Текст книги "Delilah: The Making of Red"
Автор книги: Jessica Sorensen
Соавторы: Jessica Sorensen
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Delilah
The Making of Red
Jessica Sorensen
Prologue
If you think this is some kind of love story, you’re wrong. It’s not at all. Does it contain hearts, kisses, and passionate moments between a boy and a girl? Yeah, maybe, but maybe not. It all depends on how you interpret lovey-dovey stuff. If you’d asked me five years ago, when I was a naïve sixteen-year-old, I would have told you this story was leading to all of that. That by the end of my journey I’d be happy and riding off into the sunset with Prince Charming at my side, the love of my life, who always whispered sweet nothings in my ear and told me how wonderful I was.
Because that’s how things are supposed to go when you meet that one guy who looks at you like you mean everything to him. Who looks at you like you mean something. Who makes you feel like you’re the sunshine in his darkness. Who notices you and makes you feel like the center of the world.
Five years ago, I truly believed that’s where my life was going. There were so many possibilities blossoming in the beginning stages of becoming a woman. But I was clueless about love, happiness, life. I was clueless about who I was.
And now I’m lying half-dead on the riverbank, barely able to breathe, unable to move, knowing that if someone doesn’t find me soon, I’m going to die here with my soul sucked away, a skeleton of myself. Left for dead at twenty-one years old, a shell of who I used to be five years ago, when I was sixteen, when this all started.
Looking back, I can see the exact moment my life headed in this direction. The one where I was no longer Delilah, but Red.
It was a hot, record-breaking summer, full of possibilities—full of promise. The moment I put the red dress on, I could feel something was about to happen, felt myself transforming into someone else. The dress matched my fiery red hair, high heels, and a string of pearls. I had a gorgeous tan and my breasts had finally grown big enough that I had cleavage. I felt on fire when I looked at my reflection. Beautiful. Different. There was so much hope. Possibilities. I could actually spread my wings and fly.
But eventually I would crash and burn. Because after I got what I wanted, I lost it all and started my slow descent. And at the end of my journey, I’d go down in flames and pay the ultimate price for my choices.
Chapter 1 Poison Ivy
Delilah, sixteen years old…
Delilah. Seductress. Temptress. A treacherous woman. These are just some of the meanings linked to my name. But am I any of them? No, not even close. In fact, I might be the exact opposite.
My mother, on the other hand, is a prime example of these meanings.
She’s a complicated woman, who has a lot of ups and downs. She likes to look sexy and young just as much as she likes to yell when she’s stressed. Whether it’s over bills, her job, or the simple fact that she can’t find the right pair of socks, it seems like hollering is her way of letting all the anger out. But the one thing she never refuses to yell about is men. It’s her cardinal rule: Never let men own you—own them.
It’s not like she’s a terrible mother. She puts a roof over my head. Feeds me. Gives me clothes and spare money when she has it. She pays for me to take ballet lessons, even though I know she can’t afford it. We used to do things together too, but then my father divorced her after twenty-one years of marriage because he didn’t love her anymore. Those were his exact words.
She was forty-one. After three months of being divorced, my father remarried a twenty-six-year-old. Then began my mother’s desperate search for her fountain of youth. Metaphorically speaking.
She discovered it in bars, cheap dates, and one-night stands with men half her age. I honestly have no idea how she does it—how she manages to wrangle some of the guys home that she does—other than maybe she’s living a double life as Poison Ivy, a seductress with a potent kiss that stuns men into a delusional state so she can lure them into her bed.
My mother’s not bad looking at all. In fact, she’s sort of mesmerizing to look at, although I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly what it is about her that’s so striking. Her hair is still its original honey blond, her skin has minimal wrinkles, and her boobs don’t sag. But she doesn’t look twenty-five either, which is around the age of a lot of guys that she brings home. Like the one she brought home last night. He’s young, maybe not even twenty-five, with shaggy brown hair, baby blue eyes, and a decent-looking face. He’s wearing a button-down shirt, slacks, and a red tie, but the fabric is wrinkly and the clothes are too big, like he’s playing dress up in his dad’s clothes.
