. I
was stuck in a fog that I couldn’t see clear from. It was as if our
relationship never happened, or we were broken up without saying
the words.

While at school, I went
through the motions in a haze of automatic motions and responses.
Perhaps the same glass jar which trapped my feelings for Caleb also
provided a protective barrier around me around me in public. Only
to be broken when something set me off, causing me to enter real
life and usually act like a spaz.

The first couple weeks
back in school, even a new school, had been the worst. On my second
day, I’d left chemistry class to use the restroom, walking down an
empty hallway. Rounding a corner, I’d bumped into a guy wearing a
navy blue shirt. I’d completely freaked out. It brought me right
back to the attack. Josh had worn his navy football jersey that
game night.

The poor guy who’d
collided with me had probably carried bruises from me hitting him.
I pictured him showing them off to his friends as he told them
about the crazy girl who’d ran into the girls’ bathroom after
punching the crap out of him.

Locking myself in a stall,
I’d missed my next two classes that day. I’d almost expected to be
called to the office in the afternoon for suspension. I could only
guess the boy had no idea who I was or he’d laughed it
off.

On the phone with Caleb, a
part of me always burned to confide in him, tell him how messed up
I really was. Instead, I constantly assured him everything was
fine. The part of me that still wanted him to see me as I used to
be always held me back from opening up. I was too embarrassed by my
weaknesses to tell the truth. Soaking up his love in phone calls
and letters was what I lived for nowadays. I couldn’t take the
thought of losing his precious love.

But I was afraid of him
turning away from me after he was released.

Did he think about what
Josh did to me? Did it disgust him? Would he even want to touch me
like he used to?

I imagined him getting out
of juvie and realizing he didn’t want damaged goods with anxiety
problems. In my worst moments, I pictured him deciding he didn’t
love me anymore.

I studied the girls at
school, the happy ones who kissed and held hands with their
boyfriends. Was that what I’d looked like with Caleb, so carefree?
Would Caleb want the kind of carefree girl I’d been? Didn’t he
deserve that?

Right before Christmas
break a guy on the basketball team asked me out. While he was
waiting for a response, I’d just stared back at him in panicked
silence. The appropriate response had been drumming in my head. All
I’d had to do was tell him I had a boyfriend, but I couldn’t get
the words out of my mouth.

Eventually, he’d given me
an odd look deserving of the freak I was and walked away shaking
his head. I’d missed the period after lunch that day and hid in the
bathroom again. Every time I ditched a class, I had to tell the
school psychologist so it could be excused.

The confessions were their
own special humiliation and they always notified my dad.

When Caleb had casually
mentioned one day over the phone that he wished we could talk
during his phone time during the weekdays, I’d almost laughed. How
could I tell him I missed class all the time? That the girls’
restrooms at school were becoming my own person panic rooms? I even
had a favorite stall in each one. I might as well take a Sharpie to
the metal walls and write
Gianna was
here...again
.

Weekends breaking with the
crew were actually somewhat calming. I slept over some Friday
nights at Jared and Cece’s house and we went to ballet together
Saturday morning. We usually ate at her family’s restaurant
afterward for lunch. By the time we got back to her house in the
afternoon, the rest of the crew waited in the garage for a
session.

I knew there was no way
they knew about what happened. Caleb had promised not to tell Dante
or Taye. Other than me, my friends didn’t know anyone else from
Broomfield. The paranoia about them finding out existed
anyways.

At first, when the guys
had to get up close to me during a routine, I’d start to feel
panicky. Blaming it on my newly healed injuries, I’d tear myself
away from whatever guy I danced with, trying to get myself under
control. I’d fooled most of them, but Jared and Cece’s concerns had
been harder to brush off.

Cece kept giving me
probing looks. She questioned my supposed cheerleading accident and
Caleb being locked up around the same time. I lied as I always did,
feeling guilty for the necessary deceit, but preferring it over my
best friend finding out about the attack.

Jared was even more
intuitive than Cece. Maybe it was some sort of ingrained male
instinct, the ability to sense a damaged female. The old Jared
would have pounced on Caleb being in juvie. Instead, he treated me
with nothing but consideration, in a purely brotherly
way.

At seven-fifteen in the
morning I went back downstairs. My dad, now dressed in a dress
shirt, tie and slacks, stood drinking another cup of coffee in the
kitchen. Having now had an adequate dose of caffeine, he appeared
much more cheerful. “Hi, princess.”

How weird was it that
Caleb and my dad called me the same nickname? I’d never told Caleb,
because it might have freaked him out, but I’d secretly found it
hilarious.

Plus, I liked
it.

“
Hey, I was just heading
out.”

My dad checked the
microwave clock. “Yeah, me too. My first appointment is in an
hour.”

He’d been able to get an
office downtown in a building filled with other cosmetic doctors.
His practice opened for business last month. I’d always been in awe
of my dad’s intelligence. Even with a wife and kid, he’d been able
to get through medical school. He was thirty-three now and a
handsome guy. I imagined he’d eventually remarry now that he’d
settled into private practice.

“
Got all your homework
done?” he asked uncomfortably. It’d been years since he’d had to
parent full time and the last was when I’d been in the third
grade.

“
If I said no?” I teased
him.

For a moment he looked
unsure, then his face melted in a smile. “Get to school,
brat.”

Ten minutes later I parked
my Jeep in a spot close to a side entrance of the main building. It
was chilly this morning and I’d had the heater on full blast during
the drive to school. Gray clouds painted the sky and my weather app
said there’d be AM snow showers. I grabbed my thicker winter coat
from the backseat and shrugged it on over the lightweight cropped
jacket.

I’d arrived at school a
half hour early and had time to kill. I wandered inside, passing in
the hallway a few teachers and students, none of which I knew
personally. The lounge area by the cafeteria had diner-style booths
which weren’t very comfortable but provided a place to hang out
when not in class or during lunch. The dimly lit area was decorated
in the school colors of green and yellow gold.

Hefting my backpack onto a
dark green laminate tabletop, I slid into the bench seat. I took
out my used copy of
The Scarlet
Letter
and began reading where I’d left
off yesterday. We’d have a big test on the book in class next week
and I hadn’t finished it yet.

The story was sucky and
depressing. I wished we had a cooler English teacher who’d picked a
better book for us to read. This was the same book kids my age had
been forced to read for decades. Surely something less boring had
been published in the last century.

The
thud
of another backpack hitting the
table’s surface caused me to flinch and suck in a breath of alarm.
I let it out and assessed the guy taking the seat across from me.
He put his elbows on the table, templing his fingers in front of
his lips. His pensive gesture and expression were
unnerving.

“
Um, yeah?” I curtly
asked.

The three feet of table
between us provided me with a limited sense of security. So did the
pepper spray in the front pocket of my backpack. It was a definite
violation of school rules, but I didn’t give a damn. If I ever
needed to use it I’d deal with the consequences like a big
girl.

A grin spread from behind
his fingers. “I thought that was you. Saw you, but your hair is
different. Looks good.”

My face must have
expressed my confusion because he brought his hands down and leaned
back. “You don’t remember me?”

Looking him over, he
seemed familiar. His black hair was buzzed short and he had a small
spacer in one ear. At his left wrist, a hint of tattoo peeked out
from the sleeve of his thermal shirt. His features hinted at a mix
of Caucasian and Asian ancestry.