Going Underground (14 page)

That can't be good.

When Livia finds me, I'm thinking more than I'm digging. In fact, I'm just standing in the middle of the Acorn Section grave, leaning on the shovel, letting the sun touch me enough to keep me from freezing, and having a whistling contest with Fred.

Livia doesn't try to interrupt, but of course I stop whistling the second I know she's there, because, well, I'm not a gigantic dork or anything.

She comes around in front of me, where I can see her pretty face and behind her, over her right shoulder, Fred hanging in her cage, fluttering around and acting excited because Livia's there. She kisses me. I kiss her back. She tastes like mint chewing gum and she smells like cinnamon and fresh-baked bread. My body molds to hers like we're made to fit together, and I try to keep my thoughts G-rated, but—damn, it's the last place I need to go, and the first place I get to.

Beast.

“I missed you so much.”

We say that at the same time, and I feel goofy even though I shouldn't and warm even though it's cold, and she's here, and suddenly that's all that matters. I can handle the ache. I can stand the frustration. I can hold everything together and control myself forever, as long as she's here with me.

Tame beast
.

Livia kisses me again, then pulls back and smiles at me. I make myself smile back, but I guess she can read stuff on my face or in my voice because she says, “Hard day?”

“Yeah,” I admit. What I want to say is,
I don't know what to do, and I don't really know how to do it. Do you know what I mean?

But why would she know?

She's had a lot of tragedy, but she's not in trouble. She feels like she's got marks against her, but she really doesn't, not as far as colleges and jobs and the rest of the world are concerned.

I'm not being fair, am I? Her sister getting killed like that—it was a huge punch. It knocked her off the earth, just like my trouble did to me.

I'm such an ass.

“What are you thinking?” She's closer to me now, and whispering, her lips almost on mine. Her dark eyes seem so huge they take up everything in my brain, pulling my thoughts to her and nobody else.

I hold her around the waist, noticing how soft her blue sweater feels, and this time, I pussy out with, “It's complicated.”

I wonder how many other things Cherie's right about?
Shitty thought. Totally don't want to go there, either. Lots of places I don't want to go right now.

“I can do complicated,” Livia tells me. She's got me at the waist, too, her hands pressing into my sides. It's like we're each trying to make sure the other one doesn't fall right over.

Okay, that was scary, because this time, the mental blog entry's all in my voice, strong and definite and nagging, and I know I'm right. Time to stop being a pussy. “I keep putting off talking to you. I can't do that anymore.”

Her smile makes me warm and breaks my heart at the same time. “I told you it was okay.”

“It's not okay.” I make myself stop touching her because that keeps me from thinking like I need to think to get out the words. “You have to know everything, and I hate talking about it. I keep bullshitting myself, saying I can't figure out where to start, but that's not true. The start is, I got in a lot of trouble when I was fourteen, and it's the kind of trouble that lasts … sort of … forever.”

While I'm taking a breath to get my mouth around the rest of it, she pulls me to her, rests her head against my chest, and says, “Wait.”

I hold her, and I want to wait, but I make myself let her go and she looks hurt. The way the sun's shining off her hair, off her cheeks and eyes, she's more fairy than ever, like a dream I'll never get to have again.

“I've been happy since I met you.” Her lower lip trembles just enough to stick a dagger directly through my willpower and determination. “I can't stand—I don't want anything to change that. Not yet, okay?”

My neck doesn't want to work, but as the oak leaves dance in the afternoon breeze and Fred's cage bobs up and down, blanket untucking and flapping, I turn my head enough, and enough times for Livia to read,
No. Not okay. Gotta do this
.

Fred whistles, louder and louder each time I don't answer, and I have to figure her bird nose can smell how nervous I am. She's trying to fix it, to help me, but there's no help for this. It's a bank full of nuns and all my plans have gone to hell, and the only way out is telling the truth, no matter what it costs me.

Tears pool in the corners of Livia's eyes, as if she hears what I'm thinking and knows I'm right, like maybe she's got a clue how bad everything might get in that space between what she knows about me and what she doesn't know.

“Later,” she says. “I'll listen to everything, I promise, but for now, just kiss me again.”

I don't need to kiss her.

I don't need to put everything away, just drop it like I drop the shovel when I'm through with a grave.

I don't need to do that, but it's exactly what I do, because holding Livia feels better than anything in my life now, and maybe ever.

