I got home just as Mom made it into the driveway, the brakes on her Toyota squealing as she rolls to a stop. She killed the car and climbed out, bringing with her a paper bag filled with groceries.
I was sitting on the porch swing, kicking lightly, my book bag sitting at my feet. Mom walked up the steps, blowing me a kiss. She had a phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder, muttering to someone on the other side. Fumbling with her keys, she bounced the bag of groceries higher on her hip, fixed her phone to where she could hear better, and found the right key, shoving it into the dead bolt.
Planting my feet, I stood and grabbed my book bag from the ground, following Mom inside. She went into the kitchen, setting the bag on the center island.
"No, Carl," she was saying when I made it into the kitchen. I sat on one of the islands chairs and watched as she sighed and scrubbed a hand through her brown hair.
"Carl...Car—Carl!" Mom slammed her phone down, letting out an angry sigh, spinning around to the fridge, opening the door with enough force to shake the jars inside. I sat still, watching; Mom usually reserves this type of anger for the necessary, like staying out after curfew without letting her know where you are, neglecting chores, when you delete her shows from the recordings list on the television.
I haven't seen her this mad in a couple years. When she talked to my Dad, she always ended the calls with a tired sigh, hanging up and lying on the couch. Mom turned to me and let out her signature tired sigh, wiping her face with one hand.
"Mom?" I asked. She peeked at me through her fingers and tried to smile. She failed.
With a sigh, she straightened and started to unpack the groceries, bringing out a pound of ground meat, a head of broccoli and a group of asparagus wrapped with a thick powder pink rubber band. With her back turned to me, she started to sort the food into their respected cabinets. After a moment, she grabbed the door and just stood there. "That was Carl," she said, using my dad's real name. "He wants you to come over," she said finally.
Acid crawled its way into my throat.
"What?" I said, my voice a shrill whisper. Mom nodded.
Dad wasn't the world's greatest Dad. He wasn't anywhere close. I remember the last time I went over to his house: he'd actually dressed up for my visit, in a clean white shirt and pressed jeans. He used to be the manager for one of the firms in town, but after Drew committed suicide, he went into his Dark Mood, losing his job, becoming horribly angry all the time. Mom ended up having to divorce, signing the papers shortly after she found out she was pregnant with me.
I was six when I visited first. He'd met me at the end of his driveway, in a dark button-up and khakis. Mom had warned me what he would be like, and that she wished she didn't have to share joint custody, forgetting that I was only six. She kissed my forehead that day, scrubbing a hand through my brown hair, the color of my hair before I turned twelve and got it in my head to dye it. I'd smiled and climbed out of the car with my Pinkie Pie book bag stuffed with clothes.
Standing next to my dad, I'd watched as she drove away, glancing in the rearview mirror several times before turning onto the next street. Dad then put a vice-like hand on my shoulder, walking me inside.
"Sit here," he growled, pushing me onto a dirty, leather sofa in his living room. I sat and watched as he walked into what seemed to be the kitchen, walking out with a silver can of beer and a plate with crackers and thin slices of cheese on it. He'd set it on the wooden coffee table in the center of the room and slumped into a Lay-Z-Boy across from me.
For the longest time, we'd just stared off at each other. Even at a young age, I was shy and anxious, so I was staring at my knees, picking at the knee socks Mom had gotten me from Walmart, the ones with the butterflies on them. He'd drank his beer dry, crumpling the can in his hand and dropping it in the wastebasket next to him that was overflowing with empty, crumpled cans.
The rest of the night at his house had been traumatizing: he'd started talking, not stopping until I was in tears and he was tired of hearing me sniffle. He'd gotten up and taken me by the arm, dragging me down a hallway and pushing me into a spare bedroom, one decorated like that of a little girl. I'd walked over to one of the low-hung shelves and picked up one of the dolls, turning it over in my hands. It was a china doll; her face made of porcelain and painted to look like a princess. Blonde hair spilled from the dolls head, down the back of her pretty princess dress, the shade of pink cotton candy. Written on the seat of the doll was 'Drew' in very messy, very childish handwriting. The handwriting was similar to mine.
