Chapter Sixteen
Aiden
The road beneath us is smooth, already beaten flat with desire and dreams. We are quiet for a long time. The trip is not without its bumps, though. She tells me that she wants to surprise ol’ Kenneth. I struggle not to clench my teeth as she tells me her plans. Apparently, he’s got a gig at some club tonight. We decide to get one room. Emma can change there before we head out.
She’ll stay at his place after.
She’ll stay at his place.
My knuckles hurt like a mother from gripping the wheel. I tell myself over and over that this is good. If I see them together, I’ll stop thinking about her in all the ways I shouldn’t.
For some reason, the closer we get to L.A., the quieter she gets.
We opt for a hotel in the center of Hollywood, within walking distance from the club. We make good time, arriving right at check-in. The room is really nice, with a king size bed and small couch. I figure if I’m going to spend the night trying to fight off images of Emma and what’s-his-name, I might as well be comfortable.
“Wow,” she says, her eyes darting around. “This must cost a fortune.” She focuses on the things I don’t notice, drawing my eyes toward them—the chandelier over the bed, the painting at the entry, and the fresh flowers on the table.
“What’s a little money?”
She gasps when she opens the bathroom door. “Aiden, you have to see this. They have a tub inside the floor. In the freaking floor!”
“I’ll check it out later.” I sit on the bed. She perches herself next to me.
“Thank you for what you did for me in Vegas.”
“I didn’t do anything, Emma.”
“You did.”
“What are friends for?” I suck in a deep breath, not sure if I want to get the fuck away from her or pull her into my lap. Luckily, she provides another alternative.
“Want to go for a swim? The pool looks awesome, and we have a few hours.”
Yeah, that sounds great, Emma. Let me just hang out with you in your fucking two-piece, while I’m wearing trunks. As if my dick doesn’t already stand at attention when it comes to you.
“Nah, you go ahead. I’m gonna take a nap.”
Being a masochist is hard work. A man needs to take a break once in a while.
When she comes out of the bathroom, I try to avoid looking at her. But I fail completely. It’s like Carson said—my eyes are drawn to her. She’s not wearing a bikini. Emma is in a black and white polka-dot tank and girly swim trunks. She sits on the one chair in the room. The material around the waist rides up, revealing the tiniest red jeweled heart in a piercing in her navel. She combs through her long hair, twisting it into a loose bun at the nape of her pretty neck. How does she do that without any rubber bands? My eyes dart away, but then they go right back as if they’re metal and she’s a fucking magnet. If that’s not enough, she begins to slather sunscreen all over herself. She bends to do her legs, showing off the slightest cleavage.
“Do you have to do that in here?” I grumble when her hands slide the lotion across her collarbone.
“Fine grumpy, I’ll finish it downstairs.”
“Good.”
“Have a good nap. It’s obvious you need it.”
Wrong again. What I need is to masturbate you out of my head…again.
I almost change my mind and go join her. Not because I have any interest in swimming. I just don’t want any other dude staring at her belly button ring…or her perky breasts…or that sweet ass. What the fuck is wrong with me? Did Emma manage to activate some dormant caveman gene in my DNA?
One thing’s for sure…Kerry is one lucky son of a bitch.
Her going to the pool is actually the perfect thing for my plan. As soon as she leaves, I grab her watch from the bathroom vanity where she left it and head straight to the jewelry store in the lobby of the hotel. Surprisingly, it only takes a half hour for the man to fix the cracked face and replace the battery. He does warn me the cost of his work is more than the object’s value. I dismiss it. To Emma, this watch is a Rolex. The jeweler suggests replacing the band, but I decline. She’ll want to wear the same band her daddy did. I get that.
Once I get back to the room, I lay the watch back where I found it. It’s a silly birthday gift, but Emma will appreciate the meaning.
I think.
I stretch out on the bed, flipping the channels until I find an eighties action flick, then try to relax.
…
The room smells like stale smoke. Amy hands me my inhaler. Two puffs and I’m better. I hate the rancid smell that is my life. I hate crying. I hate being weak. But I love Amy.
