Innocents: Dusty, #1

Smashwords Edition

INNOCENTS (DUSTY #1)

MARY ELIZABETH

SARAH ELIZABETH

Copyright Mary & Sarah Elizabeth

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

Cover Design: Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

Interior Design: E.M. Tippetts Book Designs

Editor: The Polished Pen

Proofreaders: Amber L. Johnson

Karin Kempert Lawson

First Edition

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Mary’s Dedications

Sarah’s Dedication

A Dusty Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Mary’s Acknowledgements

Sarah’s Acknowledgements

About Mary

About Sarah

Coming Soon

About the Book Designer

Books by Mary & Sarah

Dusty Series

Innocents (Dusty #1)

Delinquents (Dusty #2) - coming October 2014

Branded ( A Bad Boys Anthology) - coming August 2014

To my children, for giving me a reason to be a better person. May you always make wise choices.

To my husband, for giving me the opportunity to be whatever I want. Thank you for staying up late with me.

And to Ashley, for being the first person to know.

To trouble, with my whole heart.

When did you get back? I run my fingers through my mother’s willow tree, keeping my voice low and my head down. Long, green velvet leaves tickle my arms, and chills rush from the tips of my fingers through my elbows.

Just now, he says, walking behind me, peeking between the willows. I came here first. I haven’t been by my house.

I glimpse over my bare shoulder, chancing a look. Thomas’ eyes are tired and his skin is colorless. His normally short blonde-brown hair is long and dirty, curling slightly over his ears. The black jeans his legs are in and the gray tee shirt his thinner-than-usual chest is covered with are brand new.

He looks disgustingly beautiful. Perks of a sinner who has money.

Leigh, I said I was sorry, he apologizes, swatting at tree branches.

You always are.

It’s not like you’re my girlfriend.

I turn around and Thomas is closer than I anticipated. He’s almost touching me, surveying my movements with hopelessly dark, apologetic eyes and slumped shoulders. There’s a cigarette behind his left ear, and I know he carries a more disgraceful addiction in his pocket.

You’re right, I argue. I’m your victim.

I’ll always want you, he whispers, brushing his nose along the ridge of my jaw.

His sudden proximity is overwhelming after time apart. I don’t have a moment to adjust before he takes my hand and presses my palm against the pulse point in his neck.

Do you feel that? Do you feel how fast it beats?

I do.

You make my heart flutter, princess.

I feel it.

He’s further gone than he’s ever been, and his eyes are imperceptible black, but love’s pulse is as sure and quick under my touch as it’s always been.

This, I know.

Thomas removes my hand from his neck and kisses my knuckles. He flashes his curved smirk, turning my butterflies to pins.

You’re high, I whisper.

I am.

He smiles.

I move away from him, extending my hand to tickle the willow. Were you with her?

With who, Bliss? he asks, losing the grin.

I laugh. And not because this is funny, but because this is pathetic.

Don’t call me that, I say, shaking my head in disbelief before turning away.

Unimpressed with my built walls, I feel him studying my every move and detail trying to find his way in. It’s surreal to be able to smell him again: dank green grass and Double Mint. I’ve tried hard to forget this scent, but I used to love it on my own clothes, in my hair, all over my skin. I used to savor it.

That was before.

I close my eyes, imagining for a moment that my heart isn’t broken, that he loves me as much as I love him. I try to convince myself behind shut eyes that Thomas doesn’t continuously choose drugs over me. I play myself a fool by believing one day it will only be him and me.

What do you think? I cry, brushing tears away as they fall.

His silence slaughters.

What do you want to hear? he finally asks softly. Thomas reaches out, claiming me. Who do you want me to be?

Whispers of forever and outcome touch the spot below my ear with his lips. When you turn eighteen, everything will be different, Leighlee.

Excuses.

Like he never left.

But he did.

You look pretty in this dress. Let me take it off and love you, he begs, declares, and promises. Let me be with you.

I know he loves me. I never doubt his love. I doubt his intentions and respect. I distrust his motives and allegiance.

Love?

I smother in dictating love.

He’s loves traitor.

My parents are home, I say.

Thomas leans down and kisses the side of my throat, running his hand up the back of my white dress. He tugs the hair at the nape of my neck. What did you do while I was gone? he asks, his voice calm as tension rolls through him.

I laugh sorrowfully in his arms. You mean, who was I with when you took off for over a month?

