Heartsick (5 page)

Chapter Six

Mandy is a morning person, and I like to sleep until the last possible second. And then make some Pop-Tarts, eat them in bed and close my eyes for eight more minutes.

So I’m not surprised when she isn’t around the next morning as I shuffle between my bedroom and the kitchen in my fuzzy socks. I stare blankly at a half-covered-in-plastic piece of provolone next to a twelve-pack in the fridge, until I remember I don’t have to refrigerate Pop-Tarts.

Whenever I make silly mistakes like that, it means I need to create something. My mind needs to craft something in order to work. Especially when the world is confusing. And right now, the world has purple eyes and curious encounters and bloody wounds that sort of disappear.

I head to the art studio. As I slither the brush along the canvas, it’s like everything around me dissolves into a foreground. Then I head to the dance studio and practice my senior solo for a few hours.

I don’t turn my phone on until the sun gets crisp and dark orange. A text from Conrad is waiting for me: Mandy’s arm is fine. She is cured!

And then there are multiple texts and missed calls from some reporter at the local paper. She insinuates she has talked to a nurse who confirmed that Mandy’s minor injuries should still be evident today. But, according to the reporter, they’re not. However, no one at the hospital will go on the record, so the reporter wants to talk to me about Miracle Mandy. Yes, Miracle Mandy. My best friend has garnered a nickname.

This type of thing would never be covered where I’m from. But in Allan, things like oversized tomatoes, chili cook-offs and wine festivals with less than a hundred people clucking about how the zinfandel was really quite extraordinary this year are worthy of newspaper coverage. So I guess Miracle Mandy is too.

Mandy has always been a quick healer. She got over the three-day flu that crept across campus two years ago simply by downing some Nyquil and sleeping in. Last year, after we slipped into each other during a paintball game, I had bruises for two weeks, while her skin was perfect per usual. But still, those cuts last night must have been much more blustery than I realized.

There is one more text: I hope Mandy’s feeling okay. I just met her, but I can tell she’s got a fighting spirit.

Luke.

He doesn’t seem to understand he isn’t supposed to contact me for a few days. I wasn’t going to worry myself about him not calling me until Thursday. Him texting now takes all the fun out of it. And even more so because he isn’t just aimlessly checking in. There’s more to the text: Want to get dinner tonight?

Tonight. This is too soon.

I compare going home and making Pop-Tarts for dinner to getting something real to eat with Luke. Luke sipping a beer. Luke touching me. For some crazy reason I text back: Sure. Seven? Where do you want to go?

Joe’s?

Perfect.

I head home. I need to clean the paint off me and see what the hell is going on with Mandy.

As I walk up to my house, a woman gets out of a car across the street and slams the door. She pauses, staring at me. I give her the eye—you know, a squint with a stronger squint in the left eye—and continue on. As I turn up our steps, her high heels clamor across the road, clicking furiously until she jumps onto our raised lawn and gets in front of me.

“Are you Quinn Bellingham?” she asks, catching her breath from that run and grasping her handbag.

“Yes...” I say, nerves twitching under my skin.

“I’m Samantha Beetle, from the
Allan Crier.
Do you have a moment?”

“Not really,” I say as I stride to the left to get around her. But before I can move forward, she steps in my way. I look longingly at my door, over her shoulder, and notice a figure behind the tinted glass.

“Were you with Mandy Malone last night when she was injured? Did you escort her to the hospital? Can you describe her injuries for me?” She clutches a tape recorder in her hand.

“Well, I...” I don’t want to talk to this reporter. Media attention for Mandy would be bad. So I step to the right this time and dash forward, but the reporter is quick. I slam into her.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

She waves it away. “What happened exactly? How is Mandy feeling?”

There’s more movement behind the door. Finally, I forget decorum and sprint to the left, jumping up the steps and barreling into the house and making quite an entrance.

