Forbidden Games

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Apparently, "grounded" means total lockdown. Though there are two exceptions: I'm allowed to go to my dad's real estate agency – to work – and to my grandma's house, to avoid staying at home with Tristan who is imprisoned there as well.

After the memorable day at the Lombardi, we could have become closer, formed a team, continued on the road to a blooming friendship, or at least replaced our hateful explosions with nervous laughter. But no, it would have been too easy. Our relationship became tense again the week after, as if our shared punishment had a double meaning. As if being locked up wasn't just to make us think about our "unacceptable and childish behavior" at the pool bar – according to Sienna – but also, and especially, due to our relationship and our slip-ups.

Our slip-ups may not be so childish . . . but they sure are unacceptable.

"Betty Sue, are you there? Yoo-hoo! Hello? Is anybody home?" I call as I walk up to the little dilapidated farm she calls her house.

"Shhh, I'm by the pond," she replies softly.

I look in the right direction and see a hand, just one, shoot up from behind a bush, waving for me to come over. I find my grandmother, squatting down, her face right next to a pelican sitting on its eggs.

"She came here to make her nest, at my house!" she says, her eyes shining. "I knew it was a female! There are two eggs, look!"

Betty Sue pulls on my arm and forces me to bend down next to her and look in wonder. I can't see much, besides a pile of twigs, bird poop and a long orange beak that could bite my grandma's nose off any minute if she got just a little too close.

"That's it, the magic of life, my dear. Sometimes you just have to believe," Betty Sue murmurs, taking my face in one hand pulling my cheek against her own.

"I'm not sho shure it worksh for me," I bumble, my mouth deformed by her forceful cuddle.

"You're going to tell me all about it."

We walk toward the house, a herd of animals on our heels. Betty Sue sits in her old rocking chair on the outside porch and I take a seat on the old porch swing that groans as I sway back and forth. Dogs come to sit at our feet, sighing, cats climb onto the railing or ledges of the windows near our heads, and Pork Chop, the dwarf pig, works his way onto my grandma's lap, grunting happily. Ten pairs of curious eyes stare at me, as if they were expecting me to reveal my deepest secrets.

"They won't say a word," my grandma reassures me, faced with my silence.

"I think Tristan is just as confused as I am. One day he pushes me to the edge, the next day he ignores me. We laugh together, then he pushes me away. He checks out my legs, then in the next breath, criticizes them. I don't get it, Betty Sue. And I don't know how long I can stand it."

"It takes time, sweetie, for men to admit they've caught the bug. And sometimes it takes a kick in the ass as well."

Our laughter is interrupted by an old-fashioned ringing from the house. I have trouble identifying what it is.

"Can you run in and get the phone, Liv? It's on the table in the entry. No one ever calls, it must be a telemarketer trying to sell me electric shutters or life insurance . . . Listen up, I'll show you how to handle them!" she jokes.

I pull on the old phone, still attached by a cord and hand the enormous handset to Betty Sue, pressing my face close to hers to listen in.

"Unless you're selling sex toys, your wares are of no interest to me, Sir!" she says with a little smirk for me.

There's an ominous silence on the other end.

"Nothing to say for yourself? Embarrassed, are we?"

"Your granddaughter," interrupts a metallic voice that I immediately recognize. "Keep an eye on your granddaughter. Liv Sawyer is hanging out with the wrong crowd. And her brother is part of it."

I break down, unable to think as my back suddenly turns wet with sweat and my heart pounds in my throat.

"My granddaughter can do whatever she wants," yells my grandmother down the phone. "Anything she wants, with whomever she wants! You good for nothing . . . ! If your hormones are giving you a hard time, that's your problem, not hers! Don't you have anything better to do besides butt into other peoples' lives? Leave my granddaughter alone! She hasn't done anything wrong! You're the disgusting one here! Even my little pig is cleaner than you and your twisted ideas! You're a sorry excuse for a human being! A coward who hides behind his telephone and who . . . "

The phone goes dead. Betty Sue slams the phone down onto the receiver I'm still holding in my trembling hands. She puts Pork Chop on the ground and stands awkwardly from her rocking chair, taking me in her arms. I can finally start sobbing as she rubs my back.