Thomas groans in my ear, pulling my hair a little harder. He tightens his fingers into a fist and presses his nose to my jaw. I swear to God. He breathes. I’ll kill him.

I grip onto his arm and dig my nails into his skin. The bricks stacked higher every night he was gone, and like that, I crumble.

No one, I say, moving my hand underneath his chin. Forcing him to look at me, I hold Thomas by his face.

This isn’t the boy I grew up loving; this is a man who brings me along for his ride.

Because I love you. I refuse to allow fear into my voice. Because I love you, nobody else will ever touch me. Even though you are constantly touched.

He closes his eyes, shaking his head with a small smirk. We’re still pressed near. I can feel his words on my skin. I haven’t been with anyone.

My heart cracks, and I hate him for this.

His eyes open, and I miss blue.

Thomas’ grip on my hair loosens, but he gathers me completely to his chest. I’m held until everything I’ve heard and felt, wondered and worried, decided and became in his absence, dissipates. He holds me until there is nothing between us but my dress and his shirt.

Love is fucked-up, but love is all there is.

Thomas flattens his right hand against the small of my back, pressing and keeping me close. He drags his nose slowly up the side of mine and kisses my top lip.

Come with me, he whispers.

I breathe in his words, and when I exhale my reply, it’s easy.

Okay, I say.

And it doesn’t feel a thing like falling.

Walk close behind me, Bliss. We’re almost there. Mom looks down at me, silhouetted in front of the morning sun. You’re having a banana Popsicle for breakfast?

You told me to grab something.

Morning foods, not sugar, she says.

I shrug, breaking a piece off with my teeth.

Mom rolls her eyes and softly squeezes my hand. Come on. We’re going to be late on your first day.

My brain freezes as I’m lead toward the front doors of Sam Case Elementary School. Holding the Popsicle between my lips, I push the palm of my hand against my forehead and groan in fake pain. Maybe I can get out of this.

You’re not missing school, Leighlee, Mom responds right away.

Do I have to wear this name tag? I flick the red and white Hi, my name is sticker on my top.

Mom’s blondish curly hair sways in the wind, and I can smell her citrus shampoo in the air.

Yes, she answers. You want everyone to know who you are, right?

My dad promised everything would be okay, but I didn’t want to move here. I miss my old school in Nevada, with my old friends and my old teacher. I miss the warm air and the sandy ground. Everything in Oregon is … grassy, but I don’t say anything. The small town and the nearby beach aren’t bad.

Wait here. I’m going to run in and grab some paperwork. She tries to act cool and easy. I’m Mom and Dad’s only child—their Leighlee Bliss. But they worry too much. I’ll find friends. Maybe I’ll tell everyone my dad’s a judge now. If they’re not nice to me, he’ll have them arrested.

Mom disappears behind double doors, and I’m supposed to stay put, but I can hear them—other kids. With my pink backpack high on my shoulders, I step in a puddle of water, soaking my clear jellies as I lean one hand against a tree and peek around the building at all of my new classmates.

I stand directly in front of the school’s entryway, about to be thrown into the lion’s den. And all I ate for breakfast was a banana Popsicle.

Bad choices.

Do you think that there’s one single person in this entire town who’s not going to love you, Bliss? Dad asked last night.

Your new best friend is waiting to be found, he swore.

Yeah, right, I grumbled.

I’m serious, Leighlee. There’s someone in that school who was born to be your friend.

Just one? I smiled.

But is one person born for another?

Hey you, in the purple dress, move!

I turn around and skip out of the way as a crazy person zooms past me on her skateboard, almost taking out my toes. She skids to a halt and kicks up her board before stomping in my direction.

You almost killed me! the girl shrieks. She closes the distance between us. Don’t stand there anymore.

Okay, I say, leaning back against the fence. I’m sorry.

With crystal clear blue eyes, she’s chocolate chip cookie and playtime scented, sweating and red in the face like she’s been in the sun all morning long. Fidgeting in a jean skirt, her top is brand new and pink but stretched out at the neck. Her shoes are filthy, and the right one is wrapped in duct tape. There’s a bow in her long dirty-blonde hair, but it’s there because someone told her to wear it; I can tell by her discomfort.

I didn’t mean to almost kill you, I say.

She tucks her board underneath her arm and tilts her head. Are you eating a Popsicle for breakfast?

