Текст книги "Falling Away"
Автор книги: Penelope Douglas
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
“Are you okay?” I heard Fallon ask behind me.
I turned to see her grab Juliet’s shoulders, looking at her neck.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, dropping her hand. “Just …” She looked at me and then spoke to Fallon. “Can you guys take me to Tate’s, please?”
I walked over. “I’m taking her home.”
She shook her head, walking away. “No, you’re not.”
“He almost got you killed,” I pointed out. “His stunt could have hurt others. I have every right to be pissed off.”
“Then send him off the track. Yell at him,” she threw out. “But your first order of business wasn’t to make sure I was okay. You threw your weight around and acted like a caveman. You were looking for a reason to be mad at him. If you were concerned about me, you would’ve checked on me first.”
I grabbed her arm, stopping her. “I always put you first.”
She narrowed her eyes, confused, and I looked away.
“Are you okay?” I asked, not seeing any damage on her.
She cocked her head. “I’ve seen you beat up two guys in twenty-four hours, Jax.” She shook her head at me and then looked around the scene. “I don’t want any of this.”
“Any of what?”
Her expression turned vulnerable. “I don’t want to be scared,” she admitted. “And you scare me.”
I studied her, not knowing what to say.
She inched toward me, lowering her voice. “What did you say to that guy on the front lawn last night? How deep are you in with Fallon’s father? And what’s the Skull and Feather?” I narrowed my eyes and stared down at her. How the hell did she …?
My room. I blinked long and hard. She’d seen the card in my room for the club in Chicago.
My heart pumped double time. “What do you want from me?” I pressed.
She shook her head, turning away. “Nothing.”
But I grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “What?” I growled. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I want you to be better!”
CHAPTER 17
JULIET
He squeezed the steering wheel and scowled at the road as Stone Sour’s “Tired” played on the stereo.
“Why won’t you look at me?” I whispered, staring at my lap.
He stayed frozen, not breaking pace as he drove us home and answered, “Because I should never have touched you.”
I quickly twisted my head, looking out the window to hide my tears. My jaw ached, my throat felt as if it were being pierced in a hundred different places, and I wanted to run.
Away. Far away.
Everything had been beautiful this afternoon. Hot, sticky, sweaty, dirty, and completely beautiful when I was in his arms. Now … now he acted as though he hated me, and I felt stupid.
Was it so bad that I wanted him safe? I didn’t know the details of what he did with computers, but I knew it wasn’t on the up-and-up. And I definitely wanted inside his head. But now his exterior was harder than ever, and he was pulling away from me.
K.C. would get upset. She was weak, and she would cry. Juliet would hold her fucking tears in front of assholes.
My body swayed to the left, and I grabbed the door handle as he barreled into Tate’s driveway.
Looking over at him, I watched as he yanked up the parking brake and turned off the ignition.
He sat there, and after a few moments of refusing to look at me, I was ready to scream.
“Jax,” I started, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I—”
“It’s fine, Juliet,” he shot out, his tone flat. “It was a mistake. You want ‘better’? Go find ‘better.’ ”
“What?” I asked, shocked. “Jax, I didn’t mean—”
I stopped, seeing his fist tighten around the steering wheel so hard that I could hear the leather twisting.
What the hell was wrong with him? I never meant that he wasn’t good enough.
But right now cool and calm Jaxon Trent was pissed, and he was barely tolerating me.
He opened the car door to get out, but I reached out and grabbed his arm. “Don’t bother,” I said, before he had a chance to throw me out of the car. “I can open my own door.”
I stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut.
I looked up, seeing a light was on in the downstairs of Tate’s house, but I didn’t remember leaving one on. I was about to turn around and say good-bye, hoping maybe I would see the Jax who had spoken to me on the bleachers before, but I decided not to. Without turning back, I started for the house.
“Juliet?” Jax called, and I stopped in the middle of the walkway up to the porch.
Turning around, I crossed my arms over my chest to keep from shivering.
He’d stepped out of the car, leaned over the hood, and studied me. He opened his mouth, looking as though he wanted to say something but then just closed it, steeling his jaw again.
