Eighteen (18) Read online

  But all the kids from school hang out at the arcade in the evenings and I don’t want to see anyone right now. So I go to Phil’s. It’s a dumb move because if Jason wants to go looking for me that will be the first stop.

  But again, limited options.

  So I trudge up the alley, my Chucks soaking wet as I splash through the leftover puddles, and cross West Street. Phil’s car isn’t in the driveway, so I know he’s not home. But I knock on the door anyway. Desperate times and all.

  The locks disengage and I have half a second of excitement about being wrong, but then I look up into the face of Taking Back Sunday.

  Jesus Christ. No breaks, huh?

  “Hey,” he says. “Cage the Elephant. Nice jacket. Didn’t have that on this morning.” I hear lots of rowdy voices inside as I wonder if he saw who was wearing this jacket this morning.

  “Is Phil here?”

  Sunday shakes his head. “Mexico for a few days. I’m watching the dog.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “Ditto. He’s my cousin. Want to come in? We’re passing a joint.”

  I sigh, look over my shoulder at the street, and then shrug. He moves aside and opens the door, and I slip past him, my jacket brushing against his arm.

  Everyone stops talking for a moment as I log their faces. I recognize most of them. A group of kids from school who also hang out at the arcade. I realize now that I’ve seen Sunday before. But these are not my people, not that I even have people here, and I’ve never really talked to them.

  “Shannon,” a tall girl standing in the kitchen says. She’s got short jet-black hair and her eyes are thick with black eyeliner. “Miss Bad Day, huh?”

  I squint my eyes at her. “What?”

  “Danny,” she says, nodding to Sunday, who is now standing next to me. “He told us about your epic tantrum in the office this morning. Way to go, bitch. I hear the fucks were flying and everyone was too afraid to stop you.”

  “Who—”

  “That’s Rocky,” Sunday says. “And that’s Greg, and Tim, and Matt.” Sunday points to the three guys passing the joint in the small living room.

  “Wanna hit?” Greg asks. He’s got light, curly brown hair that ends at the top of his shoulders and a kind face.

  I shake my head and look around, feeling more helpless than I have in a very long time. “Can I use your bathroom?” I ask Sunday.

  “You know where—”

  I do. So I just walk off and make my way down the hallway, taking a left at the end and slip inside, locking the door behind me.

  I can hear them whisper so I turn on the faucet to drown out the hum of gossip and splash water on my face. When I look in the mirror there sure as shit is a red mark on my cheek. I touch it with my fingertips and will it to go away, but it doesn’t. It practically darkens as I watch, my hands propping me up on each side of the small, white, pedestal sink.

  “Shannon?” Sunday’s soft voice is accompanied by a knock. “You OK?”

  Silence from me. I feel a little paralyzed. I’m so not OK. “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Be right out.”

  “You want a dry t-shirt? I have a clean one if you want it.”

  “Um.”

  “It’s outside the door.”

  I turn the faucet off and listen to his retreating footsteps, and then open the door as quietly as I can and grab the shirt. It’s another black concert shirt, but this one says My Chemical Romance.

  I take my shirt off and drape it over the towel rack to dry, and then slip the new one on. It’s way too big, but it feels nice. I stare at myself for another few minutes, desperate to find a way out of this day. But I’m not a coward and I’m done hiding in here, so I gather myself and walk back out to the living room.

  It’s empty.

  Except Sunday.

  “Where’d everyone go?”

  He smiles at me. “You look like…”

  “Hell?”

  That gets a small laugh out of him. But he shakes his head. “Nah, just tired. And like you’re not in the mood for company.”

  “Yeah, I should go.”

  “You don’t have to,” he says, pointing to the TV. “You can stay and watch a movie if you want.”

  And because he seems nice and I have nowhere to go but home, I plop down on the couch and stare at the screen.

  He doesn’t say another word. Not one question, not one comment, not one attempt at conversation.

