Good Girl, page 3
If I’m honest, the reason I bake is so I won’t stay in bed all day because that’s kind of what I’d rather be doing. And if I did that, no one would know and it’s scary to think I could just slip out of my life unnoticed.
While the muffins are cooling, I make a thermos of cocoa. Not the powdered kind. I melt the chocolate and add a dried chili, cinnamon stick, and vanilla bean. It occurs to me that my dad won’t drink it, even though the spiciness will go well with the muffin, and that I’m only pretending I’m going to take these treats to the precinct. But since I’m the only one I’m fooling, I should just admit what I’ve known since I woke up. Since I deep conditioned my hair last night. Since I plucked between my brows this morning.
Joe will be in the courtyard today. I overheard the nuns discussing it yesterday. He’ll be painting Jesus, and I am making him muffins and cocoa. It’s almost as lame as trying to buy cigarettes wearing a Catholic school uniform. I will probably stutter and make incompetent conversation.
But I won’t slip away unnoticed.
I reduce the heat on the chocolate and take off the apron. I go upstairs and try not to obsess about what my outfit will convey. I don’t want to look as if I’m trying, but I don’t want to look immature either. I settle on a bulky cable knit sweater with my favorite boots and jeans. I look like an ad for autumn, but it’s comfortable and weather appropriate. And yes, probably a little basic. I guess I’m fine with that.
My curls are soft and glossy, thanks to a twenty-minute-deep condition, so I pull them over my shoulder into a loose side pony and add gold hoops. There. Not overdone. Not Mary Janes and lace trimmed socks, either.
I pack an honest to god picnic basket and walk to school on a day I don’t have to be there. I have no idea what I will say if I am asked by someone other than Joe what I am doing on school grounds. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to him either.
He’s gotten a lot done on the mural, but this is the first time since we met that I’ve seen him painting. I hang back for a moment, not to orchestrate witty conversation or tame my racing pulse, but because watching him work steals my breath. I’ll never understand how swiping a brush over brick can become the face of God. I wonder if Joe is a believer. I’m not sure where I stand with God myself, but I tend to err on the side of caution.
When my lungs reframe oxygen properly again, I continue toward Joe, rattling the basket enough that I don’t startle him. It’s easy to notice when he senses my presence, his hand pauses and he tilts his head to listen before turning. When our eyes meet, I give up the notion of ever breathing normally again.
“Goldilocks.”
“Picasso.”
“How goes the descent into juvenile delinquency?”
He begins wiping his brush, so I ease onto the bench. “I’m afraid I’m not overachiever enough to pull it off successfully.”
He grins. “A life of crime isn’t for everyone.” He eyes the basket in my lap. “I thought it was Little Red Riding Hood with the basket, not Goldilocks.”
I shrug. The big bad wolf is more appealing than a family of malcontent bears, and he’s slinking toward me slowly like the predator I know he is. When he stops in front of me, I have to crane my neck to look up or embarrass myself further by staring directly at his button-fly.
“Why are you here, Virginia?”
I pat the bench next to me. “I brought you a snack. I thought you might need a break.”
He draws his brow tightly but sits. I unpack the thermos first, pouring him a cup of chocolate. Our hands brush when he takes it from me, but if he feels the zing I do, he hides it well. He sips and his face screws up tightly in surprise.
“Sorry. I forgot to tell you it’s Aztec chocolate. It’s got a kick.”
He takes another drink, bigger this time. “It’s good. I was surprised is all.”
I smile at him, aware that it’s too toothy, too happy. “Thanks.” I open the muffin container and put one on a Halloween plate with a matching napkin. Because this is exactly the kind of guy who will be impressed by my Martha Stewartness. Why didn’t I wear a mini skirt and heels? I am so stupid.
“Is that for me?” He has to ask because I’m staring at it while I berate myself.
“Yeah. Sorry.” I give him the plate. “It’s pumpkin.” I don’t add that I hand grated the nutmeg.