I waited for a second longer than I should’ve, wishing he’d say the things he said to me in his car last week. Or in his office last night. Or the fun house today.
Tears pooled before I could stop them, and I turned around, walking as calmly as I could for the front door. Unlocking it, I slipped in and slammed it shut, sliding down to the floor.
“Hey, you,” I heard a familiar voice chirp.
My stomach lurched into my throat as if I were falling, and I looked up to see Tate standing between the dining room and foyer, holding a can of Coke in her hand with her little dog, Madman, hovering between her legs.
The tears instantly spilled over. “Tate?” I choked out.
Pushing off the floor, I launched myself at her, wrapping my arms around her and burying my face in her neck.
It was too late. The sobs couldn’t be stopped. I clutched her T-shirt, probably digging my nails into her skin, too, as my body shook with relief.
“Hey, hey,” she soothed. “What the hell happened?”
But I couldn’t speak. The shakes, the relief, the loss of the loneliness—everything overtook me, and I held her tight for a long time, thankful that she didn’t ask again.
I sat on the edge of Tate’s bed, curling my toes into her rug and letting the morning chill cover my arms as I stared into the distance out her French doors.
Tate had opted to let me keep her room and sleep in her father’s room, and from the lack of sound, I gathered she was still sleeping. It was early, after all.
I had spent all of yesterday curled up in my pj’s in the chair by the window reading through my journals, and trying not to look outside every time I heard a thunderous engine roar down the street.
Jax hadn’t been home, and since I hadn’t left the house, I hadn’t seen him or asked Tate about him. She had seen him drop me off, and she knew I was upset.
There was no doubt she’d pieced it all together, but she didn’t push. I just wanted to be left alone.
My body felt as if I’d just done a BodyPump class after a five-year hiatus. My muscles were sore, and I ached between my legs. Even today, I could still feel where Jax had been.
With Liam I hadn’t felt any of that. Not in my body or in my heart.
I’d given my virginity to him when I was fifteen, because I needed to get rid of it. My mother tortured me to protect it by having our family doctor come every month to look for signs of sexual activity.
So to make the visits stop, I rushed to have sex. I let Liam have me not long after we started dating, and I suffered the repercussions. I was put on the pill, and in the end she let me keep seeing Liam, because if I was sleeping with him, then I wasn’t “spreading myself around.” That was how much she thought of me.
But the truth was, I barely connected with Liam. I tried to keep him happy, because I had wanted someone to love me, but every time we were together, something was missing. I knew it, and so did he.
Everything I struggled to hang on to, whether it was love or perfection, ended up failing me in the end. It was an impossible expectation that weighted me down.
And now I didn’t have Liam. I didn’t have family. I didn’t have anyone putting expectations on me, and somehow I was lighter.
Whereas the fear of mistakes had weighted me to the earth, falling away from listening to everyone else had me floating. It was addicting.
Liam didn’t want me. My mother didn’t want me. Jax didn’t want me.
I had Tate. I had Shane. I had Fallon. I wasn’t perfect, but I also wasn’t alone.
Taking one last deep breath, I stood up and grabbed my box of journals out from under the bed. Picking out four, I stuffed them into Tate’s messenger bag and got ready for school.
“Morning, Ms. Penley,” I said, offering a smile.
“K.C.,” she chirped, looking up from the papers she was organizing. I saw her do a double take at my attire.
I wore white shorts and Tate’s native headdress skull shirt that I’d finally found after digging through her drawers this morning. I’d washed and straightened my hair, but I’d also braided little pieces of it, making it look a little punk. And I had on less makeup than usual.
She finally found her tongue. “Did you have a good weekend?” she asked.
I pulled out my earbuds. “Eh, the usual,” I joked. “Booze, broads, and bank robberies.”
She laughed. “Typical, then,” she agreed.
I leaned on the lab table she used as a desk. “You?”
She smiled and shrugged as if apologizing. “Reading.”
I narrowed my eyes on her as she pretended to work. It seemed sad that she spent her weekends reading alone. Penley was hot.
She was middle-aged—early forties—but still very beautiful. She had a great figure, a fantastic personality, and a steady career.