"It'll be okay, honey. I'm sure it's just a kid. Some dimwit who's secretly in love with you and frustrated that you haven't even noticed him. I think I've deterred him from stirring up trouble again . . . "

"But why did he call here?"

"Because he's bored!"

"But how did he know I was here? Do you think he's following me?"

I pull gently away from her to look around.

"I don't know , Livie. It might just be a coincidence. After all, he wanted to talk to me. Maybe he didn't know you'd be listening as well."

"If you had a normal telephone, maybe we could have identified the number!"

"If that bastard is going to all that trouble to disguise his voice, you really think he'd call from his house? Or his own cell? And he only calls landlines, apparently! He's using the phone book to find numbers. Otherwise, he'd call on our cell phones, like normal people do! I may be an old hippie, but even I know these things."

"What if he gets a hold of my dad? Or my stepmom?"

"I think that if he really wanted to do that, he would have done it a long time ago, don't you think? Maybe he's just trying to scare you, sweetie. And that's out of the question!" my grandma declares, drying the tears on my face.

"I don't know who it could be, Betty Sue."

"When you're as pretty, intelligent and unique as you, you're bound to make people jealous. Especially in a little town like this one," she continues sadly, smoothing my hair with the palm of her hand.

"But I don't have any enemies! I'd have to interest people to achieve that. No one's even noticed me since I moved here."

"But what about since you became part of Tristan's life?" she says as if she were thinking out loud. "Maybe it's someone in his group that's jealous."

"You think it could be a girl?"

"If a female pelican can lay eggs in my garden, I think a human being is capable of anything."

"Damn, I'm screwed."

I go to sit on the bottom step of the porch and bury my head in my hands.

"Weren't your dad and your step witch supposed to go on vacation in August?"

"Yeah, the last two weeks. They're leaving in three days. And I hope dad will let me stay at home."

"That will give you two weeks of respite, honey. And time to think about things calmly."

And time to be alone with Tristan.

Even if it's the exact opposite of what I need right now.

A hairy mutt rests its big head on my knees, its sad eyes feeling my pain. Then he rolls over lazily onto his back into the "scratch my belly, you're not the only one with problems," pose.

***

"Liv, I trust you, but call me if you have even the slightest problem," my dad whispers as he kisses my forehead.

"Tristan, you better not make me come back early from vacation because you've screwed up," his mother says pulling her huge wheely suitcase toward the door. "Craig, would you help me? Oh, and," she continues, turning back to look at us, "remember, you're still grounded until tomorrow."

"And you remember, Harry has been waiting in the car for ten minutes," Tristan says, opening the door for them to leave.

"I sure won't miss your attitude," she says with a fake smile.

"You two have fun! And behave yourselves!" my dad says one last time. Then he picks up the suitcase and walks out the door.

He hates leaving the real estate agency, he hates leaving his daughter and he knows he won't be able to smoke for the next few hours – between the car ride and the ferry to reach the Bahamas. Vacation for Craig Sawyer is more like torture. I almost feel sorry for him knowing he's going off to some tropical paradise with his wife who has undoubtedly chosen the most luxurious hotel on the island.

With a little luck, they'll fight the whole time and come back to announce they're separating!

"No, I take that back!" says the little angel on my left shoulder. "Too late!" laughs the little devil on my right.

I follow Tristan as he opens the living room window to wave goodbye to his little brother sitting in the back seat of the car. Harry waves Alfred the alligator's foot from behind the window. He's so sweet, like always, and I can almost feel the twinge in his older brother's heart, sitting in silence next to me. But the feeling fades a second later when he opens his mouth:

"Now, as for us, Sawyer! I'm going to make your life a living hell."

He smiles, bearing all his white teeth before he closes the window and pushes me onto the couch.

"Don't touch me! And don't ever touch me again!" I scream in a rage as I stand up brusquely.

"Or what? Are you going to tell your daddy? Oh wait, he's not here anymore," he teases with a fake pout on his face.

"You can enjoy your childish games on your own, Quinn. I'm going to Bonnie's."

I quickly head to the door.

"You can't," his deep voice calls out. "She's getting felt up in Drake's room right about now."