That night, I had gone to sleep hugging the porcelain china doll, wearing a pair of Drew's old pajamas from when she was younger, hiding in a nest of blankets underneath the bed. The next day, Dad had woken me up, giving me a chipped, blue bowl of cereal, mumbling under his breath about how much better I was then Drew.
Tears had pricked the back of my eyes, but I had eaten my breakfast soundlessly, listening as he shuffled about his house. An hour later, I was in the backseat of Mom's car, glad to be leaving. I shuddered, shaking myself out of the flashback, seeing Mom staring, concerned, at me. She knew how I hated to go over to his house.
I'd gone over three other times after my first visit: twice for Christmas and then once on his birthday. All times worst then the last. As I got older, he grew crueler, and harsher, more physical. I'd had to call Mom once to come and get me because he had rammed his way into the room while I was sleeping, hitting me and screaming at me, calling me Drew, saying how worthless I was. After what felt like hours, he muttered in my ear "You selfish bitch. You should just die," not realizing the irony of what he was saying. Telling the make-up daughter for the one you lost to die, despite the need of her alive to continue living.
I'd called Mom immediately after he left the room, my voice shaking and my heart hammering in my chest, tears falling from my cheeks like the rain. That was the last time I went to his house. It's been three years.
Mom put a hand over mine, the fridge door still open behind her.
"You don't have to go if you don't want to," she promised, hoping I would say no. I could feel the calluses on her thumb and the soft skin where her wedding ring used to be.
"I don't want a lawsuit on your head, Mom," I said.
She smiled sadly, patted my hand, and went back to stocking the fridge and pantry. I shouldered my book bag and went to my room, dropping it onto my mattress. Then I undressed, slipping out of my lacy long-sleeve and black t-shirt, dropping them both into my cardboard box clothes hamper. I was standing in skinny jeans and a bra, my shoes kicked off when I first arrived home.
Shimmying out of my jeans, I tossed them into my hamper and walked over to my desk where I laid my pajamas this morning. Changed with my hair thrown up into a messy bun, I sat down on my mattress and pulled my bag over to me, unzipping it and reaching in for my homework.
Deep in the bottom of my bag, was my phone. I pulled it out and turned it on, plugging it into its charger stuck in the wall next to me. It lit up, a green battery popping up on the screen. Letting it be, I returned my attention to my homework.
+++++++++++++++
Mom and I were sitting on the couch, watching The City of Ember, sharing from a large bowl of popcorn. My legs were draped over her lap. We were a quarter of the way through the bowl of popcorn when Mom reached over my legs to the coffee table and grabbed the remote, pausing the movie.
She turned to me. "Who's the boy?" she said. I was halfway to my mouth with a handful of snack and I crunched on a piece, my stomach twisting with fire. Mom watched me, her eyebrow cocked up high, nearly hidden in her hairline.
I swallowed my popcorn. "What?" I asked, avoiding her eyes, pretending to fix my bun.
She reached out a hand and tilted my face up, forcing me to meet her eyes. "Who's the boy?" she repeated. "The one who was here last night, who stayed until early this morning." She moved the popcorn bowl to the table in the middle of the living room and turned her body to face me.
I bit my lip, wondering if I should tell my mother. I sigh and lay back against the couch pillow behind me. "His name is Tate, Mom," I said. She leaned forward, her chin in her hands; she was going to drink up every bit of what I was about to say.
I sighed and licked my lips, "He's a guy from school who was at the party Saturday. I'd gone outside to get away from all the people and I just sat next to the pool. Tate came out and sat next to me. We just sat there for maybe ten minutes and two boys that were fighting; they crashed through the glass doors to the patio and fell into the pool. The party leaked outside and I escaped to inside, up that stairs, and Tate was there, whisking me onto his back, and then climbing us both to the roof."