She needed a boyfriend.
I shook my head, smiling at myself. Yeah, right. Now that I was soooo happy, I thought I’d set everybody up, right?
I slapped the lab table, changing the subject. “So, do you mind if I do something different today?” I asked.
She peered at me through her glasses. “Such as?”
“I’d like to take them outside for a writing project.”
She twisted her lips to the side, thinking.
Tutoring was like pulling teeth. None of the students wanted to be here, and all the tutors were complaining. I was worried Penley wouldn’t like me diverging from the lesson plan, but other than a change of pace, I didn’t know what else to try. I needed to get their attention.
But then, to my surprise, she agreed. “That sounds fine.” She nodded, returning to her work. “Just make sure you stay on school grounds.”
I let out a breath. “Great. Thanks.”
I stuck my earbuds back in, bobbing my head to “Bones” by Young Guns, thankful to Tate. She seemed to know exactly what music selection I needed, and while most of it was angry rock, some of it was fun, girl music. “Cruel Summer,” Katy Perry, and a couple of eighties hits from Madonna and Joan Jett were on the playlist, too. The perfect mix of “hey, I really want to kick you in the balls right now” and “hey, I really just want to jump around and dance right now” type of music.
Sitting down at my usual table, I dug out a file folder of copies I’d made that morning and left my journals in the bag. I pulled out the packets of papers for each of the students in my group and waited for everyone to filter into the room.
Once Penley was done with her group lesson, she let us divide into groups, and that was when I stood up.
“Follow me,” I instructed as soon as my four had come over.
Not waiting for them to ask questions and ignoring their confused faces, I walked past them and out of the room. After about three seconds, I heard their scurried footsteps behind me, and I continued down the hallway, out the side door, and all the way to the outside amphitheater.
“K.C.?” I recognized Christa’s voice. “What are we doing?”
I took a step down into the Coliseum-like venue, and continued climbing down, bench after bench, until I got to the concrete stage.
“Taking class outside today,” I answered, looking up. “I wanted us to have some privacy.”
I gestured for them to take a seat, and other than the swelling balloon in my throat, I felt fine.
Someone tsked. “But it’s so hot,” Sydney whined. “I’m sure this is illegal.”
I smirked. “Cheer up. Lacrosse is practicing today. Maybe you’ll get a show for your trouble.”
She pursed her lips, looking snotty, but she sat down between Ana and Christa. Jake plopped down on the steps and then took his glasses from his bag and slid them on his face.
I set my bag down and clutched the papers in my arms.
“For now,” I started, walking toward them, “I’d like you to raise your hands. Who here likes to write?”
I looked around as I handed the first packet to Ana. “No one?” My eyebrows shot up with my surprised smile.
“Okay.” I handed the next packets to Sydney and Christa. “How many of you like to talk?”
The girls immediately raised their hands, giggling at one another. Jake was asleep, I think.
I smiled. “Well, writing is like talking, only it’s to yourself. I talk to myself all the time.” I looked around, handing the last packet to Jake. “And so do all of you. Admit it.”
Christa smiled to her herself while Sydney rolled her eyes.
“Come on,” I begged. “You talk to yourself in the shower, in the car, when you’re mad at your parents, or when you’re trying to pump yourself up. Right?”
I raised my hand. “I do.”
Jake raised his hand, giving me a lazy smile. Eventually Ana and Christa joined.
“So, if we like talking, we like writing. What we don’t like about writing is being judged. We don’t like the format, the rules, the editing, the need to make everything perfect. But writing can be a way to formulate your thoughts when you can’t say what you need to say or you don’t know how to say what you need to say on the spot. Writing lets you take time. Find the words. And express yourself exactly how you wish. And when we’re young, it’s a way to lose yourself as well as find yourself. When we get older, we find that drugs, alcohol, and sex can do that for us, but with higher consequences. Writing is always safe.”
They watched me, leaning back against the concrete benches.
I held my packet by the staple. “Take a look at page one.”
They held up their papers, squinting at them, beginning to read.
