Chaste (2 page)

She’s told me her darkest secrets. My brother’s friends have told me their secrets too. Having others confide in me is a perk to keeping my feelings in check. I don’t cry over broken nails, or fractured bones, or broken hearts. And even though I miss my brother, I won’t cry over him either. Everyone knows I keep a firm grip on my emotions.

My mother’s cheeks flame as she stares at the floor, keeping her eyes down like there’s nothing more fascinating than the grayish-black carpet. It’s supposed to be white, but it’s covered in dust from the piles of old pizza boxes, random dishes and small appliances sitting in the hall. The disgusting gray carpet ends at my door where it turns white and pristine, almost new.

I’ve embarrassed her. That much is clear.

“Sorry,” I say as I reach out to touch her shoulder. She pushes my hand away.

“Just help me get the internet back.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. The internet is a glorious invention which makes our society high-tech by allowing us to accomplish more, to share information, and to launch creative ventures like the vlog I started a few years back called,
“Hair Tips and Tricks for Every Brown Skinned Diva.”

Ironically, I can’t work on my vlog at home anymore. ‘Cause ever since Roland died, my mom is computer obsessed. She uses it for online shopping sprees and virtual reality games, neither of which do anything to make her happy.

“I don’t think so, Mom.”

“No?” She looks at me with sudden panic.

Her face turns deathly pale, her hands start shaking. She crosses them over her body as if that will somehow make this better. It’s like she’s a smoker and I’ve taken away her last cigarette.

She turns and walks away on shaky legs.

“You okay?” I ask, looking at my watch and knowing there’s no time. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get to school. Fifteen minutes I can’t afford to waste, especially if I want to make a good impression.

She doesn’t respond. No, wait, that’s not true. She stops walking, but doesn’t say anything. Instead she takes a step forward and trips on a coffee maker she ordered from Amazon last month. Her shoulder hits the wall just before I jump over a pile of pizza boxes and steady her with my arm. In this family, I have no choice but to be the strong one. My dad is never home and my mother barely functions.

“Dad should be here to help you,” I say.

“He’s working on Roland’s House.”

Right, how could I forget? My dad is the head pastor of Centreville Bible Church. Most people around here know him as the voice behind the radio program,
“Not a Sermon, Only a Suggestion,”
but his latest project has been building a comprehensive therapy center to help families deal with troubling issues like divorce, substance abuse, special needs kids or loss of a child. He’s naming it after my brother and has poured so much time into making everything perfect, he hasn’t even noticed how wild I’ve turned, how utterly resistant I am to acting like a typical Christian girl—humble, modest, respectful to the core.

I’d rather be buried alive.

“He needs to spend more time at his
own
house!” I snap before shoving my video camera into my backpack.

Mom’s seething in the hallway, but I can’t afford to care right now. So I throw the pack over my left shoulder and rush past her, slamming the front door on my way out. My yellow Jeep waits by the curb, the one my parents bought me after my brother smashed up his tiny Honda. They must think I’m safer in a vehicle with a roll bar.

The moment I step into the driveway, Mike, the boy who lives next door, puts his fingers to his mouth and catcalls me.

If the guys at my high school want sexy, that’s what they’ll get. I’m not some inexperienced blushing virgin ice queen. The way I see it, this is part of being strong, displaying my power, calling the shots.

“Kat, wait for me,” Mike calls, smoothing a hand through his light brown hair. As flattered as I am by his attention, I don’t want to talk to him. He used to be my boyfriend and let me tell you, our breakup wasn’t pretty.

“Something wrong with your car?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He winks. “It’s nowhere near as cool as yours. Give me a lift?”

His tight T-shirt accentuates his broad shoulders. He picks that moment to scratch his stomach right where the top of his jeans meet his shirt, and I catch a glimpse of his sexy abs.

A few months ago I would’ve done anything to make him happy. Go to school without underwear, take my clothes off in the janitor’s closet, even have sex in the back of his Lexus with the windows rolled down. Then I caught him cheating on me with some skanky girl behind a Dumpster … the one behind McDonalds. Talk about trashy.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” He holds up three fingers like a Boy Scout at his first Court of Honor.