I took a breath and noticed Mom's expression; she looked like she was about to faint. She was never a person for heights. Taking a deep breath, she nodded for me to continue.
"He took us to the roof and we just chilled up there for a while, and like the graceful mess I am, I managed to fall off the roof into the pool." Mom gasped, but I continued. "Tate jumped in after me, pulling me out of the pool, making sure I was okay. Then we went back inside; he got me my keys and his jacket and we left, going to eat at IHOP. After that, we left and came here." I shrugged like it was no big deal, but Mom thought different. She squeed like a teenage girl on the couch, balling up her hands, and pasting the smile of a happy, deranged child on her face.
"Mom?" I said, my voice uneasy.
She kicked her legs like a little girl having a tantrum, and jumped up, throwing my legs over the side of the couch. Mom seemed so happy. "Penny, this is amazing. I mean, except for you falling off the roof. But, this is great!" She jumped up and down. I stood up and tried to get a hold of her wrists.
"Mom," I say, finally getting a hold on her arms. She stops fangirling and stares at me.
"Calm down," I tell her.
Mom nodded and took a deep breath in through the nose, letting it out in a huge sigh, nodding to herself. "Sorry," she said. "I did this exact same thing when I found out Drew was in love with a boy. She handled it about how you did." I could see the tears forming behind her eyes, and I moved my hands from her wrists to hold her face.
"Mom, it's OK. I promise."
She nodded, looking down. Mom sat down on the couch and I joined her, pulling the bowl of popcorn into my lap.
"I know," she said, her voice gruff. "You just remind me of her so much." A tear flitted down her cheek and I wiped it away, shoving a piece of popcorn between her lips in the process. She chuckled, smiled, and crunched down on it. I smiled back, running my thumb under her eye.
"Tell me the story," I say, no more a suggestion than an order. Mom nods and sits back onto the couch, folding her hands neatly in her lap; I could see they were shaking ever so lightly. I sat down in front of her, hugging my knees to my chest, curious.
She chuckled at my interest.
Taking a breath, she started: "Penny was around your age when she first fell in love. His name was Peter Castalow. He has glasses and brown hair that he teased up until it stood straight, and a smile that could melt butter. Drew was in a better mood when he was around, and when he was gone, she was wishing for time to go faster so she could see him again. One day, she wrote his name twelve times on her arm and I caught her dancing around the house in one of Peter's old sweaters, listening to fifties swing music.
"Your dad hated the whole ordeal; he thought she was acting childish and should grow up. One time, he'd been so horrible to her that she ran out of the house, running down the street to the corner to sit on the curb and cry. When she came back, it was with Peter who was on his way to pick her up for a movie date. You dad immediately fixed himself and was nice until they left, letting loose a torrent of insults and curse words, all directed at his daughter." Mom stopped talking, swallowing, biting back the anger I could tell was rising in her throat.
She took a deep breath, her eyes closed, holding the breath in her chest, her hands fisted in her lap.
She continued, "Over the next couple of weeks, they were starting to get semi-serious. Drew had come in, completely giddy, rapid-firing that Peter had kissed her. I was so excited, but your Dad..." she trailed off, uneasy. I nodded, understanding, urging her to continue.
"A few days later, Peter broke up with Drew, saying that he couldn't be with her, not with what was going on. Greif-stricken, she locked herself in her room and wouldn't come out for anything other than school."
Mom let out a shaky breath. "A few weeks later, she—she di—," Mom choked; she couldn't even finish. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, spotting her shirt with little dark dots.
I moved closer, pulling her into a tight hug.
I'd never thought that what her Dad had said to her would have had such an effect of her welfare. My stomach twisted with the thought of my future visit to his house, and I suddenly had the urge to throw up. Mom pulled away from me, wiping her eyes, and slouched into the couch cushions. I swallowed the acid rising in my throat.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I say, unsure how to go about the whole situation. I never met Drew, yet I felt closer to her than was normal, from the stories Mom would tell, to the snippets of Drew's diary that I would read when I felt deep inside like she wouldn't be mad. In each choice I make, I felt like I was making the same decisions my sister made. Sometimes the act thrilled me; other times...it scared the shit out of me.