“Four,” Fred shouts, like she knows something I don't. “Four, four, four!”

After we've snuggled for a few long, perfect minutes, Livia kisses my neck and whispers in my ear, “Are you afraid I'll try to push us?”

The cool night air stings my eyes, probably because I just opened them so wide. “What?”

“That I'll, you know, try to push the sex thing.” She kisses my ear.

Chills—the cold kind and the warm kind—break out all over my body. “I … um, no?”

Yes?

Who the hell knows?

My arms have gone stiff around her, and she wriggles against me to loosen my grip. “I won't push. I know something's bothering you about that. I can tell. And honestly, since Claudia, and with my father always breathing down my neck—well. It's like with food. Sometimes keeping it simple is better.”

She moves back in my slightly more relaxed arms, and she stares into my eyes. I stare back, tongue-tied as usual, but also clueless about what to say or do next. I so didn't expect any of that. She's smart and responsible like I always think I am, like I want to be. I talk about it and think about it. Livia, she just
does
it.

“It's not that I'm not interested.” She runs her fingers down my cheek, and the chills double, and a lot of other sensations burn like a sudden fire in the night.

I finally speak, or more like croak, “We should—ah, stop talking about it.”

Livia grins. Looks pleased. “Fine. We'll talk about it again soon.”

“Not until—”

She puts her fingers on my lips. “Not tonight.”

“Not tonight.”

“Four,” Fred says.

I really am completely lost.

Three Years Ago: Broken Boy Soldier

Detective Henning sits across from me, and light shines bright on the metal table between us. There's a tape recorder. Mom's standing on one side of me while Dad stands at the door. I figure people are watching from behind the dark window I'm looking at, but that's probably crazy.

In between the weird music buzzing through my head, I'm sort of writing my own song, and it's

Did somebody die?

Why am I here?

What do you think I did?

What's going on?

Sucks. Doesn't rhyme. But all those questions want to come out, and I'm scared anything I ask will make me look stupid or guilty or just make everything worse. I'm even starting to wonder if I've secretly gone crazy, maybe done a bunch of stuff I don't remember—somebody would have to be crazy to do stuff they don't remember, right?

The room smells a little like pee and a lot like sweat.

My mom leans over the table, covers my left hand with her right, and starts asking some of my questions. “What's going on, Detective? I think we deserve some answers.”

“We'll get to that.”

“Sooner rather than later, if you want us to keep cooperating with—with whatever this is,” Dad says. He's leaning on the wall beside the door with both arms folded, glaring at the police officer. I'm glad he's not looking at me like that.

Detective Henning doesn't react to Dad and takes his time getting his yellow legal pad exactly where he wants it. Then he makes a few scribbles, turns on the recorder my parents agreed to, says his name and my name and the date and our location.

After that, he asks, “So, how long have you and Cory known each other?”

I can't see what he wrote on the pad, so I stop trying. “A long time.”

“But your relationship changed this last year?”

“Yeah.”

My mother gives me a fast, sharp look.

“Um, I mean, yes, sir.”

“The two of you get along?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No fighting and arguing?”

“No, sir.”

“You ever threaten her or intimidate her in any way?”

“No!”

“Wait a minute—” Dad starts, and at the same time, Mom says, “Okay, look. Del's not that kind of kid.”

Tears beat against the backs of my eyes, but I'm trying not to cry or look like a complete idiot. “Did Cory say I did anything like that? Is she mad at me?”

“Does she have anything to be mad at you about?” Detective Henning asks.

Everything inside me feels like it's crawling. “I don't think so.”

The detective waits. The sweat-piss-perfume-cologne smell in the little room seems to get stronger. I don't like the waiting. He makes me wait longer. My parents start shifting around where they're standing, and Mom moves away from the table. I think Dad's starting to pace.

“How close are you and Cory, Del?” The detective doesn't look up from his pad when he asks this, but he does when he adds, “You want me to ask your mom to leave? Sometimes this stuff is easier with just guys.”

“No,” I tell him at the same time Mom and Dad say it.

Then I'm sitting there listening to myself breathe and listening to my parents breathe, and I wonder if maybe I should have let the detective tell Mom to step out for a few.

Too late, too late. He's waiting for an answer
. “I … we … we've done some stuff. Not sex, though.”

“The pictures on your phones were revealing.” He pushes my phone toward me, and oh God, there's Cory naked, and I can't put my hand over the picture before Mom sees it, or Dad. It's just there and they're seeing it.

