Twenty-three
Landon
Landing a part-time job was more problematic than I’d assumed it would be. In a small town, with a known probated assault in my none-too-distant past, managers weren’t jumping at the chance to have me on the payroll.
Plumbing the depths, I asked for an application at the very last fast-food place I would ever want to work, and still heard: “You can fill this out, but we’re not really hiring right now.” It was almost summer—the busiest time of year for every business in this beach town. Not hiring my ass. I stared at the manager’s short-sleeved dress shirt and polyester tie as I took the sheet from his hand, which would take fifteen minutes to fill out. For nothing.
“Ain’t you Ray’s boy? Edmond’s grandson?”
I turned to find one of the town’s crotchety-looking old guys peering up at me. They weren’t scarce around here. This one was shorter and wider than me, sporting a pair of red canvas coveralls that resembled prison threads too closely, with exception of Hendrickson Electric & AC monogrammed on the chest. He tipped his tray of wadded wrappers and cartons into the trash and turned back.
“Yes, sir.” I stuck a hand out. “Landon Maxfield.”
He shook my hand in a remarkably bone-crunching grip. “W. W. Hendrickson,” he said, his local drawl shortening his initials to dubyah dubyah. “Needin’ a job, are ya? You don’t wanna work in this crap place.” He shot a look at the manager, who reddened. “No offense, Billy.”
I got the feeling that Bill Zuckerman hadn’t gone by Billy in at least twenty years. He cleared his throat and struggled not to scowl, failing. “Uh, none taken, Mr. Hendrickson.”
“Hmph,” Hendrickson said. “Come outside a minute, Landon. Talk to me.” He motioned and I followed. “You work on the boat with your dad, I thought?” We walked up to his truck and he leaned an elbow on the bed’s side.
I nodded. “Yes, sir. But I plan to go to college in a little over a year, and I’ll need work experience with a reference.”
“Plan to scoot on outta town like yer dad did, do ya?” he asked, but I couldn’t detect any malice in his tone.
“Yes, sir. I plan to study engineering.”
His bushy brows elevated. “Ah, now that’s a levelheaded thing worth studyin’. I never could understand how your dad needed so much schoolin’ to study somethin’ done with smoke and mirrors.”
I pinned my lips together, knowing better than to try to explain my father’s multiple economics degrees to guys like Mr. Hendrickson.
“I’ll get to the point. I’m needin’ a new assistant. Before you jump at the opportunity, realize that you’ll probably get zapped a time or two afore you learn which wires to avoid. And I’ll be sending you into dark, hundred-and-twenty-degree attics where you’ll sweat buckets, get fiberglass in yer knees and ass, and may have the occasional critter skittering across your feet.” He laughed, a near-silent snuffling sound through his nose. “I had one assistant go clean through a client’s ceilin’ because of a hissin’ possum. Landed in the middle of the livin’ room, luckily.”
Luckily? “Um, okay.” I didn’t know what to say or ask.
“Pay’s a couple bucks above minimum wage. No drinkin’, smokin’, hanky-panky with clients’ daughters—feel like I gotta mention that, you bein’ a looker like yer dad and also, I been there before.”
My face heated.
“I assume you know all about computers and such?” At my nod, he said, “Good. I could use some help with gettin’ my books on there. Come up to the twenty-first century afore it’s over. So. Whaddaya think?”
I got a job, I thought.
• • • • • • • • • •
“Well, Mr. Maxfield. Here we are—the beginning of your senior year. I must admit, I never thought you’d make it this far.”
I stared at my principal and thought, No shit. Especially when you did everything in your power to make that true. Still, the brass balls of her to call me into her office just to say this to my face couldn’t mean anything good. She thought she was above everything and everyone, and within the confines of this school, she was right.
Nine months, I told myself. Nine months and I was out of here. I wouldn’t even pause to shake the dust off my boots.
So I said nothing. Merely returned her beady-eyed gaze with a flinty one of my own. She studied a slip of paper with my schedule printed on it. “I see you’ve signed up for calculus and physics.” She glanced at me over the glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “How . . . ambitious of you.” Lips pressed closed, brows somewhat elevated, eyelids lowered—her entire expression displayed her skepticism that I was capable of the change I’d begun in the last few weeks of the previous year.
