Leaving Paradise (Leaving Paradise #1)

Leaving Paradise (Leaving Paradise #1) Page 14

"Here's the deal," I say low and harsh as I grab his shirt and twist it up close to his throat. "You stop bringing up Maggie or jail or the accident. Got it? If you want to keep running your mouth off, that's fine, but next time you do it you'll find my fist in it. Guaranteed."

"I was just kidding," Drew chokes out, a faint thread of hysteria in his voice. "Jeez, Caleb, lighten up."

I let go of his shirt, but give him one last warning. "Up until two weeks ago I was living with a bunch of gang members. Don't tell me to lighten up."

It's Thursday night, five days after the festival. I'm in Kendra's bedroom while her parents are at some dinner function. We're supposed to study; we've both got tests tomorrow.

Unfortunately, I realized about a half hour ago she's not interested in studying. Kendra is strutting in front of me, modeling different outfits she bought at the mall yesterday. "Well ..." she says, showing off a designer dress. "What do you think?"

I'm busy reading about the Magna Carta. "I can't flunk this test, Kend."

She puts her hands on her hips and pouts. "I swear you pay more attention to the girls at school than you do to me."

I look up from my book. "Are you kidding me?"

"No. Samantha Hunter is, like, lusting after you during gym class and you're falling for it. And I heard you and Emily Steinway were having a pretty intense conversation in biology."

"I haven't said two words to Samantha, Kend. And Emily and I are bio partners. What are you doing, spying on me? I'd be glad to tell everyone we're back together. You're the one who wants to keep our relationship a damn secret."

This week we've met at the forest preserve, under the high school bleachers, and now I had to enter her house through the back door so none of her neighbors would see me coming in. I'm sick of sneaking around.

"I told you my father is up for election in November, Caleb. His daughter can't be seen dating an ex-con."

She says it so easily. There's not a speck of apology or hesitation in her voice as she spurts out the word "ex-con."

"I gotta go," I say, then close my history book.

She comes toward me, placing her hand on my chest. "Don't go. I'll make it worth your while."

"What are you talking about?"

She slowly pulls the spaghetti straps off her shoulder, revealing bare skin. A few seconds later she's stripped her dress off and is standing in front of me wearing only a black lace bra and matching thong.

My gaze travels over her creamy white skin. Hell, yeah, I want this. But she's not acting like a girlfriend. She doesn't have to strip to keep me here. She doesn't have to use her body to lure me. This is so fucked up. "Kendra ..."

She steps toward me, putting her finger on my lips to stop me from talking. "Shh, I hear my parents in the hallway," she whispers.

Shit.

Sure enough there's a knock on her bedroom door a second later. "Kendra, you home?" her mom says through the door.

"Uh, yeah," Kendra says loudly as she picks up her discarded dress. "Caleb, get in the closet," she whispers.

This is seriously not happening. "I'm not getting in the closet," I say. There's no way I'm going to get locked up again, even in my girlfriend's closet instead of a cell.

"Shh, they're going to hear you."

Her mom knocks again and says, "Who are you talking to? Kendra, open the door."

Kendra scurries to get her dress back on. "Nobody, Mom, I just have the radio on. I'm getting dressed. I'll be out in a minute, okay?"

"Hurry up. Senator Boyle came all the way back here to meet you," her mom says, then I hear footsteps moving away from the door.

"When are you going to tell them we're together?" I ask Kendra. "After the election?"

"Can we talk about that later?" she whispers as she quickly checks out her appearance in her mirror. I watch as she rolls massive amounts of lip gloss on her lips. Cherry flavor wafts to my nostrils and I wonder how long I can be stuck in this cherry-scented room before I pass out.

I open the window.

"Caleb, what are you doing?"

I throw my history book to the ground below, praying it'll still be intact when I retrieve it. Then I heave one foot over the ledge. "Leaving."

"It's a two-story house. You'll kill yourself."

I'm not about to hide in her room like a prisoner. Besides, if I jump hard enough and high enough, I just might be able to catch a branch on the tree a few feet away from the window.

She runs toward me. "Don't, CB."

I stare right into her blue eyes. Why, not? Because you love me, because you don't want me to get hurt... because you want to take me downstairs and announce to your parents and their friends that no matter what happened in the past, we're together and nobody can separate us?

"I'll get into trouble if they see you," she announces.

"See you on the other side," I say to Kendra before standing on the window ledge, saying a quick prayer, and taking a leap.

TWENTY

Maggie

Mrs. Reynolds is waiting for me on the back swing with the muumuu in hand when I get to her house, just like she's done since my first day on the job. I tried protesting the offending garment with no success. So now I put it on and look like a complete dork as I'm working.

It's not like I need to worry about looking good, anyway. Caleb and his friends said the only way I'd even get a date for prom was to advertise on the internet. I heard them at the Fall Festival talking about me. I cried that night because I can't turn back the clock and erase what happened. Caleb stood there with the guys as if he had nothing to do with making me this way. His non-reaction hurt more than Drew's words.