  And I am so fucking grateful for my invisibility, I fall asleep on the couch exhausted at the end of a very bad day that I will never be able to forget.

  Because it’s a milestone.

  The first day of my adult life was filled with disappointments, admonishments, and a hit to the face.

  But also an opportunity and this guy, Sunday, who does not even know me, but who knew just what to do to make it better.

  Just call me an optimist. Always looking for that silver lining.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning I’m so disoriented, it takes me whole minutes to come to terms with the realization that I’m not in my own bed, that Rocky girl is talking to me, and Sunday is cooking something that smells delicious.

  “What?” I say, looking up at Rocky.

  “Your bruise,” she says, pointing to my face.

  I touch it and wince. “What about it?”

  “Do you want me to cover it?” She holds up a clear bag of makeup. “It’s not too bad.”

  “Done this before, huh?”

  She smiles with a shrug.

  “Sure.”

  I use the bathroom, smile back at Sunday when he smiles at me, and then plop down at the small kitchen table and look longingly at the food in front of me as Rocky makes me pretty.

  Sunday watches. I can’t figure out if I like that he’s watching or if I don’t.

  “Are you going to school today?” he asks.

  I check my face with a compact mirror and then hand it back to Rocky with a thank you. “I think I have to.”

  “Graduation and shit, right?” He has a great smile, I realize. Friendly. His hair is very dark, but he’s not Hispanic. Ditto for Rocky. They both have very dark eyes and when I look directly into Sunday’s, he’s staring at me.

  “Hey, are you two related?”

  “Twins,” they say together.

  “Obviously not identical,” Sunday says. “I’m so much better-looking.”

  Rocky halfheartedly punches him and then gets up to grab some more bacon from the counter before snatching her backpack from the coffee table and walking to the door. “I’ll see you there, Danny. Gotta meet Tim.”

  “Yeah, bye,” Sunday absently says. His eyes never leave mine. “You need a ride to school then? I live back there,” he says, thumbing behind his shoulder to indicate behind us.

  “Oh,” I say. “I was wondering where you got this shirt from.”

  “Phil’s my cousin,” he says. “Rocky and I have lived in the apartment above the garage since last summer when we turned eighteen.”

  I wince at the word.

  He stays silent for a long second. “I get it, you know.”

  “Get what?” I ask through a mouthful of bacon.

  “The bad day.”

  “Oh, that.” I chew and swallow. “Yeah, well, it’s behind me now, so bygones and all that good shit.”

  “You’re gonna go far with that attitude, Daydreams.”

  “Daydreams?” I ask.

  “You called me Sunday last night.”

  “I did not.”

  “You woke up about three am asking for water. And you said, Thanks, Sunday. And I said, Who the fuck is Sunday? And you said, You, dumbass. And then you grabbed my t-shirt and pulled me down, close to your face, and said—”

  “I did not do any of that,” I say, laughing.

  “Then how do I know you call me Sunday?”

  “I don’t… know.”

  He leans across the table, his
face getting so close to mine I have a shock of fear that he might try to kiss me. And then he whispers, “Because you said it, Daydreams.”

  He leans back into his chair again and I just stare straight ahead for a few moments. All I can do is blink silently.

  “And I was gonna call you Elephant, but—” He shrugs.

  My smile is big. “I like Daydreams better.”

  “My favorite song by them,” he says. “Cigarette Daydreams. ‘Youuuu were only seventeen. So sweet—with a mean streak.’”

  I laugh.

  “‘Nearly brought me to my knees.’”

  “Oh, my God.”

  He stops singing. “But you’re eighteen now. So fuck. I’m a day late, aren’t I?”

  I take a deep breath and let that little thrill wash over me. That thrill that says you might’ve just met someone special. “Nah, you’re right on time, Sunday.”

  He stands up and get his keys, then grabs my backpack off the floor. “Ready?”