Joe sets down his cup and takes a bite. I’m watching too avidly, but I can’t look away. I’ve never seen the look on anyone’s face when eating one of my creations. I have to know. I have to see a reaction.
He knows I’m staring, but if he is schooling his face to keep from offending me, I can’t tell. “That’s really good. Did you make it?”
I nod. Everything in my chest is expanding, like my ribcage can’t contain the joy. The feeling is warm and pulsing and it spreads until I feel my fingers tingle and the tell-tale signs of a blush on my cheeks.
“They teach you that at nun school?”
My laugh comes out like a sharp bark. “No.”
“You going to be a nun when you graduate?”
“Uh, no. I’d look terrible in a wimple.”
He takes another bite and then a swig of chocolate. “A wimple is what they wear on their heads, right?”
I nod. “This is a private school taught by nuns, but I can assure you that it’s not a nun school. Do you really like the muffin?”
“It’s the best one I’ve ever had. Swear to...” he inclines his head toward the mural. “But I’m not sure why you brought it to me.”
“I just wanted to do something nice for you, I guess. I like to bake.” I feel like Baby from Dirty Dancing when she carried the watermelon.
“Well, you’re good at it.” He studies me for a moment. “You look different when you’re not in schoolgirl clothes.”
“Different how?” I ask, ignoring the breeze that kicks up and bites the air, because this boy, this man, is staring at me. And he’s seeing me. Like for a moment, there is nothing else in the world to look at.
He shakes his head and looks away, exhaling on a low whistle. “Less like jailbait.”
“You think I’m jailbait?” I should probably be offended but I’m somehow honored that he’s having those kinds of thoughts of me.
“I know you’re jailbait.”
“I’m almost eighteen.”
Joe spends a long time looking at Jesus. “Almost doesn’t count except in horseshoes.”
“I have no idea what that means.” I set the basket on the ground and pivot on the bench so I’m facing him. “How old are you, Picasso?” This sassiness is somewhat new, but I like it. I’m still riding on the jailbait comment.
“Too old.”
“So what did you do that got you served with community service to paint this mural?”
Joe frowns. “Nothing. It’s voluntary.”
I pull my knees up and rest my chin on them and wait for him to continue.
“I was a messed-up kid. That’s putting it lightly.” His demeanor changes, tightens up. “God, I was an idiot and just throwing my life away. I got busted, big time, for stealing a car.” He stops and checks to see if I’m horrified before he continues. “A joyride. I was willing to risk my life for a joyride. So, I get thrown in Juvie and when I get out, a bunch of people in this town who didn’t have to care lined up to straighten me out. Sister Meegan was one of them. She wrote to me while I was in detention, and when I got out, she helped me get my GED.” He stares hard at the mural, and I wonder what he’s not saying that’s got him so tensed up. “I swore to myself that once I got myself right, I was going to pay back some of the people who helped me.”
“Who else helped you?”
“My brother, Nick. My boss at the auto body shop, a couple of cops even.” Another drink of hot chocolate goes down the hatch before he looks at me. “Why are you here today?”
I look away first. “The line wasn’t quite as long when I needed straightening out. There was just you and the clerk who wouldn’t sell me cigarettes.”
“You going to bring her muffins too?”
I shake my head. “No. These are just for you.”
There is a pull between us. I think he feels it too, but he doesn’t like it the way I do. It’s strange the way I want to know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, but at the same time, I’m glad it’s a mystery. We sit in silence, and I feel less inept. Something is happening inside me, and it feels like a knowing. Like I am beginning to understand what a woman’s heart feels like instead of a girl’s.
And that understanding lets me feel the instant he shuts down. Pulls back.
He finishes his muffin and folds the plate in half while he stares at the ground. “I’m not sure what you’re doing here, but I don’t think you should come back.”
“This is my school, Joe. I have to come back.” I keep my tone light, but my chest begins to shrink back to size, pulling back to the way it was before he said he liked the stupid muffin.