Yes.

"That’s cool. I wanted to eat cake for breakfast, but Mom said no. Your mom is probably waaayyy cooler than my mom. Lucky. You’re lucky. I’m Rebecka Castor."

She’s a capsule of energy and I can hardly keep up.

I’m Leighlee McCloy.

She studies my name tag with squinted eyes. What kind of name is Leelee? Is it French or something?

My cheeks redden. No one ever gets my name right on the first try. "It’s Leighlee. Lay-lee. It’s American."

Sorry I almost ran you over. Rebecka kind of, sort of blushes. I was going fast because my brother was being mean, and I wasn’t paying attention because my mom made me wear this… she tugs on the end of her skirt …and then I looked up and you were there. It was too late to slow down, and you almost died.

I shake my head. I didn’t almost die. I moved, remember?

Thoughts of death dismissed, Rebecka stares at my Popsicle. Can I have that? I mean, are you going to eat the rest of it? I mean, because it’s melting all over your fingers.

Okay. I hand it over.

She smiles and one of her front teeth is chipped. Thanks.

I have a feeling she’s going to polish off my breakfast in one bite when a group of three boys approach us.

Becka, one of them says. Give the girl her Popsicle back.

He stops and the other two keep walking. Tall and obviously older, this boy looks a lot like Rebecka with darker hair and a bent smirk. He’s cute, I guess. I don’t know. I like his flannel.

I gave it to her, I say, bending my toes in my wet jellies.

Yeah, Thomas. She gave it to me. Rebecka eats the Popsicle in one bite, like I guessed she would. Shut up.

Nice skirt, Becka, he teases, all mischief.

Rebecka drops the Popsicle stick to the ground before she swings her skateboard at the boy’s head. Four dirty pink wheels spin and loose grip tape flaps. He dodges her playful shots at beheading, and they laugh, like it’s a game.

Once they’ve made up, it’s time for introductions. This is my brother, Thomas, Rebecka reveals, pointing toward the boy with the same color eyes as her. He swears he’s cool because he’s a sixth grader, but he sucks.

Thomas pushes her. I’m cool.

She scoffs, jumping back onto her skateboard. She does circles around me and Thomas.

You’re new? he asks, pushing his fingers though his longish hair. Light freckles sprinkle across his pointed nose. And eyebrows a shade darker than the hair on his head curve over the longest lashes and brightest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Today’s my first day, I say with a shrug, trying to make it seem like it’s no big deal.

What’s your name? he asks.

I point to my name tag. Leighlee Bliss.

I pull the tag off and crumble it in my hand. Only my family calls me Bliss.

Leigh, I answer again, carefully enunciating Lay like I did for his sister. My name is Leigh.

Thomas stares at me for a few moments. I follow his eyes as they look from the top my head, past my bony knees, to my still-soaked shoes.

I have to go, he replies.

Bye, I voice too quickly, loosening my grip on the crumpled name tag in my hand.

Thomas hesitates before he leaves. I like the color, he says.

I look around, trying to see what he sees. There’s a few trees in front of the school, but they’re nothing special. I glance down at my purple romper, but I doubt it’s what he’s talking about.

Of what? I ask.

Your hair.

Oh. I touch my soft curls. My mom says it’s strawberry blonde. I let her curl it for me this morning. 

He laughs easy, walking backwards slowly. She sounds cool.

She is, I answer, stuck in place. My heart beats a beat I’ve never felt before, too fast and skipping.

Boys are weird.

Bliss, my mom calls out for me.

I wave goodbye to Rebecka and run toward my mother. Right here.

Her face calms, noticeably relieved. I got your class number. Where were you?

I point toward the girl who almost ran me down. Over there.

My new maybe friend is busy skating when an older man with a walkie-talkie approaches her. He points at her skateboard, berating my new friend with his finger at her nose, shaking it as if he’s saying "no, no, no, and bad, bad, bad." He has to be a teacher or proctor.

Mom, I say, skidding my feet on the concrete. She tries to pull me along.

What, Leigh? She’s flustered, more anxious about my new school than I am, which is dumb. I’m the one spending the day here, not her.

I point toward Becka, and Mom understands because flustered shifts to amusement. Did you make a friend?

Mom has faith in smothering and closely watching, but never shaming. She doesn’t believe in yelling, or spanking, or pointing fingers at children. My dad says it’s an outrage kids are hit at all. He won’t give details, but he’s a judge and a lawyer before that; he’s witnessed his fair share of hit children over the years.