  “Sure,” I say, grabbing Alesci’s leather jacket—thankful Sunday didn’t mention it again— and fall into step with him. We leave by the back door and he backs an older-model Acura out while I wait in the driveway, since the garage is too small to get in the passenger side.

  I open the door and slide in next to him. The car is not new, but he takes good care of it and the leather is soft to the touch.

  “I’d put some music on,” he says, flipping the car around so he can get out of the driveway without backing into the street. “But then you’d have no reason to talk to me.”

  I shake my head. He’s nice. Built like a quarterback, I remind myself. And he has a handsome face. “It’s a two-minute ride to school. Not much to say.”

  “You can start with something like… what happened last night?”

  I frown.

  “Or not. You’ll tell me eventually though.”

  “How do you know that?” I watch him drive, his eyes straight ahead. He didn’t shave this morning, so he’s got more stubble than he did yesterday.

  “Because you’re stuck with me now, Daydreams. I like you.”

  I laugh and look out the window. “Thanks, by the way.”

  “What for?” he asks, pulling up to the stop sign at Lincoln Avenue.

  “Rescuing me.”

  “Ha.” He laughs. “I don’t think you needed a rescue, Shannon.” When he says my name my stomach flutters. “You just needed a hand up, that’s all.”

  “Well, thanks for the offer. I don’t get many.”

  “Huh. Could’ve fooled me. Bowman gave you one yesterday. But maybe it was just crushed between all the kicks in the face, so you missed it?”

  He looks over at me and then back to the road. A few seconds later we’re pulling into a parking space, tons of kids and cars all around us. We sit there in silence for a few moments, just the ticking of the engine after he turns it off. “I’ll take you home, too. And I sit on the wall at lunch.” He gets out of the car and I follow. We stare at each other over the hood for a few moments. “Don’t ditch me, Daydreams. I like you.”

  And then he walks off.

  “Hey, Sunday?” I call. He turns around, a huge shit-eating grin on his face as he walks backwards. “Did you see these guys in concert?” I ask, pulling on the shoulder of the My Chemical Romance t-shirt I’m wearing.

  “What? You think I shop at Hot Topic or something? Where else would I get it?” He laughs and turns back around, a few other boys joining him as they walk onto campus.

  No. He’s not a day late all. He’s most definitely right on time.

  Day two of second semester goes pretty much like day one, except for the first-period smackdown by Bowman. Fowler doesn’t even bother showing for PE, so Mary and Josie and I walk our laps, slow as sloths, until the bell rings. I sit through economics thinking about how Sunday and I can be in the same grade and yet I have no classes with him.

  At lunch I’m nervous. I’m not sure why—he told me to find him. Practically ordered me not to ditch him. But still, my stomach flutters like crazy when I approach the wall.

  It’s not a wall. Well, it sorta is. It’s a circle, like some kind of giant brick fire pit, but it’s got benches and there’s no fire pit in the middle. And it’s not all filled with white kids, it just looks that way because everyone is dressed up grunge. Flannels, army jackets, combat boots, Chucks, Docs, ripped jeans, ripped shirts, tattoos, piercings, metal bands, pink hair, blue hair, black hair, black clothes, and lots of chains as jewelry.

  We are Hot Topic.

  I almost laugh at that.

  But we are not all white. Every ethnicity here is represented because people—no matter where they are from, what color their skin, or any of those other bullshit identifiers—people congregate with their tribes.

  These are my people. I knew the very first day last month that if I found friends in this school, this is where I’d find them.

  Sunday greets me when I approach. Introduces me, includes me. Even puts his arm around me once. Fleetingly. I suspect it was some kind of secret signal to another guy that I’m not available. That even though he and I are not together, he’s claimed me.

  I’m surprisingly OK with that.

  But when the bell rings and he leans down to—I don’t know, kiss me?—I put my hand on his chest. “I like you,” I say. “But I’m not looking. So…”

  “So?” he says.