I wanted to flick those glasses and that condescension off her face.
Instead of responding, I repeated my mantra silently—the tenets I’d learned in my first month of martial arts, last spring: Courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, indomitable spirit. Often, the functions of these blurred together—because each was interwoven through the others. If I failed one, I could fail them all. What good was integrity if I had no self-control?
So there I sat, waiting for Ingram to be done with me.
She wasn’t pleased with my muteness—that much was all too apparent. Her thin lips twisted. “I understand one of our star students assisted you in passing your classes last spring.”
Ah. Pearl.
Aside from the day she checked me for a punctured lung, Pearl Frank and I hadn’t ever spoken outside of Melody’s presence or Can you pass this forward classroom-type chatter. I almost didn’t respond when she touched my arm in the library last spring and asked, “Landon, are you okay?”
With six weeks of school remaining to learn the thirty weeks of stuff I’d failed to absorb plus the new material, I was going under. But I had no desire to confess that to Melody’s best friend, who also happened to be the smartest person in my graduating class.
I blinked and rolled my shoulders, popping my neck. “Yeah. Fine.” I’d been stuck in a hair-clenching position for the entire hour of study hall, staring at a section in my chemistry textbook.
Her brows creasing, she gestured at the open text. “Why are you looking at that? We went over Dalton’s Law last six weeks.”
I shut the book, scowling and standing. “Yeah, well, I didn’t get it then, I don’t get it now.” I loosened my grimace and shrugged. “No big deal.”
Pearl’s gaze missed very little. “But you’re studying it now because . . .”
I swallowed. I didn’t want to say it out loud—that I was making an eleventh-hour bid to alter my future. That I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to do it.
“If you want, I can send you my notes from last six weeks, and you can ask me questions.” Her dark eyes held a dare, not pity.
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Don’t be afraid to ask for help from your teachers, too. They’re just people, you know.” I arched a brow and she smirked. “Well, most of them.”
Over the next several weeks, she saved me from failing my junior year—not just chemistry, but literature and pre-calc. Thanks to her help, my brain woke up from three years of hibernation.
“Pearl Frank?” Mrs. Ingram prompted now, as if I wouldn’t remember the tutoring or who gave it. I wasn’t sure how she knew, but I damned sure wasn’t going to ask.
“Yes,” I answered.
She hated me right now. In my first few months of taekwondo, I’d become more aware of the clues that someone was progressing from irritation to rage. Recognizing the level of likelihood that someone might fucking lose it any second was necessary for defense, after all. Her physical indications were minor, but they were there.
“I understand you were arrested last spring for assault. Plea bargained to probation, fortunately.” Fortunately was not what she wanted to call it.
I said nothing.
Pearl told me once that Ingram was the type of leader who believed in addition by subtraction. “It’s half genius, half cheating. They remove the lowest-scoring students, employees with bad service records, et cetera, which raises the overall score or ranking of the organization.”
Finally, Ingram broke rank and flat-out glared. “Why aren’t you answering me, Mr. Maxfield?”
One brow angled. “You aren’t asking any questions.”
Her eyes blazed. “Let me be clear. I don’t know what game you’re playing here, or what your business is with Miss Frank, but I don’t want her valuable time wasted for your nonsense. I don’t believe for two seconds that you have the essential work ethics or the life and interpersonal skills necessary to represent this school and its exemplary educational standards.”
I bit my lip to keep from correcting her. According to the state, her school was far from exemplary.
I tuned her out as she blathered on about my lack of integrity and critical thinking skills and respect for authority. Funny how people who railed about other people’s lack of respect usually weren’t willing to offer any in exchange.
When she stopped, my ears rang. “Do we understand each other, young man?” She clearly expected an answer to more than that question—or a heated reaction. She was doomed to be disappointed.
“I believe so. Are we finished here, Mrs. Ingram?” I stood, casting a broad shadow over her desk from the east-facing window behind me. “I have a class to get to. Unless you want to make me late the first day.” On cue, the first bell rang.
