UnBound (10 page)

He surfaces just beside her, and she grabs him around the neck, holding him for dear life.

“See? It didn't even hurt, did it?”

Roland helps his sister to shore. And even though his mother, who saw the scene, goes ballistic, and even though his stepfather gives him a double helping of the belt for throwing her off that same ledge, it's all okay—because Roland needed to know who he was, but more importantly, who he wasn't. He jumped. He kept his promise. And for the first time each lash stings a little less than the one before.

It isn't hard for Roland to find Valerie's car later that evening, stamped fresh with those bleeding-heart-hippie bumper stickers—
PROACTIVE CITIZENS AGAINST UNWINDING, THE WHOLENESS COALITION,
and the like. Roland watches through rows of cars in the school parking lot as Valerie bids her friends farewell after cheer practice. Roland makes his way closer, keeping out of view behind SUVs and jacked-up pickups. Valerie slips into her car and pulls the door shut, but just before it closes, Roland stops it. He sees her glance at his arm that holds open the door. She sees his tiger shark tattoo even before seeing him. She knows exactly who it is.

Roland opens the car door gently and looks down at her. “Hey, Valerie. Heard you had a rough day.”

She's caught off guard. Stumbles over her words a bit. Good. It gives him the advantage. “What are you doing here?”

Rather than immediately answering the question, Roland advances forward, getting down on one knee and leveling with her. “I saw you crying today, and I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” He takes her hand and smiles, showing his teeth. Valerie pulls away, uncomfortable—Roland can feel himself already in control. So he makes his next calculated move. “I don't know . . . I felt kind of . . . protective. I don't know what that means.”

Roland dated Valerie long enough to know that it would take more than sweet talk to win this game, and as expected, she keeps her cool. “It means nothing. You broke up with me. Or did you forget that?”

Her comment might evoke some feelings if Roland let it, but he doesn't. He lets it slide off. He moves close to her ear, making his voice breathy. He knows she can feel the warmth in her ear when he speaks. Feel the charge in his voice. “There's so much I miss,” he tells her. “I miss kissing you. I miss the feel of it.”

She shifts her shoulders, uncomfortable, but doesn't stop him. So he gently touches her cheek. “Is it crazy of me to want that again?”

He has Valerie right where he wants her—caught in his trance, mesmerized by his pretense at vulnerability. He moves his hand down her neck and grabs the back of her hair in a most primal way.

That's when she snaps out of it and pushes his hand away. He lets her. For now. “Roland, I'm sorry. I'm with Zane now, and that's not changing, no matter what you think.” She grips the door handle to pull it shut, but Roland rips it open.

“And how many boyfriends is it going to take to replace all the pieces of the one you let get unwound?”

It's a dirty blow, but necessary. No one speaks of it, at least not to Valerie, but everyone knows. It was the luckless loser she chose between Roland and Zane. What was his name? Roland can't remember. That's the way it is with Unwinds.

As much as Valerie must hate him right now, Roland knows she won't look him in the eyes. Because deep down he knows Valerie will never know the answer to that question, or whether she truly played a part in that boy's parents' decision to sign an unwind order. This is the exact button Roland has been waiting to push, to detonate the entire situation. And Valerie explodes. She fights with all of her being to close the door, but Roland won't let her.

“Go to hell!” she screams—but Roland isn't finished. He puts his hand behind her head, pulling her lips to his, and forces a kiss. She struggles, but he's much stronger than she is. Valerie claws, throwing punches out of desperation, but it's no use—and as their mouths are pressed together, she sinks her teeth into Roland's lower lip, biting down. He tries to pull her off, but she doesn't let go. Not until it really stings. Not until she's drawn just enough blood.

Finally Roland pushes her off and grunts. He wipes the blood from his mouth and savors the moment, flashing her a bloody red smile. “You know what? It wasn't as good as I remember.”

Valerie slams the door shut, fires up the engine, and peels out.