My parents constantly remind me about the importance of making good choices, and respecting my own body space. That man is definitely not in his own body space. He’s being rude.

That’s it, Mom whispers. The bangles on her wrist jingle and sing as she rushes us over. Her skirt floats behind her, and her curly hair bounces with her steps.

Do you mind explaining to me why you’re yelling at this little girl? Mom releases my wrist and points a finger in the man’s face. How do you like it, huh, huh, huh?

Rebecka and I giggle while the bald man with the ugly glasses stumbles over his words. Well, you see, she’s been told.

Your mom is cool, Rebecka whispers, taking my hand.

Hers is yellow-sugar sticky, sweaty, and hot, but it feels like maybe she was born to hold mine.

BECKA AND I have the same teacher, and our desks are right beside each other.

What are you eating? I ask, unpacking all of my school supplies from my backpack.

She offers me her lunch baggie full of smashed dessert. Mom said I couldn’t have cake for breakfast, but she didn’t say I couldn’t have it at all.

Once everyone is settled, Mrs. Perkowski, our fifth-grade teacher, introduces me to the rest of the class. A few look at me like I’m weird, so the sweat-scented girl next to me threatens them with her balled-up fist.

I got your back, she says.

During our first recess, I swing while she chases boys.

I can’t run in this darn skirt. Her face turns a light shade of red as she stretches out denim, ripping a few stitches.

At lunch, I share my turkey sandwich with her. She offers me some of her peanut butter and jelly.

I meet some new friends.

Laura: she likes my purple romper, and I like her pink headband. I think she wants to be my friend, but we’re both equally shy. We’re in the same class.

Oliver: he says hey and that’s it.

Jackie: she smiles at me, and I feel bad because I don’t tell her she has lettuce in her teeth. It would be rude to embarrass her in front of her friends.

Hal Smitty Smith: he’s best friends with Oliver.

Kelly: she demands attention from everyone. She’s close with this girl Katie, and I don’t think either one of them likes me.

After we eat, Becka and I head to the playground where I see Thomas playing soccer on the field. On the sideline, a bunch of girls smile and giggle and whisper to one another. Becka throws Tater Tots at them.

The blonde boy kicking the ball waves at the cluster of girls, but Thomas is in his own world. His concentration is unbreakable, and as he rushes down the other side of the field with a trail of followers pursuing him, his hair falls in his eyes.

When he kicks the ball into the white net, the blonde boy jumps on his back, and another boy with darker hair tackles his knees until all three of them are on the ground.

The girls clap, still whispering and giggling. Only now they point at Thomas and his friends, and it’s odd to me.

Tater Tot? Becka asks, popping one into her mouth.

I look away from her brother and into her eyes. She has the same freckles as he does and a small scar above her right eyebrow. I wonder if she’ll ever tell me how she got it. I wonder if she’s going to be my best friend, because I want her to be. I wonder if she thinks I’m strange because I stare at her deeply. I wonder if she realizes how hard it is not to look at her closely.

No thanks, I say, deciding that tomorrow morning I’m going to bring Rebecka her own banana Popsicle.

WHEN I get home the first thing I do is call my dad and tell him all about school. My teacher was okay, but she smells like peanut butter, and Everyone liked my purple romper, so I think I’ll wear my pink one tomorrow, and I made this new friend but she’s kind of different, and she sneaks chocolate cake into school in lunch baggies.

That’s where he stops me, saying he’ll be home from work soon.

When he walks through the door, I don’t give him a chance to settle before I talk about Rebecka Castor again. "She has a skateboard and a brother, but she has a skateboard! and She held my hand on the way to lunch today, and she threw Tater Tots at this girl because she said she was mean to her, and …"

My parents are happy that I’ve found a person to bond with right away. I kind of, sort of tell them about Thomas, but Dad gives me a funny look at the mention of a boy. I ask him about his day instead.

It wasn’t as exciting as your day, Bliss, he says.

Becka and I become close in the weeks following the beginning of the school year. We’re best friends, and despite our differences, we get along wonderfully. I like Rebecka the way she is, and she deals with my girly tendencies.