She stood, but still craned her neck to look up at me. I’d reached my dad’s imposing height over the summer, and she didn’t care for me looming a foot over her. I slid a hand into my front pocket and shifted my weight to one side—as close to a cease-fire as I’d give her. I wasn’t fourteen anymore, and this woman was not going to trash my chances of getting out of this town and into college.
“You’re dismissed. But I’m watching you.”
Uh-huh, I thought, turning and leaving without response.
I wondered why in the hell someone like her would pursue a career in education in the first place, but I wouldn’t ask. Everyone isn’t logical. Everything doesn’t make sense in the end. Sometimes you have to forget about explanations or excuses and leave people and places behind, because otherwise they will drag you straight down.
Saturday morning, it had been thirty-something hours since I’d seen Jacqueline. Sergeant Ellsworth and I suited up for the final module in the locker room. The two of us weren’t supposed to arrive until halfway through the class, because we would serve only one purpose today: “attackers,” which necessitated emotional distance from the “victims.”
When we entered the room, fully padded, my eyes went to Jacqueline instantly. Along with the others, she was wearing all the protective gear. They resembled a tribe of mini sumo wrestlers. She looked up and saw me, quickly lowering her lashes and biting her lip, and I was struck with a graphic recollection of the hours we’d spent in my bed. By the looks of her shy grin, so was she.
Emotional distance. Right.
I wished, too late, that I’d outright asked Jacqueline to avoid going up against me. We could practice defenses together, but this was different. As the attackers, Ellsworth and I would make audible comments. We would look for openings to attack. We wouldn’t release a “victim” unless a defense blow was adequately delivered—and we’d both been trained to judge that point.
This section of the class was unnerving for me. Pretending to be a sexual predator always made me crave a scalding hot shower after.
As soon as the women finished reviewing moves with Watts, they’d be ready to do what Jacqueline told me her friend Erin termed serious junk kicking.
“She’s only excited because she can practice doing it and not hurt you guys, because of the padding,” she said as we dressed so I could take her back to the dorm late Thursday night.
“Uh-huh,” I said, deadpan, and she laughed.
As she pulled on her gloves, her eyes skittering away from mine, she said, “Erin was the first person I told.” Her voice was so soft. “I wish I’d told her sooner.”
I tipped her chin and pulled her close. “There’s no right or wrong way to be a survivor, Jacqueline. There’s no script.” She swallowed and nodded, not quite convinced, yet, because of Mindi. “You survived, and so will she.”
I was up first. As I went to the mat, I felt Jacqueline’s eyes on me, and I prayed we wouldn’t be paired for this. Vickie was the first volunteer, and she kicked my ass in the best kind of way. I’d expected Erin might step forward first or second, but she hung back with Jacqueline, who seemed in no hurry to go at all. During Ellsworth’s turns on the mat, I watched the two of them root for their classmates, Erin screaming suggestions at the top of her lungs—“Head butt! LAWNMOWER! Kick him! Kick him HARDER!”—while Jacqueline cheered and clapped.
Finally, Erin squeezed Jacqueline’s hand and stepped forward to fight Ellsworth, leaving only Jacqueline and one other, extremely timid woman who worked in the Health Center. Ellsworth eyed Erin and mumbled, “If this one kicks my nuts up to my throat, you owe me, dude,” before he stepped out. “I’m not so sure I trust the pads with her.”
If the “victim” landed a good blow, we weren’t really going to feel it—hopefully. In my training class, they’d told us to find our inner thespians. Even so, when Erin nailed Ellsworth in the junk with a perfect sweep kick and he crumpled straight to the ground, I was a little worried. Eleven voices screamed, “RUN!” but Erin had an inner thespian of her own. After launching herself off his chest, she turned around and kicked him twice before running to the safe zone, where she bounced around like she’d won the heavyweight championship.
Ellsworth rolled to his feet and gave me a thumbs-up. Phew.
I went to the mat and waited. Gail from the Health Center stepped out, so nervous she was shaking. At this point, some might have been tempted to tell her she didn’t have to do it. But she’d gotten this far. Time to prove to her that she’d learned something. Watts gave her quiet instructions, at first, encouraging her to hit harder. I went easy on her, but as she landed punches and kicks, and was cheered by her classmates, she kicked harder, hit harder, yelled no and get back louder. She was crying and smiling by the time we were done, surrounded and congratulated by the others.