  “So if that’s what you’re after, I’m gonna disappoint you.”

  He takes my backpack off my shoulder and says, “I’ll walk you to class.”

  The rest of the day flies by with my head in a fog. What is he doing? Does he want to be friends? He wasn’t mad when I stopped his kiss. If he was going to kiss me. I think he was.

  At the end of the day I grab Alesci’s jacket from my locker and head to the front of the school. Sunday is there, waiting right where Bowman picked me up yesterday.

  “’Bout time,” he says, taking my backpack and giving the jacket a weird look. Please don’t ask me about it. Please, please, please. “Wanna come over? I got a couple hours before work.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” I say. “I have night school down at Gilbert.”

  “Need a ride?”

  I nod, wincing at how dependent I am on people these days. When we get to his car, he opens my door for me. “Thank you,” I say.

  He just smiles, gets in his side, and holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

  “What?”

  “Your phone. So I can call you and give you my number.”

  I fish around in my backpack for my phone and hand it to him. He doesn’t even remark on how old it is, how the screen is cracked, or how all the numbers are practically rubbed off on the outdated keys. He calls himself, then presses end, adds his name to my contacts, and hands it back.

  “Call me when you’re done there and I’ll come get you.”

  “I thought you had to work?”

  He shrugs and starts the car. “My boss is flexible.”

  Chapter Eight

  As soon as I’m out of Sunday’s car my mind immediately goes back to last night with Mateo. It’s like a switch flips. But his motorcycle isn’t in the parking lot, and I realize I have another class to go to before his.

  I sit through science with my leg bouncing the entire time. Science isn’t a class. It’s a room with about eight kids who have a textbook and do tests. You can do them all open-book and get a C, or do the work and study and go for an A. I opt for open-book and complete four tests in two hours.

  The teacher, who never even introduces himself to me, shoots me looks each time I turn one in. “Trying to get them all done in one day, Drake?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I have very little control over my life at the moment. I take it where I can get it.”

  He leaves me alone after test three.

  When the class is finally dismissed I am consumed with thoughts of Mateo. We didn’t even set up a time last night. What if he’s not here? Where am I sup
posed to go? Should I go to the office and ask?

  But in the end, he is sitting at that little table desk in room twenty-one. He’s not wearing a suit. Jesus fuck. His plain white t-shirt stretches across his chest just like the dress shirt did yesterday. And his bare arms are covered in tattoos. His dark hair is neither long nor short, and he’s got a little curl that falls down onto his forehead.

  I want very badly to touch that little curl of hair.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  “I am?”

  He nods up to the clock, which reads five minutes after five.

  “Was I supposed to be here at five? Because you never said yesterday.”

  “Here’s your book,” he says, leaning around to grab a textbook and dropping it on the table with a loud thump. “And here,” he says, repeating the action, “is your workbook. You have homework every night. We meet at five and stay until seven. On the weekends—”

  “Weekends?”

  He looks up at me, those green eyes burning. He’s pissed about something, I realize. “We did agree on every day?”

  “But you never said anything about the weekends.”

  “We can meet at my house on the weekends.”

  “What?”

  “My house, Shannon. Do you prefer mornings or mornings?”

  I don’t know what to say. This guy, he’s like a bulldozer who runs me over. “I don’t think I can do weekends.”

  “You can,” he says, nodding. “Now sit down and tell me what you know about integers.” His legs stretch out under the table. They scissor between mine. My eyes dart up to look at him. “Problem?” he asks.

  I blink.

  “No? Then read the first paragraph on page eight and tell me what you think it means.”

  I look down at my book.

  His legs move against mine. Rubbing back and forth. What the fuck?

  “Read it, Shannon.”

  I swallow and begin. I read for whole minutes about numbers on a number line. Shit any second grader should know, but authors feel compelled to repeat at the beginning of each textbook. I stop at the end of the page and look up.

  He smiles. “Keep going.”

  “This is dumb.”