I swallowed. “Christa? Would you read the first entry, please?” My pulse raced just beneath my skin.
She cleared her throat, sat up, and started.
11/16/2003
Dear Juliet,
I’m sorry that Mother took away your toys. Please don’t be sad. Everything is going to be good someday. If you practice you will get better. It took me a long time to make sure my shoes were lined up straight, too. You’re already so much better than I was! And I thought your hair looked super. Don’t worry about what Mother said. You’re so good at braiding. I’m sorry she spanked you. Go give her a hug and say how nice her perfume smells. Maybe she’ll let you borrow some!
I love you!
Katherina
Her voice was chipper and happy, and you could hear the exclamation points. She’d picked up the voice of an eight-year-old easily.
She looked up and pinched her eyebrows together. “This is a letter from a child,” she guessed.
I smiled gently and nodded.
“Ana?” I gestured, and she sat up. “Next one, please?”
Ana leaned forward, setting her elbows on her knees, and started.
7/14/2004
Dear Juliet,
Mother is right. You are no good! You can’t even keep your shirt from getting wrinkly before family pictures! You are worthless, and I hate you! Everyone hates you! I wish I had a different sister! You’re ugly and stupid! Everyone laughs at you, and Daddy doesn’t even want you. He only wants me! I wish you were dead!
I pressed my lips between my teeth and breathed in. I didn’t want to look up, so I just kept going.
“Sydney, turn the page. Read the next one, please,” I said, flipping the page over.
Sydney hesitated and then cleared her throat.
9/2/2010
Dear Juliet,
I made a new friend today. Her name is Tate, and she doesn’t have a mom. I wish we didn’t have a mom. Maybe you would be safe then. I love you, Juliet, and I think Tate will love you, too. She’s so beautiful and cool and kind. She makes me laugh, and I wish I could introduce her to Dad. He talked to me today, you know? Well, of course you do.
I hate that he can’t remember you most of the time, and I hate that he’s in that hospital, but at least he gives me hugs. Even if he can’t remember me, he’s the only person that gives me hugs. I wish I could see you. I wish I could look in the mirror and still see you there. I’ll bet you look awesome, and I miss your music. Why did you leave? Why won’t you come home?
Katherina
Sydney’s voice fell raspy and soft. “These are a child’s diary entries, aren’t they? To her sister,” she assumed.
I sighed. “Perhaps,” I said, looking around at the girls’ troubled faces. Jake hid behind his sunglasses, but I could tell he was listening.
“What’s the child feeling?” I asked.
“Anger,” Jake ventured. “Innocence. And a lot of sadness.”
I nodded, strolling down the row of seats past each student. “This child has no one to talk to,” I pointed out. “She’s hurting, and she has nowhere to turn to.” I tipped my chin down, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Jake, will you read the next one, please?”
He stayed back, leaning against the concrete but turning his attention to the paper.
3/24/2011
Dear Mother,
I can’t wait to leave you. It’s all I think about. Three more years, and I’m going to college, and I never want to see you again. I feel guilty every time Liam kisses me. I feel like I’m doing something wrong. I’m not doing anything wrong! Everyone kisses their boyfriend and does more! I want to feel. I want to laugh and let go. I want to be happy. Were you ever happy? Did you ever love my father? Me? I feel like I could sink to the bottom of the ocean and never need air. I’m dead.
Katherina
Jake sat up, studying the paper, and then looked up at me. “Juliet is her alter ego,” he stated. “When she writes to Juliet, she’s angry at her. Disappointed. Condescending.” He took off his glasses and squinted at me. “But when she writes to her mother, she’s angry and disappointed in herself. Juliet and Katherina are the same girl.”
My chest flooded with icy heat, and my heart jackhammered through my chest. Jesus. Jake might not be on drugs after all.
I inhaled a breath and looked down. “It’s possible,” I offered, and looked to the girls. “Christa, will you read the next one, please?”
Christa rushed to flip the page.
12/11/13
Dear Juliet,
There’s a new guy at school. He keeps looking at me. Mother would never approve of him, but I can’t help it. I can’t wait to get to school every day and feel him watching me. He makes me feel beautiful, and I love the way my heart rushes. I hide it, but I love it. Being inside my head these days is a lot more fun than it used to be!