For me, nothing compared to watching Jacqueline. Without direction, she executed a series of moves, and whether she landed them or not, she varied them. At one point, she appeared stuck in a front bear hug, until Erin hollered, “NUTSACK!” loud enough to be heard in a neighboring state, and Jacqueline brought her knee up, hard. Ellsworth went straight to the ground. She tore off toward the safety zone, where Erin tackled her in an enthusiastic hug. I was so proud of her—and I hoped to God she’d never have to use anything she’d just learned.
• • • • • • • • • •
Sunday afternoon, Jacqueline and I took a final break from studying for finals. I packed coffee in thermoses and we headed to the lake. I wanted to sketch kayakers, who Jacqueline insisted were certifiably insane to be out on the lake in these temperatures. She huddled next to me on the bench, wrapped head to toe and still shivering. I wore my hoodie, but no gloves, and I’d discarded my leather jacket because I didn’t need it.
I called her a candyass for being such a cold-weather wimp, and she punched me in the shoulder. I saw it coming and could have blocked her, but I didn’t. “Ow, jeez—I take it back! You’re tough as nails. Total badass.” I pulled her closer to warm her.
“I throw a mean hammer-fist.” Her words were almost inaudible, mumbled into my chest.
“You do.” I tipped her face up to mine. “I’m actually a little scared of you.” My playful words were truer than she knew.
“I don’t want you to be scared of me.” Her words issued with small puffs of her breath, and I kissed her until her nose was warm against my cheek.
We went back to my apartment, where she reminded me of my request, weeks ago, that she leave me something to anticipate. “So, have you been . . . anticipating it?” she asked. Our clothes were askew, but we’d gotten no further than a heated make-out on my sofa with Francis for a bored audience.
Had I been anticipating her hands and mouth on me? Uh . . . yeah.
Staring at my lip—the ring sucked fully into my mouth—a slow smile spread across her face. She kissed me before sliding from my lap to her knees, between my legs. As she unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, I was pretty sure I was dreaming. I didn’t want to move and risk waking up, but I couldn’t help lancing my fingers through her soft hair so I could both touch her and watch every single thing she did.
When she darted the tip of her tongue and ran it base to tip, I closed my eyes for just a moment, losing my mind with ecstasy. She leaned up to nibble me with her teeth, stroking me with her fingertips and then her tongue. I moaned, which was apparently the exact right response. As her warm mouth closed over me—Holy mother of God, my head fell back on the sofa and I closed my eyes again, my hands still in her hair, the heels of my palms against her cheekbones. And then, she hummed—one long, low note.
“Fucking hell, Jacqueline,” I gasped.
This time, she didn’t let me stop her.
She texted Wednesday afternoon: Econ final: PWNED. Whether she knew that gamer term from video games or cat memes, I didn’t care. It was too cute. All because of me, right? I texted back. No, because of that Landon guy, she returned. I laughed out loud, earning a crooked brow from Eve, with whom I was working a double shift. Gwen and Ron had two finals each today, and neither of us had one, so we’d agreed to work practically all day, along with our manager.
“I need somethin’ hot-n-sweet.” I recognized Joseph’s voice, giving his order to Eve. He rubbed his hands together in his fingerless gloves, trying to warm them. His coat was university-issued and displayed his name. His wool cap, pulled low over his ears, sported our mascot.
She glared at him. “I’ll need the name of your desired drink, sir.” Venom rolled off her. This was going to be funny. Or really painful. Either way, I couldn’t bring myself to step up and make it stop.
Joseph rarely came into the coffee shop, insisting it was all complete hype—overpriced and over-marketed.
He eyed Eve across the counter. “Recommendations? I’m not familiar with all the fancy-ass drinks y’all have. Like I said—I want something hot, and sweet. I’m not so sure you’re the one to give it to me, though.”
“Really? That’s your line?”
His brows angled up and his mouth twisted. “Sweetheart, if you’re hopin’ for a line, you ain’t gonna get it from me. You are a far, far cry from my type.”
Eve sputtered, furious. “Oh, so ‘I want something hot and sweet’ means ‘nothing’?”