I reached over and lightly patted Mom's knee, smiling when she looked me in the eye.
"I love you, Pen," she whispered.
I felt my cheeks warm with the loveshe felt for me. "I love you, too, Mom," I said, and in that moment, I swear, I was speaking with two voices.
+++++++++++++++
Wednesday, I woke up grudgingly and got ready for the day.
Hangman's nooses and smoking guns had plagued my dreams last night, image after image of Drew, the gorgeous teenager with long, brown hair and deep green eyes, putting a loaded gun under her chin and pulling the trigger with her eyes open, staring longingly at my dream-self. The dream would shift and I would then be staring at the twitching, hanging body of my long-since-dead sister, her eyes closed and webbed with blue veins, her fingers flexing. I would scream and thrash in my sheets, unable to wake up from my nightmares. Finally, I would choke on the spit collecting in my throat, and be forced awake, shaking and sobbing, eyes wide with terror.
Awake, I pulled on a pair of deep purple tights, pulling a semi-sheer wool sweater over a black bra. I walked into the bathroom across the hall.
The girl who met me in the mirror had dark blue bags under her eyes, pale skin dotted with harshly dark freckles. Her lips were thin and a pale, sickly pink. When I tried to make a reassuring smile, she mimicked me. I let my eyes travel from her sallow features to her hair. Dark brown roots had started to grow from her scalp.
Memo, I thought to myself, remember to re-dye hair. Leaning over the sink, I cupped a handful of tap water and rubbed it over my face, goose bumps popping up on my skin as the chill sunk in. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror again.
Water dripped my chin, hitting the inside of the sink with a soft plink! I sighed and looked away from the mirror, picking up the neatly folded hand towel from the counter, dabbing my face dry. I dropped the towel onto the counter, walking out of the bathroom, ignoring the fact that my sleep-depraved-self needed make-up to look less terrifying. I walked down the hallway, bypassing my room, and going straight into the kitchen to make breakfast.
Mom was seated at the dining table with a mug of coffee in her thin hands. She looked tired, wearing only a threadbare robe that used to be her grandfathers, her messy bed hair thrown up into a bun.
In lieu of hello, she tipped back her coffee, her throat moving slightly as she swallowed. "More nightmares," she asked. Worded as a question; spoken as a statement. Over the course of my seventeen years alive, I'd had a total of twenty-three nights where Drew haunted my dreams. In my early years, Drew had danced around in the front yard with me, spinning flower crowns out of the neighbor's roses, or pushing me in the porch swing, braiding pieces of my long, brown-at-the-time hair. She'd tell me stories, and sing to me, and teach me dance moves from when she was a little girl, and when I would wake up, I would perform them for Mom, and she would ask me where I learned them, and I would bluntly tell her that Drew, her dead daughter, had taught me in a dream. Then she'd be sad and would stay in her room, looking through old scrapbooks, touching the pictures fondly.
As I got older, the dreams changed from sweet and worth it to terrifying and complete nightmare and unworthy of sleeping at all. Mom had found me shaking with tears spilling from my eyes, hidden in my hiding spot with the door barred, than not. Drew would give me dreams filled with faceless bullies and thin, bloody lines drawn on white. She'd show me what holding a loaded gun felt like, how the trigger felt under your finger. Drew would show me how to tie knots with long expanses of rope, showing me how to create a hangman's slipknot. Some nights I would wake up soundless, my voice gone from yelling in my sleep. Other nights, I'd wake up screaming, my hands adorned with broken fingernails and blood from gripping the sheets and scrabbling against the wall and floor.
The sound of Mom scooting her chair back from the table and her quiet footsteps brought me out of my head. My silence was all the answer she needed. She set her empty mug in the bottom of the sink and leaned her hip against the counter.
"Suicide dreams again?"
