romeo remeemed

chapter 11

ariel

I ' m half awake, half asleep, floating in that in-between place when you're awake enough to know you're dreaming but asleep enough that the dream seems real. I'm with the beautiful boy on the hill again. This time we're alone, lying side by side, holding hands, bare legs tangled in the tickly grass. The sun is warm on our faces and the air is sweet and fresh, and I'm so happy, I'm not sure I'm capable of being happier. I want to stay here forever, on this hillside, our little piece of heaven. Or hell. The man in the robe, and his giant, bloody fingers, flash through my mind. I remember the way the ground opened up and pulled the boy under. Fear tries to break through the bliss. I know I should warn him, but my lips won't move. I'm frozen, mesmerized by the feel of his toes curled around my calf. I've never touched another person like this, so easy and relaxed, but sensual at the same time. I wonder if this is what it's like to have a lover, and my belly flutters. I tell myself it's just a foot and a leg, not that big a deal, but my body won't listen. My skin hums, and my insides melt as his thumb rubs back and forth across the back of my hand. I hold my breath, praying he'll roll over and kiss me, press me into the grass with his weight until we're even more tangled up in each other and I forget that terrifying things exist. "I love being with you," I whisper. "I never want to leave." "I love you." The words make me roll my head his way. When I do, I'm not surprised to see Dylan's eyes in the boy's face. My mind is mixing them together. The boy's hand feels like Dylan's too, and his voice is the same husky mumble. "I do, you know. Even if I don't know it yet." I smile. "You're a dream." "Am I?" he asks, a twinkle in his eyes. "Maybe you're the dream." "I don't care who's dreaming, as long as we never wake up." "Agreed." He shoots me a look that makes me shiver, and I suddenly can't wait for him to come to me. I roll over, my hair spilling around his face as I find his lips. I kiss him, and he moans into my mouth as his hand slides down my back, lingering at my waist, squeezing my hip, making me wish I were brave enough to let the need I feel when he touches me lead the way. I want to pull my soft, gray dress over my head while he looks up at me from his place on the ground and decides what part of me he's going to-"Ariel? Are you awake?" A distant voice echoes across the mountain. The dream world goes fuzzy around the edges. The grass and sun fade away, until there's only the black behind my eyes. I expect to feel sad to leave the boy, but it's hard to feel sad when I'm so warm and my blood is rushing so fast and I wake up to find Dylan's lips on mine. Or I guess my lips are on his. He's lying on the couch, and I'm halfway on top of him, our legs entwined, his hand at the small of my back, my hand sliding under his shirt. I feel his bare skin hot against my fingers and break off the kiss with a wobbly breath. The room is dark, and a few feet away the credits are rolling at the end of Carrie. We must have fallen asleep. "Are you-" "Yes," I whisper. "I'm awake." "But you weren't a second ago." I pull my hand from under his shirt, my face so hot I'm afraid I'll catch fire. "No. I wasn't." He smiles. "You were sleep-kissing." "I guess." I'm hyperaware of how close we are, but uncertain how to gracefully disengage. If only I had more experience waking up on top of a gorgeous boy. Or more experience being this close to a member of the opposite sex, period. "I know," he says. "I kept saying your name and you didn't answer, and then ..." "Then what?" "Nothing." He shrugs. "It's no big deal." "Tell me. Or I'll be even more embarrassed." "You shouldn't be embarrassed." He wraps his arms around my waist, holding me tight when I try to pull away. After a moment, I relax. His body feels too good to fight, and beneath the awkwardness, there is an unexpected ... familiarity. We fit, Dylan and me. "Please, I want to know." "You bit me," he says, voice husky. "Just a little bit. On my neck." "Ohmygod." I glance down to see the faint imprint of teeth marks on his skin, and humiliation steals my breath away. Or maybe it's the way he's looking at me-with that light in his eyes that tells me I'm not the only one who thinks we fit together very nicely-that makes it hard to breathe. "I'm so sorry." "I'm not." His hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt. "You can bite me anytime." "You like being bitten?" "I like anything you do to me." Oh my. I lick my lips. "I was asleep. I've never bitten anyone before." "So you don't think you have any latent sadistic tendencies?" I let out a shaky laugh as his hands slide from my waist to the base of my ribs. "You sound disappointed," I murmur, my mouth drifting closer to his. "Well ..." His wicked grin makes my nerves sizzle. "I told you I liked it rough, didn't I?" "Excuse me?" comes a shocked voice from the kitchen, killing the joking response on my lips. My mom. She's home. Oh god! "Ariel? What's going on in here?" I peek over the back of the couch and try to look innocent as I subtly unwind my legs from