The Love I Found

Chapter 6

Marissa invited me to dinner again, and I was glad I had a reason to be away from the Scott's house for a few more hours. I knew Cal was spending time at Ricky's, and I was in no hurry to be at the house without him. I stayed as long as I could, but inevitably the time came for me to go home. Reluctantly, I said goodbye to Marissa, then popped my head into the living room to thank her parents again for dinner. They smiled and waved, but I was sure I heard Marissa's mother mutter, "Finally," as I made my way down the hallway to their front entrance to walk home.

I wish that kids like Cal didn't give foster kids such a bad rep. My brain zeros in on the name Cal, like it's the only thing worth thinking about. I sort of wish he could be a little more easy-going. If he'd just follow the rules, maybe there would be less yelling all of the time. But then, he wouldn't be Cal, and what a shame that would be. I really like Cal, rough edges and all.

As I near the house, however, I wish he'd at least follow the rule about curfew. Then he'd be coming home soon too, instead of staying at Ricky's until much later in the night.

Mrs. Scott will be around, and she isn't scary or anything. But she still isn't my favourite person, and the house always feels lonely without Cal's presence. I can't very well expect him to spend all of his time around me though. It had been special enough that he sat with Marissa and I today while we watched hockey. That had never happened before, and mentally, I was crossing my fingers in hopes that it would happen again.

Angel-face. That's what he called me. I feel my cheeks warming at the memory.

Cal Jones has an interest in me! No matter how many times the thought runs through my mind, it still feels unbelievable.

My good mood is quickly dashed as I go inside and find Mrs. Scott taking her car keys off the hook.

"Where are you going?" I ask, trying to keep the sound of alarm from my voice.

"Book Club," Mrs. Scott answers. She tries to step around me to exit the door.

I remain in the doorway, blocking her path. "But, it's not Friday..."

"Mrs. Monrow has an anniversary party to attend this Friday," she explains, "so we rescheduled. Did you have fun at Marissa's? Oh, I'd love to stay and chat, but I really do need to go."

Feeling like I'm in a daze, I step to the side to let her pass.

"Be back in a few hours. Be good for Russell." And with that, Mrs. Scott is running out the door towards her car.

I remain frozen in the hallway for a full minute. Sounds from the TV come drifting down the hall, Mr. Scott yells at whatever he's watching, and I cautiously make my way to the staircase. Maybe I will be able to sneak to my room unnoticed and hide out for a few hours. Book Club can't take that long, can it?

I want to believe that's true, but I know the stories that some of the kids share. The women in Mrs. Scott's book club are said to only speak about the book for a short time before diving into a series of town gossip exchanges that run late into the night. 

Why does Cal always have to miss curfew?

So I'm back to thinking about Cal. At least it's a better alternative to the subject of the creepy man on the floor below me, I reason with myself as I brush my teeth. I'll just go to bed and think about Cal Jones with his black snapback pulled over his brooding, dark blue eyes, and smoke from a cigarette slowly curling out of his perfect lips.

I stare in the mirror at my own lips and think about the way his mouth would fit against mine. Marissa says that smoking is disgusting and makes your mouth gross, but there is nothing gross about the idea of Cal's mouth against mine.

I smile to myself as I walk to my bedroom. Today, Cal told me that I had to tell people what I did and didn't want. What would happen if I told him exactly what I wanted? Would he be surprised? Or would he know it was coming? Probably the latter. I'm not all that smooth around him so he must have picked up on the way my cheeks turn red whenever he speaks to me. If I blurted out that I wanted to kiss him, he would probably only laugh and say something along the lines of "I know". But then what? Would he pull me close and bring his mouth to mine?

I remember the way his eyes had focused on my lips when I was smoking. Had he been thinking about it too? What was the worst that could happen if I just asked?

Ha. Very funny, Emilia. You would never dare.

I'm lost in my thoughts as I walk to my bedroom. The house has gone quiet. The television is off now.

I close my bedroom door behind me and pull off my shirt to change into some pajamas. As I drop my t-shirt into the laundry basket, the door opens again.

My arms cross over my chest as I spin around. "Uh, I'm changing, I'll come out in a minute." My words come out in a rush while I back toward my dresser, trying to put as much space between me and the open door.

Mr. Scott enters the room like he hasn't heard me. I'm about to repeat myself, when he closes the door behind him. My stomach drops.

"M-Mr. Scott," I start and wince at the way my voice stutters, "if you'd just give me a minute, I'll—" My words break off with a squeak as he walks toward me.

"Saveme the drama 'n just go ahead and take y'ur pants off, honey." His voice comes out slow and slurred.

I back away a few more steps, coming to a stop when my backside bumps against the dresser.

This can't be happening.

Tears burn in my eyes, and I blink a few times, trying to hold them in as I gather my courage to speak again. "P-Please, Mr. Scott, don't make me... I can't. Please."

I'm not above begging. I know exactly what this is, and I'll do just about anything to get out of the situation. There must be something I can say. There has to be a way to reason with him. If I could only move past my crippling fear and think of it!

"Now!" he bellows out the single command, continuing to stalk toward me. He looks meaner than ever before. Any thoughts I had of trying to fight him off, however small they were, disappear. There's no way out of this. It'll be better to cooperate.

I squeeze my eyes shut and reach for the button on my jeans with trembling hands. It takes me a few tries to pop it open. My fumbling fingers get a hold of my zipper next, but before I pull it down, a loud bang rings through the downstairs.