I nodded as I reached a hand up to pull a cereal bowl from the cabinet. Setting it on the counter, I watched Mom grab my favorite cereal from the pantry. Silently, I made my breakfast, pulling a spoon from its drawer and bumping the drawer closed with my hip.
Walking to the dining room table, images of Drew hanging from her ceiling fan plagued my head. Reason Number All-Of-Them for not having ceiling fans anywhere in the house.
I sat down and spooned cereal into my mouth, chewing intently, and thinking up a mental agenda for today.
Mom shuffled past me and walked towards her room, scratching the back of her neck. Swallowing, I watched as she opened her bedroom door and disappeared inside. I returned to my cereal, trying to banish the images of my dead sister from behind my eyes.
+++++++++++++
"Alright, class," Uncle said, rapping a wooden ruler against his open palm. Class was half over and I already suffered a bruised shoulder. I shifted in my desk, feeling the rough plastic of the seat through my tights.
Mr. Ginseng walked out from behind his desk and stopped whacking his hand with the ruler. He looked out at the classroom and its students with narrowed eyes, his lips only half-hiding a smile. "You are being assigned partners"—the class groaned loudly—"for a project." The groans grew in volume. Uncle couldn't contain his smile. He found the emotional and mental pain inflicted on student's through school was hilarious. His argument was "I made it through at the top of my class, two jobs, and a girlfriend, and look how I turned out." One of the reasons I worried about him; in high school he had done drugs, and I believe that it had mentally unhinged him in some way. Most days, he was an intelligent, upstanding citizen of society, and then there were other days where he acted like a total teenager, like some part of him had never gotten past the age of thirteen and dorky.
I leaned forward in my desk, crossing my arms on the desktop.
Finny was moaning in the back of the room, her legs popped on the desk across the aisle from her, her blue painted toes glimmering under the fluorescent bulbs. I nonchalantly looked over my shoulder, and tried to strain my ears and listen.
"—ope I don't get paired with some stupid, like, potato for this project. I can NOT afford to fail," she was saying. Grant nodded his approval and Finny went on. She waved her hand through the air in front of her.
I returned my attention to the front of the room.
Uncle clapped his hands together, holding his hands in front of him. He looked at me and seemed to be apologizing with his eyes. He tried to smile at me, but it just wouldn't come. He looked away.
Clearing his throat, he looked out over the class, "I have your partners already pre-decided, I will tell you them now." He had a folded piece of paper hidden in his hands; he unfolded it now and stared down at the thick black Sharpie scribble on the paper.
"Grant and Trenton," he said. There was a groan from both sides of the room: from Trenton for being paired up with Grant and from Grant for being paired up with someone from a lower social caste. My heart went out to Trenton, a boy with square glasses and thin lips who was in almost all AP classes; he was staring at his desktop with a frown line between his brows. Mr. Ginseng bit his lip, apologetic, and read off the next pair of names: "Cod and Smith." Two woodshop boys; they were giving high fives to each other in the back corner of the room.
Uncle looked me square in the eye as he read the next two names. "Finny and..." he said, sucking in a breath, obviously wishing he could take back the choice, but knowing he couldn't, "Penny." The whole class filled with the sound of Finny raging in the back of the room, screaming about how he couldn't possibly pair her with that dumb... Finny never was able to finish. Uncle—Mr. Ginseng—seemed to grow taller, his chest puffed out, his hands clenched into fists at his side, one of them crumpling the sheet of paper, his eyes narrowed to slits, his irises bright with fire.
Finny's voice broke, dying to a whimper as Uncle made his way to the back of the room. He was leaning over her slightly, his whole body shaking with rage.
"If you ever expect to pass this class, Flynigan Champ, then you will show respect to the other students in this class. You will not utter another word, or I will have you sent to the Principal's office with a referral stating your behavior and attitude." Finny looked like she was about to cry; to her benefit, the class bell rang, signaling the end of the first hour. Finny was the first out of her seat, and the first out of the classroom. I was among the last. As the students were leaving Uncle was calling after them, "We'll go over the topic of your project tomorrow!"
