Page 6 of His Heart

3

Brooke

February. Age sixteen.

My phone buzzed with a text.I bit my lip, my tummy swirling with nerves. It was Liam.

Liam: Hey, Bee.

He kept calling me Bee. Not just the letter B, but typing it out like that. Bee. No one had ever nicknamed me before. It did funny things to my insides.

I glanced over at our picture from the Valentine’s Day dance. I was wearing a dress borrowed from his sister Olivia—fitted shimmery silver bodice with a floor-length pale pink skirt. Liam in a rented tux. We were standing in front of a garish photo backdrop featuring a fake Hollywood sign and a lot of silver and gold stars. It was still a little hard to believe that night had actually happened. That he’d taken me to a dance, in that dress.

Nice things didn’t happen to me very often, and that night was one I knew I’d cherish forever.

Me: Hey. What’s up?

Since the dance, Liam and I had hung out a little bit—and texted a lot. He texted me in the morning before school, often going to his window to wave at me from next door. We texted in the evenings, sometimes just a message or two back and forth. Other times for hours on end, keeping us both awake late into the night.

We saw each other at school, and he didn’t hesitate to talk to me. Apparently my bleak social standing didn’t mean anything to him. But school was busy, and there were always other people around. He was nice to me, and he certainly made going to school a hundred times more bearable. But I lived for his text messages.

A crash rang out downstairs, followed by the muffled sound of yelling. I didn’t want to know what my mom and her boyfriend, Paul, were doing down there. It could be as simple as one of them accidentally dropping something. Normal people dropped things, right? Or they might be drunk off their asses, stumbling around the house like idiots.

My phone buzzed with Liam’s next text, but I went to the door and laid down on my stomach so I could sniff beneath the crack. A hint of cigarette smoke, like always. But no cloying weed odor mixed in. Damn.

If they were stoned on weed, they’d be relaxed—maybe even happy. Drunk meant sloppy and probably angry. They always fought when they drank. Of course, it was just as likely to be a mix of cheap beer and whatever else they could get their hands on. They made half-hearted attempts to hide their drugs from me, but I wasn’t stupid. And when they were mixing things, it was the worst. I never knew what I’d get. Angry but half-passed out? Happy but manic? Last week my mom had gone on a drug-induced spree—I didn’t know what she’d taken—and painted all the walls downstairs peach.

It was hideous, but she’d thought it was the best idea she’d ever had.

I got up and brushed off my jeans, then grabbed my phone.

Liam: Can you hang out?

Biting my lip, I stared at my phone. Could I? Sometimes sneaking out was easy. If Mom and Paul were high enough, they wouldn’t even notice me. But Mom could also get mad, and if she got mad, she got mean. It was always a risk.

But worth it if Liam was asking.

Me: I’ll try. Meet you out front.

I never let Liam come up to my door—always found excuses to meet him outside. Even the night of the dance. Olivia had invited me to come get ready with her, and I’d jumped at the chance. I didn’t want Liam to see how I lived—didn’t want him to know where I really came from.

I grabbed a coat and crept down the stairs. The stench of stale cigarette smoke and mildew permeated the air. We lived in a nice neighborhood, with pretty houses. This one had been pretty too, when we’d first moved in. It wasn’t anymore—at least not on the inside.

The stairs descended directly into the living room, and there wasn’t much ground to cover to reach the front door. If only I could get to it without them noticing.

No sign of them in the living room, just the usual piles of clutter. Ashtrays. Empty beer and soda cans. Food wrappers. Once in a while I cleaned up, but I hadn’t bothered lately.

The sound of voices drifted from the kitchen at the back of the house. From where I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, I couldn’t see back there. But there was a clear line of sight from the kitchen to the front door.

I took a deep breath. I’d just have to chance it.

Careful not to step on anything that might make noise, I tip-toed to the door. You’d think as out of it as my mom usually was, she’d be oblivious to the random crinkle of a candy wrapper. But she had an uncanny knack for hearing me move around the house.

“No!” My mom’s voice made my back clench painfully.

“Come on, babe,” Paul said. His words slurred together. “Upstairs.”

Giggles. Groans.

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