As the door squeals closed behind me, I recognize the figure I’d seen through the window. Zachary stands in the middle of the room, wringing his hands in a nervous rhythm, then putting them in the pockets of his khaki pants, before taking them out again for another round of hand wringing. “There’s a reporter outside,” he says, looking at me with sheepish, purple eyes.

Purple.

“Your eyes—” I say, shoulders shaking.

“Yeah, we can talk about that later.” He wipes his hand in the air as though he’s waving away a problem. “What did she ask you? What did you say?”

“Nothing.” I hope my tone conveys the bristling I feel. “What’s going on?”

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “We ran into Conrad today. He saw that Mandy’s arm is fine now and he started going crazy saying it was some sign of God, or God had blessed her, or...I don’t know. Something about God being good. He tweeted it, with pictures, and this reporter latched on to it and has been sitting outside the house for hours.”

“Hours?” I say.

“Yeah, at first I thought there had to be something better going on in Allan than this, but then I remembered, oh yeah, this is Allan. Last week’s front-page story was about a farmer who realized water would help his crops grow.” He gives me a wily smile, which I return.

“Anyway, it’s really upsetting Mandy.”

“Where is she?” I ask.

“Taking a shower,” he says. I slug my bag onto the table. He rubs his eyes. His purple eyes. Questions crawl around in my brain.

“Don’t you think it’s strange, the healing, you both getting purple eyes?” I talk slowly.

Zachary looks up. His eyes shift back and forth and he runs his hands through his hair. “I need to tell you something, Quinn, but I need you to keep it a secret. Do you think you can do that?”

Do I want to start keeping secrets? I swallow. “Sure.”

He rubs his hands together and places them near his lips. In prayer mode, or more likely, thinking mode.

“So, I got this new drug from a friend in D.C. It’s sort of the latest thing at clubs up there.”

“A new drug? But you don’t—”

He holds a hand out. “Yes, I do...sometimes. And, I talked Mandy into trying it with me. I think whatever was in it, well, it must have affected our eye color.” He seems to be holding his breath. The room is still as he looks at me with hunched eyebrows. Now I’m the one wringing my wrists.

“What kind of drug? Did you inject yourself with something? Fuck, anything could have been in—”

“They were tablets,” Zachary says, grabbing at his hair. “Okay, Quinn? Tablets, like the kind that dissolve in your mouth. And yeah, it was dumb.” He sighs and lets his hands fall to his sides as he stares at me.

“Well, you need to tell someone. You need to—”

“I already went to the hospital, gave them what was left of it. They’re looking into it. I just...” He closes his eyes. When they spring back open, the purple is in full force. “I just can’t have it get out that I bought this, that we tried it. It could really hurt...things. Do you understand?”

I nod but my breathing is quickening, and my skin feels flushed. “I can’t believe you guys did that. I mean, pot is one thing, but you can’t be going off doing—”

“I know, Quinn.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and stiffens his chin. “I know, I’m really sorry. I’ll make things right and everyone will be happy.”

I nod. “And you think the drug has something to do with the healing?”

He shrugs and sits down on the couch. “No, despite what that crazy reporter thinks, I bet it just wasn’t as bad of a wound as we thought.”

I cross my arms and bite my lip. I’m not sure what I want to say.

“Anyway—” Zachary fills in the silence, “—it doesn’t look like that reporter is going to leave for a while, so you better just hunker down.”

“I can’t.”

His eyes narrow. “Why not?”

“I’m going to dinner with that guy from last night,” I say, liking how it sounds out loud.

Zachary’s jaw stiffens. “The townie who thinks I beat my girlfriend?”

I prickle, but I try to calm myself down. Prickling won’t help anything.

I used to volunteer on a women’s hotline and one thing they stressed in training is that if we only focused on getting women out of violent situations (which of course we should do) we leave the abusers there, ready to abuse new women. Certainly there are hopeless cases, men who deserve to fester in jail, but sometimes approaching them as though they are humans who can be rehabilitated can help them correct their ways, and, therefore, protect more women.

I take that approach with Zachary.