I stood up, shaking slightly. Uncle sighed as he turned to me. "Sorry," he said, his voice dripping liquid apology. He waved his hand in the direction of the front office where the Principal was housed, down the hall, with an air of fatigue. "I was up till late last night, trying to reason with her to change the pairs but the Boss was adamant." He looked like he was about to cry.
I could feel tears bite at the backof my eyes. "Uncle, it's alright." I walked over to him and gathered him in ahug, and I smiled as he wrapped his lanky arms around me, resting his cheek inmy hair.
+++++++++++++++
I was walking to my Uncle's room for lunch when I felt someone take me from behind, lifting me into the air. My toes barely touched the tiled floor.
Before I let out a high shrill wail, the assailant whispered in my ear, "I missed you, my little bird." I broke out into a grin. Tate set me down lightly, and when I turned, he leaned in to give me a soft and swift kiss on the mouth. It made my heart pitter. His hands were wrapped loosely around my hips, his forehead against mine.
"Tate," I said; my voice sounded supernaturally loud in the empty hallway.
Taking his hand, I drug him after me, walking into Uncle's classroom, and shutting the door. Uncle was sitting at his desk, his hands in his lap, his head bowed.
I walked over to him and wrapped my arms around his neck, laying my head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Pen. I truly am," he said.
Tate watched us from the door, a small paper sack gripped tightly in one hand. I stood up and walked around my uncle's desk, pulling two desks directly in front of it.
Tate walked over and sat down; I sat in the desk next to him. Uncle didn't move to open his lunch drawer.
"Is Mr. Ginseng alright?" Tate asked as he pulled out a cheese sandwich wrapped in cellophane. I pulled out a thermos filled with Mom's signature casserole and a plastic spoon, "He's beating himself up about something that happened first period. He's apologetic thirteen-year-old right now." I shrug as if this is normal. Tate raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask further.
After a few minutes, Mr. Ginseng hugged his hungry stomach for the third time and sighed, reaching to open his lunch drawer, pulling out a bag of fruit jerky. It was quiet; Uncle was chewing his jerky, I was scraping the cheese of the inside of my thermos, and Tate was finishing off the last of his sandwich. Licking his fingers, he reaches into his crumpled paper sack and pulls out a pink, Dora the Explorer thermos, which he chuckled at.
I swallowed a bite of casserole. "Umm...are you a Dora enthusiast?" I asked. Tate looked at me as he unscrewed the lip, opening up a can of steam of golden macaroni. His eyes fluttered closed as he smelled it. I felt my mouth twitch up in a smile. Uncle just stared curiously at the thermos, his hand searching for a piece of fruit jerky that wasn't there. He seemed astounded when he looked down and saw an empty bag.
"No," Tate replied, "I'm not much of a Dora fan, but Adi is." His smile was warm and full of love. He didn't elaborate: I didn't press for answers, but something inside me clenched at the thought of another girl making him smile.
I went back to my casserole.
Unclehad started to eat from his bag of animal crackers.
+++++++++++++++
When I got home, I tossed my bag onto my pallet bed and sat down in front of my window, plugging my phone into its charger. I leaned my head against the glass, staring down at the front lawn which was warped through the glass. A bird was hopping around, pecking for worms and bugs in the grass, chirping its tiny bird song. After a few minutes of coming up with nothing, the bird flew across the yard, only to have the same result. It finally flew into the branches of a tree across the road, perching and singing.
I turned my eyes away from the outside world, and moved until I was hidden in the shadows of my room. There, I hugged my knees to my chest and rested my chin on my knees, and stared at the back of my bedroom door, counting the paint chips.
After a moment, I closed my eyes andlet my mind wander.
+++++++++++++++
I was thinking about what language born-deaf people think in when my phone went off. It was a text from Mom.
Mom: I'm going to be late. Have to work overtime. There's some casserole in the fridge. I love you!!!! xoxoxoxo
I smiled at her exaggerated hugs and kisses and replied:
Me: OK. Be careful. I'll probably just watch TV or something.
