Then Malice does something I expect because the dude is cool. He extends his hand and helps the motherfucker off the ground.
“Are we good? You gonna look at my girl with respect from now on and not like a piece of meat?”
The guy nods boisterously. Thank fuck. I’m done with the guys eye-fucking Rue, and horn-dog Malice going ballistic over it.
Doesn’t he understand that Rue and her friend Leigh are looked at as challenges because they’re the rulers of Cambridge High’s girls? It wasn’t what Rue was wearing.
Jocks are looked at as royalty, and Malice and Seven’s reputations on and off the field precede them. Seven is one of the best quarterbacks on this side of the state, and the same with Malice as an offensive lineman. Steal their girls, and the thieves would also be stealing the king’s crowns.
Settling in front of the fire for the rest of the party because I’m too worn out to do much else, plus I have a little mouse to keep an eye on, I pick up my chair, set it back farther from the fire, and stretch out my legs.
My boys and I are finished playing ball for the year, and there’s no need to study. We just started winter break—the reason for the party—and have a good two weeks before classes begin again. It’ll be another year of my parents missing Christmas.
They’re in Europe, and their absence is a godsend. I’m not like some of the kids at school who are in similar situations and miss their parents. Nope. Christmas is my least favorite holiday. Bah humbug.
With my parents gone, I’ll get a fat deposit in my checking account. It’s their guilt-trip present. Plus, there’s no need to get a tree, decorate the house, or do all the other fancy shit other families do for the holidays.
I aim to do nothing.
Malice takes a seat next to his girl. Rue curls up to him and says something near his ear. Then they rise as one and call it a night. I watch them leave with a smirk. Makeup sex is second only to angry, jealous sex. Not that I know anything about that.
As soon as a hookup or friends-with-benefits situation starts to involve jealousy and the girl wanting a commitment, I’m out. There’s no need to feel bad or sorry for the girls. I make my intentions clear—no-strings sex—and they agree. Until they catch feelings and the situation implodes into this shitstorm I’m prepared for but they’re not.
The girls think their tears and hysterics will convince me, but I dig my heels into the ground.
Why waste time on a relationship in high school that will end when we graduate and do whatever eighteen-year-olds do in their quest to become adults?
Seven sticks around. Not for the joy of cooking wieners over the fire or for the tasty s’mores. He’s staying because his girl isn’t leaving. Leigh’s friend Sorrow hasn’t asked to go yet, though she caught a ride with me to this party.
The short ride here was done in uncomfortable silence. I’m expecting the same on the drive home.
Sipping my lukewarm beer, I study Sorrow with hooded eyes. The guys avoid her at school. Parties too. When she’s not with Leigh, the kids part like the Red Sea as she walks down the halls. They give her a wide berth, and I understand the reason.
What do you say to a girl with the kind of tragic past she has? A past defined by her tragedies? Because up until she came out of that house fire like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Sorrow Sophia hadn’t existed. Her mother had homeschooled her.
When her mother had overdosed and the authorities had asked about Sorrow after seeing her pictures in the house, Kyle said Sorrow didn’t want to stick around where her mother had died, and run away.
What God-fearing, truth-seeking police department would believe that scumbag’s lies? Didn’t they understand that Sorrow needed help rather than to be forgotten after such a tragedy?
What high school boy wants to take on the baggage that Sorrow carries—a weight of tragedies piled on top of the other? What tragedy will befall her next?
When you’re given the unfortunate name Sorrow, isn’t it expected that something bad will take place? Who the fuck names their kid that?
Setting the bottle near my feet, I slouch in my seat, tug the bill of my baseball cap lower over my eyes, and keep a watchful eye on my little mouse.
How does a person start a conversation with someone who has faced so much loss at our age? My cat died when I was twelve, and that’s as far as my experience with death goes.
Our limited interaction, including at Midnight’s Friendsgiving party, where Sorrow and I lay side by side on the bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms while she dealt with a headache, was just casual conversation.
Nothing deep. Nothing mind-blowing. I limit our talks to her classes, where I’m driving her next, and what she’d like to order for groceries.
Sorrow sits with her elbows on her knees, staring at the bonfire as if she’s the only one here instead of surrounded by partygoers dancing and belting out the lyrics to the music pounding from the speakers hanging from tree branches.
The large dirt clearing, flanked by tall trees, with a nearby path leading to the tree and rope swing that kids clamor to during the summer, is a popular spot not only for local kids but also for those from surrounding towns.
To think we drove by Kyle Sophia’s place, not realizing he kept Sorrow on a tight leash. To think he holed her up in the basement of their house while we kids partied it up like there wasn’t a care in the world.
It’s a good thing that motherfucker is dead.