I sit across from him so we’re on the same level. “It did look...weird,” I say. “What happened?”

He shakes his head and stares at the ground. “Quinn, you know I wouldn’t hurt Mandy.” He rubs his face. “I mean, not without her con—” His eyes snap to mine.

“Consent?” I ask, having some difficulty keeping my voice from rising. I think of calm, rushing waterfalls to keep my emotional balance. But waterfalls aren’t actually that calm.

“Sorry, Quinn, I’ve been researching consent forms and they’re just buzzing in my brain.” He moves his hands rapidly about an inch from his head, as though they are gliding along an invisible nerd helmet. “What I meant was, I would never hurt Mandy on purpose. It was an accident. Please believe me.”

I stare at my folded hands. We listen to this antique clock—I got it at a craft show in town, turquoise and marble—tick-tock for a long time. It beats at the air. It beats at us.

I sigh. “I believe you.” And I do. I’m just missing something.

He smiles. “I appreciate that, Quinn, I really do. I know you look out for Mandy, given, well, her...”

I nod.

“I look out for her too,” he says, cheekbones like stone. I stare at his serious, purple eyes for a few seconds. They are bright, with lavender, lilac, violet and mauve extending away from his pupils.

“Your eyes are purple,” I say.

“Haven’t we been over that?”

“You’re one to call me out for stating the obvious.”

He laughs and taps my knee in a brotherly way. He gets up and grabs a box of Krizzles out of his bag. “I got a new flavor, want to try it?”

“What does zesty mango taste like?” I ask, squinting at the box.

“Like angels having orgasms in heaven,” he says, and I crack up. He holds out a few for me. I shake my head. “You can’t just buy this flavor anywhere, either. I had to order them special.”

“Oh, you learned how to work the internet machine yourself? Impressive,” I say.

He laughs and sits back down next to me. In between chomping on the Krizzles, he says, “Anyway, what are you doing going out with that guy when you have Rashid?” His eyebrows wiggle. A naughty smile broaches his face.

I shake my head and sigh.

“I’m purely heterosexual of course,” he says. “But even I can admire a fine male specimen like Rashid.”

I hate that this makes me laugh.

“You’re turning red,” he says, pointing at my face, which is warm. “Seriously, he’s a great guy. Like, one of the best people I know.”

“I know, I know.” I get up.

“He can tie a cherry stem with his tongue.” Zachary speaks louder as I walk away.

“I’ve got to get ready,” I say between laughs.

“I think he’s wrestled sharks before.”

“Zachary...”

“He doesn’t even fart. He’s just special like that,” Zachary yells as I close my door.

Despite us wanting different things, Rashid still tempts me. I want him one way; he wants me all the ways. And that’s not fair to him. It’s a weird tug of war inside my chest. Lust. Compassion. Lust. Compassion. Both mixed in with a sizable desire to evade.

I’m never sure what to do when emotions fight and flop over themselves. Like the time Conrad slipped on a banana peel in the dining hall. Yes, slipped on a banana peel. When does that happen? Some lazy student dropped it or it fell from a run-away trash bin or some cosmic comedian had willed it to appear suddenly. Regardless, one moment, we were walking along, his tray filled, of course, with every messy food product imaginable: tacos with salsa, a bowl of chowder and a glass of chocolate milk. (I know, who drinks chocolate milk with tacos and chowder? Conrad.) I was laughing at some quip he made and then,
wipe
, he was gone. On the floor. Right then, a very strong, human part of me was tugging at my insides. I said, over and over, “AreYouOkay? AreYouOkay? AreYouOkay?” But another strong part just could not keep the giggles down.

Thankfully, Conrad was in a fit of hee-haws himself. Laughter over pain.

But something tells me Rashid wouldn’t laugh at me breaking his generous, brilliant, suffocating heart.

Which is exactly why I need a guy like Luke.