Mom: Okay, Pen. Don't stay up too late.
I smiled and dropped my phone on my pillow, standing to change into my pajamas. Throwing on an old sweater of Mom's, a pair of pajama shorts, and my favorite, worn pair of Modern Boho socks, I grabbed my phone and walked out of my room.
The house was cold, the floorboards and tile freezing the feet through my socks. I padded quickly to the kitchen and leapt onto the counter, scooting to the fridge. I must have looked ridiculous, but I ignored the stupidity of it and opened the fridge, reaching for a Tupperware container of food. Closing the door, I moved to the microwave. The sound of the microwaves humming filled the quiet kitchen and I perched on the counter, watching the Tupperware revolve.
When it was done, I jumped from the counter and fished a fork from a drawer, taking my food into the living room.
As I was sitting down was when the doorbell rang. Grumbling, I set my food on the coffee table next to my copy of Moby Dick and waddled to the door.
Upon opening the door, I was stunned to find Tate standing just over the threshold, a shy smile on his face as he took in what I was wearing. I bit back the anxiety bubbling in the back of my throat, and plastered a smile on my face, trying to pretend that this was normal for me. Tate returned the smile. Chilly autumn air filtered into the house.
"Tate," I said, my voice holding only the tiniest hint of apprehension. His smile widened as he pulled his hands out of his pockets.
"Penny," he drawled and my skin shivered at the sound of my name from his mouth. I hugged my arms and stepped back to let him in. As he passed in front of me, I swear I saw Finny and her posse slowly driving by, just to glare, before they sped off down the street. I turned away and closed the door.
"Is this your casserole from lunch?" Tate asked as I walked back into the living room. I was still hugging my arms, my skin covered in small goose bumps, icy chills spidering up and down my legs. I quickly padded to the couch, pulling a blanket over my lap, and grabbed for my casserole. Tate handed it to me and sat on the cushion next to me, an empty space between us, like he was afraid I would disapprove of him cuddling me.
Shoving a forkful of casserole in my mouth, I leaned forward and grabbed the remote control from the table, turning the TV on. Tate put his arm on the back of the couch, pulling a totally middle-school move, but I smiled, leaning the slightest bit his way, flicking through the channels.
"What do you want to watch?" I asked after I had swallowed. Tate shrugged, watching me with his dark eyes. I felt a tingle start at the base of my spine and pass over every nerve in my body before I was able to look away and pick a channel. We ended up watching The Secret of Nimh. It was three-quarters of the way finished. I ate another forkful of casserole, and feeling the undeniable feeling of being full, stood up and walked my way into the kitchen.
After putting up the casserole and setting the fork in the sink, I pulled down a coffee mug shaped like Mickey Mouse. Tate's shoes tapped lightly on the tile of the kitchen floor as he walked over to me, standing shoulder to shoulder. I lightly bumped him, "Tea?" He chuckled, but shook his head.
I closed to cabinet and walked over to the pantry, pulling out a box of Earl Grey, a plastic bottle labeled nutmeg, and a small plastic bear filled with honey. Tate watched me as I filled my mug with scalding water from the hot water dispenser. He watched as I dropped the tea bag into the mug, weighting it with a spoon.
"Are you sure you don't want any tea, Tate?" I looked over at him and saw that he had moved closer. His right hand was on the edge of the counter, his other hand reaching up to push a strand of hair behind my ear. My breath caught in my lungs, but instead of leaning forward like my brain was telling me to do, I looked back at my mug and pushed it to the back of the counter, jumping up, and facing Tate.
I started to kick my stocking feet like a child, my hands bracing me against the edge of the counter.
Tate moved to stand in front of me, and I looked at him, my brow creasing with curiosity and confusion. "Tate, why are you here?" I ask, straightening until I was at eyelevel with him. His eyes twinkled in the sunlight filtering in through the kitchen window. They turned from dark chocolate chips with gold amber medallions. I could see myself, my growing-out brown-blue hair, my dark eyes, and my pale skin. I looked away from his face and returned my attention to my tea, which was still seeping behind me.
