“Mr. Delaney, I asked if you believed it is plausible that a love story of this magnitude could take place so quickly?” she chirped.
Charlie swung her head around and smiled at me. Man, she was so pretty.
“Nope,” I answered.
Mrs. Kaplan leaned her back against her desk and knocked her knuckles against the wood, “Please elaborate on your feelings about this subject, Mr. Delaney.”
I huffed out a long breath, and Charlie turned her body more to watch me.
“I just don’t see this play as being a love story. Maybe a lust story, but not love. I mean come on; it’s three days long! It’s a three-day relationship of a thirteen-year-old girl and a seventeen-year-old guy. That’s lust and statutory rape. And, he was banging some other chick in the beginning—or wanting to bang her, before she decided to become a nun. But don’t even get me started on that,” I joked as a few chuckles filled the room. “I get it when you explain to us, Mrs. Kaplan, that it’s supposed to be intense and by squishing all the things that happen into just a few days, Shakespeare adds a heavy importance to each event. Yes, it helps to show that shit is flying out of control; it heightens the pressure of the emotions. But, it’s not real, not plausible at all. Six people die because two kids want to hook up and…”
“Mr. Delaney!”
I stopped my rant, but I ignored Mrs. Kaplan and watched Charlie laughing in her seat. We had this argument about Romeo and Juliet all the time. “Yeah. Yeah. I know, do you want me to go to the Dean’s office?”
“No, Mr. Delaney. But I would like you to write your feelings down on a piece of paper and hand them in for me to grade.”
Son of a bitch.
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” I smirked.
But I was tired and didn’t write a word, and all I wanted to do was watch Charlie.
I was on my third night of wet dreams that week, all starring Charlie, my best friend. I didn’t think she even knew I’d been in love with her since, well, forever. It was a heck of a lot longer than three days, that’s for sure. I don’t remember exactly why or how, I just remembered when I discovered that I did love her. One day, I was just watching her on the roof of that old tree house, and I remember her green eyes sparkling as she spun her body, laughing and twirling in the summer sun. That day, I knew I never wanted to live without her in my life.
…that she was more than a friend.
…that I wanted to be the one who kissed her lips.
…the one that she wrote about in her diary.
…the one she ran to when she had trouble.
Damn, I think we were only in fourth grade.
Anyway, how the hell was a guy like me supposed to be able to concentrate when Charlie was in front of the classroom? There was no frigging way.
There was never any way for me to concentrate on anything but her; she was the world to me.
Right after school, Joey and I would shoot baskets while Charlie sat on the grass with her head in a book. She had a stack of books next to her, and every now and then, she would pull the pencil that she had tucked into her ponytail out of her hair and underline things to tell us about later on. I never cared too much about what the words said, but I didn’t think there was anything better than listening to Charlie’s voice reading to me. I didn’t say shit to her—I just listened. I guess that’s how I got stuck knowing crap about Romeo and Juliet and being placed in an AP literature class.
I always listened to Charlie. She had this strange spell over me that I never quite figured out a cure for. Never even wanted to, either.
When we were in fourth grade, the three of us becoming quick friends, we used to walk to the candy store right after school, and every day, before we’d get to the cash register, I’d shove whatever shit I could into my pockets and walk out. I never got caught either, but Charlie made this big stink about it. Charlie always had these serious rules about what was right and wrong. She always did what was right. Me, I always seemed to choose the wrong direction. But I could still see her face the last time I grabbed three candy bars for us; she stood there, green eyes blazing, arms crossed and refusing to let me out of the store.
“You are better than that, Jase Delaney,” she said. “Stop trying to prove your father right. You’re one of the best friends a girl could ever have…But, I will call the cops on you if you ever do that again! And I won’t be visiting you in prison, either.”
She even sat me down and read some book to me, about a kid that shoplifted and a superhero that came along and made him stop stealing to help fight crime with him. It was the coolest story I had ever heard, and it was the first time Charlie ever read a story to Joey and me. I was really interested in being a superhero back then, especially when she looked at me with those eyes, as if she really thought I could be one. She made me believe I could be one.