I study him as he eats breakfast at our kitchen table—my mother always cooks them breakfast the morning after—trying to read his thoughts as he eats his bacon and eggs, trying to figure out why he ended up here. Trying to figure out how she does it: makes guys give her that stupid doe-eyed look, because the only looks I’ve ever gotten from guys are the you’re invisible look, the not-interested look, and the you’re-such-a-good-friend look. To almost everyone, I’m Invisible Woman.
“Delilah, get yourself something to eat,” my mother says, rinsing out the pan in the sink. She’s wearing a silk robe that barely reaches her thighs, and it’s untied, revealing that she’s wearing a lacy nightie underneath that her boobs nearly pop out of. It’s not a big deal to me though. In fact, usually she only has a bra and pair of panties on, so I’m grateful for the nighty. Plus she looks good in it. If I looked like that, then I’d probably walk around in a nighty all the time too.
“Oh, yeah, okay,” I say, tearing my thoughts away from her outfit and reaching for the bacon on the table.
She raises her brow, giving me a suspicious look, like she’s thinking I’m going to seduce the guy she spent the last night with, live up to my name. But I wouldn’t even know how to if I wanted to.
“What?” I ask her innocently, stuffing my mouth with bacon.
She rolls her eyes at me and returns to scrubbing down the pan, while the guy across from me wolfs down his bacon. “It’s nothing,” my mom replies, turning off the faucet. Then she turns around and glances at the clock on the wall. “Aren’t you supposed to be headed to school?”
I look over at the time on the microwave. “I have like fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, but I have some things to do,” she tells me, staring at her latest conquest like he’s the bacon and she wants to eat him up.
The guy looks up at her, ruffling his hair with his hand, and he’s looking in my direction, but at the same time he’s not really looking at me, more like looking through me. I lean to the side, just to see if I can catch his eye and his attention. I fail epically, and in the end he ends up looking over at my mother. And once again I feel insignificant.
It’s like watching a play and my mom is center stage, the spotlights are all on her. Her eyes meet the guy’s from across the room. Lust fills their expressions. I can almost visualize my mom growing vines of poison ivy on her body that slide across the floor and tie around his legs and arms, binding him to her.
He stares at her like she’s the most amazing, beautiful woman in the world, the way I wish a guy would look at me, just once. “You ready to give me round two, babe?” he asks, forcing an overly large mouthful of bacon down his throat.
I scrunch my nose. This is not going to go well. My mother doesn’t like losing control. Doesn’t like giving anything to men, only taking.
My mom ties the belt around the robe and closes it up. “Actually, I was thinking about taking you home. I’ve got to go into work early, and unless you want to take the bus back to the bar to pick up your car, you’re going to have to leave with me.”
You’d think from what she just said she’d be done with him, but she’s not. It’s a routine for her. A seductress routine, full of toxic kisses and mind manipulation. She stands up straight and she’s wearing heels, so her legs look really long as she struts over to the table and traces her finger across the back of the guy’s neck. I catch him shudder. She leans down and whispers something in his ear, then she pulls away, but not before she snatches hold of his tie. His eyes widen as she guides him up, and then he lets her lead him into the bedroom like a dog.
Seconds later I hear the door shut and then music turns on. She always turns music on, either because she likes to listen to it while she has sex or she doesn’t want me to hear what’s going on. “Leather and Lace” by Stevie Nicks and Don Henley flows down the hallway.
The song continues to play as I finish off my breakfast, then put my dishes away and dance my way back to my room, singing the lyrics under my breath, pretending for a moment that I’m center stage.
I change out of my pajamas and get ready for school. Jeans and a T-shirt are my normal attire. A ponytail is my go-to hairdo. Add a little gloss and eyeliner and I’m good to go. It’s not like I’d benefit from trying any harder. Guys don’t notice me even when I try. Like the one and only time I wore a bikini to the town pool. I was thirteen and still filling out a little bit, but still I thought it’d be nice if a few guys looked in my direction. But Sandy Manderlin, the lifeguard, was wearing her bikini that day, and let’s just say that she could give Pamela Anderson a run for her money.