"Don't talk about my friend like that! Why don't you go find someone to feel you up if it'll calm you down!"

"Are you talking about yourself?" he asks as he walks slowly toward me, his blue eyes squinting and his head tilted to one side. He's not smiling, for once.

I can't think of anything witty to say. My brain does not command my body to back away. Nothing. His audacity and assurance paralyze me, like always. All I can feel is a tingling in my stomach that grows as he moves closer. And my breathing is too quick when his face approaches mine.

If he dares kiss me, I'll bite him!

And if he doesn't kiss me . . . I'll kill him.

"I don't want you, Sawyer," he growls in his hoarse, deep voice that seems to be saying the exact opposite.

Then he walks slowly around me, his eyes glued on me. Then he runs upstairs.

Asshole.

***

That night, after a day at the beach with Fergus and Bonnie, I'm reading in my room when I hear a girl laughing on the other side of the wall. I didn't even know Tristan was here, much less that he had company. I try to imagine the girl, brunette or redhead, thin or curvy. Maybe it's Lana, his ex, maybe it's "chick number 16." Yet another one. I listen carefully, trying to figure out what their silence means. I close my eyes tight to keep myself from visualizing them together. I open them again. It's worse. Memories of his underwear, that bulge, my hips gyrating against his. Delicious sensations. And a frustration that eats away at me. I walk out of my room, slamming my door as hard as possible and go lock myself in the den on the ground floor. It's a calm, quiet room, isolated from the rest of the house. I hide there sometimes when I need silence and alone time, or just when I want to read, stretched out on the big comfy couch I don't have to share with anyone.

Though tonight I'm incapable of reading another word. I just lie there, waiting for my overheated brain to fall asleep.

***

The second night, I invite Bonnie over for the evening to avoid feeling so alone. Locked up in my room, I let her braid my hair, trying to make me look "a little less white." I listen to her tell me everything she's done to Drake and everything he's done to her – and I can't help but think of all things I'll never do again with Tristan. I secretly envy my best friend's freedom, the simplicity of her life, the craziness of these first sensations that I pretend are uninteresting.

"Are you listening to me, Liv?"

"Yeah, yeah . . . So you don't know if he thinks you're too big or if he loves it?"

"He's kind of distant when we're in public, you know? But when we're at his place . . . oh man, there is no holding back! It's hot, hot, hot!"

She fans herself with one hand and slaps her ass with the other.

"If he's ashamed of you, he's a dick. He doesn't deserve you, Bonnie."

"No need to get out the big speech, Porcelain. He's enjoying me as much as I'm enjoying him. And I know someone else who's enjoying life," she says, pressing her ear up to the wall between my and Tristan's rooms.

She heard it too. The giggling has started up again. Maybe even higher pitched than last night. Probably another new conquest. Whether he thinks she's too skinny, too fat, or too whatever, he still invited her up to make her laugh, moan and sigh. And he'll pretend he doesn't recognize her in the street tomorrow.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!

"Isn't it weird to hear that?" she asks, pretending to be disgusted.

"I don't care," I say, shrugging my shoulders. I have to concentrate to keep myself from blushing.

"If my brother was doing that right next door, I think I'd . . ."

"Your brother is 14 and his mouth is full of braces!"

"It doesn't keep him from . . ."

Then she mimes an explicit choreography, thrusting her hips and lifting her eyebrows in rhythm.

"Seriously?"

"What do you think, Liv? Not everyone has joined the convent, like you. Speaking of which, what are you waiting for? You can leave whenever you want?"

"I'm waiting for you to finish braiding the other side of my head so I don't look like some nutcase who will scare away all the guys!"

But my best friend decides to leave me half white/half black after getting a text from Drake who's feeling bored in his room. I spend another sleepless night in the den, taking my frustration out on my braids as I undo them, trying to come up with a plan to set the house on fire without anyone finding me out.

At least it would get him out of his room!

And it would give his latest conquest an actual reason to scream!