Every day we have a sort of routine: Mom drops me off at the front of the school in the morning, and Becka meets me outside the gate where she can ride her board; I give her a Popsicle, and she gives me whatever junk food she finds in her house before leaving for school. Sometimes Thomas is with her, sometimes he’s not.

At recess, Rebecka chases Smitty or makes fun of Kelly, and I watch Thomas play soccer. I’ve learned that his blonde-haired friend is Petey, who they sometimes call Pete, and the dark-haired boy is Benjamin, who they call Ben.

They’re his Becka, and he’s their Bliss.

I’ve only spoken to Thomas a few times. He hasn’t said anything more about my hair, which is a relief. I think about what I’ll say if he ever comments on it again, and everything I come up with is pretty dumb. My mom said I can’t talk to boys, and Shut up, Thomas.

As August, September, and a lot of October pass, I begin to think that he may never talk to me again. Not that I care, because I don’t. It just makes it more awkward when Thomas asks out of nowhere, Why does your mom call you Bliss?

He and Petey stick around with his sister and wait for me before class starts. I don’t particularly like the way Petey looks at me, but then again, I don’t think I like the way any boy does. Even Thomas, because sometimes he stares at me with those abnormal blue eyes and it’s scary.

They’re waiting for my answer, and I don’t want to tell them. I take a bite and chew my Twinkie—courtesy of Becka—slowly. When the first bite is finished, I take another.

Thomas’ eyes are set on my mouth, and Petey asks something like, She’s a fifth grader?

Becka grows bored with my slow eating and rides her board around the parking lot. Thomas kind of mumbles something to Petey, and Petey sort of rolls his eyes before crossing his arms over his chest and sighs.

When I swallow the last of my Twinkie, I’m sad because it’s gone. Mom doesn’t buy sugary foods. She says that they’re bad for my teeth, so I don’t tell her about my daily exchange with Rebecka.

You don’t have to tell me, Leigh, Thomas says so softly his lips hardly move. His eyes are ahead watching his best friend and little sister play around. He seems to be a little bit annoyed with Petey, only not.

It’s stupid, I whisper.

Thomas looks right at me and admits, My family calls me Dusty.

Why? I ask.

He chuckles like he knows exactly why, only he doesn’t want to tell me. I have no fucking idea.

I rarely hear my parents curse, so it’s outrageous to me that Thomas said the F-word freely. I should tell on him, but then I feel like it makes Thomas the sixth grader cooler.

Bliss is my middle name. I shrug my shoulders and try to control my blush. My parents had a hard time having a baby, so when I was finally born, Mom said I was a blissful wonder.

He smiles before sinking his hands into his pockets.

During class Becka tells me they call Thomas Dusty because when he was little he overheard his dad say asshole. He repeated it over and over and their parents thought it was funny, declaring that his mouth was mini-foul—dusty, not grimy. However, his language only got worse over the years. Especially lately, she says.

But it’s too late to call him Filthy, because he’s already Dusty, she adds.

HALLOWEEN IN Newport, Oregon isn’t any different than it was in Nevada; everyone at school is dressed up for the costume parade.

Kelly’s a ladybug in a short skirt.

Becka says she’s scandalous.

I like the word.

Scandalous.

Smitty’s Freddy Kruger, and he’s been chasing my best friend around the basketball courts all morning. She’s dressed up like Michael Meyers but totally screams like a girl.

What are you? Thomas asks, coming up behind me. His voice is close to my ear. He tickles my neck with his breath.

What do you want, Thomas? He jumps in front of me and I scream.

His face is smeared with white-gray makeup, and fake blood covers his clothes. Not too far behind him are Petey and Ben, and they look the same as he does, only not as scary. You look like a princess. Is that what you are, Bliss? A princess?

I push his shoulder. I’m Sleeping Beauty.

Aww, a pretty-pretty princess, Thomas teases. He circles one my curls around his finger.

Leave me alone, I grumble, moving away from him again.

Petey leaps in front of me, waving his hands around like an idiot. I exhale, shoving him away from my body space as Ben tugs on my dress. I swipe at his hand and straighten out pink silky satin.

Hey, Thomas warns his friends. They don’t listen.

Petey, quit it. I stomp my foot, but they only laugh harder.

I start to cry.

Bliss, Thomas whispers softly. Don’t cry, princess pie.

I shrug him off.

The zombie’s sister comes to my rescue and she’s angry. Darn it, Dusty, look what you did.