I grabbed for the small, honey bear and squeezed a small amount of honey into the tea, watching as it sank to the bottom in a glob. Tate's hand reached around me, taking the bear, and setting it on the counter next to the sink.
For a few moments, I stared at the lone bear on the counter, his little plastic face facing the living room, like he was waiting for something. I turned back to look at Tate, saying "You never answ—" when he covered my mouth with his, cutting me off, surprising me. His hands were holding my face, his fingers folding themselves into the hair on the side of my head. My eyes were open, staring at his closed eyes and flushed cheeks.
My heart was leaping around in my chest, and I was getting light-headed. Remembering, I pulled back the slightest, taking in a deep breath. Tate's hands moved from my face to trail lightly over my shoulders, my arms, to rest finally on my hips, pulling me closer to him.
I gasped, and locked my ankles behind his back. I listened as the counter drawers banged slightly—he'd hit the counter with his hips. I closed my eyes, putting my hands against his chest; I could feel his heart hammering underneath my fingers.
As if in a dream, I wrapped my arms around his neck, twining my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. It was like I was running silk through my fingers, and I tilted my head slightly, deepening the kiss. Tate's fingers dug into my thighs, forcing a gasp out of me. My fingers tangled in his hair, and I pulled him closer, trying to get rid of all distance between us.
Tate muttered something against my mouth, and I pulled back reluctantly, taking in a shaky breath, feeling a smile pull at the corners of my mouth, all teeth. Tate pressed his forehead against mine and let out a half-giddy chuckle.
"You make it hard to think, Pen," he said, his voice barely over a stage whisper.
I uncurled my fingers from his hair, dropping my hands to his shoulders. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of anything to say in response; instead, I leaned back in and lightly pressed my lips to the corner of his mouth. He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, and pressed closer.
"Tate," I muttered against his lips. One of my hands was cupping his jaw, the other bracing me against the counter, so I wouldn't fall back. A few more minutes of kissing Tate was enough to make me breathless and wanting more than I was getting, but I just fisted my hand on the counter, ignoring the want.
I turned my head, taking in a breath, and Tate commenced to trailing soft, light kisses down my neck, his hands warm around my ribs, our chests pressed close. "Tate," I whispered, hating that my voice failed me when I needed it most.
He mumbled against my neck and I forced away the shiver that passed through my bones. I swallowed. "Tate," I said louder.
Another mumble. As I was opening my mouth to try and get his attention again, just as he was making his way back to my mouth, my phone chimed and scared us apart. Tate's mouth was bruised from kissing and his chest was rising and falling quickly. I could feel my pulse in my lips; I probably looked just like him.
I looked at my phone. It was a text from Mom.
Mom: I have about an hour left. Be home soon. xoxoxoxo
Something inside me wished Mom stayed away at work. I locked that something away, replying OK, and telling her that Tate was over to watch movies with us. Tate was standing between my knees, his hands on my waist, glaring down at my phone.
"Is it your mother?" he asked. I nodded, not looking at him, not trusting myself in that moment, afraid I was going to tackle him to the floor and kiss him until we both suffocated, until the boundaries between us were gone. I locked my phone, and stuck it in the waistband of my shorts, looking back at Tate.
"She's on her way," I told him. He groaned and leaned his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
"My timing is inspirational, isn't it?" he mumbled, his clarion voice dripping sarcasm. I chuckled, and he stepped back, letting me down from the counter.
I grabbed my tea, drew out the teabag, shook nutmeg over the top, and stirred with the spoon, throwing it in the sink when I was done. With an abject sign, we both walked into the living room together, me with my tea, him with his thumbs shoved in his pockets, sauntering behind me.
We sat on the couch, the blanket draped over both our legs, watching a child's show about a princess and a glass slipper and an evil godmother, waiting for Mom to come home.