I felt stupid for even trying and severely inadequate, especially when Tommy Linford told me that I didn’t need to wear a bikini at all—that Band-Aids would have sufficed. I retorted with a simple remark about him needing to stuff socks in his swim shorts just to make it seem like he had something there.
He flipped me off and I went home crying. And burned the bikini.
After I get dressed, I slip my Converse sneakers on then throw my pointe shoes and leotard into my backpack because I have dance class after school. The instructor’s not the best, not like the instructor over in Fairview who’s actually been part of a company and danced on stage in New York City. But she’s cheap and it’s all my mom can afford. And even getting her to pay for classes, took a lot of persuading and promises to clean the house.
After I get my dance and school stuff, I head outside. It’s a bright day, the sun beaming in the sky, birds chirping. It’s a scene straight out of Sleeping Beauty, except for the forest is a bunch of low-income houses and the animals are crackheads, prostitutes, and poor unfortunate souls who’ve either had crap luck throughout their life, made bad choices, or, like me and my mom, gotten divorced and lost half of their household income because some deadbeat father won’t pay child support.
Still, I pretend I’m Sleeping Beauty because it makes the walk to school easier, and by the time I’ve reached the end of the driveway I’m twirling along with my arms out in front in my “in first” position as I sing “Beautiful Day” by U2.
Halfway to the street, I swear I feel someone watching me, but shrug it off because no one ever notices me.
I’m in midturn when I hear someone say, “Well, aren’t you just a bunch of rainbows and sunshine.” The sound of the male voice causes me to trip over my next turn. I stumble and fall forward, slamming my elbow against the chain-link fence bordering the side of the driveway.
“Motherfucker,” I curse in a very unladylike tone as I rub my scraped elbow
“I’m sorry,” the male voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My eyes lift to the house next door, and I find the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen standing near the fence with grease on his hands and forehead, looking at me. He’s got dark brown hair that’s shaved short, and he’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting jeans hanging on his hips and brown work boots. He’s also shirtless and his chest is cut with lean muscles and there’s a series of tattoos on his side that look like tribal art.
Tattoos that I’m staring at.
And he notices me staring too.
I blush, staring down at the sidewalk as I take a few steps back, squirming under his penetrating gaze. “You didn’t scare me,” I lie. “I’m just a klutz.”
“You’re not a klutz at all,” he says, and the sound of his deep voice sends vibrations through my body. “I was actually enjoying watching you dance.”
I glance up at him, shocked to find he’s still looking at me with so much intensity it’s hard to breathe. I search my mind for something to say, but my throat feels very dry.
“In fact, you’re probably the complete opposite of a klutz,” he continues, looking at me in a way that I’ve always dreamed a guy would look at me—like I’m not invisible or insignificant. Like I exist.
“What’s your name?” he asks, slanting forward toward the fence and resting his elbows on top of it.
“Delilah Peirce,” I tell him, shifting my backpack high on my shoulder. “What’s yours?”
“Dylan Sanderson.” He nods at my single-story stucco house that still has Christmas lights on it even though it’s May. “You live there?”
I nod. “Yeah, with my mom.”
“Aw.” He arches his brows. “So that blond woman I saw earlier coming out to get the paper off the steps is your… sister.”
I frown, feeling my invisibility surfacing again, the lights around me dimming, no longer center stage. “No, she’s my mom.”
His eyebrows shoot up even higher. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that one… how old is she?”
I’m battling to keep my disappointment contained. “Forty-one.”
He pauses, studying me intently, and it makes my skin heat, but not from blushing. It heats with want, because I want him to keep looking at me like that. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.” I’m not sure why I lie, other than being seventeen suddenly seems a hell of a lot better than being sixteen, and besides, I think he’s a little bit older. “How old are you?”
“Almost eighteen,” he says, eyes still on me.
“Did you just move in?” I ask. “Or are you staying with the couple that lives here? I don’t remember them moving out.”
“They didn’t.” He hitches his finger over at the house. “I just moved back in with my parents for a little bit until I can figure some stuff out.”
I dare to step closer to the fence and notice how beautiful his eyes are. And how much emotion they carry. Like he’s feeling too much, but trying to keep it all bottled up inside and hidden from the world. “Well, where’d you live before?”
