Page 5 of Secrets That Bind Us
I exhale as silently as I can. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Dean,” I groan, side stepping him as Micah grabs my hand, tugging me away as we make our way to the bus stop.
“Please, Verity. Coach will bench me if I don’t pass and you’re the smartest girl I know.”
I stop in my tracks, Micah skirting back, and hauling my arm when I don’t move so I can look at the boy who just bumped into me from behind – the boy who makes me feel all weird inside. “I’m not doing your homework for you.”
“It’sonepaper. Justoneessay. Please. Ver!”
“It’s not one paper, Dean. It’s an entire short story,andyou have a whole month to write it. You don’t need me to do this for you.”
“She said no, dude.” Micah says for me when we finally make it to the bus stop behind the school. Micah always says that when he passes his driver’s test, he’ll take me home. No more riding the bus.
Dean steps in front of me, blue eyes piercing through mine. The freckles scattered across the bridge of his big nose do things to my heart and make my stomach flip. Or maybe it’s his nearness – how close to me he is, and how good he smells. Like summer nights, sweat, and atingeof sandalwood. It does things to my brain. “Please. If I don’t pass, I don’t play. We could really make it to the playoffs this year. I’ll – I’ll pay you.”
That does make me stop. He has worked hard coming back from that alternative school after getting caught screwing Tiffany Myers. He even made Varsity – the only underclassman to do that in over a decade. And while he impresses me a lot on and off the field, I could really use the money.
If I could save up more money than I do with tutoring… could Mama and I try to run away again? Could we make it out this time ifI’mthe one holding the money? Daddy wouldn’t search me the way he searched Mama – would he? I shudder at the thought. I don’t think I’m brave enough to find out.
“You can’t seriously be thinking about this, Verity. If the school finds out-“
“I won’t write it for you. But I can tutor you.” I say, interrupting Micah. I step to the side, pulling Dean by the elbow, still staring up at the cobalt blues that invade my thoughts almost hourly. “You can write this. You’re smarter than you let on, Dean.”
He opens his mouth, then runs his fingers through his short hair. He always cuts it short at the beginning of the school year and lets it grow out on top, keeping the sides faded. Like Brandon Fraser inThe Mummy.Not that I pay attention. He shakes his head at me. “Forget it.” Dean scoffs and walks away.
Later that night, once I’m already headed for bed, the doorbell rings. I make my way down after Mama calls me. I watch as Dean turns – shoulders that are too broad for a sixteen-year-old, and yet great for a Quarterback. He glistens with sweat, his blue shirt clinging to him like a second skin, and my mouth fills with saliva.
I’m not real sure if it’s normal to have a response like that to a boy.
I move my pigtails back and fix my camisole, squaring my shoulders – ready to tell him to piss off, even though I’m squirming on the inside to get closer, when he says, “Okay, tutor me.”
I nod once, and he bounds off the side porch, running off.
Always running.
When I turn back to head to my room, Mama has this weird look on her face, and a smirk – like she knows a secret I don’t.
“You alright, Mama?”
She nods. “Just fine, sweet girl.”
“Who was that?” My dad’s voice comes from the shadows as he steps into view – tall, white-haired, and red-faced from decades of working out on the farm. I don’t miss the way Mama tenses, or the way she squints, as if already preparing to run. Daddy may be old, but he’s fast. He always finds her. Sometimes he finds me instead.
“Just Dean, Daddy. He wants to know if I can help tutor him for this project Mrs. Bryant has us doing in our English class.”
Dark eyes eye me up and down. Daddy’s eyes used to be green. Maybe they still are but all I can see is the demons in them. I count my heartbeats. He nods once, eyebrows hiking up in the direction of the door. “That’s the sheriff’s boy?”
“Yes sir.” One heartbeat. Two. Three.
He dips his chin. “Here. You won’t be going there. I’ve heard stories about that boy.”
Haven’t we all?
“It’s just for a month, sir. He needs to pass so the coach will let him play, and he really thinks he can take us to the playoffs this year.”
“Boys like that ain’t no good, and especially not good enough for my daughter to be alone with ‘hind closed doors.”
But how can Daddy – or men like him – say things likethat, but then beat their wife to a pulp? Because he ain’t been drinkin’ since Friday when I came home and found Mama. Because the whites of his eyes aren’t red, his words are clear, and the sweat rolling off his body is from working outside –notfrom detoxing. But it’s only Monday.
