We don’t talk as I collect our garbage and then walk next to her as she limps out to my truck. I try to offer her my arm and open the door for her, but she denies my offer, moving to the opposite door and pushing it open.
During the car ride, she barely says two words to me. I should be happy about it. That way there’s no room for sudden questions and statements that will set me off, however I find myself missing the bantering thing we had going and the way she pushed my buttons. By the time I drop her off, all I want to do is ask her to stay, talk some more, let me get to know her. But I don’t understand why. I’ve never wanted to get to know anyone before. I’ve never even been out on a date. Each woman I’ve been with, I’ve only been with once. Just sex. That’s all it’s ever about. And I’ve never wanted anything more.
Until now.
Chapter 4
Violet
There was more than just one person at my house the night my parents were killed, but one person sticks out in particular. She was tall, with long hair and eyes that glowed in the moonlight. She wore these bright yellow shoes with pink flowers on them that reminded me of a character in a fairy tale. In the book she would be a fairy or something, while in real life she was the evil villain. When she first snuck into the house she was quiet, but on her way she was loud and erratic, a mess of emotions.
“Why, why, why,” she kept repeating and then would add, “I can’t feel my hands.”
The guy told her, “Shut the f**k up and quit tripping. You need to get your shit together, now.” Over and over again until, finally, he slapped her.
She only laughed, this crazy laugh and then she started singing this song, “Lean into me. Lean into me. Take. Help me. I need to understand. Help me. I can’t do this without you.”
The guy slapped her again, this time harder, and it shut her up for a moment. As he did it, I swear she looked right over at me hiding in the corner behind a box of toys, yet she never said a word. It’s all I could really see of her—her eyes—everything else was masked in the shadows. I’ll never forget the song she sang, the lyrics engraved into my mind deeper than letters and dates in my parents’ headstone. Even when I’m listening to other music, always hoping I’ll stumble across the song they belong to, I’m thinking about the song. The sound of her voice… so disturbingly beautiful. I told the police about the song and the shoes and they looked at me with sympathy in their eyes, telling me they’d do everything they could to find the person. I was six and confused and really did believe they’d bring the bad guys in. And sometimes, when my imagination got the best of me, I’d secretly tell myself that once the bad guys were behind bars, my parents would come back to me again.
But neither ever happened and eventually the case was closed, like the lids on my parents’ coffins.
* * *
I called in sick for work tonight and I’m blowing off dealing, even though it’s Saturday night, the best night for hitting up parties. Preston doesn’t always have me screw his costumers over, sometimes he just sends me to deal straight up, which is what he asked me to do when I dropped his car off last weekend. I’d agreed, but that was before I realized that it was nearing finals week, and I need to study. Plus my ankle is still a little black and blue and it’s not ideal for walking around in boots or heels, which is required attire when dealing—Preston’s rules.
I haven’t talked to Luke since he took me to McDonald’s, but I have passed him a couple of times in the halls and the campus yard. I caught him a couple of times staring at me, but he always looks away when he notices me noticing. I think I upset him with something I said while we were at McDonald’s. But I’m known most for unintentionally insulting people—and sometimes intentionally—so I’m not surprised. What I am surprised about is how much I’ve thought about him over the last few days and how I kind of sort of wish that he’d talk to me and I’ve even almost lost my sanity a few times and thought about going up to talk to him.
I don’t like it. At all. I don’t think about guys—or people in general—for extended amount of times or worry about talking to them. It’s a waste of brain space. But he seems a little different from the long sequence of people I’ve met in my life, mainly because he’s helped me out and hasn’t asked anything from me in return. There’s no clear reason why, but I’m waiting for one to surface, because he has to want something from me. If he’s helping just to be nice then it means my theory that people only help others to help themselves is ruined.
And maybe it’s that slight difference that makes me so drawn to him. Maybe it’s because he does, in his own strange way, seem nice. And I hate to admit it, but I also think it might be his eyes, too, but I’m blaming that on the fact I’m a female and I don’t think there’s any woman out there who wouldn’t be drawn to his intense eyes just a little.
I’m lying on my stomach on my bed with my Philosophy book opened up in front of me, along with my Calculus book, so I can rotate between the two subjects. I’ve got some Green Day cranked up fairly loud since Callie’s out, a bag of Sour Patch Kids and some Doritos in front of me, along with a thirty-two-ounce Dr Pepper. Between the sugar, caffeine, and loud music, I’ve hit a super zone where studying has become like breathing. My eyes feel like they’re bleeding, though, and my head’s starting to hurt, but it feels good to know I’m trying so hard it hurts.
I could take a study break, but I’m not going to. School was always sort of my thing and maybe it’s because it was my escape from whatever home I was living in. I almost flunked out when I lived on the streets and then went to juvie but when I got my shit together, I vowed never to mess up in school again.
Suddenly Green Day is overlapped with a little Rise Against as my phone starts to ring. Blowing out a breath, I lean over to the iPod dock and turn the stereo down, then I pick up my phone and answer it.
“I can’t do it tonight,” I tell Preston, sitting up on the bed and rubbing my eye. “I have to study.”
“Who said I was calling for that?” he replies. “Jeez, you didn’t even f**king let me say hello.”
“I know, but I know what you’re going to say and I can’t. I have finals coming up.”
“But you told me last Sunday that you could.”
“I know.” I sigh heavily. “But I forgot how close it was to the end of the semester.”