“I appreciate the treat and the hot drink, but I’m not the guy you should be wasting your baking skills on, Virginia.”
“I see.” I begin packing up my basket. “I was just trying to be nice.”
“You are nice. You’re too nice.”
I pause and swallow around the lump. I’m actually not very nice at all.
“I’m the kind of guy who meets my next girlfriend at places like the Wrecking Ball or Suds’n’Spuds. Not the courtyard of a Catholic school.”
I find my voice, it’s small, but it’s there. “Look, I get it. You can stop.”
“I’m bad news for a girl like you. You think I’m someone I’m not.”
“Why do you think you’re such bad news?”
“For one thing, I’m not like those boys that usually sniff around you. I like a rough fuck. Something you should think about before you bat your lashes at me and give me muffins.” I gasp, but he keeps going. “I like sex raw and dirty. I don’t play with girls. I’d break them.”
Jesus. “Okay, Joe. Really, message received.”
“Not until I’m sure you understand.”
I lance him with a glare. “I understand better than you think I do. I understand that I am younger than you. I understand that you have lived an edgier life than I have. And I understand that what you are doing right now is pushing me away so that you don’t have to deal with how you feel. You are not the first man in my life to teach me that particular lesson.” I get to my feet, energized and ready for a fight I know I won’t get. “I’m young and I’m sheltered, but don’t mistake that for naïve. I came today because I liked the way you made me feel because you made me feel. I don’t expect to be your next girlfriend. You don’t have to scare me away by being vulgar. It’s not really even that scary.”
I don’t even know where this is coming from, but it feels good to vent, even if it’s on someone who doesn’t deserve it.
For his part, Joe has stoically listened to my tirade and only once lifted his brow in surprise. I actually find this aggravating as I would have rather gotten into a fight with this person I don’t know very well. I decide walking away is the least embarrassing thing I can do at this point. Did I really just tell him that I like the way he makes me feel?
I hate the way he makes me feel. Don’t I?
My life has to change. Soon. This is ridiculous. I am drowning in an inch of water, and the only one who can throw me a line is me.
Joe
I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT to do with any of the stuff she unpacked at my feet.
Almost eighteen. Fuck. Me
She leaves in a huff, which is good. I’m not dumb enough to believe I’ve seen the last of her, though. Not lucky enough either.
I see her when I close my eyes, after all. When I’m first falling asleep or just waking up. I see her when I’m in the shower with my pulsing prick in my hand. I see her when I look at a blank canvas and when the sky is just the right blue and reminds me of her eyes.
Fuck. I’m not a poet. I’m just a simple guy who used to get into trouble and tries real hard not to anymore. Which is why I need to stop thinking about the lace trim of her socks and the way her face lit up when she was watching me eat what she cooked for me. The way I can practically feel her pulse speed up when she looks at me too hard.
She’s not done with me. She doesn’t even know what she wants or needs, but I sure as hell do. I already feel her in my veins. And if I never saw her again, she wouldn’t be done with me.
But I’ll see her again. She’ll make sure of it. She’s never going to be done with me. The way her eyes got all big and dark when I told her about how I’d fuck her wasn’t fear. She wants it.
All I can do now is push her away and pray it works. That I’ll be strong enough the next time and the time after that. Heaven help us both when she overpowers me.
She’ll taste like rain. I know it like I’ve kissed her a thousand times. She’ll feel like cool silk wrapped around me when I hold her. She’ll be slick and tight and hot as fuck when I’m inside her. Her mouth wrapped around my cock will be heaven, the glide of her tongue, the heat of her throat. When I eat her out, she’ll cry out my name. She’ll never be able to get enough of my dick.
And she’ll regret me for the rest of her life.
That’s enough to ease the ache in my cock for now. Knowing how much she’ll wish she’d never met me when she finally gets what she’s coming for.
FOUR
Virginia
October
After I pack the Halloween boxes away, I’m leery of the ones marked Thanksgiving. I’m not certain that I have the strength to face an actual holiday. Not head on.