Pretending to sob in order to make the walking dead feel terrible isn’t kind. Between Becka yelling at Thomas and him felling awful for making me cry, I slip my hands from my face and shout, Just kidding!

The joke’s on them.

Petey and Ben chuckle nervously, but Thomas’ sharp eyes focus on me like he’s saying, Game on, Bliss.

I stick my tongue out at the teasing trio before I take Becka’s hand and skip away toward the Halloween parade together.

She wins Most Horrifying costume in the school’s contest.

I get a snack-sized Snickers from Oliver.

DO YOU think your mom will let you come over? Becka asks, taking half of my sandwich while I take her oatmeal cookies.

Turns out I have a massive sweet tooth that I was unaware of before I met this girl nine months ago.

I shrug, biting into the brown sugar gooey goodness. Maybe.

She trades me her white milk for my chocolate milk. My mom said it’s fine if you spend the night. She said she’ll make dinner, which is weird because my mom doesn’t cook.

I hold the cookie up. She makes cookies.

She rolls her eyes, opening my milk before her own. No, Bliss. Mom buys these from the baker.

I’ll ask when I get home, I say.

She’ll say yes, Becka assures me with a mouth full of food.

Thomas comes by our lunch table and takes my milk.

MY HEART beats all kinds of rigid and quick. I chew on my bottom lip and pull on the ends of my hair. I’ve never been allowed to spend the night over a friend’s house before, but I’ll be in the sixth grade soon. It’s almost summer, and I’m old enough.

Isn’t there a boy in that house? Dad asks, folding his newspaper. His bushy eyebrows come together.

I stop playing with my hair. Thomas isn’t a boy. He’s a brother.

The man who gave me life sits back in his black leather recliner, rocking a bit. He has a caseload on the table in front of him, and my mother at his side.

I don’t feel comfortable allowing you to sleep under the same roof as a boy, Bliss, he says.

Frustration burns behind my eyes. But the risk of waterworks does nothing for Judge McCloy. This may as well be his courtroom, and I may as well be some child crook. He makes decisions based on facts. It was that way before he was appointed to the bench last summer.

But Rebecka’s my best friend, I remind him, fighting back tears.

She’s a good kid, Thaddeus, Mom says, not completely confident in her own words.

My father looks up. I’ve met Lucas Castor, Teri … he trails off, not saying another word. Their uncomfortable silence turns my stomach.

Since becoming friends with Becka and Thomas, I can see how strict my parents are compared to theirs and I haven’t even met them. I’ve never wanted to yell at my mom and dad before, but sitting on this couch while they give each other uncertain half-looks, I feel like screaming.

Please let me spend the night with my friend, I say steadily, keeping care of my tone. It would mean a lot to me.

I’ve replayed the one time I heard Thomas curse in my head over and over since it happened, but I’ve never had the courage to say it out loud.

Fucking.

"I have no fucking idea."

He licked his lips, adjusted his backpack, and ran his hand though his hair. He was sure of himself.

Let me fucking go, Dad.

I want to fucking go to Rebecka’s, Mom.

This isn’t fucking fair!

I could never.

But when I think I can’t handle the indecision any longer, Dad clears his throat. He’s reached his verdict.

Don’t make me regret letting you go, Bliss.

I stand up and scream. I jump up and down and clap my hands and do a little dance. I hug my daddy and don’t pay attention as he grumbles things about pre-teen boys and something called a chastity belt.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, I squeal, taking off up the stairs.

Leighlee. Dad’s deep tone echoes off of the walls. We’re trusting you.

You can, I quickly swear, packing my bag.

ON THE car ride over, I can hardly stay in my seat. Dad doesn’t come along, but Mom drives with strict instructions: speak with parents and make sure the boy doesn’t look like a threat.

They’re totally embarrassing.

After turning into Rebecka’s driveway, my mom looks around and whistles in awe. This place is nice, she says, mostly to herself.

It’s the nicest house I’ve seen in this small town. White with blue trim, two stories high, it’s surrounded by tall, beautiful trees. The lawn is an unreal green, and the orange, pink, and red roses surrounding the wraparound porch are perfectly bloomed.

I smell their sweet scent in the air as soon as I get out of the car.

Hey, Becka calls, running out from the side of the house. Her skateboard is in her right hand and her bangs are stuck to her sweaty forehead.

Just got here, I say, lifting my backpack onto my shoulder. My mom