The Rocky Road Pact

Chapter 9: Hellraiser

Oh my God.

Tommy Slade, too-cool-for-school rebel bad guy was coming over to my house. To talk about what I said. What I did.

It couldn't have been anything too bad, right? Why couldn't I remember? All I had from the night before was a pounding headache and simmering nausea. 

Deep breath.

If I was going to face this head on I had to look my best. After my shower, I carefully planned my makeup and plugged in my curling iron. First I would load up my hair with mousse and blow it dry. Every strand had to be completely dry, otherwise the curling iron would fry it. Then, I would tease up my bangs until it looked like a cascading waterfall, and curl my whole head until I looked like a goddess.

For my outfit—

A sharp rap made me jump. I turned and couldn't believe what I was looking at.

Tommy Slade, sitting on a tree brach outside my window. Dressed all in black, he was grinning from ear to ear like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be perched there.

ARGH!

Not yet, he couldn't be here yet, I'm not ready! I was wearing my favourite sweats and ratty t-shirt from when I was a counsellor at Camp Shining Waters. I had no makeup on and two prominent zits: one beside my nose and one on my chin, they stuck out like two giant red traffic lights. My hair was soaking wet; it dried flat and straight as a pin if I didn't have a chance to do it right. 

I couldn't let him see me like this. I ripped the towel off my head and threw it in a corner.

Ughhhhh. My makeup and hair stuff were essential. I didn't feel right without all of that. I felt plain, ordinary. Ugly.

But he was seeing me. He was looking at me through my bedroom window and tapping his watch, an impatient look on his face. Before I knew it, I opened the window and this tall, shaggy haired mystery man was standing on the powder pink carpet of my bedroom.

"Well, if it isn't the little hellraiser," he said, throwing a small leather backpack on the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I said, sticking my chin out and trying not to barf. "Just fine."

"You weren't fine last night. What do you remember about it?"

I wanted to lie, but there was no way I could fake my way out of it.

"Not much," I admitted.

"Yeah, well. Those wine coolers are deadly. And you were drinking them with a straw, like soda; they hit you pretty fast. And from what I hear, you don't drink."

I felt my temper rise. "So what? So I wanted to let my hair down for once, stop being the "Mom" of the group and have some fun. I graduated and my whole life went to shit. Everyone else around here can get drunk and make a total fool of myself, why can't I?"

"Oh, you certainly did," he said, his words making me flinch. He sat on my bed and rifled through the bag. "Here's your sweater. Do you remember heading off into the woods with Bobby Mullins?"

My hand flew to my mouth. Bobby was a notorious creep. "I didn't!"

"No, you didn't because I stopped you. And you called me Officer NoFun McShithead. Do you remember that?"

I sat on the end of my bed, as far away from him as I could and buried my hot face in my hands. 

"I know you're dying to have sex, but Jesus Christ, not with that guy," he said casually, still rifling through the bag. I wondered if it was possible to die of humiliation.

"What?" How did he know about— surely to God, I didn't tell him?

"So you don't remember our conversation, either. About how your dude sucked in bed, and you're looking to get some experience?"

I really might die from this. I'd certainly have to move away. Pack up my shit, say goodbye to my family, and live in a cave on the side of a large mountain, very far away, never to be seen again. Or I could join a nunnery in the swiss alps. That was far enough away. 

"Don't sweat it," he said, seeing my face. "You only told that stuff to me and I'm not telling anyone."

I felt marginally better, but I couldn't believe I could be so stupid and embarrassing. God damn demon alcohol. My first instincts were right, I wanted nothing to do with it every again. 

"Anyway, I wanted to give you your sweater, and tell you that I release you. Last night is forgotten." He flicked his fingers at me like a magician. "Poof, you're free."

I was completely confused. "What do you mean, release me?"

"Wow, you had a full on blackout last night. Impressive."

"Not impressive, frightening," I said, wracking my brain to recall any of it.

"You should be scared," he said, matter of factly. "That's why I don't drink. That shit does nothing for you but cause shame and misery."

He finally found what he was looking for. He opened up the bag and shook it. Fragments of cardboard with red lettering fluttered to the floor.

"Sorry about the mess," he said. "I ripped it up."

Looking closer, it was a bunch of stuff written on the back of a pizza box. I didn't want to ask but I had to know.

"Ripped what up?"

"The contract. Jesus, for someone who doesn't want to go to law school, you're certainly a born lawyer." He was at the window again before I knew it. I wanted him to stay so I could figure out what was going on. Plus, I liked talking to him. He seemed older than his years, with a confidence that was reassuring and attractive. He was taller than I thought and when the light hit his eyes just right, they glowed like green jewels.

"Take it easy," he said, effortlessly sliding from the window to a tree branch like a black cat. He paused.

"By the way, your friends were shitheads for leaving you. They thought you were fine, but anyone could tell you clearly were not. Something bad could have happened to you. Or if you had told all that shit to someone else, it would have been all over town by now. Look after yourself," he said. His laughing eyes were serious and something fluttered in my belly like a tiny butterfly. He looked sincere. Like he cared.

With that he was gone, leaving me to put the night together like the cryptic message in pieces on the floor.

Taking a deep breath, I approached the mess. Two chunks of cardboard stood out to me, the red words standing out like a giant neon sign: Pact and Sex.