Gabrielle's Bully (Young Adult Romance) (15 page)

Heath began laughingly, but the beautiful music soon absorbed us both, and his mood turned serious as he sang in a clear, lilting tenor. It was such an inspiring song, it made you want to jump up and win the world for France. I closed my eyes and pictured the scene from the movie, with all the patriots singing their hearts out to show the foreign conquerors that France was down, but not out, that the spirit of freedom was still alive in her people. I opened them on Heath’s last note to find him in front of me. I quickly brushed away a tear, feeling ridiculous.

He dropped to his knees and looked into my eyes. “You,” he said tenderly, “are a sentimental fool.”

“I know it.”

He stood and offered me his hands, pulling me to my feet. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

He led me to one of the couches flanking the fireplace and we sat together. “How did you learn all the words to that song?” I asked. “Did they teach you that at school?”

“No, my mother was French. She taught me when I was little.”

That explained his flawless accent. “You speak it really well,” I said. “You sound like an actor in a foreign film.”

He sighed. “That and a token will get me on the subway.”

I turned to him, indignant. “Why do you put yourself down like that? You know so many wonderful, unusual things, and you act as if they’re worth nothing. I would be so proud to have your education and you treat it as if it were a handicap.”

“In your school it is. Those kids, they act like I just landed from Mars if I show in any way that I know something they don’t. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.”

“Well, they’re just ignorant and immature. They distrust what they don’t understand, like, I don’t know, a caveman throwing rocks at the moon.”

He smiled. “No one ever stuck up for me the way you do.” He took my hand and held it in both of his. “When you took my side against Jeff tonight I felt like a million bucks.” He raised my hand to his lips.

I watched him, feeling the warmth of his mouth on my skin. His profile was etched against a background of dancing flames, and his lashes fanned his cheeks as his eyes closed. I tried to fix the moment in my mind so that I could remember it, and relive it, when I got home.

Heath opened his eyes and looked at me, and I knew that everything I was feeling was showing in my face. He reached out with one long arm and pulled me to him, lowering his head to kiss me.

It began gently, but as I kissed him back eagerly it changed into something that both frightened and thrilled me at the same time. Heath’s arms became hard, rigid, I could feel the muscles tensing under my fingers. He shifted his position to draw me closer, his mouth moving to my ears, my face, my throat. I clung to him, dizzy, my fingers sunk in his thick hair, overcome with the urge to touch and feel and show my love for him. His hands moved over me, seeking, and I made a small sound, nestling into him. He moaned softly, drawing me into his lap, and kissed my mouth again, urgently. All tenderness was gone, submerged in a rush of passion that transformed Heath, my gentle, considerate Heath, into a demanding stranger.

Terrified, I tore my mouth from his and stood, clinging to the armrest for support. Heath remained seated, not looking at me. He was breathing harshly, and I noticed as he straightened his sweater that his hands were shaking.

Silence reigned for a few moments, and then he said quietly, “I’m sorry, Gaby. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His voice was husky and low, with an uncertain note I recognized. He had scared himself, too.

“I think I’d better go home,” I said. I sounded pretty raggedy as well. My legs didn’t seem capable of supporting my weight. I leaned against the sofa and told myself to calm down, taking deep, regular breaths. When I felt better I got my coat and things and put them on, standing in the doorway to the hall.

“I’ll call my father to come and get me,” I said.

Heath got to his feet and walked over to me, gripping my elbows and forcing me to look at him as he searched my face. “Gaby, you’re not afraid to go home with me?”

I said nothing.

He looked miserable, letting me go and turning away. “Don’t you know I’d never do anything to hurt you?” he said, almost to himself.

I couldn’t stand his hopeless, defeated expression. “Oh, Heath, it’s not you, it’s me too, it’s both of us. Don’t you see?”

He looked back at me. “Yes,” he said softly, “I see.” He reached for his jacket and shrugged into it. “I’ll drive you home,” he said. “Nothing will happen, I promise.”

We went to his car in silence, each thinking troubled thoughts. The trip to my house was short. As I opened the door to get out Heath put his hand on my arm. “I’ll call you tomorrow?” He was asking me, not telling me.

I nodded. “Okay.”

There was more to be said, but neither one of us was up to it. I trudged wearily to the door as Heath drove away, feeling as if I had been in a war.

* * *

I couldn’t help suspecting that the whole thing had been my fault. Why had I gone to his house with him alone? That had been a dumb move; from one point of view I had only gotten what I deserved. I didn’t think Heath had planned it, only that going along with his suggestion had made it easier.

My problem was that I was willing to do almost anything he wanted. If he pressed me in the future I wasn’t sure what my response would be. And I wasn’t kidding myself about my feelings, either. It would be very dangerous to be alone with him anymore. We couldn’t go back, after tonight.

So what was I going to do? I hung my coat in the front hall closet dispiritedly, rubbing the back of my neck. My headache had returned.

My mother looked up from her book when I came into the den. “Gaby, you’re back early.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you feeling all right? You look very pale.”

“I’ve had a headache all day, it comes and goes.”

She got up. “I’ll get you some aspirin.”

“I already took two, about six-thirty.”

She glanced at her watch. “Wait an hour or so, and take two more.”

“Okay.” I dropped into an armchair and stared at the ceiling.

My mother sat again, still watching me. “Do you have any other symptoms?” she asked.

Loneliness, heartbreak, despair. Got the cure for those? “No, just the headache.”

“I hope it isn’t the flu.”

It isn’t the flu, Mom, it’s love. Ever heard of it? “I hope not.” I noticed that we were missing two people. “Where are Craig and Daddy?”

“Your father took Craig to get a new model set.”

