Long Live Dead Reckless Page 16

  “Aren’t you cold out here, Talor?”

  “Oh, I lost your coat. Sorry. Hope it wasn’t expensive.”

  His hands found his pockets as he made his way towards me, hesitant. He knew I was being rude on purpose. It was unprecedented for both of us.

  “Ok, listen. I wanted to apologize. I probably shouldn’t have come since Mannix –”

  “Probably not,” I interrupted.

  “But I really wanted to see you,” he said.

  I looked away. Why was he complimenting me? I was being rude and hurtful, but I couldn’t stop. He was being too nice and I knew now that it was all a show. He was fake. No one was really that sweet and kind. I stood up from the porch swing and started towards the door.

  “You see me at work. I think that’s good enough,” I answered coldly.

  He leaned forward.

  “Maybe it was, but not anymore. Not to me.”

  “Well, it’s good enough for me.”

  His forehead nearly folded over itself.

  “What? Why?”

  I stopped. So many nasty thoughts were clawing around in my head to get out. I had my pick of harsh things to say to him, but it was hard being mean when he was so sweet. Then Valerie flashed in my mind. He was completely different person with her. Not this apologetic guy in front of me. Then I realized that Spencer warned me about this. Sage did have me fooled.

  Sage and Mannix were probably friends. Maybe they shared Valerie in some twisted threesome. That’s how it looked in the grove. Maybe he wanted to see if he could get me, too. I was being played. Azalea was being played. I felt stupid, naïve. A fire welled up in my belly as I prepared to deliver the final blow to shut him up for good. He was going down. I shot him an icy glare as I hastily descended the steps towards him in the grass.

  “Spencer and I made out here. Did I tell you that? He pushed me against that wall over there. He’s amazing with his tongue. Really knows what he’s doing, you know? Makes me wonder what else he can do.”

  “You – kissed – Spencer?” he asked, soft and strained, like he didn’t know what word would follow the one before.

  He blinked a few times, obviously confused. His mouth was slightly open like it had been when he pretended he was going to kiss me in the grove. It pissed me off to see the dark line between those lips. It led inside him – down his throat to his heart where I wanted to be. I stopped just in front of him, ready to dig the dagger in.

  “Yeah, I did, and it was amazing. You ever kiss a girl like that, Sage? Careless, furious, frenzied – violent, even? I’m glad I know at least one guy who will kiss me like that.”

  He turned his body to the side and cut his eyes. There was a puzzled expression on his face as he stared at nothing. A few seconds of silence passed. I waited on his response, still battle-ready. With a gentle sigh, he dropped his head. His words barely needed air, but they slapped me in the face.

  “I have to say goodnight here, Talor.”

  With that, he raised his gaze. There was a soft sincerity in those eyes; an unflinching vulnerability that made me just freaking hate myself. He never wanted a fight. He was surrendering. I don’t know what I wanted to accomplish by telling him about the kiss with Spencer. I wanted to make him jealous enough to kiss me, I guess. Competition.

  Deep down, I think I wanted to hurt him in a way he wouldn’t forget. He wounded my pride, rejected me. I wanted immediate vengeance for him kissing Valerie, so I went too far and it backfired. He didn’t have the slightest desire to kiss me now, and that parting look said he wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.

  The ridiculous, jealous girl inside was shamed into submission. The sane person left behind wanted to reel in my words, but there was no getting them back. They were free now; free to swim around in our heads, hurting him and haunting me. I tried to remember horrible things about him so I could feel better. He was sadistic, two-faced, and he had played me. I wanted to recall his faults in excruciating, vindicating detail, but I could still feel the warmth of his tender goodbye on my skin, and I could still see the longing in those sweet, caring eyes; his poetry, his warm coat, his compliments, and his humility – those were the only things I could remember. All the evils of the night couldn’t contend with my pinpoint cruelty. And it was too late to apologize.

  He left without looking back.

  18

  Days later, I was still tortured by what happened at Azalea’s party. I know I had a right to feel the way I did, but I was terrified that I’d reacted too harshly. Full of regrets and thoughts, I drove to the only place I could think anymore – the graveside. Mom’s grave was under the shade of a tree, next to a small holding pond where ducks would nest in the spring. I knew she’d like it there. She always loved ducks for some reason.

  She had only been gone for a year and a half, and it felt wrong every time I visited. Like I was just going through some motion that wasn’t natural to either of us. Still, I went, and I always brought a letter with me. Sometimes a poem, other times just a few lines or a memory we shared. I never brought flowers. They could be expensive and I only made minimum wage. She would understand.

  I licked the envelope and pushed the sides together. As I wiped away the debris from freshly cut grass away from her name, I rested my chin on my bent knee. I wanted to say something to her. Something loving. Something kind. Something that would give us both some peace. I mulled over the right words as if she really would hear them.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  I paused, waiting for her to answer. There was only the wind.