Chapter Seven

I strategically wear a brown dress that is a little ruffled. It makes my shoulders look nice but it covers up my other goodies. I throw on a cardigan for extra measure. I don’t need Luke to ogle me. Well, not until I want him to ogle.

He leans against the outside of Joe’s on Main Street. His arms folded, his face stiff. When he sees me, his face loosens like a rubber band. His arms uncross as his hands stretch to his sides.

Once I’m closer, his hand comes to my lower back, just lightly touching the fabric. I swallow a sigh.

“They saved us the most romantic table by the window,” he says. This is a joke. There are no tables at Joe’s, only ledges that you can teeter your hotdog and bottle of beer on. “You look nice,” he whispers.

I hate that I blush. I love that he looks away as I do, busying himself with a wave to someone he knows across the way. As we order our hotdogs, I take my cardigan off—all of a sudden not feeling as chilly. I should be all sophisticated and girly and dancerly and say, oh my, one hotdog is enough for me. But I always get two. I mean, they’re just hotdogs and when you put two slivers of pickles on the side (not relish, relish is gross, pickles are glorious) and smother some ketchup on it, well, one just isn’t enough.

“This is on me,” Luke says. I can tell it’s a point of pride, so I smile and say thanks. We take our four hotdogs and beer and walk to a little corner spot.

“How’s Mandy?” The strain in his forehead indicates he isn’t asking just out of a warm, fuzzy caring feeling. He’s curious. Maybe that’s why he called.

I saw Mandy right before I left. Her arm was pure, the skin uniform and perfect. I held her wrist and looked desperately for some sliver of trauma. But there wasn’t any. She said she spent all night coating it with Neosporin mixed with mint. She also drank a lot of cranberry juice and dark hot chocolate. She said her useless mom managed to teach her a few useful things. But her mom’s crazy home remedies have never remedied anything before.

“Mandy’s good,” I say without looking up. I don’t add that Conrad thinks she’s blessed or that I had a stern talk with him about how he needed to keep his revelations about God’s work to himself if they affected Mandy. He apologized for “outing” Mandy’s condition and even though I still feel all kerfuffled, he promised to make pumpkin soup with me tomorrow. So we’re all good.

I can’t say the same for Luke. He leans toward me, eyes still, jaw stiff. He’s really asking about Zachary. Okay, so Luke is skeptical. I can’t explain why he shouldn’t be because it isn’t my secret to tell. Zachary and I are the only people in Allan who know about Mandy.

One night freshmen year, she was in a state. She had to take the plan B pill after a lazy afternoon delight turned into a frantic, how-the-fuck-did-the-condom-break afternoon. To take her mind off the nausea and mind-bending worry, I made up a game involving colored paperclips, wash cloths and a G.I. Joe figurine I had found among the twigs and pine needles outside our dorm.

That night we sat outside in the grass as she told me that she knew how to cover up bruises. That she knew even in the summer, in the valleys of Virginia, you could sometimes get away with wearing a thin long-sleeved T-shirt or a long skirt. Her mom taught her how to put just a little cosmetic on her wrists. Because that was his favorite thing to grab.

But Luke doesn’t know about all that. So he presses. “Are you sure? Is she—”

“So, what is it you do?” I ask. It’s an obvious attempt to change the subject. But I don’t really give a smidge of a shit.

He coughs and takes a big swig of his beer. Another lager. God, this guy likes lagers. He unbuttons the top button of his shirt and rolls his neck around.

“Actually, I’m technically between jobs.”

I sip my beer too, a pale ale, and think about how to respond to that. Not just in what I say, but how I feel. It’s weird, I sort of like that he’s unemployed. No, it’s not weird. An unemployed guy isn’t looking for a serious girlfriend.

“That’s cool,” I say. “I wish I had a job now, so that when I graduate with my worthless degree and don’t find a job, I can say that I am technically between jobs instead of just another unemployed graduate.”