Dylan's. "Hi, Mom. You're home early." I sound guilty, and the way Mom's arms are crossed and her fingers are digging into her yellow scrubs isn't a good sign. Beside me, Dylan drops his feet to the ground and tugs his gray T-shirt back around his waist. A quick hand through his hair, and no one would guess he's been doing what we've been doing. If only I could say the same. I can feel my hair fuzzing around my head, and my lips are still hot and puffy. My mom doesn't date much, but I'm sure she remembers what a girl who's been making out looks like. Oh man. This is going to be bad. What do I say? How to explain what she heard? I pull in a breath, but before I can speak, Dylan stands and circles the couch with an outstretched hand. "Hi, Mrs. Dragland. I'm Dylan. Ariel and I went out last night. Sorry I didn't come inside to meet you before." Mom takes his hand, but she doesn't look happy about it, and ends the shake after a barely polite second. "I remember you, Dylan. You're the one who got my daughter drunk and let her walk home by herself." "Yeah. I ... messed up." He ducks his head. "I got worried when Ariel wasn't at school. That's why I came by to check on her. I wanted to make sure she was okay, and let her know how sorry I was." "And she obviously forgave you." Mom's brow arches in my direction. I stand, debating whether I'm feeling brave enough to cross to the other side of the room. "I had to crawl on my belly across your kitchen floor, but it was worth it," he says. "And your floor's a little cleaner now, so ..." He smiles, but Mom is not amused by clean-floor jokes. I gather my courage and hurry around the couch. "It's my fault," I say. "I was lonely after being by myself all day, so I asked Dylan to stay and watch a movie. We were watching Carrie and fell asleep." "You sounded like you were asleep," she says, reminding me I come by my sarcastic streak honestly. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I'm too embarrassed. I look down at the floor and squirm my toes into the carpet, wishing I had my shoes on. I'd feel so much less vulnerable with shoes. And maybe a sweater, and a suit of armor with a Mom-glare-deflecting force field. "We just woke up," Dylan says. "We didn't do anything wrong, I promise." "My definition of wrong and yours might be different, Dylan. I'd like you to leave, please." "Okay." The hurt in his voice makes me want to strangle my mother. Why is she doing this? In front of the first boy who's ever dared step foot in the Freak's house? "Is it okay if I pick Ariel up for school tomorrow?" "I'll take her to school." Mom shoots another narrow look my way. "If she's feeling well enough to go, of course." "Oh ... all right." Dylan takes a step toward the door, but then turns back to my mom with a sigh. "Listen, I know you're angry, and I know you probably heard us joking, and it wasn't the kind of joke a mom wants to hear, but I care about Ariel. I really do." "I'm sure you do." The condescension in Mom's voice makes me cringe. If she keeps treating him like a little kid, I'm going to die. Or wish I were dead if I get too angry. I can't handle another episode tonight, not two nights in a row, not after this beautiful day that has me dreaming things I've never dared to dream before. Dylan doesn't think I'm a freak. He knows about the screaming things and all the rest of it, and he still kissed me and held me and acted like I was a normal girl. Maybe I can be normal. With him. If my mom doesn't ruin everything by laying down the parental law the one time I don't need her help. Instead of backing away, Dylan steps closer. "I'm sorry we've gotten off on the wrong foot, Mrs. Dragland, but I hope you'll give me a chance to prove that I'm good for Ariel. I promise I would never do anything to hurt her." Mom's brows draw together, but she doesn't say anything right away. I can't decide if that's a good sign or a bad one. Usually she's pretty quick with a comeback. Maybe she's actually thinking about what Dylan said. Or maybe she's thinking about how long it will take her to grab my grandfather's .22 from her closet. Dylan has danger written all over him. But then, that's part of what I like about him. What I more than like ...? No. It's barely been a day since I found out about the bet. I'd be an idiot to trust him completely. Even when he's saying the right words, there's something off in the way he says them. I don't think he's lying, but I don't think he's telling the whole truth, either. I want to know what he's hiding. What he's holding back when he's been so open about other things. His honesty was painful today, but even the story about his brother didn't break through that final wall between him and the truth. Still, when he looks my way, I don't see anything false in his eyes. He wants to be with me. And he wants it badly enough to stand and talk this out with my mom when it would be so much easier for him to walk out the door. "That's a big promise, Dylan," Mom finally says. "Especially for a seventeen-year-old boy." "I'm eighteen," Dylan says, a daring hint of playful in his tone. "December baby." Mom doesn't smile. "I'm sure you know what I