Bad Boy Blues(39)

“What is it?” I ask.

“This whole thing between you and Zach. Like, what happened? Why does he torture you, of all people?”

I go back to flicking the flour. “Because he’s mean. And rich, and that gives him the right to do anything he wants.”

This isn’t something new. I’ve told this to her a thousand times. She’s heard me cry and bitch about it for years. I don’t know why she’s at it again, though.

“Do you remember the very first time you met?”

I stop mixing; it’s already incorporated more than the recipe called for.

The first time.

I hardly remember any of it, except that it was my first day of school and I was hungry enough to borrow carrot sticks and then, I met him in the detention room.

Although, I do remember that he was looking out the window, staring at a water fountain, and his uniform was as messed up and wrinkled as mine. I remember this utter longing to talk to him, the only boy who looked like me: dirty and untidy.

I remember this tug in my stomach. This flapping and fluttering. At the time I thought, I was so hungry that my tummy was making weird noises. But later, I realized that they were the butterflies, and that tug was the miserable connection between us.

Anyway, when I did talk to him, he turned out to be a complete jerk who called me a thief, smirking, looking me up and down like I was a reject or something. I got angry at that, and I might have said something back.

But again, I don’t remember.

“Not really. I mean, I was like, ten and in detention. The only thing that jumps out is that he was super arrogant and rude and I hated him.”

Tina drums her fingers on her chin. “I wish I remembered what you told me.”

“Why are we talking about this again?”

“Because enough is enough.” She slaps a hand on the island. “We need to go talk to him.”

“What? No.”

“Yes. Are you going to wait for him to leave and then go on dates? Or have fun and live your life?” She shakes her head. “You can’t wait on anyone, Cleo. You can’t be scared of him. He needs to learn his lesson. Forget about letting go. You were right. Justice is the answer.”

“It’s not. We’re not going anywhere and I’m not afraid of him.”

I’m not. Not really.

I’m afraid of myself. Of the things I am capable of.

Last night was exactly like prom. Even the words I used were the same.

That’s what he does to me. He pushes my buttons. He pushes them and pushes them and I become something entirely different.

Don’t be like me.

After I ran away yesterday, I spent the night at my old house. I couldn’t sleep, not like I’d slept in Zach’s bed but I lay there, curled up and crying until the morning came. I had enough presence of mind to carry a phone in the pocket of my dress and text Tina that I was spending the night at my parents’ house.

I did tell her things. But not everything. Not about my stupidity in breaking into his room. Not about what transpired between us.

And how I responded.

How I became… all turned on and Jesus Christ, wet.

I was wet. For Zach.

“Why not?” she asks, after a while.

I sigh. “Because I said so, okay? Leave it alone.”

She props her hands on her hips and looks at me suspiciously. “Why do I think you’re hiding something from me?”

With a jumping heart, I lie, “I’m not. You’re paranoid. Now let’s get these cupcakes done, okay?”

She keeps giving me the look but I don’t pay her much attention from where I’m measuring the wet ingredients.

“Jeez, stop staring at me. You’re going to make me screw up,” I snap a few moments later.

“Whatever. Making cupcakes is the stupidest idea, by the way. Brownies. Make brownies. They are square and therefore, easier.”

She’s right but I’m not going to tell her that.

By the time we finish with the cupcakes, it’s dinnertime and I tell Tina to order pizza and decide to go get Art.

He’s been playing outside for a couple of hours now. Along with making cupcakes for the bake sale, I told Doris I’d keep an eye on him while she got some rest. So Art spent the entire afternoon with me, and we watched a Batman movie.

“Art,” I call as soon as I step outside into the muggy heat but get no response.

He’s not where I left him in the yard, with his bicycle and all those toys he likes to play with; the car type thingy that he can drive and his fire truck and whatnot. I swear, half of his things are at our place.

I call out his name a second time. Nothing again.

My heart thuds in a sickening beat.

I know he must be nearby. I know that. Sometimes he likes to go around the back and play in the woods. I’ve played with him there myself.

But why isn’t he answering? He answers. He always answers.

Despite my still-throbbing feet, I take off running, thinking that he must be out back.

He has to be. Where would he go? This is a safe place; he’s been playing out here for ages, even before I came along.

He’s fine.

I’ll turn the corner and I’ll find him playing in the woods. He’ll grin at me shyly and tell me that he wants me to play with him. He’ll show me the fort he built with his toys and rocks like he did one time. I’ll ruffle his hair because I can’t resist when he’s being my snuggle-bug, and then we’ll go eat pizza.