***

The third night, after another day carefully avoiding Tristan, I start to regret having these two weeks off: no work at the agency, my best friend is preoccupied and Fergus is gardening all day and collapsing at night. And my grandma is obsessed with her nesting pelican. I could have spent two weeks on the beach in the Bahamas, talking with my dad, playing with Harry and fighting with Sienna. It might have been kind of painful, but at least I would have had something to do. Secretly, I'm furious that Tristan is not using this time without our parents to test me and seek me out, challenge me and do things to me that he knows he won't get punished for. And I'm even more furious that I was so naive to think he'd want to do all that with me.

That or other things . . .

The third night, strangely, nothing happens. The house seems to be empty. The rooms are silent. I'm tempted to go into Tristan's room to see what I can find in there. My fingers tremble with anticipation, curiosity eats away at me and my heart is racing as if I were about to rob a bank. It's his lair. The place where all these girls can go, except me. The place he's never taken me. The place he's always forbidden me from entering, even when we were fifteen and we hated each other plain and simple. My hand shakes as it pushes down on the handle. Then I stop. I run into my room and slide down the door, out of breath and ashamed. I'm not ashamed because I wouldn't dare do that to him. Not because it's bad or nosey or because I couldn't stand him doing the same thing to me. But simply because I feel ridiculous. Obsessed with a boy – something I promised myself I would never be. Haunted by torrid memories that only seem to exist in my head. Exhilarated by the idea of stealing a few seconds of his privacy, the intimacy he doesn't want to share with me, at least not anymore.

Damn it! I don't recognize myself. I refuse to be THAT girl!

After watching a movie on the big screen downstairs and eating a tube of Pringles for "dinner," I forbid myself from looking out the window, waiting for him to come home, and finally head up to bed. It's past midnight and I decide that's an acceptable time to turn in for the night when you're 18 and your parents are out of town, while still retaining an ounce of dignity. Any earlier would be a crime against youth and freedom.

I don't know what time it is when I'm awoken by the worst noises I could think of: laughter, moaning and sighs. I can't make out a female voice, but I know very well where it's coming from. The room next door, the one I should have broken into earlier and torn apart. It would have kept me from having to do it now in the middle of the night. The sound gets louder and then I start to hear the rhythmic banging of a bed hitting the wall, harder and harder.

I storm out of my room, angry, and storm right into Tristan's room without knocking, screaming incomprehensible things, finishing with "about done?!", "can't sleep!", "nympho!" and "I know how to squeal like a wild animal too." I stop, realizing I've run out of things to say and that I'm achieving nothing but making him laugh. Tristan is alone in his room, standing on his bed, which he moved so it would bang against our shared wall.

"Oh sorry, did I wake you?" he says between guttural bursts of laughter.

"You're such an asshole, Tristan Quinn!" I yell, throwing anything I can find at his head.

"A real little shithead," I say, throwing a book at him. "You've got the brain of a three year old," I say as I throw a handful of pens at his head. "A fucking manipulative bastard," I scream louder, throwing a pair of scissors.

His muscular legs jump away, still laughing as he dodges the projectiles with a few lithe twists in his black boxer briefs that keep me from seeing clearly.

"Not the lamp! My dad gave it to me," he says as he lunges at me to grab my arm.

I set it back down, but try not to give in to his dark, anxious eyes. They go back to their insolent blue when he murmurs:

"Nice panties . . ."

"Shut it, Quinn," I whisper, not wanting to lose this round.

Not just yet . . .

"Looks like you were pretty restless in your sleep; your hair is a real mess," he says, his dimple sinking into his cheek as he hooks one finger around a lock of my long blond hair that has fallen over my face.

"Don't ever do that to me again," I grumble, ignoring what he's doing so I don't forget the reason for my anger.

Or the reason I'm in his room.

"It took a while to make you jealous," he finally grumbles a few inches from my face.

"What are you playing at?" I sigh, struggling internally to keep myself from kissing him first.

"It took long enough," he repeats, as if to stall for a few seconds. "I had to spend two delightful evenings with girls who giggle at absolutely anything," he adds with a cruel smirk.

This comment is the last straw and my tears rise almost instantly. I push him back violently and slam the door to his room, running to hide in my own. I don't want him to see me cry with rage. I go hide behind the wall, the barrier that protects us from our forbidden games.

I don't want to play his damn games anymore.