mean. Sometimes we hurt people without meaning to, especially when we're young." "I know. But I meant what I said." Mom considers him for a moment before nodding, just once. "All right, but we're going to have some ground rules." She turns to me. "No company if you're supposed to be home sick. Got it?" I bob my head. "Yes, Mom. Sorry. I didn't even think about that." "And from now on you have a midnight curfew on weekends and eleven on school nights," she says. "I talked to the girls at work, and that's the time their teenagers have to be in, so don't tell me I'm being unfair." I nod again, so glad that she's not going to forbid me to see Dylan, that I don't even stop to think about what's fair or unfair. "And if it becomes an issue," she says, "I expect you two to use birth control. Birth control pills and a condom to protect against disease." Oh. My. God. My eyes squeeze closed, and my heart shrivels like a shame-scorched raisin. If I didn't know what embarrassment was before, I certainly do now. How could she? Right here, right now? In front of Dylan? "Yes, ma'am," Dylan mumbles. He's staring at his feet, his face bright red. Great. Now he's mortified too. I shoot Mom a wide-eyed "What in god's name are you doing!" look. "I'm sorry." Her casual shrug makes it clear she's not sorry. At all. "I'm a nurse, and I don't believe in leaving things unsaid that could affect you both for the rest of your lives. I've seen too many pregnant high school girls." She hangs her purse on the hook by the door and kicks off her shoes, proving how comfortable she is with this line of discussion. I swear, I think she's enjoying making us squirm. "Those girls are almost always alone, and the boys who promised not to hurt them are long gone." Dylan looks up. "I understand." "I don't think you do." Mom props her hands on her hips. She doesn't sound angry-only matter-of-fact-but that doesn't make the atmosphere on our side of the room any less stressful. "I had Ariel when I was nineteen, but I want her to have time to learn who she is before she has to learn how to be a mom." "Me too," Dylan says, his voice soft, almost ... wistful. He has that sad look on his face again, the same one he had when he talked about his brother. I wonder if he's thinking about him now. Or maybe he's thinking about his mom, who, according to the rumors, ran off and left Dylan and his dad right before they moved here. Either way, I wish I were beside him, holding his hand. Then do it. He put himself out there, and all you've done is stand and watch. Right. I force my wobbly legs to move, crossing to Dylan and slipping my hand into his. He glances over at me, surprised. Then he smiles, and suddenly I don't feel awkward or embarrassed or unsure anymore. Whatever his secrets, Dylan needs me. Maybe as much as I need him. Maybe even more. "Well then. I guess we're all on the same page." Mom sighs a funny little sigh. I look up to see her leaning against the archway leading into the family room, watching us with a faint smile. "You have all your homework done for tomorrow?" I nod. "As far as I know." "Okay. Then you two can watch some more TV if you want. But Dylan should be gone by ten-thirty, and you in bed by eleven, Ariel. You need to get some rest." "Okay." "I'll be in my room with the door cracked, and I'll be able to hear everything," she says. "Nice to meet you, Dylan." "Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Dragland. Thank you." She smiles. "You're welcome." After she's gone, Dylan and I stand in the darkness holding hands, the soundtrack from the menu screen of the Carrie DVD playing softly behind us. Despite the creepy music, I suddenly feel like laughing. We did it. We survived. And Dylan is still here. But when I turn to him-expecting to see him as relieved as I feel-his smile has slipped and gone sad again. "What's wrong?" I ask. "I'm ... afraid." "Of what?" "I don't want to mess this up," he whispers. "You didn't. She's not mad anymore, I can tell." "I don't mean that. I ..." He pulls his hand from mine. "I don't want to hurt you." "Then don't," I say, feeling stiff and nervous now that we're no longer connected. "Things aren't that simple." He props his hands on the back of the couch, his shoulders hunched. "There are things I can't control." Oh. I see. I should have known we couldn't go on like this, so easy and comfortable. We'll be back in the real world tomorrow, and my life there is still as crappy as it's ever been. Still, there's no reason Dylan has to get down and wallow in it with me. "Is this about school?" I ask. "Because if it is, I ... We don't have to act like ... you know." I was about to say we don't have to act like we're together, but we haven't talked about being together, and I hate the idea of pretending he means nothing to me, that I mean nothing to him. I bite my lip. "I mean, if you're worried about what your friends will think, I-" "No." He turns, shaking his head. "I told you, I don't care about my friends. It's ... something I can't talk about." He looks away, focusing on a spot over my shoulder the way I've noticed he does when he's nervous. I know so much more about him