We sit in the living room where we watch television in the afternoon when I get home from school. Amy likes cartoons. She’s not like the other moms who watch talk shows and soap operas.
“Tell me what happened, Aid,” she says, holding the bag of frozen peas against my swollen skin.
“No.”
She sighs, probably tired of asking the same question. “Keep holding this so it doesn’t swell.” I put my hand against the bag.
I look at the coffee table where there is a bowl of freshly peeled potatoes. I watch her work. I count ten potatoes still in the bag. They’re the big ones that I like best.
“French fries?” I ask.
“Yep.”
My stomach growls in anticipation. Amy makes the best fries. They are thick-cut and crispy.
She keeps peeling. This is how we are. She doesn’t push. She nudges. We watch cartoons together. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me,” she finally says.
I almost laugh. As if she can help at all. “Sid and I got caught passing notes.”
Amy nods with understanding. Sid is my only friend. He’s quiet, since he can’t hear all that well. But I’m not a talker, so Sid and I get along just fine. He always trades me his cookies for my apple. It makes me feel bad sometimes ’cause I’m getting the better deal.
“You got in trouble?”
“No, Sid did. Mrs. Burns made him stand up and read the note.”
Amy’s mouth opens and shuts. Sid talks but he hates it. Hates it more than brussels sprouts even. No one can understand him when he talks. Not even me. That’s why we pass notes. I hate myself for sitting quietly while the other kids laughed at him. I hate Mrs. Burns for making him do it.
“That was wrong of her, Aiden. Sometimes adults do the wrong thing, too.”
Don’t I know it.
“How did you get hurt?” she asks.
“Some kids were making fun of us at the playground. They said we had a crush on each other. They said I was in love with a retard.”
“Oh, Aiden, you know better than to listen to the stupid kids in this town.”
I want to tell her I didn’t mean to start the fight. Sid started crying, and I told them to shut up. That’s all I did. Now here I am with a swollen eye and fat lip for my trouble.
“Hey, Aiden, I think you should have your supper early and go to bed. How does that sound?”
I must be the only kid in the universe that loves going to bed early. The earlier the better.
“Okay.”
“First, I’m going to make you a big plate of cheesy fries,” she says, giving me a smile and ruffling my hair.
“With chili,” I say.
“With chili. No problem.”
We both stiffen as the car pulls up. He’s early. She looks at the mess on the table, trying to straighten it up before he comes.
It’s too late, Amy.
He slams the door, his cold eyes staring into me.
“What the fuck happened? The school called me.”
“They were bullies, Harlan,” Amy quickly explains. “Aiden didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, he just got his ass kicked. Those kids are in the same grade as him.” He yanks my arm so hard that he pulls me right off the couch. I hate crying.
“Why didn’t you fight back, boy? Are you a pussy?”
I shake my head. Like I said, I’m not much of a talker.
“Answer me,” he says, pulling my ear so hard, I move a few inches.
Amy stands. “Stop it. Leave him alone.”
Harlan doesn’t listen to her. Why does she even try? He looks at the table and back at her. “Clean up your fucking mess, Amy.”
She starts arguing. He picks up a potato and lobs it at her. It bounces off her shoulder, skidding across the floor. I move toward her. To do what, I’m not sure. Amy gives me a warning look, though. We have our own language, she and I. She wants me to stay where I am. It’ll be worse if I don’t.
Harlan stands across from me, crooking his fingers.
“Show me how you fight, boy. Come at me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“You’re bigger than me.”
He laughs, a deep taunting rumble that leaves me struggling not to piss my pants. “I’m always going to be bigger than you, boy. Fucking stupid little shit.”
He tells Amy to get him a drink. He sits on the recliner—his chair.
He throws the pebbles from the planter onto the floor. They skid. “You know what to do.”
I gather them up until they are in a straight, neat line because if I miss even one, my punishment will be doubled. I look up at him when I finish.
“Don’t look at me. I’m fucking ashamed to call you my flesh and blood. Kneel, you bastard.”
I crawl onto the pile I’ve made. The tiny rocks dig into my knees like a million splinters. The pain will last through the night. He smokes. He drinks. He touches the gun on his holster. He plays with his hunting knife, its smooth, glinting blade speaking its own powerful language. He tells us that before this night is through, he’s going to beat all the coward right out of me.