He seems to get a little tense from this question, his shoulders stiffening. “Here and there.”
I think about asking him what his story is, or, better yet, dazzling him with my flirting skills. But I haven’t discovered them yet, so instead I end up saying, “That sounds cool.”
He gives me a look like he thinks I’m adorable. “Where are you heading to so early in the morning?”
“School,” I tell him.
“It’s summer. Isn’t school out?”
I shake my head. “Today’s the last day.”
“And you’re going?” he questions, wiping the grease on his hands onto his jeans, seeming to lose interest in me as he gazes off over my shoulder. “Man, I used to always ditch the last day.”
I suddenly feel like a ten year old with LOSER stamped on my forehead. “Well, I have dance right after and I take the bus from school so I sort of have to go.” I make a lame excuse.
“You’re a dancer?” he asks, and it brightens me up a little bit that he’s paying attention to me again.
I nod. “Yeah, I do mostly ballet and sometimes hip-hop.”
His gaze slowly scrolls over my lean legs and flat stomach, and I struggle not to look away from the heat in his eyes and the heat surfacing in my body. The heat only amplifies when his gaze meets mine, and for a moment I feel this strange confidence inside me flicker and I stand up a little bit taller.
“I’d love to see you dance sometime,” he says with a smile. I’m not sure how to respond, nervous over the idea. The smile starts to leave his face the longer I stay quiet. “Unless you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to,” I say quickly. “I-I will.”
His grin returns, bigger, bolder, more confident. “I’m going to hold you to that, Delilah,” he says. “In fact, I’m looking forward to it.” He pauses, his eyes skimming over my body again, and then he opens his mouth to say something. The look in his eyes makes me wonder if it’s important, but he snaps his jaw shut when a woman walks out the door.
She’s wearing a robe, but it’s not like my mom’s; this woman’s robe is made of pink furry material and flows all the way to her ankles. Her hair is in rollers and she has slippers on. “Dylan, get your ass in here and clean up the goddamn mess you left in the kitchen!” she shouts, loud enough that the neighbor across the street can hear.
Dylan’s jaw tightens, the bottled emotion in his eyes on the verge of bursting out. “I’ll be in there in a minute,” he replies in a surprisingly calm tone. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks; his gaze is still fixed on me, and all the emotion inside him is directed at me.
It’s overwhelming, and my breath hitches in my throat.
“Don’t give me that ‘I’ll be in there in a minute’ bullshit,” she shouts back, scooping up the newspaper from the porch. “With you that means your dumb ass is going to sit out here and work on the car until you feel like coming in.” She backs for the door. “I’m not putting up with your bullshit. Get your ass in here now and quit bothering the goddamn neighbors.” She turns away and steps back into the house, the screen door slamming behind her.
There’s this long pause where all I can hear is the sound of Dylan breathing. I want to ask him if he’s okay, because his mom seems like a real bitch.
Finally, I manage to gather up enough courage. “Are you okay?”
He blinks, like he’s stunned, but the stricken look on his face swiftly vanishes and suddenly he looks calm. “I’m perfectly fine. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”
“Are you sure?” I double-check. “I know how much of a pain parents can be.”
He nods, looking at me as if he’s trying to figure something out. “I’ll be okay, as long as you can do one thing for me.”
“Okay,” I say, a little confused.
“When you get home, make sure to say hi to me.”
“What if you’re not outside?”
“I will be,” he promises with a smile, and the dark cloud that rose over him evaporates.
“Okay,” I tell him, holding back a smile, despite how much happiness is bubbling up inside me. “I’ll make sure I do that.”
“Good.” His smile broadens. “I’ll let you get to school. Wouldn’t want you to be late for your last day.” He winks at me as he backs away toward an old car parked in the driveway with the hood up.
I wave at him and then head off to school, taking even strides, despite how much I want to dance up the sidewalk. I can feel him watching me all the way to the end of the yard where he can no longer see me as I disappear around the corner.
I let my smile break through. For once someone was looking at me. For once I feel like Poison Ivy instead of Invisible Woman.