The trick or treaters were difficult enough, forcing me to think about my sister. I don’t know what Melinda would have been this year. She was kind of an odd girl, I’ll have to admit. She wasn’t into princesses or easily recognizable movie characters. Last year, she went as a sock monkey.
I answered the door and handed out treats and gave them all the same smile I give the nuns, the neighbors, my friends at school, and the clerks at the grocery store. I tried not to remember that Melinda would never get to dress up again. Never eat Reese's Pieces.
I am not any closer to saving myself than I was last month. But the numb is better than the pain would be if I let it come.
Though it’s Saturday, Dad isn’t golfing. He’s working a big case at the station, but he’s forgotten his lunch and so I decide to venture out into the world and bring it to him not only because I want him to eat, but because I would like to speak to him in a place where he can’t send me to my room. Which he’s done twice on the rare occasions that we’re home and awake at the same time. It isn’t a punishment, at least I don’t think it is. It’s a way of not dealing with me when I try to talk to him about just about anything. He scrubs his hands across his face and says, “Not now, Ginny. Just leave a man in peace.” And when I persist, “Virginia Constance, please just go to your room. I can’t deal with you now.”
I haven’t been to the station in some time, but not much changes in places like police stations. Pine City is a small town, so everyone here knows me. The receptionist was my babysitter when she was in high school; my godfather is a cop who graduated high school with my dad. I used to love visiting Dad at the office, but now everyone looks at me with pity and I hate it.
“How’s your mom, Ginny Roo?” Ellen, the receptionist, asks.
“Fine,” I lie. “Is my dad in his office?”
She nods and blessedly lets me pass without further questioning.
My dad’s office still smells like smoke even though the building has been non-smoking for decades. I sit in the cracked vinyl chair across from him and wait until he’s off the phone.
He’s a good cop. He’s gotten lots of commendations and everyone seems to respect him a lot. I don’t know if the criminals do, but other than them, everyone loves him. He’s a burly man who wears flannel shirts and jeans when he’s not in uniform, and his hair is always high and tight. But it’s his eyes that are striking, arresting if you pardon the pun. They’re a beautiful blue, like water, and when the skin crinkles around them when he smiles, if feels like a benediction.
He doesn’t smile much anymore.
“Daddy,” I say carefully after he’s thanked me. “I have some service hours I need to complete in order to graduate. It’s part of the curriculum.”
He’s not looking up from the file on his desk. “Yeah. That’s right. You had to do some last year too, didn’t you?”
I nod. Which is stupid because he’s not looking at me. “Yes. One of the organizations recommended to me by Sister Sarah is the Big Brothers of America. In Milton.” Milton is about half an hour drive from Pine City and has a state college and more urban offerings. Not a lot, but more than here.
He leans back in his creaky chair. I think he’s had the same one since I was in Kindergarten. “Sweetheart, you’re a girl.”
“I know. Thanks for remembering.” He’s already not paying attention to me again. “They need big sisters too.”
My words sucker punch him back into the conversation. “Ginny.”
“It’s a really good organization, Daddy. And my job would be pretty easy. I just need to spend time with a girl who needs a mentor.”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
I know why not. We’re not supposed to do anything that reminds us that I’m nobody’s big sister anymore. Nothing that reminds us that we’re sad.
“It’s a bad part of town. You need to do community service, fine, but nothing says you have to do it in the bad part of town.”
“Release your death grip on the poor coffee mug, Dad. I want to give back to the community, just like you do.”
“I have work to do. The issue is closed.”
I sit there like I’m thinking I’ll change his mind, but I know better. It didn’t used to be like this. He never used to shut me down. There was a time when he pretended everything I had to say was interesting. Even when it was long, drawn out stories about Barbie’s engagement to Ken. He’d sit on the floor with me, absently pushing her corvette back and forth, and let me talk until I was talked out. And then he’d find Melinda and do the same thing with her.