She made me want to be a better kid. She made me feel invincible. She made me feel like I could do anything, be anything. She made me feel powerful, strong, funny, brave, and just normal. She made me feel.
She would take me on adventures
With those books
She killed me
And brought me back
But just knowing Charlie
Was my best adventure…
Until it wasn’t.
Chapter 6
Charlie
I had to talk myself out of eating an entire box of chocolate covered pretzels, two-dozen white chocolate dipped strawberries, and a five-pound box of some expensive, decadent, milk chocolate crunchy pecan things. Because that, and two-dozen red roses, was what Bren thought he should buy me to help me to forgive him and forget about his messed up drug party. You know, because that crap will make me want to stay with him.
Stupid much?
I sat in front of the wilting flowers and the chocolate-covered crap, and went over the night before in my head.
An hour before closing¸ Bren stormed into the shop with all his idiotic gifts, looking nothing like a coke-head and everything like the beautiful GQ guy he once was. The girls and I ignored him and continued with our deep, meaningful discussion about opening another business in the empty storefront across the street. Violet wanted a revenge shop for jilted lovers, and Hazel thought it would be best if we bought the space and made it a slap and tickle kind of a bar. Me? I wanted it to be an ice cream shop. One of those old-fashion ice-cream parlors where you have special names for all the flavors, like “He’s Not Worth It Vanilla¸” and “Instant-No-Strings-Attached Orgasm Chocolate,” maybe even a “He Had a Small Penis Pistachio.”
Bren interrupted our laughter by saying, “And you girls always say that us guys are bad…”
“No, Bren. We usually say you guys are douche rockets,” I snapped.
“Shit,” Bren whispered, turning pale. “Sage, please come inside and talk to me.”
I know! I’m a glutton for punishment; I let him walk me into my back studio as he balanced all the crap in his arms.
He placed all of his guilt-laden-get-out-of-jail-free presents on one of my tables and slowly walked up in front of me, “You haven’t answered any of my calls. You haven’t let me apologize. You haven’t…”
“Just stop. Let’s not make this about what I have or haven’t done. The only way to fix this is if you go get help, Bren. If you don’t, like I said to you before, there is no us. Hell, Bren. There’s barely an us now, anyway.”
“Shit, Sage. You know how much I love you, right?”
“How often do you do that stuff?”
“What stuff?” I watched him tense with the question.
“That’s it, then. I’m done. You either own up to the crap or I bounce,” I turned my face away and started for the door.
He gently embraced me and buried his face in my neck. “I promise, I won’t do that shit anymore, especially if it scares you. I’ve only done it a few times, I swear. I don’t have a problem; I don’t need to have it, okay?” Leaning his head back, he looked in my eyes, “Sage, I’ve
just been really stressed out with trying to get you on television and make this place famous. I have the producers of Forever Inked flying here next week to scope out the place…”
“But that’s not what I want and you know it. I never agreed to any of that. I told you I didn’t want this place to become a cheesy reality show.”
“Sage, it’s a tattoo parlor. It isn’t a fine arts museum, and you’re not some stuck up art history professor, so just face the facts. You are hot, baby. Me and you, we belong on a hit reality show. Do you know how much money we’re talking about, Sage?”
I tried to pull away from him. “So, you don’t think I can hack it as a professor, huh?”
“Give that a rest, okay? I know you. We’ve known each other for years; you’re too wild, Sage. Stay where you belong, with me. We used to have so much fun together,” he whispered, still trying to cling tightly to me.
“Yeah, well. I’ve done a lot of growing up.”
His fingertips brushed across my chin, and lifted it toward him. “Where’s the girl that used to be the life of the party, huh? Where’s my girl? You used to wear those little tiny skirts, stay out all night with me, drink all my friends under the table, and ride me hard until morning. Hell, you used to shave that sweet pussy of yours bare; you don’t even do that anymore. Now you’re all grown-up and don’t have time for any fun.”