Looking back at it now as I lie here on the shore, the water rising with the current and slowly rushing over my body, I realize that I was naïve. That I was nowhere close to being Poison Ivy. That I would never even come close. If anything, Dylan was Poison Ivy in disguise, and I was his next victim.
But it wasn’t all his fault. After all, I’m the one who chose to go back to him, even after I discovered his toxic kiss.
Chapter 2 Plastic Dolls
I make sure to say hi to Dylan on my way home. We talk for about ten minutes and then he has to go inside to help his mother with something. I don’t run into Dylan again for the next couple of days after that, and I’m surprised how sad this makes me. I’ve never been a girl who obsesses about boys, yet I find myself constantly checking to see, if by chance, he’s wandered out to his driveway again.
But three days after we meet, I still haven’t seen him again, and it looks like the start to a very long, boring summer. Bryant, my only real close friend, moved clear across the country a few days before school got out. That leaves me to hang out with Martha for the entire summer, who’s more Bryant’s friend than mine, and who I’m pretty sure thinks my mother is a prostitute.
“I can’t believe she walks around like that,” Martha says, flipping through a magazine while lying on her stomach on my bed. She’s got her brown hair pulled up in a messy bun, shorts and an overly large T-shirt on, and her sunglasses on her head. She could probably be pretty if she tried, but she doesn’t. Plus, I think she’s an extreme feminist and hates dresses and skimpy clothes. Maybe that’s why she’s so repulsed by my mom’s wardrobe.
“Yeah, you get used to it, though,” I tell her, leaning forward in the chair in front of my vanity to peek out the curtain again. I have the perfect view into Dylan’s driveway, but like the ten other times I looked out, it’s vacant. I sigh, sitting back down, knowing I should stop looking because I’m veering toward stalker behavior.
“I don’t think you should have to get used to it,” she says. “She’s a mom and she should act like one.”
I get a little defensive. “Just because she dresses skimpy doesn’t mean she’s a bad mom.”
She glances up at me with doubt. “She’s setting a bad example for you and teaches you everything a woman shouldn’t be.”
“And how do you know what a woman should be?” I ask, knowing I’m being rude, but at the same time she’s insulting my mother and she didn’t abandon me like my father did. “You’re completely clueless about what guys want, which is why you’ve never gone out on a date.”
She glares at me as she closes the magazine. “You know what? I don’t have to put up with this,” she says, climbing off the bed and slipping on her flip-flops. “I told Byrant I’d try to be nice to you and give you the benefit of the doubt that you’d return the favor, but as usual, you’re being a bitch.”
“I’m the one being a bitch?” I say, irritated. “You were insulting my mom.”
She snatches her purse off the bedpost and gives me a harsh look as she swings it over her shoulder. “I wasn’t insulting her. I was just saying what everyone else in the town says about her—that she’s a whore.” She looks at me condescendingly. “Only I was trying to use nicer words.” She heads toward the door and I let her leave, even though I know that there’s a good chance I’m going to be spending the entire summer alone now.
“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath as I get up and cross my room to the phone on my nightstand. My mom gave me the phone when I was eight, back when I was still into dolls, and so the receiver is pink and glittery and looks like it belongs in Barbie’s Dreamhouse. I’ve been trying to get her to get me a cell phone, but she says we can’t afford it.
I dial Bryant’s number and wait for him to answer.
“Hey, how’s the sexiest redhead in the world?” he asks, which is how he always answers. We’re still pretty close, but we actually used to be closer until he started dating someone a few months ago and the girl thought I was some sort of threat, especially when she asked Bryant if we’d ever hooked up and he stupidly told her the truth: that yes, one time when we were fifteen, and tried drinking for the first time, we made out and touched each other inappropriately. After that she didn’t want him hanging out with me. He still did hang out once in a while, but not nearly as much as he used to.
“Did you tell Martha to try and give me the benefit of the doubt?” I ask, plopping down onto my bed and staring up at the ceiling at a poster of Flashdance, which is totally eighties, but as a dancer I can respect the movie.
“Shit, she told you that?” He curses under his breath and I smile to myself, knowing that if nothing else, Bryant’s going to chew her out for doing so.
