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So, on his eighteenth birthday last year, I upgraded him to a thirty-six foot Jeanneau, specially tricked out for single-handed sailing.
His goal is to sail his first amateur adult single-handed race, the Transat CIC, from Brest to Charleston, next year. I’m bankrolling his venture and besides my parents, I’m his biggest fan.
“Seriously, man, you’re welcome.” I bring the car to a stop two doors down from Jenny’s, where I’ve sat many times before, and turn out the lights, my foot on the brake as I reach for the glove box where I keep my binoculars. “Just remember me when you’re world famous.”
We say our goodbyes and I settle in, scanning the windows.
Inside there’s the flicker of light and I see the TV is on, but there’s no sign of Jenny.
I ease the Mustang around the corner to where I can get a different view, rage already clutching around my throat. It’s almost 10:30 and no one is here. No one came to her party. I mean, I know she’s only lived here a short time but by now, some kids from school should have showed.
That thought drives a spear through my heart, but at the same time, it relieves me. The idea of her here, around other adolescent, testosterone-filled boys from school, makes a red haze cloud my vision.
Then, I see her.
That crazy red hair, in waves the color of a freshly-minted penny, frames her face and hangs half way down her back. She cut her own bangs last month in something she called a wolf cut. It was uneven and horrible and wonderful it only made me want her more.
I’m anxious and on a hair trigger, the way I always am around her. She overwhelms my emotional circuit boards and she has no idea.
She heads through to the front room, holding a hairbrush in her hand, then raises it to her mouth like a microphone. I look at the TV screen and see the show I know is one of her favorites. She’s singing along with Bo Burnum and I know from watching it myself about twenty times because I knew she loved it, it’s the Bezos 1 song and I sniff on a smile. Watching her as she sings and dances along with Bo, my stomach does back handsprings, my heart ricocheting around in my chest.
I’m so gone for this girl.
My dick is already at full mast when she turns toward the side window and I catch her hazel eyes looking directly into mine. All she sees is darkness, but all I see is her.
Then, my heart shatters.
Her enthusiastic song ends, her eyes staring out into the night, hairbrush falling from her hand and she bursts into tears.
Fuck.
Fucking high school. Like that song she loves from The Heather’s musical says…this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome.
I knew she wasn’t on the popular circuit at school, new kid, loner, red hair, sort of a gamer, goth but girlish quirky vibe…but I never expected this.
My hand is instantly on the car door handle. She needs me. I can’t let her spend her eighteenth birthday alone.
Just as I click the door open, the boom of bass vibrates through my Mustang as a Red Ford truck pulls up in front of the house. She must hear it too, because she looks up, swiping the back of her hand over her wet cheek, then flips her hair back and looks down at her t-shirt.
The truck doors open, five teenagers, two I vaguely recognize from school but not my class, emerge. There’s two guys and three girls. One of them is carrying a twelve pack of Budweiser while two of the girls are carrying brown grocery bags.
Dread and relief wash over me. At least someone showed. But I’m staying to watch.
She’s mine, even if she doesn’t know it, and I’m here for her, even if it’s from the shadows.
Chapter 2
Jenny
I knew this was a horrible idea.
Why can’t I just be content alone? Who needs friends?
To be honest, I’d just settle for being invisible most of the time. I drop my hairbrush and fight back the tears but lose.
So, what possessed me to try to throw a party for myself on my eighteenth birthday? I mean, I’ll admit, it was sort of a passive aggressive invitation. I taped it to the wall by the back door entry, where the high school students that take the bus like me come and go.
Jenny Redman is turning eighteen if anyone cares.
Come to my party. It’s at 727 Cumming Ave. Starts at 9 o’clock tonight.
Or don’t. Whatever.
Why in the seven levels of hell would I do this?
Well, I’m meek and mild most of the time, but I have a temper. I tend to react in ways that are less than productive when pushed or cornered. When you change schools as many times as I have, let’s just say I’ve developed a skill set to try to deal with the horror of always being the new kid. With red curly hair, no less.