"Today we're going to clean the attic," Mrs. Reynolds announces. "Here, take this broom. I'll bring the dustpan and pail."

"What about planting bulbs?" I ask.

"I'm sick of looking at bulbs. We can continue planting tomorrow."

She leads me up the stairway to the attic. "Don't close the door, it'll lock us in."

"That's dangerous," I say. And scary, like something out of a horror movie. There's a door stopper that she puts in place before we enter. It's a small, dark place filled with boxes and pictures and ... spider webs. "Mrs. Reynolds?"

"Yes, Margaret."

"I'm afraid of spiders."

"Why?"

"Because they have eight creepy legs, they bite, and they have sticky string that comes out of their butts to capture bugs before they suck their blood."

I think Mrs. Reynolds is going to laugh at me. But she doesn't. Instead she says, "Spiders control the insect population. They're a necessity and that's all there is to it."

While that might be true, I still don't like them. But that doesn't stop Mrs. Reynolds from leading me farther into the attic--pail, dustpan and all. I'm ready to go into a rendition of "It's a Hard Knock Life." I look around. This attic is definitely creepy--large trunks in one corner and moving boxes in the other.

Mrs. Reynolds finds an old chair and sits in it. "You can start by dusting the trunks first."

Thank God those are in the middle of the floor, untouched by webs. The old lady is totally prepared. She pulls a rag and a can of Endust out of the pail. I spray the top of a wooden trunk, cleaning it until it shines.

"Open it," Mrs. Reynolds says.

I look at her, unsure. Go on.

I unhook the latch, lift the top, and peer inside.

The first thing I see is a framed picture of a man and woman. "Is this you?"

"Yes, with my late husband, Albert, may he rest in peace."

In the picture a much younger Mrs. Reynolds is wearing a knee-length tailored dress and satin gloves that go up over her elbows. Mr. Reynolds isn't even looking into the camera, he's gazing at Mrs. Reynolds as if she were a rare diamond. "Did you get married young?"

"I was twenty and he was twenty-four. We were very much in love."

I hand the picture to her. "I wish my parents loved each other. They're divorced."

"Yes, well, life does keep going on, doesn't it?"

"Yep." Even after the accident, when I knew I'd never be able to walk normally again or play tennis anymore, life kept rolling on.

Whether I wanted it to or not.

Mrs. Reynolds leans over and studies more pictures. "I've spent a little time with your mother at Auntie Mae's," she says while studying a picture of a little boy. "She's a lovely lady."

"Thanks," I say, proud of Mom. She's cool, for a mom. I just wish my dad thought she was lovely enough to want to stay married to her.

Mrs. Reynolds hands me the picture of the little boy. "That's my son."

I almost laugh at the picture. Who thought this little boy would grow up and one day be my mom's boss?

"He was married once. She died of ovarian cancer five years later." She sighs.

"They didn't have any kids?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Okay, enough dawdling. I have a bunch of boxes that need to be tossed. Why don't we pile them in a corner so they can easily be spotted and taken to the trash. Somewhere around here are boxes labeled 'taxes'." She points to one of the corners of the attic. "I think they're over there."

I walk over to the boxes and do the spider-scan. Eek. Webs line the ceiling corners, just waiting for an unsuspecting insect to fly by. I don't even see the spiders. It's like they're undercover spies until their prey struggles, hopelessly stuck in the web.

I shudder just thinking about it. Thank God I'm not an insect.

"Margaret?"

"Yes."

"I'm getting older every second, you know."

I put my hands in the sleeves of the muumuu and shove boxes aside with muumuu-covered fists. I'm trying not to think about my leg and how I'm going to maneuver around the boxes with spiders staring down at me from the ceiling.

I've made a path and head behind the stack of boxes. I check out an orange, plastic container made to look like a picnic basket. "What kind of boxes are they? Bankers boxes or moving boxes?" I ask.

"I don't remember, but I'm pretty certain they're labeled."

Okay. I start turning boxes around, hoping to find the words TAXES on the front.

I shriek when I hear something behind me.

Spinning around, I see it's only Mrs. Reynolds.

"Oh, calm yourself," she chides. "Did you find any?"

"I think so." I pick up a box marked TAXES, 1968. "Is this one?"

She claps her hands, like a teacher would do if a student gets an answer correct. "Yes. Put it by the door. There's so many to toss, I think this may take a few days."

As soon as I place the first box in the "toss" pile, the doorbell rings. Mrs. Reynolds doesn't hear it. "Someone's ringing the doorbell," I say.

She furrows her brows and tilts her head to listen for it. "I don't hear it, but then again these ears are about as good as my eyes. Be a doll and answer it, would you?"

"Sure." I head down the stairs. The doorbell rings two more times before I can get to the door. I open it quickly, then stumble backwards. Because the last person I expected to see standing in front of me is Caleb Becker.