“No, you aren’t.” I reach between us and squeeze him gently. “You want me to put my mouth on you?”
“No, tonight is about you.”
“There’s martyr Devin again.” I turn to face him. “That can’t be comfortable.”
He bops me on the nose. “Lucky for you I have plenty of experience with virgins. Now sleep.”
His words are like an ice bucket thrown right over my heated skin. My bottom lip quivers a bit before I remember what this is, what we are, and as much as I hate to admit it, the reminder of his ex is exactly what I need. Devin was wrong about one thing; he may be my first friend, and my first kiss, and my first sexual partner, but he won’t be my first love. He can’t be. Our friendship might have survived eight years apart, and hundreds of miles, but I don’t think it can survive a broken heart.
15
Chapter 15
Roni, age 10
I stare at the clock on the wall, listening for the seconds to tick by. Mrs. Freeman is rambling on and on about the Industrial Revolution, and while Gran says these are lessons I’ll need when I’m older, I can’t ever see a situation where I’ll need to recall the specific dates of when machines started to replace hand tools.
Social Studies is my least favorite subject, and it doesn’t help that Mrs. Freeman is ancient, and lectures us for forty minutes straight in the same monotone voice.
She’s so old she even taught Momma. My throat bobs up and down at the thought of my mother. It’s been three months since she left, and while I’m trying to put on a brave face for Daddy and Gran during the day, I still cry myself to sleep every night. I just wish I could see her one more time. I wish I could hug her one more time. It’s funny how when she was here, I use to think she hated me because I wasn’t prissy enough or pretty enough, but now that she’s gone, I realize all the little things about her are gone too. Like how she use to leave my lunch bag on the counter before school, and how I’d always have fifty cents to buy a popsicle after gym class on Friday’s, or how she’d sometimes bring home a Snickers from the vending machine at her job because it’s one of the only places in town that sells the ones with almonds.
It’s small stuff; stuff that doesn’t really mean much since she didn’t care enough to say goodbye.
The bell rings, and my shoulders slump. Finally. I shove my books in my bag and shuffle into the hallway.
“Hey, Roni,” Devin calls from somewhere behind me. I turn to see him rushing towards me, a grin on his face. “How was your nap?” He slows to a walk beside me.
I yawn on cue. “I don’t know why we have to have social studies at the end of the day,” I tell him.
“Probably so you don’t fall asleep in class afterward.” He grins.
I nod my agreement and we make our way out to the bus line. “You coming over to watch Jeopardy later?”
“Duh,” he tells me. He’s been coming over most days after school. I think it’s because he doesn’t want me to be alone until Daddy gets home. I don’t tell him Dad went in early today and should be home already, because I like it when he comes over.
The bus lets off at the end of our street and Chloe waves goodbye as she races up the stairs to her house. “Call me later,” she shouts over her shoulder.
“K,” I yell back, just before the door slams shut.
“God, that girl is a lot.” Devin chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I roll my eyes. “Not all of us are into the whole dark and broody thing,” I say defending Chloe. Yes, she can sometimes be too much sunshine, even for me, but that’s just because life hasn’t been as ruthless to her as it has been to us. I can’t be mad at that.
“I’m not dark and broody.” He pouts.
I point to his black jeans and t-shirt. “So emo.”
He hooks an arm around my neck and pulls my head down so he can rub his knuckles over my scalp. “Take it back.”
I push him off me and smile up at him. “Tell me you’re not about to go home and blast your Taking Back Sunday and Jimmy Eat World albums and I’ll consider it.”
The corners of his lips tip up in a half smile, but he doesn’t tell me I’m wrong. “So predictable,” I say in a sing-song voice.
“Well.” He points to my house. “Tell me you’re not about to run in there and finish your painting, and then push it under your bed because you don’t think it’s good enough.”
I flip my middle finger up at him. “Ha-ha.”
My eyes rake over the driveway, and I frown when I don’t see Dad’s car. When he works the early shift he gets off before school’s out. It’s not that I’m not used to coming home to an empty house since Momma left, but Dad not coming home after work usually means he’s at Geno’s bar drinking and playing the machines. I probably won’t see him until I’m about to head to bed. If he’s losing, then he’ll probably stumble in drunk and sad. Lucky for me, Daddy isn’t a mean drunk. He’s never so much as given me a spanking, let alone raised his voice. Sometimes I wish he were. I’d much rather deal with that than seeing him cry. Roni, you deserve a better Daddy than me. I’m sorry. I promise to be better tomorrow. I quickly learned tomorrow will never come.
Dev’s eyes follow mine and I don’t have to say what I’m thinking. He just knows. He drops his arm around my shoulder. “How about we both stop being so predictable,” he says, repeating my words back to me.
I arch my brow. “What did you have in mind?”
“Laying on the couch watching game shows and eating popcorn?”
I laugh out loud at that. “How is that any different than what we always do.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two tiny bottles of whiskey. “We are going to get drunk while we do it.”
I eye the bottles, then look up at my best friend. “Where did you get these?” In the movies, the teens always steal liquor from their parents’ liquor cabinets, and I’d always wondered what that life was like. Parents like mine and Dev’s and most of the other parents on this block don’t have cabinets full of untouched liquor. Usually, it’s a bottle of the cheap stuff, and it gets polished off just as quickly as it came.
“I have my sources,” he replies coyly.
I debate it for a moment. Aside from a few sips of cheap champagne that Gran lets me have on New Year’s I’ve never actually drunk. Daddy’s unhealthy relationship with booze aside, I’ve never felt the desire to do it. Maybe that’s my problem. I promised myself that I’d try new things this year, and while I’d meant learning a language or working with oils instead of acrylics, why not booze? I’m an artist, right? I’m supposed to toe the line between sobriety and creativity. I push out a breath. “Let’s get drunk.”
We race into the empty house, up the stairs, and shuck off our bookbags. I flip the switch on the lamp, and it flickers to life, illuminating the living room. Devin and I stand face to face on the rug that’s so run down, it’s no longer fluffy, and he hands me one of the bottles. The seal creaks as I twist it open. Brown eyes stare into mine as we clink our bottles. “Fuck being predictable.”