  “I remember the day we put you here. All I wanted was to take your place. You were needed here. I’m not. I remember wanting to skip forward a few years until it wouldn’t hurt anymore. I thought that I would have three or four years to struggle through and end up ok, but…I don’t know. I don’t know anything. If you can see me, I hope you’re proud of me. That’s all. I just hope. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time and I really don’t even know who I am, either. I wish…”

  I had to stop. Even the dead don’t want to listen to sniveling. I watched an ant crawl across her name. Angry, I flicked it away. No ant would step all over my mother’s good name – not today. Not any day. I bent over, my tears like fat raindrops splashing against the stone. A heavy footstep fell kind of close so I stood up quickly and turned to face the intruder. It was an old man holding a rake. His uniform nametag said “Jet.”

  “Pardon me, miss?”

  He looked like he himself would be in the ground any day. Being interrupted during an emotional gravesite moment seemed like a firing offense in his line of work. I forced a smile, but my tone was less than cordial.

  “I’m sorry, am I in your way? Do I need to leave?”

  He shook his head and hand simultaneously.

  “No, please. I apologize.”

  I wanted to pick up the letter I had placed on mom’s grave, but for some reason, I couldn’t imagine not leaving her something. I cleared my throat and started the trek back to the car on the road.

  “It’s just –” he called.

  I stopped. He looked up towards the sky and smiled. I looked up, too. There were a few gray clouds. I wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

  “The daughter of the king is only strongest at her weakest.”

  I said nothing as I walked back towards the grave. I wasn’t going to leave my letter with a person like that standing around. I knelt down and pretended to clean off the gravestone so I could scoop up the letter. Glancing around, I could see that we were alone except for a few people standing over a newly marked grave across the field.

  “Yeah, I’m not a princess,” I said sharply.

  For a maintenance man at a cemetery, he was fairly cryptic and totally unprofessional. And he was now added to the list of weirdoes calling me a princess lately. I didn’t know what they meant, but I was tired of it.

  “You are the daughter of the king. What they call you is not the s
ame thing.”

  “Don’t you have a grave to dig? People haven’t stopped dying, you know.”

  “The professor will point you in the right direction if you ask,” he said, nodding.

  “What?” I asked, a little flustered. The professor? Did he mean Professor Milton?

  When I turned around, there was just a rake against the tree. There was no one anywhere. The people across the way were gone. Jet was gone. There was no way he could have gotten out of sight that quickly – especially a man that old. How could a stranger know I was planning to talk to Professor Milton about the crop circle photo? Why did he say those things?

  I couldn’t shake the rampage of thoughts going through my mind as I made my way to campus. I finally settled on the possibility that it was a hallucination from all the stress. My recent fight with Sage had me in a funk and I wasn’t sleeping well after the ghost incident. Maybe they were to blame. While at a traffic light, I pulled up the crop circle photo on my phone and stared at it. Looking at it again, I knew I needed answers. I turned my car towards Cypress College.

  Professor Milton had this tiny Zen garden on the desk in his office. Since my first semester, he was my unofficial therapist. He was one of the few professors on campus who actually liked his students and he always had time for one of my moods. The first time I dragged myself into his office, he pointed me to the Zen garden. It always worked. I would periodically drop by and move the little stones around the fake plants and white sand with the tiny rake because it made me feel better. I told him once that I was master and commander of a tiny garden I couldn’t kill, and I liked it. That made him laugh.

  I wandered down the hallway to his office, past other open offices where I avoided the prying eyes. Dr. Milton was at his desk on his computer, probably reading an online newspaper or doing some crossword. He saw me over the monitor and brightened, waving me in without a word. I plopped myself down in one of the chairs.

  “Here to talk or rake?” He asked, still focused on his work on the computer.

  “Both, I think.”

  He turned from his computer and rested his elbows on his desk. As always, he ushered to the Zen garden.

  “Well, go on. You know what to do. You do know I’m not a therapist, though, right?”

  I smiled at him, grabbing the miniature rake and scraping the rocks around.

  “I know. You say that every time. If you were a real therapist, I wouldn’t come anywhere near you. You might have me institutionalized.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  “If I were a real therapist, you would be my favorite patient, but I’d never tell my other patients that. Or you, for that matter. Yikes. I’m such a terrible therapist.”

  “Aww, thank you,” I cooed, playfully batting my eyes.

  He smirked.

  “So, what are we talking about today?”

  I stopped raking and pulled my phone out.

  “Ok. Crazy stuff. You were in the Marines, right? Like, a long time ago?”

  He tapped a pen against his cheek and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

  “Back in the Civil War, I was in the Union Army, yes. Don’t shoot, Johnny Reb!”

  His good sense of humor was wasted on me for once. I looked down at the photo and wondered if I should share it. I was hesitant for some reason. It wasn’t like me to be wary of Dr. Milton. Taking in a deep breath, I pushed forward through the apprehension. I placed my hand on his desk.

  “Don’t think I’m nuts, but a few weeks ago, I found this picture in my grandmother’s old photo album. My grandfather was in the Marines and stationed in China during World War II. I just thought you might know about this since you like war and stuff.”

  “I like war?” he muttered, almost offended. “Nobody likes war.”

  I waved my hand between us wildly to slap away the misunderstanding.