Panic quickly filled my body. What the hell did he just say to me? Stepping out of his arms, my back hit the wall, hard. “Bren, if you can’t handle me at my hairiest, then sweetie, you don’t deserve me when I’m waxed.” I seriously did not want to do this anymore.
Bren moved forward and cupped my face in his hands; he stood rigid and hard and seemed so easily breakable to me. I felt so sad for the friendship that was lost between us. I grabbed onto his wrists and gently pushed his hands from my cheeks. “Bren, I don’t want to be that messed up, loudmouthed, hurt kid again. I was that way because I was lost." I stepped back, shaking my head and trying to make space between us. "I moved on with my life, let the crap go and things that were so important when I was twenty changed and aren’t so important at twenty-four. Bren, I want to be put on a pedestal for being me and not because of what I can give you. Neither of us seems happy together," I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "I know you think I’m just a hopeless romantic, but I want more. I deserve more.”
His hands were back cupping my face instantly. This time though, his grip was tighter, and his breath was shorter. “There you go again, living in the fictional worlds of those stupid romance novels you read. I’m sick of being compared to make-believe dukes, supernatural rock star angels, and fictional vomit. I’m in love with you, Sage. We are going to be married one day. We’re going to put this shop on television and live like royalty. Mark my words, baby.”
“Holy Hell in a hand basket, I just want to slap the crap out of your face for saying that to me. Brendan Gage Laux, my books have more substance to them than you have in your entire body. Hell, you make me so freaking sick sometimes. What the hell happened to my friend, Bren? If I knew this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have…” I didn’t want to speak anymore. Instantly my brain planned on taking two distinct actions, in no particular order. One was to put a call in to Auburn’s lawyer about the shop. I needed to know how tied up Bren was in the ownership with me, because I needed to get the fuck out of this relationship. And, the second was to one-click whore my way through a bunch of faceless book boyfriends that knew exactly the right way to make me feel good.
“Don’t give up on me, Sage. I need you.” His eyes looked haunted, but my heart just didn’t care anymore. Maybe it never really did.
My phone chirped in my pocket, and Bren curiously watched me as I opened it and read the text message.
J: Big day tomorrow? Thinking ‘bout you.
I rubbed my thumb over the screen. God, how much did it say about me that I couldn’t care less about wanting to break up with Bren or leaving the shop, but my gut wrenched and my heart basically flipped its shit in my chest whenever I got one of my special texts?
“Who was that?” Bren asked gruffly.
Eff you, Bren. You’ve never earned the right to know. “Oh, it’s just Goldilocks. She just got arrested, again, for burglary. Stupid kid.”
“I’m serious,” he said.
“Fine. It was the national children’s book brigade; they just found Waldo.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Is it another man?”
“Truth? Prince Charming just texted me,” I walked to the door and glanced back at him. “And he thinks I deserve my glass slipper back… Don’t worry about my phone and my texts. Just spend some time helping yourself, Bren. Then, we’ll see if we can make things work for us.”
I walked through the door, leaving him standing there speechless, and I made damn sure I took all his freaking chocolate covered guilt with me.
By the time I climbed the back stairs to my apartment, alone, it was nine o’clock, and I was trembling with nerves. It wasn’t the situation with Bren that had me on edge; it was the truth about what I would be doing the next day. Bren had no idea. He thought I was all talk, but I was actually scheduled to teach my first art history class in one of New York City’s most prestigious art colleges; The School of Visual Arts.
My first class started at one o’clock in the afternoon. I was on the faculty, scheduled to teach two classes that semester. One, a lecture class for the history of tattoos, and the second was a studio class in theory and design. To say that I was scared crapless would be the biggest understatement of the century. I didn’t want to put myself out there and fail; I wanted to shine and light up the sky like those fireflies all those years ago. My damn wings had been broken for far too long. I needed to learn how to fly again.