“Um, no.” His eyes were glacial. “It means I’d like a hot drink, as opposed to a cold one, and I’d like something sweet—as in with syrup in it. Goddamn. You got a coworker or somethin’ I could order from?” He glanced over and spotted me, lips pressed together.
“Lucas, dammit, get me somethin’”—he eyed Eve—“hot and sweet.”
“Salted caramel mocha sound good?”
Smiling, he said, “Hell, yeah—that sounds perfect.” His smile dropped when he looked back at Eve, though he was still speaking to me. “And thank you for your professionalism.” I made the drink as he handed over a bill and Eve rung him up, silently.
“See ya next week for that Air Review show,” he said, taking the cup. “Elliott’s sister is comin’ for a visit the week after, by the way. If you wanna join us for dinner one night, I can show off my one smart friend.”
“Sure thing.” I laughed. “Sounds good, Joseph.”
When he’d gone, Eve glowered at me and said, no inflection: “He’s gay, isn’t he.”
“Yep.”
“And you just stood there and let me make an ass of myself—”
“Eve, everything isn’t about you.” I tapped a finger to her nose to lessen the harsh words. “Maybe you should figure that out.” I turned to wash pitchers before the next wave of finals-freaked customers deluged us.
She huffed a sigh but didn’t reply.
My phone buzzed with one more text from Jacqueline, who had three more exams between now and Saturday to my one: Chinese on Saturday? I need something hot and spicy to celebrate the end of the semester. Kung-pao maybe? *wink* After the previous exchange between Joseph and Eve, I chuckled aloud again. Jacqueline and I had plans to celebrate in her dorm room, after Erin left for winter break.
Me: I think I can make hot and spicy happen
Jacqueline: *fanning* yes please
• • • • • • • • • •
“So how did you end up playing the bass?” I asked, digging in my carton for a broccoli spear. We were sitting side by side on Jacqueline’s dorm room floor, our backs to her bed.
“By way of Pee-Wee football,” she answered. I made a face, my imagination putting her in a football uniform, and she laughed. “One of our bass players snapped his collarbone in a game, and our orchestra teacher begged for one of the violins to switch. I volunteered. It was a bonus that my mother wasn’t happy about it.”
“So your relationship with your mom—not so good, I take it?”
She sighed. “Actually, I just told her—about Buck. About all of it. And she cried. She never cries. She wanted to come here.” A frown creased her brow. “I told her I was good, I was strong, and I realized I was.” She leaned her head back against her bed, her face turned toward me. “Because of Erin—and you.”
My mind suggested that this was no bad boy trait she was praising.
I tipped an imaginary hat. “Happy to be of service, ma’am.”
She smiled. “She’s making me an appointment with her therapist. At first I agreed because it gave her something to do—some way to help. But when I thought about it, I was glad. I want to talk to someone about what happened. Someone who can help me deal with all of it.”
Our faces were inches apart, and I could have sworn she looked sad for me. Maybe because I didn’t have a mother. “That’s awesome. I’m glad your mom was there for you.”
This was not where I wanted this evening to go. I had so little time left with her.
“What about you? How did you decide to study engineering? I mean, you could have majored in art, probably.”
I shrugged. “I can draw whenever I want. It calms me—always has. But I don’t want to do that for anyone but me. As for art in general—I’m not really a painter, sculptor, anything else. Whereas narrowing down my interests in engineering was difficult. I wanted to do it all.”
She smiled. “So how did you choose?”
“Well, skill and opportunity. I hadn’t really considered going a medical route. I thought I’d be designing cars or inventing futuristic stuff like hovercraft. But the opportunity presented itself when Dr. Aziz asked me to apply, so I’m game.”
I scrolled through my iTunes list for the playlist I wanted her to hear and handed her both earbuds. Unsurprisingly, she was emotionally attuned to music like no one I’d ever known—an unguarded range of feelings reflected in her eyes as she stared at me, listening. I leaned in to kiss her, and then picked her up, laid her on the bed and stretched out next to her, one arm under her head, the other flat on her abdomen.
When I reached to brush a finger over her ear, she removed one earbud and handed it to me. I dialed the playlist to a song I’d discovered just before I got my last tattoo—four lines now inscribed onto my side, a poem composed by my artistic mother for the analytical man who loved her. The song had triggered the memory of her words, so I’d searched the attic for her poetry notebook the next time I was home. I copied the lines and took them to Arianna, and she added the poem to the canvas of my body, two years ago.