“Oh,” Mom says. Kind of a little squeaky voice. Nothing from Dad, but he turns his head away from the photo.

I put my hand over it. “You shouldn't be looking at that. It's mine. It's private.”

Detective Henning's smile looks a little sarcastic. “And you and Cory haven't had sex?”

“No, sir.” I'm hot all over. I wish I knew what buttons to push without looking to delete that picture.

“Have you done anything else?” he asks. “What are you calling it these days—almost sex?”

I stare at him.

He stares at me. “Oral?”

“No. Just …”

He waits.

I get hotter and squeeze my hand around the phone between us, with naked Cory underneath my palm. “Just our hands.”

He nods. Slides the phone away from me. “How many times?”

I ignore my parents and start pretending they don't exist, that they're not really in the room with me so I can answer him. “Three.”

Detective Henning makes notes on his pad. “You're sure about that?”

“It's not something I'd forget.”

“You're telling me the truth, Del. I know because that's exactly what Cory said. That's good.” He fiddles with the tape recorder. “We're almost done.”

“I didn't make her do it. She wanted me to. It was her idea.” I know I'm sounding nervous, and I look at my parents. “We're not having sex, not even oral. We're being safe. We're waiting.”

My parents keep looking at me, but their eyes—strange. Hollow and surprised. Dad seems pissed, but not at me.

This feels like cutting my own guts out and laying them on the table for everybody to stare at and poke and rate on some screwed-up scale. How will I ever look at my parents again after this? How will they ever look at me?

Detective Henning waits for a bit, then seems to realize I'm done. I hope I'm done. Will he let us be done?

“Okay, Del,” Detective Henning says as he stands up and starts clearing stuff off the table. “What I need you to do is wait while I get this typed up. You'll read it, then sign that what I type up is right, that it's what happened and what you told me. Your parents will need to look it over, too.”

This activates my dad like shoving batteries in his back and hitting an On switch. He comes off his leaning spot on the wall. “I don't want him signing things. If you want him to sign things, I want to talk to an attorney.”

Detective Henning cradles all the junk from the table. I can't read his expression at all. Maybe he's mad about what Dad said, or maybe he's relieved. I might be cracked, but I swear he looks like he feels guilty about something. “That's your call, Mr. Hartwick.”

Voices rise in the hallway, and there's knocking on the door, some actual yelling, then the door gets unlocked and shoved open. I see another detective for about two seconds before Cory's parents come busting in, all red in the face.

My heart slams into high gear and I cover my head on the table and wait for Mr. Wentworth to grab me and start killing me.

Cory's mom is the one who starts talking first. “What's going on here? Why are you doing all of this?”

I peek out from under my own armpit. Mrs. Wentworth really does look like an older version of Cory, and this would be Cory in totally pissed, hide-the-softball-bats mode.

Mr. Wentworth's got on smudged jeans and a dark T-shirt, and his big plumber's hands are clenched into sledgehammer-sized fists. “Why are you holding Del?”

Detective Henning stands by the table with his arms still loaded down, saying nothing. He nods to the detective at the door, who gives him a shrug, then pulls the door closed again.

Cory's mom is hugging my mom, and Mr. Wentworth's shaking hands with my dad, and I'm still alive, so I figure Mr. Wentworth must not know what I told the detective.

“Cory told us everything,” Mrs. Wentworth says to my mom. “Well, what little
everything
there is. I have no idea what these people have told you, but we don't have any problem with this. It's an issue for us, for their parents, not the police.”

At this, she looks at Detective Henning again, and so does Mr. Wentworth. My parents are looking at him, too.

Um, so am I.

She told them everything?

I glance at Mr. Wentworth's hands, then back to the detective. I'm not sure who to be scared of, so I decide to be scared of both of them.

“Your daughter is under the age of consent,” Detective Henning says to the Wentworths. “Cory isn't in trouble. You don't need to be here—none of this will involve her.”

“None of what will involve her?” Mom asks as Mrs. Wentworth folds her arms, looking as confused as I feel.

Detective Henning's expression turns flat, then sad. “Del admitted to having sexual contact with Cory.”

“I didn't have sex with her!” I'm out of my seat before I even think what I'm doing, eyes on Mr. Wentworth, ready to move in case he comes after me. “We just touched each other! Just touching!”

