Very Wicked Things

“I can’t tell my parents. They’ll lock me away. My dad will never forgive me.” She buried her nose in my chest.

An image of her father came to mind. Being a televangelist, you’d think he’d be the epitome of love for mankind, but he wasn’t. His messages were hateful and loud, honing in on sinners, warning them about hell. He was not an easy man.

I sighed. “You won’t be alone. We’ll tell them together.”

She sniffed. “You’d do that for me?”

The enormity of what lay ahead settled on my shoulders.

“Yeah, of course. I want to take care of what’s mine.”

And for once, I’d be doing the right thing.

“You believe you’ll never fall, but then you wake-up,

just another notch on his bedpost.”

–Dovey

EARLY THE NEXT day, I woke up to my car being delivered by a man from a service station in Highland Park. I tried to pay him, but he said it had been taken care of. Cuba. Of course, it hurt my pride, but what could I do? I needed every penny now until I could figure out the Alexander situation.

Giving in and operating in a daze, I tucked the eight balls into an inside pocket of my dance bag and waltzed into school like it was an ordinary day. It made me jittery and twitchy. I pictured me in handcuffs being led out to a police car. Or me watching an ambulance take away one of my classmates who’d overdosed.

I was a criminal.

I trudged to my locker and Cuba was already there, leaning against it, his eyes skimming through the crowd, as if he were looking for someone.

I didn’t fool myself into thinking it was me.

Sweat immediately popped out all over my body.

Would he speak to me today or would we resume our stand-off?

And then I got dizzy at the thought of him finding out I was dealing dope.

His eyes landed on me and stayed, skating over my yellow and navy argyle printed tights and blue miniskirt. I’d paired it with a pair of neon yellow two inch heels from Heather-Lynn’s closet. A throw back from the sixties, they were a tad clunky, but I’d wear anything.

“You’re a fashion disaster, you know that?” he said with a small smile when I opened my locker.

“Not a blind slut?”

He paled. “Shit. I’m sorry for saying that.”

I shrugged. “You have to admit, my outfits do make it hard not to look, huh?”

He did a double-take at my remark, and I couldn’t have made it any plainer to him. But, he let it go.

“Did the Mercedes come back? Or the men?” he inquired, eyes intent on my face.

I blinked, racking my brain for what to tell him.

Here’s the thing, last night I’d lain in bed after leaving the warehouse, debating on whether or not I could ask Cuba for the money. I was tempted to, but telling him meant I’d have to explain I was the unwanted child of a mobster and his whore. Yet, at the end of the day, I could swallow my pride and reveal my secrets for Sarah. But, on the other hand, Cuba didn’t get my world. He’d never ransacked his house searching for food; he’d never walked the streets with a sock full of rocks; he’d never been cold. Scenarios flashed through my mind of him calling the police or perhaps even something as simple as telling his father who then called the police. I just didn’t trust him, not after last year.

And most importantly, involving him might put him in serious danger. They were following me now.

I sighed. No. I was on my own.

I waved my hand. “Huge misunderstanding. Sarah woke up and explained the whole thing. She never borrowed the money. They actually had us confused with one of the renters.” Which could only be Heather-Lynn, but he didn’t know that. “So, we passed along their message this morning, and the person who borrowed the money is taking care of it. See, no biggie.”

He nodded, a relieved expression on his face. “Cool. That’s good. But, if you need money or anything, I’m here. I can always ask my dad or—”

I cringed and held my hand up. “Stop. Thank you for getting my car fixed and having it delivered to me. I appreciate that, but I’m making it, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, shifting from one foot to the next. His eyes darted around the hall.

What was up with him?

“How are you doing?” I asked, remembering Cara and his mother.

“Anything is better than yesterday,” he said on a derisive laugh.

I nibbled on my lips, dying to ask him where we stood. Did he want us to be friends? Was it possible?

His shoulders flexed underneath his black knit shirt, and my eyes got tangled up on his roses and thorns that ran up his left arm. I knew exactly how far that tattoo went because I’d traced it with my fingers, kissed every inch of it with my mouth. Now, blood dripped from the thorns. Something new. And didn’t that thought just bring a world of regret. An entire year had passed between us, where he’d gotten new tattoos, been with other girls.

He edged away from me slightly, as if he’d thought he’d been too close before. And I got it. I did. He’d seen a glimpse of how messed up my situation was in Ratcliffe. Maybe it was Sarah, maybe it was the wackiness of Heather-Lynn, and it damn sure was the fact I was familiar with shady people.

Whatever small moment we’d shared in Sarah’s bedroom, it had evaporated.

But, it was still Cuba, and we hadn’t even been talking at all until yesterday.

Not knowing what to say, I twirled my hair over and over, looping the strands through my finger.