AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My steps falter. “She does?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out, turning his head toward me. “You didn’t know?”
Obviously not. “It never came up.”
“So you didn’t, like, gointoher house?” I know exactly where he’s going with this, and I get it. My history with girls is prolific and… temporary, at best.
I don’t tell him that he has nothing to worry about because I am me, and Jamie has that one thing that attracts me to most girls—a vagina—but, considering what he did to her, I say, looking directly at him, “What’s it to you if I did?”
9
Holden
Jamie stares at me,and I stare right back.
I’ve concluded that this is how things will work between us until one of us eventually dies. For now, she’s better at The Staring Game than I am, so I break first. “What do you mean you don’t have suitable attire?”
“I mean…” she says in that annoyingYou Idiottone she seems to save just for me. “My closet consists of the type of clothes I’m currently wearing.” And then she repeats, because she thinks I’m thick, “I don’t have suitable attire.”
“You don’t havejeans?” I almost scoff. “Everyone has fucking jeans, Janice.”
We’re sitting in my truck after school, headed to Esme’s house, and she’s dressed in her grandma clothes. She did, however, bring gloves.Rubbergloves. What the fuck is she thinking?
Sighing dramatically, hands on her lap, she shifts her stare from me to the windshield. And for some dumb reason, I feel like I can actually breathe. “I have one pair of jeans, and I wear them to work, and since I work five to six nights a week, I don’t want to ruin them. Plus, they smell like food mixed with fryer oil and soap.” My nose scrunches at the thought, and I don’t hide it in time before her eyes move to me. When she notices, she looks away again, and then her voice lowers, wobbles when she adds, “I’ll buy jeans for next week, okay? Let’s just go.”
It dawns on me—a little slower than it should have—that it isn’t about the clothes or the gloves. The girl lives on her own, pays everything for herself, and works five to six nights a fucking week. She can’taffordclothes. And I just brought attention to that. She has every right to use that tone with me because hell, I am an idiot.
Without another word, I put my truck in drive and tell her, “We’re going to make a quick detour.”
She doesn’t respond.
I don’t look at her, too afraid of what I’ll see.
We make it halfway home when she finally speaks. “Where are we going?”
“My house.”
Seconds of silence pass before she asks, “Why?”
I still can’t look at her. “I’m going to get you some clothes.”
“Your clothes won’t fit—”
“My mom will find something.”
“Yourmom?” she practically shouts.
I nod, then peek over at her. She’s already reaching into her bag and pulling out that same marker from last week. Then she lifts her skirt just enough to reveal the skin above her knee, where there are already swirls of ink—flowers, mainly, from what I can tell.
Probably too late, I ask, “Is that okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she replies, and then she’s off, creating more art she plans to get rid of.
My mom losther job over the summer, which means she’s homeallthe time. I miss the days when I could bring girls home after school, do my thing, then have them leave before Mom entered the front door. I’m not naïve enough to believe she didn’t know what was happening. The twice-a-week opening of my bedroom door, spraying air freshener throughout the room while simultaneously glaring at me, proves that. Along with her random “I hope you’re being careful, Holden” comments.
If we’re comparing apples to apples, I’malmostat the age when she got pregnant, so as far as her fears go? Justified. Just so we’re clear. I’mverycareful.
By the time we get to the house, Jamie’s lifted her skirt halfway up her thigh, and almost every inch of exposed flesh is covered in lines so intricate I want to snap a picture of it so that I can study it later. I don’t, obviously, because there’s a special place in society for that level of creep, and it’s calledprison.She looks up when my truck stops, her breaths shallow, eyeing the house and the immaculate yard. Her eyes are wide, panicked, and I ask, “You good?”