than I did this morning, but I want to know more. I have to know what he's hiding. "Why not?" I ask. "We've talked about a lot of things." "Nothing like this. You'll think ..." His eyes meet mine for a second before shifting away again. "I don't know what you'll think." "Try me," I whisper. He stares into the kitchen, like he's searching our faded cabinets for the answer to some unspoken question. "Maybe I will," he finally says. "But not right now." I sag, feeling like I've failed a test. "Give me a hint?" "A hint?" "Yeah. Just so ..." So I know you're not keeping something awful from me. So I know I'm not going to find out that everything I think about you is wrong. So I can keep falling for you and know it's okay, because at this point I'm not sure I can stop. "I'll sleep better," I say instead. "I'm not so sure about that." He hesitates, and I'm starting to think I've heard his final word on the subject when he asks, "Do you believe in magic?" "What kind of magic?" "The kind that has the power to change the future. Spells that make people gods and slaves and monsters. That kind of magic. Real magic." He isn't joking. I can tell. "I don't know," I say, seriously considering what he's said. "I've always wanted to believe in magic, but ..." I think about my life, about pain and monotony and unfairness broken only by moments when I'm too lost in my art to care. I think about my missing friend with her miserable excuse for a dad, and Dylan's messed-up home life, and the cliquey people in this town who never gave my mom a chance to fit in. I think about crooked politicians and global warming and greed and selfishness and apathy and hate and my increasing assurance that there is no way out to a better place from these dark times, and sigh. "No, I don't." "Really?" he sounds surprised. "I don't see much evidence to support believing in magic." "You don't find your life magical?" I almost laugh. He's got to be kidding. "No, I don't. Is there something about my life that you find especially magical?" "More than you know." "Like what?" "More than I can tell you right now," he says, still frustratingly vague. "But I will say this: I believe in magic. I know it exists, and I know that some of it is good, and some of it is unreservedly evil." The way he says evil makes my skin itch, like I can feel all the bad things in the world circling around me, drawing closer and closer. I think about my dream and the man in the robe, and shiver. "How do you know?" "I'll tell you. Soon." He lifts a finger and traces the place on my cheek where soft becomes bumpy. Even this morning I would have cringed, but now his touch only makes my heart beat faster. He really thinks I'm beautiful. That alone is almost enough to make me consider the existence of magic. "But in the meantime, be careful," he says. "And don't get angry if you can help it." "Why?" "I don't think you're crazy." He tips his head, bringing his lips closer to mine. "I think those things you hear are real, the result of some bad magic, and connected to some very dangerous beings." "Don't joke," I say. "Not about that." "I'm not. I'm serious. Just in case I'm also right, it's safer if you don't attract their attention." I shake my head, too overwhelmed to know what to think, or which of the dozens of questions racing through my mind to ask first. Before I can decide, Dylan stops me with a finger on my lips. "I promise I'll tell you more. Right now you need some rest." "You think I can rest? After ..." My hands scoop the air, gathering up everything he's said. "You just told me you think I'm cursed, or something. You're either joking or crazy or -" "Or right." I pause, assessing him. "There's no such thing as magic." "I wish you were right." My skin prickles. I'm getting close to his secret. I can feel it. "How do you know? Where did Dylan Stroud learn so much about the supernatural?" "A better question would be, what if I'm not Dylan Stroud?" What? What the heck does that mean? "Haven't you heard you shouldn't judge a book by its cover?" he asks. "Especially if all the words inside are different?" His words skip across the surface of my brain, leaving disturbing ripples behind. If I ignore common sense, I can almost see the image the ripples are forming, a flowing map to guide me from the changes I've noticed in Dylan to the reason for them. But I can't. It's too far to travel. If I start down that road ... if I even let myself consider ... "That's crazy," I whisper. "Yes. But something to think about." He smiles. "Think your mother will let me drive you to school tomorrow? Now that we're all friends and united by a belief in the careful use of contraception?" My cheeks burn, the memory of my mother's mortifying behavior distracting me for a moment. "Yes," I mumble. "I think so." "Good. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. Seven o'clock. We'll get breakfast." He kisses my forehead, and moves toward the door. For a second I think about begging him to stay, but I don't. I stand and watch him slip into the night, wondering which of us is crazier-him for introducing such an insane possibility, or me for thinking about believing it?