It was a risk, but he laughs. A big, hearty laugh that seems more suited to a guy who has a black beard and wears plaid and sits in front of a pile of pancakes with butter dripping off them. But instead of belonging to a lumberjack, that laugh belongs to the guy in front of me. Muscular instead of hefty, and with precision-trimmed dirty-blond hair and a freshly shaved face.

“Hmm,” he says, clearly happy the subject has moved away from his unemployment. “Why don’t you think you’ll get a job? What do you study?”

I set down my beer and look at the purple paint under my fingers, wondering about purple eyes.

“Well, what I’m studying...it isn’t exactly what my dad, or anyone really, would call marketable.”

He shrugs. “You should study what you love.”

“Did you go to college?”

His jaw is tight. “Yes.”

“Do you think I could guess your major?” I ask.

“Probably not,” he says.

I don’t like that I don’t even get a hint at what he did before or what he studied. I shrug, start on my second hotdog and then lean back, really aiming for a glint in my eye, if that’s possible to control. I’ll make this a game. “Well, do you think you can guess mine?”

He smiles. “Do I get something if I guess right?”

I hop up onto a stool and let the tip of my toe brush against his knee. When I make contact, he starts, before leaning in. “What do you want?” I ask.

“I want a lot of things...” He stares at me. “But for now, I’d settle for a second date.”

“Okay, if you can guess my major, on the first try—” I emphasize that bit with a pointed finger, “—then I’ll reluctantly agree to go out with you again.”

“I don’t like the reluctant part, but I’ll take what I can get. Now, let’s see...” He rubs his chin as though he’s an old-timey detective. He’s ready to pace back and forth across the room with a pipe and a deerstalker hat. “You like photography.”

Shit, he does know that. I start to hum the
Jeopardy!
theme song. Maybe if time is running out he’ll be more likely to guess quickly and get it wrong? Do I want him to get it wrong?

“Okay, I got it.” He rubs his hands together. “You’re an art major.” His cheeks swell with the weight of his smile.

“You got that just because I take pictures?” I rub my forehead.

“I know more than that.”

“Someone told you,” I say. “If this bet was rigged, it doesn’t count.”

He jerks back and shakes his head, frowning. “No, I wouldn’t do that,” he says. “I noticed you had some pottery on your coffee table, with initials on it, a Q. B.?”

I nod. He’s talking about the bowl I made last year. Initials usually go on the bottom, but I painted them big and proud in the middle. And the bowl is empty. Mandy and I haven’t decided what to put in it. We narrowed it down to fake fruit (lame), M&M’S (which we would devour) or Micro Machines. Clearly, we’re leaning toward Micro Machines.

Luke takes my hand. I think he’s trying to convey his earnestness, his respectability and seriousness of not tricking me into a bet. The pads of my fingers brush against his rough palms and I suppress a sigh. His thumb runs along my pointer finger, sliding to the fingernail. “You also have paint under your nails.” His victorious, smug smile is in full bloom.

I pull my hand away, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s hard to get all the paint off.”

“I’m sure,” he says.

“Well, fine, we’ll have a second date. But what do I get if I guess what your major was?” I ask.

“I guess I’ll give you a kiss.” He drops his head like he’s resigned to this horrid fate. I can’t help laughing and cupping my cheeks in my hands. I don’t want it to get awkward with his unemployment stuff, so I have fun with it.

“It’s obvious,” I say. “You studied to be a psychic. You know, 1-800 numbers and there is a dark man and a lottery win in your future.”

He taps his nose twice and points at me. “I knew you were going to guess that.”

I raise my palms. “Because you’re psychic.”

“Exactly,” he says. The pancake lumberjack laugh comes back out. A few people even turn to look, faces contorted into what’s-so-funnys.

I continue guessing odd-and-end degrees that are rather unlikely, such as pet magic and alligator training and shoe designing and porn fluffing (he chokes a bit on his beer at that one). We stay long after we finish our hotdogs, talking about the most random degrees we can think of. Just as Joe is giving us looks like
get outta here already,
Luke finally “admits” he studied fortune cookie writing. Unfortunately, all his fortunes were sports related—you will make a touchdown, you will make a home run, you will score love—so he failed out.