Great. We already had enough plastic monsters in the basement to populate Transylvania. “I hope he picks something different this time,” I said. “One more Dracula and I’m moving out.”

“They’re in the basement,” my mother said mildly. “You don’t have to look at them.”

“But I know they’re there. All those miniature werewolves and demons and vampires, it’s enough to give you the creeps.”

“I hate to agree with you,” my mother said, “but I see your point. It’s getting a little difficult to do the laundry down there at night.”

“Why doesn’t he build model planes like everybody else? And those collections! What is it now? Bottle caps?”

“He’s saving them to see if he wins the prize,” Mom said defensively. “If you hit the right number you get a table tennis set.”

I groaned. With my luck Craig would win, and our house would be filled day and night with his fifth grade cronies, slamming ping-pong balls through the rooms.

“You should be a little more tolerant,” my mother said archly. “I remember when your lifetime ambition was to own a complete set of Nancy Drew books.”

“Please. Don’t remind me.” I was getting up to put on the television when Craig and my father came home. Craig rushed into the room to proudly display his latest acquisition, a model of the Hound of the Baskervilles. The illustration on the box showed a huge black dog with a ferocious expression, jaws open to reveal hideous fangs dripping with blood.

“Lovely, Craig,” I said dryly. “Just lovely.”

“You put the blood on the teeth with phosphorescent paint,” Craig said happily. “That way they glow in the dark.”

“Charming,” my mother said.

“I tried to talk him into Spider Man or The Green Hornet,” my father said resignedly. “But it was the Hound, or nothing.”

Craig tore downstairs to start work on his ghoul, and I headed up to my room.

I really didn’t want to watch television. I had a lot of thinking to do.

Chapter 8

Heath did call the next day, but Barbara was over for the afternoon so I cut the conversation short. I could tell he wasn’t satisfied, but I knew I would see him at school and I would talk to him then.

Barbara was still in a state of shock over my fight with Jeff. She went over it again in vivid detail, relishing every moment.

“You could have heard a pin drop in that whole place when you finished talking,” she said, removing polish from her nails with a wad of cotton. “The great Jeff Lafferty, shot down in flames. A night to remember.”

“I’m trying to forget it,” I said truthfully. “He’ll probably have a hit man after me tomorrow.”

“Heath will kill him if he does anything,” Barbara said with confidence. “I think Jeff’s afraid of him. He was getting pretty cocky because Heath was ignoring him, but he realized last night that if he starts giving you a bad time Heath will flatten him.” Barbara sounded like she couldn’t wait for the flattening to begin.

“Oh, Barb, I don’t want any more fights,” I said. “I just want him to leave Heath alone.”

“You know Jeff,” Barb answered. “He’s not satisfied unless he’s on somebody’s case.”

I had been trying to approach a difficult subject for an hour and finally decided to plunge into it headlong. “Barb, what do you do when Mike, you know, wants to ...” I let the sentence hang in the air, hoping she would get my drift.

She did. “Fool around?” she supplied.

“Yeah.”

She stuck one foot in the air and dabbed at her little toe. “I take it Heath has, uh, made a move on you?”

“Not exactly. I don’t think it was deliberate, it just sort of happened.”

“I see.” She sighed and sat up, tossing the used cotton in the wastebasket. “Well, I hate to tell you, but I don’t have the answer to that one. I just take it a day at a time.”

“But,” I persisted, “don’t you ever feel that you want to go along with him? Don’t you feel that you want it, too?”

She stared at me. “Of course, dummy. That’s the problem.”

I threw myself on the bed. “What a revolting development this is.”

She shrugged. “Welcome to the club.”

“How can you stand it?”

“You stand it. You get used to it.”

“Get used to it! Last night I felt like I was being torn apart. One half of me wanted to run into the street, the other half wanted to do whatever he asked.”

Barb went to my dresser and examined my collection of nail polish. “That’s about the size of it.”

“What an awful way to live.”

“That’s why people get married,” she said simply.

“At sixteen!”

“Unfortunately, the feelings arrive before you’re old enough to handle them.” She selected a color and shook the bottle. “It would be a lot easier if we lived on a South Seas island where everybody gets married at fourteen.”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’d have four kids by the time you were twenty and you’d never go to college and you’d have to eat grubs and ants and all sorts of terrible stuff.”

“I didn’t say it would be perfect,” she answered, and we both laughed.

My mother knocked on my door, and then stuck her head into the room. “We’re going to Sarah’s now, Gaby,” she said. “We’ll be back around six. There’s a frozen pizza in the freezer for you girls if you get hungry.”

Sarah was a friend of my mother’s who had a boy Craig’s age. Her husband was an insurance man, too, so everybody had somebody to talk to except me when we went there. I had finally convinced my mother that Sarah wouldn’t go into a decline if I didn’t go with them, and the last two times they visited her they had left me behind. As predicted, everyone survived it.

“Thanks, Mom. ’Bye.”
 

She closed the door behind her and we heard her steps going down the stairs.

“Your mother is so nice,” Barb said enviously. “She’s always so calm.”

Barbara’s mother was a nervous wreck and popped pills all day long to stave off a breakdown. She was always resting in a dark room or crashed on the living room sofa with an ice bag on her head. Nobody could figure out what made her so nervous: Barb and Margie were both good kids, and their father was a big, quiet man who hardly said a word. Maybe that was it—her life was too dull.

“Yeah, Mom’s all right,” I agreed. “I’d trade Craig for whatever was handy, though.”

She laughed. “I saw the box from his newest project when I came in,” she said. “How can he take all those horrible, leering faces?”

“He has a morbid imagination,” I answered gloomily.