Christa smiled wide, and I saw the others try to bite back theirs.
“I like that feeling.” She laughed, and I remembered loving it, too. Jax was something I looked forward to, and he gave me tunnel vision. Catching him looking at me always made me feel beautiful.
I cleared my throat of the tears I’d been holding back. “I’ll read the last one.”
6/16/2014
Dear Juliet,
I’m sorry that I let others make you feel bad. I’m sorry that I hurt you, and I’m sorry that I didn’t fight for you. I should’ve saved you a long time ago, but I wasn’t strong enough. You are beautiful. You were the best at making friendship bracelets at camp in fourth grade, Shane thinks you make the best deviled eggs, and Tate loves your crazy stories. You are worthy of all the love the world has to offer. Your friends stay by your side, and someday you will find a man who thinks the world of you, and you’ll both have children that will be so lucky to have you as a mother. If you want to scale waterfalls in Ecuador and kayak off the coasts of Alaska, then you have to do it. Toss the umbrella and enjoy the rain. Roll down the window and stick your head out. Take off your shoes and go barefoot.
I love you.
I pursed my lips, trying desperately to hold back the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. Looking around, I noticed Christa wiping tears away and Sydney staring at the paper and clutching the sides in both of her fists. Ana rested her head in her hand, looking touched.
And Jake. Jake flipped back to the front page and looked to be rereading the whole thing again. Amusement tickled my lips, and I smiled.
“Wait a minute,” Ana called. “That last entry is dated today.”
I nodded. “Yes, it was. So”—I quickly changed the subject—“Jake has suggested that Juliet and Katherina are the same person. Who agrees with him?”
I waited, looking between the girls and Jake. One by one they began raising their hands, and I wasn’t sure if they really thought that or they weren’t sure what to think and just agreed. It didn’t matter. The answers weren’t as important as the process.
“Okay,” I started. “Let’s run with that. If Katherina is writing to herself—a girl she calls Juliet—why does she do it instead of just writing ‘Dear Diary’? Or instead of just sharing her thoughts on a page? Why is she writing to herself?”
“Because she feels alone.” Ana shrugged.
“Maybe she’s got a personality disorder?” Christa offered a timid smile, and I nodded in response to their responses, trying not to grin.
“Because,” Sydney piped up, “she can be whoever she wants on the page.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “What do you mean?”
She licked her lips, sitting up straighter. “In the first entry, she’s supportive but a little condescending, like she’s taking care of Juliet. Like Juliet’s the little sister in need of guidance. Then she gets angry at her, acting like she’s perfect and not the disgrace Juliet is. In both entries, Juliet is portrayed as sad and not good enough. When she writes as Katherina, she gets to be more than that. She gets to be strong and confident.”
I continued, listening and drifting down the aisle.
“Then,” Sydney kept going. “You see her transfer her anger to her mother, saying things she wouldn’t say to her face. She’s also kinder to Juliet as if she begins to realize not everything is her fault.” And she glanced at Jake and then back at me. “Juliet’s not her alter ego. Katherina is.”
My heart tightened in my chest.
Wow.
“So,” I prompted. “Journaling did what for her?”
“Gave her an outlet,” someone said.
Jake spoke up. “Let her say what needed to be said when no one else would listen.”
“It was a release.”
“It saved her life.” And I looked over at Sydney, the girl I didn’t see eye to eye with, but all of a sudden she seemed to get it.
“Writing can be very public and also very private. I want you to forget the rules today,” I said. “I’m going to give you twenty or so minutes. Go put in your iPods, spread out, go to the grass, and write. This isn’t graded. I don’t care about grammar or conventions. I want you to write to yourself as if you’re going to read this twenty years from now. Share who you are right now. What you want. Where you want to go. What you hope to accomplish and what you hope to gain from friends and family. There are no rules. Just write to an older you.”
As they began to dig in their backpacks, I walked back to the stage and grabbed the last journal I’d used. Flipping it open, I sat down on a bench and completed the assignment, too.