“Yeah, after she told me that she wasn’t going to do it anymore,” I tell him, twisting the phone cord around my finger. “And that I was a bitch.”
“And were you being a bitch?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But she called my mom a whore.”
He pauses. “But she kind of is.”
“Yeah, I know, but it doesn’t give her the right to say it.”
He sighs. “I know. I’ll talk to her.”
“Don’t bother.” I roll onto my side and prop my elbow onto the mattress so I can rest my head against my hand. “I know you want us to get along, but without you, it just feels awkward.”
“But I worry about you,” he tells me. “You don’t have a lot of friends, and I’m worried that you’ll just sink.”
“You make me sound suicidal,” I reply. “And I’m not.”
“I know you’re not,” he replies. “But you can be self-destructive when you’re by yourself.”
“How do you figure?” I ask, not sure whether I’m curious or offended.
“Remember when I went on that family vacation during the summer,” he says. “When we were thirteen.”
I frown at the memory. “I was going through a phase.”
“Delilah, you almost got arrested.”
“I was bored,” I argue. “And Milly Amerson was the only one who would spend time with me. It wasn’t my fault she was a klepto.”
“But it was your fault you tried to be a klepto. And a very bad one at that,” he says. “You chose to do it because you were bored and have such a hard time making friends. In fact, you’re better at making enemies than anything.”
I sigh heavyheartedly. “All right, I get your point,” I say. “Sheesh, you’re such a mom.”
“Well, someone has to be,” he says. With anyone else I’d get offended, but I always let Bryant off the hook because he was there right after the divorce when my mom hit rock bottom and she drank herself into depression and would barely get out of bed for three months. She did eventually get up, though, and start taking care of me again, and people are allowed to break every once in a while.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” I say. “But I promise, even if Martha and I don’t hang out, I’m not going to go back to my klepto days with Milly.”
“Just be careful,” he says. “I worry about you.”
“I know you do,” I tell him. “But I promise, if things get too bad, I’ll let you know.”
“Good,” he says. “Now, I gotta go. My mom’s nagging at me to help her finish unpacking.”
“Okay, call me when you get a chance,” I say. “And I’ll tell you about my hot neighbor.”
He laughs. “Okay, that definitely sounds call-back worthy.”
We say good-bye, hang up, and then I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s quiet, and I’m guessing my mom went to work already, which means I have the house to myself until three, an hour after the bar closes, because she always spends an hour with whatever guy she’s tempting to come home with her.
Boredom starts to set in. I hate being alone. It makes me feel even more invisible. If I had my way, I’d have someone around me all the time.
Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore. I get out of bed, put on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, pull my hair up and grab my classical music record from the stack of records on the floor. Moving to the record player on my bureau, I place the needle on it and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata comes on.
I start to dance, letting the music own me as I picture myself on stage and everyone is watching. Fouetté en tournant. Grand jeté. Pirouette. My movements are slow, but graceful and powerful. Each brush of my toe, each twirl, each leg lift perfectly flowing with the music. I create a story simply by using my body, one of a girl who is not necessarily sad, but searching for something—she just doesn’t know what it is yet.
The longer the song goes on, the more into it I get. The more overpowering the story becomes. I transform into someone else. Someone alive. Someone noticed. Someone not overlooked. I can picture myself on the stage dressed in tulle and feathers, starring as Odette in Swan Lake, and everyone sees me. Notices me. Is in awe.
By the time I’m finished, I’m almost in tears and I don’t know why. I don’t feel sad. In fact, I feel content.
I wish I could go back and savor the moment, realize just how amazing it was that I could feel that happy. It was the last summer I ever felt like that. Danced like that. Felt content. Eventually, I’d lose the will to do it anymore, and my pointe shoes would go in a box along with my Barbie phone and my Flashdance poster, everything that made up who I was at the start of the summer.
When I did dance again, it wouldn’t be the same—I wouldn’t be the same. Yes, I would cry, but not because I was moved. It would be because I was dancing topless on a stage in a front of a bunch of screaming strangers who wouldn’t really see me, at least the real me who once dreamed of being Odette. To them I’d just be a plastic doll.