“But all those sound great when you add ‘in bed,’ to them,” I say.

“I know...” He shakes his head in bewilderment before smiling.

I’m starting to really like his smile.

We finally crumple the remnants of our meal in the trash and wave bye to Joe. It’s gotten nippy so I put my cardigan back on. The night is crisp, my ballet flats padding along the brick, the romantic street lamps casting nice shadows along Luke’s face.

“Want to get a drink at Sally’s?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m sort of tired actually, painting all day. It gives me energy but also takes it.” I shake my head and look to the ground. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does,” he says. “Well, let me walk you home.”

“Sure.” I want to talk more. I want to know what he used to do and why he doesn’t have a job anymore. I shouldn’t be so curious. I hate how all my parents’ friends judge everyone by what they do. They judge me by what I want to do. And now, here I am, thinking it’s uber-important that I know what he does. Why? I don’t even want a relationship. He’s not really my type. He probably couldn’t distinguish a Rembrandt from a Picasso and while his Southern swagger is cute and I’m sure it drives lots of girls bonkers, I am into more sophisticated men.

God, I’m such a snob.

“So you paint, you take photos, you make pottery,” he says, counting on his fingers and breaking the chilly silence and my chilly, snobby thoughts. “Am I missing anything?”

“I also dance.”

“What a coincidence. So do I.” He catches me off guard as he twirls me around the sidewalk enough times that I get dizzy and have to hold his shoulder to steady myself when we stop.

“No, I mean, modern dance,” I say once I’ve gotten control of my laughs.

His smile lapses. He steps back. He runs his hand through his hair. “At Poe?” It’s so biting and quick, it feels like I’m being interrogated.

“Yeah,” I say.

“So you know Rachel Peterson?”

“Yeah,” I say, but as I do it’s already sifting and sorting in my brain. Rachel, our troupe advisor, told me a couple times she had a brother. She said he might move back to help take care of their sister, the one with ALS, once things got worse. Sally and Luke clutched hands that night at the bar. Sally told me he’s back but doesn’t want to be. “She’s your sister.”

He nods.

“I’m sorry about your parents and your other sister,” I say.

He smiles a thin smile. “Thanks.” He keeps his eyes on me.

“How is she doing?” I ask.

A gust of wind causes a few wet leaves to fall and one lands in my hair. He picks it out for me, looks at it and lets it drift to the ground. “It depends on the day.”

I put my hand on his biceps and really try to focus on the seriousness of the situation instead of thinking about how amazing his arm feels. God, I am snobby and superficial.

He swallows. “So, that’s cool, that you dance too.”

I take his hand, his rough palm in my soft one, and tug him forward, toward my house.

Once we get there, I step onto the stoop. On my pedestal, I look down at Luke.

“Quinn,” he says softly. He takes my hands in his, rubbing his thumbs along my wrists. His eyes are all gooey. He’s about to go in for the kill.

“Wait,” I say. “I want to earn this.”

He cocks his head. I continue, “I don’t get a kiss ’til I guess what you studied, remember? Maybe double points if I can guess what your old job was?”

He swallows again, which I don’t get. He’s not really unemployed. I mean he is, but by choice; he came back to take care of his sister. Why does he still feel awkward about it?

I bring my face closer to his. He breathes in quickly.

“Well, can I get a hint or something?” I ask. “I’m not good at guessing things. Not like you are, noticing I had paint under my nails.”

He grins. “That’s a hint.”

“That I have paint under my nails?”

“That I noticed the paint under your nails.”

“Ah,” I say, triumphant. “So, you were a manicurist?”

He smiles sweetly. “If you got that right, you get a kiss...and possibly more?”

I nod.

He reaches his arms out as though he’s making a grand confession. “Yes, I am a manicurist.”

I giggle. His hands move to my waist, cupping my hips. Our foreheads touch. “I knew it,” I whisper, before my lips close over his.