I suppress a bitter laugh. Like he’s ever been a Boy Scout. We both know he’s the ultimate bad boy. Still, he was devastated when my brother died. Mike and Roland played basketball together, and when Mike heard about Roland’s accident, he cried like a child in my lap.

As I look at him now, I think of that and say, “Let’s go.”

Mike opens the door for me, smiles real wide and squeezes my ass before I jump into the Jeep. That would’ve made me crazy-horny once. Now it just makes me mad. What does he think, I want him back? Nope. Not gonna happen.

He sits beside me and puts on his seat belt.

I start the Jeep and focus on the road. You only get one shot at your first day of senior year, and I plan to start mine right. I’m going to look damn good today. Mike will eat his cheating heart out, and the guys at school won’t know what hit ‘em.

3

Quinn

“Your car smells like mold,” my friend Preston points out. We’re on Rolling Road only a few blocks from West Springfield High School. The engine makes a rattling sound when we stop at a red light.

Be grateful for what you have
. My mother has drilled that maxim into my head from as far back as I can remember. It’s why I don’t complain about sharing this decrepit car with my sister when so many kids in my class drive new ones.

“We live in Northern Virginia. It’s humid,” I say.

Preston slides his seat back and puts his feet up on the dashboard. “And you’re wearing so much cologne, it almost covers it up.” He holds his nose. “You tryin’ to impress Molly?”

I cup a hand over my mouth and smell my breath. “Yep.”

“Nothin’ to worry about,” Preston says. “You’re the best cellist this school has seen in years and she’s the best flute player. You’re the only one who understands her. And believe me, I know because I’ve tried talking to her.”

I punch him in the shoulder.

“Seriously bro, no matter what they pretend, girls want sex as much as we do.”

Great, now he brings up sex. The one thing I can’t help thinking about even though it’s completely off limits. As a Mormon, I’m supposed to wait until marriage, and while I have the option of going on my two-year mission at eighteen, I’ve decided to attend a year of college first, which means it’ll be years before I get any. Besides, Amy’s situation already freaks me out. She’s a walking advertisement for abstinence.

Preston turns on the radio. “Did you sleep last night?”

I shake my head no.

The radio crackles and the voice of Pastor Larry Jackson comes in loud and clear. Mr. Jackson is talking about finding happiness this morning, explaining how material goods will never fill the empty spaces inside us. “Not a sermon, only a suggestion,” he says to wrap up his address.

I flip the radio off and pull into a spot right next to Katarina Jackson’s Jeep. “That guy is so annoying,” I say. “Like I could ever, for one moment, forget he spreads nasty stuff about our church, going on about all the reasons we’re not ‘Christians.’” I put the word in air quotes. “There’s also the matter of Kat’s gas-guzzling yellow jeep, which I’m sure costs a fortune. You know, the one he bought so she could fill up the emptiness.”

“Yeah, but he can afford it,” Preston says. “Unlike your parents. If they bought you a Jeep, you’d have to eat hotdogs for every meal until you graduate.”

I shoot him a dirty look.

“Hey.” He puts up his hands in defense. “Not a sermon, only a suggestion. You have to admit, she’s hot.” He puffs out his chest and struts toward the door where Katarina Jackson sways her hips in front of four tall guys on the basketball team. They can’t keep their eyes off her belly-button ring.

I hurry after him.

“Hello, Kat,” he says in a fake low voice, pushing his way into her group. I know he’s trying to sound masculine, but he comes across like a skinny nerd on some kind of high. Kat laughs. Mike Duvall drapes his arm around her, and the two guys on either side of Preston start shoving into him with their shoulders.

“Leave him alone,” I say, charging into the center of their circle. Kat’s friends turn their backs like they don’t hear me. They open the door and step inside as my foot lands on some slimy piece of trash. It slides across the concrete, taking me with it. My feet slip out from under me as my right hand reaches for something, anything to hold onto. It lands smack on Kat’s rear end before I hit the ground.

She freezes in the door with Mike beside her. Preston helps me to my feet, but I see Kat’s hands clench and unclench. The guys in front of her look back and stop walking. Preston swallows. “Maybe we should go around front,” he croaks.