Roland exhales, invigorated, his bottom lip beginning to swell. He looks around, noticing that a few of Valerie's teammates saw the whole thing—three to be exact—and Roland smiles to himself, because as far as he's concerned that's just the right number of witnesses.

The size of an ocean wave is calculated not by its face but from the trough behind it, giving it the illusion of being much larger than it actually is. But right now, for Roland, the wave that swells before him can't be measured in feet or inches, only in increments of fear.

He's no longer afraid of heights, no longer fears the jump from the pier. He's conquered that. Now he's moved on to greater challenges.

Pulling his boogie board into his chest, Roland makes a split-second decision and dives underwater, bracing himself for impact. He goes under and a moment later emerges. It wasn't as bad as he thought. Not as bad as it could have been. He's relieved. Roland sizes up the next wave—it's intimidating, but he'll survive this one too. The crashing wall of water is beautiful even in its monstrous nature—the way the setting sun glows through its face; the way sparkles dance along its foamy crest.

Roland should have known a storm was coming in. The signs were clear, but then again Roland is far too bullheaded to back off once he's made a decision. Today was the day he was going to boogie-board the big waves. And since there was yet another screaming match occurring between his mother and stepfather, Roland knew there was only one place he could go to take out his own aggression: the sea.

“Here comes another one!” his sister shouts from the top of the pier, like his own personal lifeguard, although her jumping in is out of the question. She only did that once. And she didn't exactly jump.

Roland focuses on the next wave. It's bigger than the others.
Maybe a ten footer,
he thinks. He braces himself and takes it head-on, the ocean tide sucking him under and thrashing him around like a rag doll. The boogie board flies, and he feels it tug on the rubber cord around his wrist. By the time he reaches the surface, his ears are ringing, a shrill that crescendos into what sounds like distant screams, and it's not until Roland looks up that he realize they're coming from his sister. She's frantic, pointing to the water. Roland feels a surge of adrenaline. He pulls the boogie board back to him and focuses his attention on the water, but the sun temporarily blinds him, refracting through the surface like a prism. He panics, trying to assess his surroundings, interpret his sister's hysteria, but it only hits him when he feels something large brush past his leg. . . .

Wrestling is always the first period of the day, and Roland knows that Zane will be there. He also knows that gossip travels at an exponential rate. So Roland makes a point to show up to practice ten minutes late, after all the wrestlers have already arrived—a controlled environment where everyone's watching.

Roland opens the gym door and surveys the room. Rows of wrestlers are stretching on the mats, per usual. He walks by carefully, scanning the faces of each of his teammates; however, Zane's isn't one of them, and only then does he realize that the coaches aren't there either.

Without warning, someone explodes into Roland's side, sending him sliding across the mat. Roland doesn't need to look up to know who it was.

Zane towers over him, his red eyes more fierce than ever before. “Keep your paws away from Valerie,” he growls.

Roland reflexively jumps to his feet, getting in Zane's face. He clenches his fists, pumped full of rage, but it feels all too familiar—and it reminds him of the last time their eyes locked. The time when Roland let his emotions consume him. The time he was lifted off the ground and hurled down on his back. So this time he decides to remain in control. Rather than swinging, he forces his fists open, and responds calmly, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Apparently it wasn't the reaction Zane was looking for, because he pushes Roland even harder and snarls, “Don't lie to me.”

Roland steps forward again, refusing to back down. Roland knows that fighting is exactly what Zane wants him to do; it's exactly what he expects Roland to do. And before long their teammates have started gathering around, encircling them, forcing the situation into a pressure cooker. Roland adapts to it and plays the crowd.

He shakes his head convincingly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Already pushed to the edge, Zane doesn't buy his show. He swings a right hook, connecting with Roland's jaw, and before Roland can even react, his teammates are rushing in to break it up.

Zane fights them off, never taking his eyes off Roland. “Go get unwound,” he growls.