And finally,
finally
, Detective Henning starts talking to me instead of questioning me. “By law, putting your hands on or in her private areas—that's sex, son. You're over the age of consent and she isn't.”

“I don't like how this is sounding.” Dad comes over to where I'm standing and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Are you kidding me?” Cory's father sounds furious, but not with me. “They're the same age.”

Sex? I had sex with her according to the law
? Makes no sense. We didn't have sex.

“He's older, and over the age of consent,” Detective Henning tells Mr. Wentworth. “She's not. That's all the law cares about.”

For a long few seconds, nobody says anything, and my heart's still banging, and my brain's still repeating
I didn't have sex with Cory. We were waiting.

“Well, if that's illegal, we don't want any charges filed,” Mrs. Wentworth says, and stays close to my mother, who has gone wicked ghost pale. “This is ridiculous.”

“No charges,” Mr. Wentworth agrees, maybe so he can kill me himself, but maybe he's actually being a nice guy. I don't know. I can't figure it out.

“It's not up to you,” Detective Henning says. “I'm sorry. None of you have any say in this. Really, you haven't since the coaches found the pictures on their cell phones.”

“What are you talking about?” Dad's starting to lose it. I can tell because he's talking through his teeth. “What the hell is going on here?”

Detective Henning glances at the table like he's considering putting the tapes and notebooks down, but then he seems to think better of it. “Once the coaches found the pictures, the law mandates that they turn them over to law enforcement. And once we get information like this, we're obligated to turn it over to the district attorney, William Kaison.”

Mr. Wentworth's jaw comes unhinged. He laughs. Shakes his head. Gets himself together enough to say, “You're turning over a report of two kids making out to the DA. Are you serious?”

“It'll be up to him how to proceed,” Detective Henning says.

Mom's not shaking, but her voice trembles when she whispers, “There's not even a year's difference in their age.”

I'm hardly keeping up with anything the detective's saying, but I see that guilty look on his face again when he speaks back to my mother. “Ma'am, it doesn't matter in the eyes of the law in this state if it's just one day.”

Mr. Wentworth's not finished. He's between the detective and the door. “But they're our kids.”

“Like I've been telling you, your daughter is under the age of consent.” Detective Henning definitely seems unhappy now. “She's considered a victim. She won't even be charged for the sexting picture.”

“The what?” Mr. Wentworth asks.

Oh God. I'm dead. I'm so dead
. My breath chokes away again, leaving me swallowing, only I can't swallow because my throat's so dry.

“The pornography,” the detective says, and now I'm really waiting to get hit or die. I'm sweating everywhere, even behind my knees.

“What pornography?” Mrs. Wentworth asks, and now she looks a little guilty. “You mean—that picture Cory took of herself? I found that and had her delete it. We talked about it.”

Mr. Wentworth stays quiet, glaring at his wife, but he doesn't say anything. Neither does the detective or my parents.

“We went over why it was a bad idea, and she heard me,” Mrs. Wentworth keeps going, talking mostly to the detective. “She understands—but how on earth could you call that pornography?”

“When Del and Cory took pictures of themselves, in the eyes of the law, that's creating child pornography.” Detective Henning shifts his attention to my parents. “When your son accepted the picture, he received and remained in possession of child pornography, as did Cory, but she's too young to be charged.”

I'm staring at the phone in all the junk in his arms, feeling like I need to explain, not that anybody will listen to me. “She sent me a picture of herself,” I mumble. “It was just a picture. We thought—we thought it was safer than having sex. Better than having sex.”

Dad gets hold of my shoulder. “Did you show it to anybody else?”

“No!” I pull away from Dad's grip, furious at that thought, even madder that Detective Henning and his buddies probably took a good long look at Cory and the rest of the girls, too. “I just—I just sent her a picture back.” I wish I could die. “She asked me to.”

“For God's sake, the kids took pictures of themselves—nobody did this to them,” Mrs. Wentworth says while Mom tries to get me to sit down. “They wanted to and they did. They aren't selling this stuff.”

Detective Henning sighs. “Money doesn't have to be involved.”

I sit down at the table again to make Mom happy, and she grabs my wrist, sort of holding my hand.

“Curiosity is natural,” Mr. Wentworth says, even though he's still glaring at everybody. “Didn't you ever play doctor when you were little? How old were you when you made out with your girlfriend for the first time?”