That might be a bit hard since Mike has just come around behind us. I can hear him cracking his knuckles. I walk forward and Kat turns, stepping in front of me with her arms folded over her waist. “Keep your hands to yourself,” she snaps.

The girl could be a Victoria’s Secret model with her perfectly flat tummy, big chest and fierce green eyes, but that attitude of hers would get her fired in a heartbeat. Besides, jocks and nerds don’t mix at this school. Neither do Goths and computer geeks. While the rest of the world talks about equality and tolerance, our school has divided itself into segregated groups. Asia’s in the hall to the left of the freshman lockers, Africa’s next to the gym, India’s located one hall down from the office and our small group meets under the stairs in the science wing, also known as The Land Down Under.

Kat hangs with the jocks who roam the halls. They wander like a pack of wolves, as if they own the school. Roland Jackson used to be their leader until he wrapped his car around a tree last March. Now they all hang around Kat like worker bees around their queen. Maybe they think she needs protecting. It sure doesn’t look that way to me.

I swallow. “It was an accident, I swear.”

The two guys who shoved Preston stand on either side of her. They smile, but the expression doesn’t reach their eyes. One at a time they roll up their sleeves. Kat gives me a hostile glare. Why do I feel like the small one when she’s four inches shorter than I am?

I take a step back.

“Don’t do it again,” she says in an icy voice.

She’s asserting her supremacy. I’ve seen her do this with other guys, skinny wannabes like Preston mostly. She lets these meathead jocks touch her all the time, but apparently I’m not fit to run in her crowd. I hate being pushed around. So I stand up straight and puff out my chest, thankful for the extra time I spent at the gym this summer. My muscles push up against my shirt.

“Like I’d ever want to touch you,” I say.

“If you were a
real
man, you would.”

“And if you were a
real
Christian
you wouldn’t prance around in nothing,” I say, knowing I’ll likely get punched in the face by one of Kat’s friends for that.

“What’s the matter, good Mormon boy can’t control his thoughts?” She takes a step forward and puts a hand on my chest.

I’ve never been touched by a girl in such an intimate way. My cheeks heat and my retort catches in my throat.

She looks down. “That’s what I thought.”

“Let us pass,” I say, keeping my voice even, devoid of the humiliation still prickling my face.

Kat whistles, and her thugs move aside. She bows in mock diffidence as Preston and I move past. We all know this is a joke to her. Mike Duvall winks. The other guys laugh. “Because I’m such a good Christian,” she says, smirking.

“Your entourage is a joke,” I return.

“At least I have one,” she bites back in a voice tinged with tension. “All you have are a bunch of outcast friends and outdated, bazaar-o beliefs. You pretend to be moral, but you’re just a hypocrite. Fake religion. Fake people.”

“And you’re
so
real with your expensive Jeep, designer clothes and body jewelry,” I say, wanting to hurt her like she’s hurt me. “Where would you be without your daddy’s money?”

Preston tugs on a strap of my backpack. We pull away from Kat’s pack of wolves. From behind me I hear her thugs calling me nasty names. When we’re far enough away not to hear them, I take a deep breath and turn to my friend.

He scowls. “Since when do you pick fights?”

“They started it,” I say. “You should thank me for going in after you. Someone has to stand up to her. She thinks she runs this place.”

“She does,” he says. “And you’re the one who touched her butt. Do you want a black eyes and a broken leg? Insulting Kat will get you both. Those guys are wicked protective.”

“They can’t touch me in school. They’ll get suspended. And I’m not gonna go around scared because a bunch of guys crack their knuckles and roll up their sleeves.”

The bell rings. Great, now I’m late on the first day of school. Preston takes off down the hall. I round a corner, and there’s Molly leaning against my locker. Her red hair has a few blond streaks in it. She’s wearing casual jeans that show off her pointy hips, narrow thighs and tiny behind. The girl could be a fairy she’s so short and thin and perfect. My hands start sweating, slipping on the combination lock as I try to open my locker.

“Need help?” she asks, lifting one red eyebrow.

“36-10-22,” I tell her.

“Kiss me first,” she whispers. I keep my eyes open, tilt my head and brush my lips against hers. “That’s better,” she says before starting on my lock.