Wrestlers go to hold Roland back, but he remains calm, he doesn't resist. Instead he smiles, letting the words roll off, and touches his fingers to his mouth, examining the blood, almost intrigued.

Coach Pratt bursts through the gym doors and makes his way to the center of the mat. “What's going on here?” he demands.

Zane fumbles his words, still too heated to formulate a coherent sentence. So Roland decides to speak for him. “We were wrestling,” he says calmly.

Zane is completely taken aback.

Roland continues. “We were wrestling and things got out of control.”

The coach looks at Roland's fat lip and back to Zane, who's still clenching a fist. “I oughta bench you till the next tournament.”

But Roland takes up Zane's defense. “Nah, you don't have to do that. Everything's cool. It was a misunderstanding.”

Coach Pratt turns back to Zane. “Is this all true?”

Zane nods. He doesn't really have a choice. And even though Pratt doesn't fully buy the story, the explanation is enough for him to overlook the fight. It's not uncommon for scuffles like this to take place on the mat.

As if nothing happened, Roland strolls quietly to the center of the mat and begins his stretching routines, because even though things didn't quite go as planned, he knows that this is only round one. Sure, most people like to root for an underdog, but it's human nature to side with a victim. So he grins, revealing a blood-painted smile, because this is Roland's game, and now he's in complete control.

Roland searches the water in terror. To him, every dark shadow is instantly a predator; every splash sounds like a beast of prey. He tries to convince himself that it was a fish, or maybe even a seal. On the other hand his sister wouldn't have screamed if that's all it was. Roland paddles violently, his body tight to his boogie board, fighting against a riptide. He's been dragged out too far. Dark clouds swell overhead, and the pier grows hazy in the distance. He decides his best chance for survival is to shift direction and paddle with the current, toward the adjacent ocean bluffs. But Roland is already running out of strength. His arms grow heavier with each stroke. And even though he's moving with the current, the more he paddles the farther he feels from land.

Whatever was there is gone. It has to be. The sea is the only predator now.

Roland feels the shadow of a wave beginning to curl overhead. He snaps his eyes shut and clings tight to his board, letting the sea gobble him. He thrashes about in the ocean's underbelly until he's regurgitated to the surface once again.

Roland braces himself for the next wave, but it never comes—instead only the ringing pitch of silence. His body shakes, still on the comedown from a nasty adrenaline rush. And when Roland finally opens his eyes, everything is still. He takes a moment to catch his breath and take in his surroundings. He's alone. It's nearly dark. The pier is no longer in sight. Everywhere he looks is hazy and blue, as if trapped in the infinitude where both the ocean and sky collide.

Roland screams, but he's been dragged out too far for anyone to hear. He tries to paddle, but his arms grow weak, and the water begins to feel like gelatin. So he cries, only to have his tears swallowed by the ungrateful sea.

And then suddenly something bumps the bottom of his board.

Roland's heart quickens. He begins to hyperventilate. He feels a pulse in the water beneath him. Undulations that grow in intensity. The pressure swells until a powerful force explodes upward, launching Roland into the air, ripping him from his board.

Roland keeps a close eye on Zane throughout practice, and it's not until the last water break that he makes his next move. Roland notices that Valerie sits on the bleachers with a few friends, waiting for Zane to finish practice. Now is the perfect time to close in. He spots Zane across the room, off the mat on the hard wood floor, navigates through a sea of wrestlers, and settles over him.

Zane looks up from his water bottle. “What do you want?” he sneers.

“I want to settle this.” Roland is confident and collected.

“You want a black eye now?” Zane scoffs.

“No, I want to settle this like men. On the mat . . .” Roland decides to cut to the chase. “I want a rematch.”

Zane beams arrogance. “I already beat you.” And he turns his back, letting it sting.

“If you win, I'll leave her alone.”

This catches Zane's attention. He stops, growling over his shoulder, “You'll stay away from her no matter what.”

Roland knows all eyes are on them, so he takes another calculated risk. “And what happens if I don't?”