  “No, no – you know what I mean. You know about them. You teach them! Anyway, here.”

  He raised both bushy brows as he took the phone from me. Putting his glasses on, he studied the photo. He looked longer at it than I expected. I shifted in my seat a few times while I waited.

  “Well, huh. This is interesting,” he said, pulling off his glasses.

  I sat up in my seat like I was in a doctor’s office waiting the results of a test.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but do you think it’s real? I figured you would know.”

  He turned his head to the side and tapped a finger against his bottom lip.

  “I’ll tell you, Talor, it looks real. I’d like to see the original photo if I could. I could probably at least tell you if the photo is authentic.”

  “Well, I know the photo is real. It’s aged and everything. I mean, what’s in the picture? The crop circle?”

  “I’m sure it’s real, too. Not an illusion, I mean. Crop circles are always man-made. I’ve seen a few through the years stationed around different places, but I don’t think there’s anything like aliens involved,” he answered, handing back the phone. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

  It felt sheepish to suggest aliens to an academic I admired, so I tried to backpedal.

  “Well, no, I mean –”

  He propped his elbows on his desk.

  “But this one – I’ve never seen that design before. Unique. Really large, too. I remember when making these was all the rage back before you were born. They were everywhere.”

  “So it wasn’t like some weird phenomenon that was covered up by the government or anything? Right?”

  He chuckled as he leaned back in his chair.

  “You could look in the archives, but I’m not aware of anything like that in there. No historian really takes crop circles seriously,” he said.

  “Oh, there is one more photo, but it’s a weird language, so not that you could help, but here – look,” I pointed, scrolling to the writing on the photo.

  When he looked at the strange writing, his whole manner changed. He was always so cheerful and friendly, but he went solemn as he pulled the phone closer and blinked hard at the screen.

  “I don’t know what language this is.”

  “Maybe Russian? It’s my grandmother’s first language.”

  He scratched his eyebrow and looked back at me.

  “Could be, but you might want to ask someone over in the foreign language department. They would know more than me.”

  “I was told to ask the right questions.”

  He handed me the phone and looked me in the eye. I put it away.

  “What do you mean? Who told you that?”

  I shook my head and grabbed the rake again and started scraping the rocks around. I was embarrassed I even said anything weird like that. I just thought it might matter.

  “Uh, no one.”

  He ran his hand across his cheek in thought. He was studying me through a grim look.

  “Strange things to find in your grandmother’s photo album. Did you ask her about it yet?”

  I shrugged.

  “Bosh doesn’t talk about her life in China and this was a hidden photo. I don’t know why she would have a picture like that anyway.”

  He pushed his lips together and looked towards the ceiling.

  “Sorry I wasn’t more help, but I’ll give you extra credit if you lead a discussion in class about crop circles and aliens.”

  I gathered my things and stood up.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a terrible therapist?”

  “Every day. Now go on and get out of here so I can pretend to work in case my department head shows up.”

  I headed straight for the library under a sky congested by an angry gray veil. When it broke, there was a lashing out so fierce that it battered against the windows until the building cried out in a chorus. I hunkered down in my favorite place on campus for the onslaught. The library was soothing; old books were my favorite smell and it was always quiet there. I started by walking
around the towers of books. I wasn’t really sure where the crop circle conspiracy section would be, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I had nowhere to be and the rain was really coming down.

  The library was pretty dead at that time of the day, so only a handful of people were quietly studying at individual workstations and tiptoeing upstairs while flipping through books on endless shelves. I heard a faint laugh or two followed by a quick shushing from the librarian. I let my hand drag across the rows of books as I walked up and down sections aimlessly.

  A rumble of thunder called me to one of the large windows lining the wall. The storm had rolled in with gusto, so I watched it send people squealing for shelter. I took a seat in a corner cubicle and pulled my legs into my chest, wrapping my cable-knit sweater jacket around. People react to rain like we’re made of fire. Maybe some are. But most of us are water, and we’re even waterproof, but we act like we’ll drown in a few drops. I leaned my head against the cold window, looking out across the hazy campus.

  One thing caught my eye. There was a couple standing together in the rain. They weren’t running. They weren’t even trying to get under shelter. They were kissing like they had mere moments left to live, and with lightning flashing over their heads, they might have been right. They kissed so passionately I felt like I was peeping. But they were out in the open, so I kept watching.

  “One day,” I said, sighing to myself.

  A minute later, I saw his reflection. Sage was in the aisle behind me looking through some books. I stiffened. If he came a few feet closer towards the window, he would see me sitting there. He hadn’t noticed me through the shelving yet. I froze, not knowing what to do. I hadn’t talked to him since the fight at the Halloween party.

  I was angry, nervous, excited, terrified, confused, and aching all at once. He made me feel everything. I never knew that was possible before. I didn’t know how to act around him now. I mean…were we still friends? The wind picked up and howled as it battered the rain against the window in a ceaseless tapping rhythm like it was trying to get him to look my way. I was aware of every sound around me: the whispers, stifled giggles, and chairs creaking. I was trapped, just waiting to be found out. I didn’t have to wait long.