Amy tries to talk to him. Oh Amy, if you play with a snapping turtle, you’ll just get bit. Even I know this.
“This is your fault,” he roars. “You coddle him.”
“Harlan, he is just a boy. A little boy.”
Then he tells her to kneel, too. She puts her hand in mine and we both take the punishment.
The ritual of names starts. We’ve been through it so many times, we both have it memorized. But I still wince with each sentence he slings at us.
I am a pussy and she is a slut.
I am a bastard and she is a bitch.
I am a worthless piece of shit and she is a money-sucking cunt.
We are none of those things.
Harlan is an evil monster and we are his pathetic prey, his prisoners, his playthings.
Finally, Amy lifts her head. “Let him go to bed, Harlan.”
She crawls to him and puts her hands on his knees. It disgusts me, but even this language I understand. She’s distracting him…from me.
He slaps her hand away and stands. My knees start shaking, especially when he throws his glass. He yanks her by the hair, pulling her in front of me.
“If you won’t hit me. Hit her. She’s more your speed.”
I swallow but the dread is lodged in my throat.
“I’m giving you permission, son. Go on! Show me what you can do. What’s wrong, boy? You gone all dumb like your friend?”
My head pounds, or maybe it’s my heart. Amy saves me though.
“Are you crazy?” she screams. I’m in awe of Amy. She is brave. She mouths off to him because it’s the only way to shift his focus away from me. She might as well have jumped in front of a train, because he will barrel right through her.
I should have hit her. My fists are smaller than his. I wouldn’t have hurt her as much.
She tells me to run to my room. I won’t leave you, Amy. I can’t fight him, but I won’t run away, either. Not that it matters. I’m a possum, frozen with fear.
“Close your eyes, Aiden. Shut your ears, sweetheart.”
I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes as tight as they will go.
I wish I was like Sid. Sid, who has a family that loves him. Sid, whose dad is no doubt comforting him right now. Sid who cannot hear. Then I wouldn’t know the sound of broken flesh, or the dull thud of ten potatoes in a plastic bag as they repeatedly strike a frail body. Her screams suffocate me. But the rotten smell makes me gag. It reeks, forcing itself into my nostrils, even though I try to push it away. It’s a disgusting combination of starchy spuds, fresh blood, cheap beer, and stale smoke.
It’s the scent of darkness,
It’s only when the door slams that I open my eyes.
Amy’s small. I think of her like an older sister or a friend more than a stepmom. I scoot on my butt over to her. I will fall if I stand. My knees hurt so bad. The plastic bag of potatoes is next to her. I almost hurl at the sight of the broken pieces of potato that stick to the sides of it.
I take the bag of frozen vegetables and hold it against her skin now. They aren’t cold anymore. Not that it matters. There are too many hurts to cover with just one bag. I don’t think there are enough frozen bags of peas in the whole world to fix this hurt.
“I should have hit you.”
She stops sobbing to stare at me. A look of shock crosses her features because I’ve made the statement with complete sincerity.
“You did the right thing, Aiden. You are not like him. You never will be. You are good.”
“I didn’t protect you.”
“You did. You did in your own way.” She looks around at the mess that is our living room, our house…our prison. On the television, a bird outsmarts a cat. I wish we were birds so we could fly away. “No fries, but I can make you mashed potatoes.”
She tries to laugh, but she winces. I laugh for her. She needs the laughter. The only choices are to cry or laugh…or give up. We choose to laugh.
“Let’s go to the river tomorrow. We can fish or swim,” she says, tousling my hair. “Would you like that?”
I don’t think she will even be able to walk, let alone do those other things, but I nod anyway.
“Why don’t you leave?” I ask her.
“How could I leave you? You’re my best friend. I will never leave you, Aiden. I promise.”
“Amy?”
“What is it, my little brave man?”
“I don’t like potatoes anymore.”
She attempts a smile. It doesn’t get there. “Me, neither.”
…
“Aiden…Aiden…Aiden.”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, my hand circling her arm.
