Kiss (14 page)

Maybe
Ella was telling me the truth. Maybe I was discovered by the cops, raving outside of Sam's dormitory, and taken to the hospital alone.

But when I stepped out of the hospital bed after my night of observation and walked my bleary self into the bathroom, I discovered something peculiar. Under my hospital robe, I was wearing a man's undershirt and a man's boxers. These are things I know I do not own. I don't care how hard I banged my head.

At the back of the boxers, just under the waistband, scrawled in permanent black marker are two wonderful words. Can you guess them?

1. Sam

2. Moon

These pieces of physical evidence happen to fit with some memory shards I have — fuzzy, I'll admit. I have bits of memories of being in Sam's dorm room, and putting those things on.

I'm not saying Sam definitely kissed me. I'm not saying he told me he loved me or anything like that.

I'm just saying, maybe Ella was wrong. Maybe she lied. Maybe.

In all honesty, I don't even want to find out for sure. I want to hold onto these pieces of memory — hopes, if you want to be a killjoy. I can t bear to discover these things didn't happen. I need to cling to the possibility that they did.

Because even the
possibility
of something so beautiful could sustain a heart as desolate as mine for a long, long time.

There
was something very satisfying about hearing them scream. He usually let them get out one, good, loud one before he covered their mouths. No one ever responded to one quick scream. They wrote it off as playing. Or a spider sighting. Or crying wolf.

And he so loved the scream. It made him feel alive. It pumped him up.

It made the sex so much better.

He sat down on his floor and pulled out his black lock box from beneath his bed, flying through the combination with a quick three flicks of the wrist. Inside was his prized possession. The only thing he d ever had worth locking up.

His journal. His list. His conquests.

He pulled out the tattered book with its dog-eared pages and cloth cover that was just starting to pull away from the cardboard beneath. Soon it would be time for a new book. But it would be so hard to let this one go. It was like an old friend. It knew all his secrets. All his successes. All his triumphs.

Turning to the first blank page, he rolled the end of his pen around inside his mouth, carefully composing his opening. This wasn't just a place to brag. It was literature. One day, when he was long gone, people would read these pages and know him. Know everything he was.

They would be awed.

He uncapped the pen and started his entry.

Thursday, November 25th. Thanksgiving.

It certainly was a day for giving thanks. And Regina Farrell will thank me one day. When she finally admits to herself that she'll never have anyone better. . . .

Spiky, messy hair. Sideburns. Expensive flannel. Not threatening. Definitely not asking for a beating.

GAIA STOOD ON LINE IN THE cafeteria on Monday afternoon between two groups of people she couldn't possibly have detested more. The F.O.H.'s (Friends Of Heather) or “foes” as she liked to call them, and the turtleneck-wearing jock-boys. If there was ever a time to cave in to modern technology and use a walkman, this was it. Words were being wasted all around her and she would have given anything for a nice pair of headphones and a lot of guitar-type noise.

“Omigod!” one foe squealed. “You totally should have been at CBGB's last night. The hottest guy opened for Fearless. He was like a Lenny-Rob hybrid.”

“Not possible,” foe number two said, sniffing a bowl of Jell-O in a perfect imitation of a rabbit, and replacing the bowl on the counter. “God couldn't possibly have blessed anyone with genes like that.”

“He's playing again in two weeks,” said foe number three, the one with the biggest hair ever to spring from a scalp. “Come and see for yourself.”

“I am so there,” foe number two promised, placing her nearly-empty tray in front of the register. “
I
was at the Melody last night and you . . .”

Foe number one trailed off as she glanced in Gaia's direction and noticed her not staring. Her top lip actually curled up and she huffed as she turned her back on Gaia, adjusting her tight leather jacket.

“Do you
see
what she's eating?” foe number one sneered. All three foes turned to glare at Gaia's tray. Meatballs. Mashed potatolike substance. Bowl of Jell-O not sniffed by foe number two. Roll with tons of butter patties.

“Do you want some creamed corn, hon?” the lunch lady asked with a pleasant voice.

“Yeah,” Gaia answered, mostly to disgust the foes. It worked. They all exchanged a very unoriginal look ofgrossed-outedness, paid for their food and scurried away.

“There you go, hon,” the big lady behind the counter said, heaping on the corn. She smiled at Gaia like she always did and Gaia attempted smiling back. It didn't work, of course, but it was worth the try. Every student in this school might hate her, but at least she was universally loved by the lunch ladies. Gaia was pretty sure she was the only one who actually ate their food.

Gaia handed the woman at the register a crumpled ball of cash and automatically headed for the table she and Ed usually shared. Back corner, underneath the graph that broke down the four food groups as if they were all still in grade school and needed it color-coded for them. She was about to cut left when someone blocked her path.

This was so not the time for anyone to be starting up with her. Not on a Monday when she hadn't eaten and she'd woken up with a sinus headache along with the knowledge that Sam hadn't contacted her once all weekend.

Actually, maybe someone should start with her. She could go for a little punishment-doling.

“You're a brave girl,” a slow, drawly voice said.

Gaia looked up into the deepest pair of brown eyes she'd ever seen. Spiky, messy hair. Sideburns. Expensive flannel. Not threatening. Definitely not asking for a beating.

“Are you going to move?” Gaia asked, shifting her tray slightly. Bad idea. Her plate of meatballs slid precariously close to the edge, taking everything with it. It was going over and there was nothing she could do. More public spillage for the Spillage Queen.

“Careful,” Sideburns said, righting the tray with lightning-quick reflexes. The kid in the chair next to them pulled himself a little closer to his table. Gaia attempted to move again, beyond ready to end this little encounter, but Sideburns was still holding onto her tray. “Aren't you going to ask me why I think you're so brave?” he asked, ducking his chin in an attempt to make eye contact. What was this guy's deal? Was he immune to basic get-away-from-me signals?