That next morning, bypassing all the chocolate-dipped goodness for breakfast, which was painfully hard, I ran through the shop to my studio. Still dressed in the small tank top and boy shorts I slept in, I attacked my punching bag and started hitting it as hard as I could, not even bothering with my gloves. I didn’t care if anyone else was in the shop. I didn’t care about anything but demolishing that bag.
A blinding rage took over as I hammered the bag with my bare fists. Bobbing and swaying to block invisible attackers (my demons), my fists pounded fast and strong against the thick canvas. For at least an hour, I fought. My muscles strained before they ached, and the skin of my knuckles burned and bled, until I dropped to the floor in surrender. Enraged, I blinked my teary eyes up at the ceiling and tried to get my breathing under control. I stayed on the floor until the anger drained from my body and seeped out of my pores in sweat and tears.
Thick drops of perspiration dripped off my skin as I stood up and thundered back into my apartment. It took all my strength not to devour all the chocolate in the place. I dumped everything in the trash and grabbed my phone, and thumbed through my contact list.
C: You there?
J: Always here for you.
C: I’m so damn scared about today.
J: Need to talk?
C: No just text. It’s easier.
J: Yeah, for you.
C:!!!
J: Fine. Remember the first day we ever cut school and went to Rockaway Beach?
C: Yeah
J: You were terrified of the ocean
C: Effing ocean has slimy seaweed and jelly-effing-stingy-fish. Your point?
J: Feel me holding your hand?
J: Just jump.
Oh God.
It always killed me the way that he could make everything better. He always made everything better for me. Easier. Simpler. Worth doing. He never questioned my worth.
Just jump.
God, I wished I could just jump. Just jump and land right in front of him again, like nothing bad had ever happened.
∞
At fourteen, I didn’t understand what the big deal was about high school. To Joey, Jase, and me, high school sucked big, hairy moose ass. Maybe it was
because of where we lived or the high school we attended, but it wasn’t anything like the great time you read about in books.
It was like, well, Dante’s eighth ring of Hell—a complete fraud and rip-off of everything I had read that high school should have been.
We went to John Adams High School in New York City. We took the public bus to get there, and then literally squashed ourselves into an overcrowded school with NO air conditioners. Do you understand how horribly that could possibly smell? No, I don’t think you do.
Our textbooks were over thirty years old and so was the food in the cafeteria. The entire population of the student body, which was somewhere in the vicinity of 3,200 hormonal, sweaty teens, had to daily walk through metal detectors to get inside the front lobby of the school. Every ten minutes or so, students would randomly get patted down while they waited in line. Fun. Good times, I tell you.
Maybe it was the oppressiveness of the high school, or maybe it was what was going on with me at home, but I was a complete and utter disaster my freshman year. Okay, shut up, my whole high school career. We all can’t be perky little cheerleaders, can we?
Honestly, I don’t think my school even had cheerleaders. It didn’t have much of anything, but science, math, and history. Even its art program lacked. Art was just an elective you had to take once in the four years you were there, and it consisted of drawing with broken bits of crayons and gossiping in class.
That summer before our ninth grade year started, Jase had to spend it in some sort of I’m-Gonna-Make-My-Kid-A-Lawyer camp that his father shoved down his throat. Joey and I hadn’t seen him for four straight weeks, and we had seriously gone through Jase withdrawals. And that summer, Jase’s father gave me the creeps. Every time I sunbathed on the roof of the tree house, I’d catch him watching me. Hell, once Joey and I even caught him with a pair of binoculars. We never told Jase; I didn’t want him to hate his father even more. Joey and I hated him enough, anyway. When Jase wasn’t around, we made up gruesome stories about horrifying ways his dad died. Of course, we never told those kinds of stories around Jase. It was his father. No matter how much Jase loathed him; it just wasn’t right for us to agree with him. Even though we did. We so did.