Emma’s eyes widen as my fingers dig into her flesh. Her mouth gapes, her lower lip trembles, but the worse thing…the very worst thing is the way she recoils from me. That flinch kills me.
Shit.
I let go, leaning away from her.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Aiden. You were having a nightmare.” Her voice is calm and soothing.
I suck in a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“No one.”
She nods, standing up from the bed. She’s already dressed in a black mini skirt and a tight silver top, her hair long and flowing down her back. God, how long have I been asleep?
“I’ve heard you shouldn’t wake people in the middle of a dream, but you were thrashing around so much.”
She brings me a glass of water.
I take it from her and swallow it down. “Thanks.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
I’m a fucking mess. My skin’s sweaty and my head might just explode. “Go without me. You’re okay to take a cab, right? Just text me his address and what time you’ll be ready to go tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”
She shakes her head. “I want you to celebrate my birthday with me.”
“I’m not feeling so hot, Emma.”
“I’ll stay here with you, then. I’ll get you some aspirin and—”
“That defeats the purpose of coming to L.A., doesn’t it? Don’t you want to see Kenneth?”
She stares down at her hands. “It’s interesting you got his name right this time.”
“Answer the question.”
“You’d think it would be an easy question, but it’s not. I don’t know. What I do know is that you seem upset. I don’t want to leave you.”
“Emma…” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence.
“Who is Amy?” she asks.
“What?”
“You were calling out her name. Who is she? Is she someone you loved?”
The question jolts me. The answer eludes me.
“She’s not important.”
“You were dreaming about her, so she must mean something to you.” Emma turns to me, her gray eyes incredibly warm and full of concern. “You can be honest with me, Aiden. About anything.”
As dumb as this argument is, it’s also dangerous. I push off the sheets and hustle over to the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in twenty.”
I take a hot shower, trying to wrap my head around the swirl of conflicting emotions that is Hurricane Emma, a girl I resent simply for living the life handed to her. A girl I want to protect so much that I’ll even safeguard her illusions. I don’t want to care for her. I want to be indifferent, pretend she does not affect me in any way, but she makes it impossible…because she affects me in every way.
Emma who wears her father’s watch. Emma who talks to her mother’s ashes (like she could hide that from me). Emma who texts Mac every day for updates on Faith. Emma who’d rather make sure I’m okay then party on her twenty-first birthday. If her tentative, blushing, lip-biting smiles are any indication, I affect her, too, which makes this even harder.
She’s not without faults. I try to concentrate on those, to bring them into focus even though she makes everything blur. She can’t sing worth a lick. Emma’s feet are big. They don’t look feminine. Emma has freckles. I don’t find freckles attractive. Emma, won’t your hair pick a damn color already?
Okay…so that’s not working.
Puffs of steam follow me out of the bathroom.
She’s sitting on a freshly made bed, all the sheets folded and tucked back to perfection. Why, Emma? We’re at a fucking hotel. Yeah, my asshole abilities are really reaching here.
She’s reading something while she waits. “Ready?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I put on my shoes and grab my wallet and all those other last minute things. She applies a fresh coat of gloss. Her shirt lifts when her arms reach, showing her piercing. I try not to look. Oh fuck, might as well. The masochist in me is delivering her straight into the arms of another man, after all.
To shield myself from Hurricane Emma, I pick up the tourist pamphlet she was reading. She’s circled a few of the items. “Haven’t you done all this?” I ask, holding it up.
“It’s funny—I lived here for two years, but I never did very much. I figured I’d always have time later for a studio tour or the Chinese Theatre. I thought while I was waiting for you, I’d make a checklist of the stuff I want to do most.” She shrugs, turning back to the mirror. “It’ll probably never happen, though.”
“Why not? You’ll be back here after this, right?”
She nods, placing the brochure back into the folder on the desk stuffed with takeout menus. “Sure,” she says, not sounding sure at all. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“You took a long time. I thought you might have drowned in there,” she says, her voice high with extra enthusiasm. She’s trying to cheer me up like a damn puppy.
“I was masturbating.” Her jaw drops. Her skin skips right over pink and goes straight to crimson.
“What? You said you wanted honesty.”