“No,” Gaia said. Exasperation. There. He had to get that.

He released her tray, crossing his arms over his rather broad chest, but not moving out of the way. Gaia turned around to head back in the other direction, but a complicated melange of backpacks, chairs, and legs blocked her path.

When she turned around again, Sideburns was grinning. “It's just that in the three and a third years I've been here I've never seen anyone eat Greta's meat-balls.”

Oh, how very original. “There's a first time for everything,” Gaia said. She took a step toward him, hoping he wasn't going to force her to take him down with a quick flick of her foot to his shin. He seemed harmless enough, but if she didn't eat soon, this Monday was going to go from suckfest to hell pit in a matter of seconds.

Sideburns flicked a little pink piece of paper out of his pocket and dropped it on Gaia's tray. It had black writing on it and the only word she could make out without actually appearing to be interested was “music.”

“Having a little party tonight,” he said, turning sideways to let her pass. He held up his hands to give her more room. “You should show.”

The irrational part of Gaia's brain couldn't believe that someone had just asked her to a party. Her. Public enemy number one. The rational part of her brain formulated a sentence and sent it to her voice box.

“I'd rather sing a Barry Manilow song in front of the entire school,” she said, moving past him.

Sideburns laughed. “I'll rent a karaoke machine!” he called after her.

Gaia never smiled on Mondays. But if she did, that exchange might have been worthy of one.

AS GAIA LOWERED HERSELF INTO the chair across from Ed, he plucked a little piece of bright pink paper from her overloaded tray.

“Come one. Come all,” Ed read aloud. “Free beer. Free music. Free love.” He chuckled and placed the tiny flyer on the table between them. “Going hippy on me, Gaia?”

She lifted one shoulder as she took a swig of her soda. “Some guy gave it to me,” she said, jabbing a meatball with her fork. Ed's stomach turned over, and not just because she was actually consuming a cafeteria-made meat substance.

Another guy?

More guys?

Didn't he have enough to deal with?

“Who?” Ed asked, trying to keep the psychotic jealousy out of his voice. It was still there, but if she noticed, she didn't show a sign. She just chomped on another meatball as her eyes scanned the room.

“Him,” she said finally, pointing with her fork across the large cafeteria at Tim Racenello. Abercrombie boy. Skier. Former friend. Definitely charming. Damn.

“Are you going to go?” Ed asked, pushing his chicken noodle soup sans chicken — a cafeteria specialty — around with his spoon.
Please say you're not going to go. Please say you're not going to go.

“Ed. Come on. No,” she said.

Cool.

“I was kind of thinking about going to see Sam tonight,” she said, actually sounding tentative. “You know, find out . . . ifthere's anything to find out.”

Not cool.

“Well, I'll go if you'll go,” Ed offered, putting his spoon down and laying his hands flat on the table. The action helped to keep him from sinking into the bottomless black pit that had opened beneath his chair at the sound of Sam's name. Amazing. It was just one little syllable. Sam. More like a grunt than a name.

Yet it held so much power.

“Go where?” Gaia asked, confused. Ed felt his delirious mind step off its rambling path and snap into the now. He wondered if she thought he was offering to go to Sam's with her. Not likely.

“The party,” Ed said, forcing a smirk. “Focus, G.”

Gaia froze with a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway into her mouth. It took her a couple of seconds to decide whether to eat or talk. She did both.

“You want to go to this thing,” she said as soon as she'd swallowed. Statement. Disbelieving statement. When had he lost the moniker of Ed “Shred” Fargo, party animal? As if he really had to ask that question.

“Tim's pretty cool,” Ed told her. He hoped against hope she would go against every fiber of her being and agree to go with him. “We used to hang out before my hanging involved the chair.”

Gaia's gaze flicked in Tim's direction. “He stopped hanging out with you after . . .” She let the sentence trail off, probably because she still didn't know how Ed had ended up without leg power.

“No,” Ed answered the unfinished question. “I stopped hanging out with him. I stopped hanging out with a lot of people.” He immediately felt his spirits start to wane. He was coming dangerously close to losing the nonchalant thing he'd gone to great lengths to develop. Clearing his throat, Ed pushed all melancholy thoughts aside. He'd rejoined the social world a long time ago. There was no need to dwell on the dark past. The now demanded his full attention.

“So are you going to go with me or not?” Ed asked, downing a spoonful of his now cold soup. Somehow it tasted better cold. Took the edge off.

“I don't know, Ed. . . .”

She was thinking of Sam. He knew it. He could tell by the regretful little cloud in her eyes. Like she was thinking of him and ashamed of herself for thinking of him. There was only one way to make Gaia agree to party with him. The one way he could get Gaia to do almost anything. Get her angry. Or at least righteously indignant.

“Sam hasn't called, has he?” Ed asked, feeling like the soap scum wad in the corner of his shower. The one with the black mildew gathering on it.

Her eyes flashed. Score one for the soap scum. “No,” she said flatly.

“Then why are you planning on going over there?” Ed asked casually, pushing his tray away. It hit Gaia's and moved it an inch over the lip of the table toward her.

“I'm not,” she said, pushing her own tray back. Ed's went two and a half inches off the end. At least. It was almost too easy. And it made him feel almost too guilty. Almost.

“Then go to the party,” Ed said, pushing their trays back so that they were centered evenly on the table. He laced his fingers together and rested his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair. “Screw him.”

Gaia blinked. Ed could practically see the little consonants and vowels that made up his words sinking into her brain.

“Fine,” she said. “Let's go.”