Love is not the absence of logic
but logic examined and recalculated
heated and curved to fit
inside the contours of the heart
Our hands began to wander over each other—my fingers sliding under her shirt as I kissed her. She warned me that Erin could return any moment—apparently her roommate hadn’t left for winter break yet. Something to do with a boyfriend who was trying to win her back.
“Why did they break up?” I asked.
I cupped her breast, about to search for the clasp—front or back this time?
“Over me,” she said, and I froze. “Not like that. Chaz was . . . Buck’s best friend.” Her entire body went rigid, just speaking his name, and I pulled her close.
Buck was supposed to be gone, and probably wouldn’t be back next semester—certainly not if Charles had anything to do with it. He knew someone on the disciplinary committee, and I was pretty sure he was going to call in every favor he could.
“I never told you about the stairwell, did I?” Jacqueline said then.
I went as taut as she was. “No.”
She swallowed. “About a month ago, all the washers were full on my floor, so I went down to the second floor to see if they had any machines free.” Her voice was so subdued that I couldn’t shift positions and still hear her. “On the way back up, Buck caught me in the stairwell. He threatened to . . .” She swallowed again, hard, and left the blank for my mind to fill. “So I said, ‘My room.’ I thought if I could get him into the hallway, people would be there and they’d hear me tell him to leave and he’d have to go.”
I was holding her too tightly. I registered that, but my muscles had solidified. I couldn’t loosen my grip on her.
“There were five people in the hall. I told him to leave. He was furious when he figured out what I’d done. He made it look like we’d done it in the stairwell. And from the looks on everyone’s faces in the hall . . . from the stories that circulated after . . . they believed him.”
He didn’t get into her room. But he put his hands on her. And he scared her. Again.
I felt the protective rage and excruciating powerlessness building and didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t want to hurt Jacqueline, or frighten her, but I didn’t know what to do with the anger bubbling up inside, threatening to spill over.
I pushed her onto her back and kissed her, pressing a knee between her legs. I felt her struggle and my brain screamed WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING. I tried to pull back—but her hands, freed from between us, stabbed into my hair and held on tight, and she opened her mouth, pulling me inside and kissing me back just as hard.
I shuddered, loving her, loving her so much I could hardly breathe. Wondering if that was how it was supposed to feel to love someone or if I was just fucked all to hell and incapable of loving correctly, because all I felt was this insane, unfillable need, this empty black hole inside my soul. I was breaking apart in her hands, crumbling to nothing.
I had to stop. This had to stop. I’d given her what she wanted, what she needed—and I was in pieces at her feet. How could she not see? I couldn’t play this game anymore. I had to save what little of me remained.
I wanted to strip her and possess her one last time. Spread her legs and adore her. Make her cry my name and shudder beneath me. I wanted to pretend, one more night, that I could belong to her. That she could be mine. I lay over her, kissing her, and knew it wouldn’t happen. Her roommate would return any minute, and it was just as well. There was no filling the space I wanted her to fill.
We slowed, lying side by side, and I began to compose my exit lines.
Then she asked about the Hellers, and my parents, and I turned onto my back and answered her questions.
And then—“What was your mother like?”
“Jacqueline—” I said, as Erin’s key hit the lock.
I got up as she entered, and Jacqueline followed. Erin tried to make like she had laundry to do, but I said, “I was just leaving,” lacing my black work boots and wishing I’d worn my old Noconas so I could shove my feet in and go.
“Tomorrow?” Jacqueline said at the door, arms hugging herself.
I zipped my jacket and said, “It’s officially winter break. We should probably use it to take a break from each other as well.”
She recoiled, stunned. She asked me why, and I became all logic, no emotion—she was leaving town and I would be, too, for at least a few days Christmas week. She still had to pack, and Charles needed help getting grades posted—which was bullshit, but she had no way to verify that and I knew it.
I told her to let me know when she was back in town, and I bent to kiss her—one quick, barren kiss. Nothing like she deserved. Nothing of what I felt. I said good-bye and walked away.