Forbidden Games

Enough!

That's enough. I've stopped crying. I'm going to get Tristan Quinn back, that's all there is to say. It can't just end like this. He was upset. I was exhausted. We weren't ourselves. The scene in the bar, then in the middle of the road, was nothing but a nightmare. A mistake – a stupid, tragic mistake. But I'm going to fix it. It's my new challenge, my reason to get up in the morning, the greatest adventure. And I'm ready to take it on. Me, Liv Sawyer. I'll use all my talents and qualities, the ones I just about forgot I had: my stubbornness, power of persuasion, my cleverness when it comes to getting out of sticky situations – this is my dad's take on me, anyway.

No, I don't look like a total imbecile as I repeat all of this to myself in the bathroom mirror.

A few months ago, I was a hard, cold, solitary girl. A tomboy who threw swearwords around and chucked things at boys' heads. I didn't have many friends, and I definitely didn't have many boyfriends. Even the idea was foreign to me. But at least back then people respected me. Or they ignored me, and that was just fine. So I've made up my mind: I refuse to turn into one of those cry babies who lets people pick on her without defending herself, who's afraid of everything, breaks down at any little insult, looks away when people stare, and gets depressed because her boyfriend dumped her and she can't stop thinking about everything she should have done.

Repeat after me: "Those days are over! OV-ER!"

But it looks like I'm the only one who feels this way. And it's kind of better when both people are on board when you want to move on and start over – and be forgiven. Tristan has been like a ghost the past two days. His ignoring tactics are epic. He walks by me without seeing me. And he escapes the house as often and for as long as possible. I have to take advantage of every moment he's here, in the same room as me, and try and break through that wall he's built around himself. I start off feeling a bit shy, then I try to be playful – annoying sometimes, as well. But I want to try everything.

At breakfast I put a large dose of salt in his mug. But he doesn't even crack a smile. He just dumps the coffee in the sink and leaves. At dinner I do my best Sienna imitation, my fists on my hips and my lips tight in anger, as if I were furious about some trivial thing. Harry cracks up laughing, but Tristan leaves the table immediately, sighing loudly as if there were now two women ruining his life. One night I steal his guitar and take it into my room. I sit down with my back against our shared wall and start to play (which I have no idea how to do), singing a ballad I make up as I go along. I wait for him to do something, hoping this will touch a chord. He just leaves his room and goes downstairs. I hear him put on his shoes and slam the front door. He doesn't even come home that night. He doesn't say a word the next day or the days after. I can't read even the slightest emotion in his eyes. His gorgeous face is void of all expression. And his indifference makes me feel sick. It hasn't just been two days now, it's been two weeks!

How is he holding out? Does it mean he really feels nothing? That I have no impact on him now? Or is he just too proud to let me get to him? Too stubborn to give in? Or just a good enough actor so that nothing shows?

There's only one way to find out. One night, when the rest of the house is asleep, I tiptoe into his room. Dressed the way I know he likes, in my sleep shorts and a tank top with no bra, my hair cascading over my shoulders (I went for a wild look and gave it a good shake-up first). His bedside lamp is on. I can see he's not asleep. I go stand in front of him: nothing. I slip into his bed, but he tenses up immediately. He stares at the ceiling as if he were completely unaffected by my presence. So I go one step further and slide under the sheets, curling up against his body to feel his skin. I wrap my cold arm around his warm body and bury my face into his neck. I've missed him so much.

I detect some hesitation on his part. His chest heaves as if he were trying to get air. His nose is close to my hair and he breathes in my scent. His clenched fist relaxes, as if the idea of touching me were making his fingers restless. But he resists. He gently pushes me away and sits up, saying:

"You can't do this, Liv. You don't get it. It's not what I want. I mean, I'm not saying I don't want it. But . . . messing with me when no one's around. Coming here in secret. Trying to get me to laugh behind Sienna's back. You're still playing this little secretive game. It drives me crazy. I've fought against it enough. Against you. And I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to hide anymore. That's what I want. That's it."

He sighs again and his warm breath is forceful enough to lift a lock of my hair. Then he slowly gets up and leaves the room. I watch him go, listening to his footsteps: hall, stairs, downstairs den, closed door. He's going to sleep on that couch, the one where we made love for the first time. And I wonder if his choice of location is entirely innocent. I'm alone, sitting on his bed, in his world. I can still hear his muffled voice that made me shiver, smell the mixture of laundry detergent and cologne, see that tiny hint of a smile he couldn't fight when he admitted "I'm not saying I don't want it."

At least he spoke to me. He explained. He hasn't totally closed the door. He might have pushed me away, but this time, it didn't seem quite so easy. And even if he says he doesn't "want to" anymore, maybe I can convince him.

It's the beginning of March, most of the students have left Key West to spend spring break in Fort Lauderdale where everything is cheaper. It's a week of craziness. Fergus and Bonnie wouldn't have missed it for the world. Drake, Elijah, Cory and Jackson are pumped up as well. The only Key Why who decided to pass is Tristan. And I'm almost relieved that he decided to give up the chance to forget his troubles by going off with his stupid, horny friends – or some girl in a bikini who would whisper in his ear: "Who's that dumb bitch that rejected you? Come here, baby, I'll help you forget all about her!"

"Could one of you watch Harrison today?" Sienna asks one morning. "Monica bailed on me."

"Erica," I mutter into my coffee cup. "The nanny's name is Erica."

"Her name has nothing to do with my problem, Liv!"

My stepmom is in a fighting mood. It's not like it's anything new, but since the incident at the country club, she's let loose completely. I'm tempted to run away. At the other end of the counter, Tristan doesn't say anything, but I can see his jaw tighten when he hears his mother's strident voice. Harry is drinking his chocolate milk out of a bottle on the couch, watching the three of us from afar.

"I can take him to the beach this morning," I offer. "How about dog beach, Harry?"

"So he can be bitten and deformed for life?" Sienna says in outrage, her eyes wide.

"It'd be better than sitting here gathering dust in his perfectly ironed shirt and impeccable bowl cut," Tristan says.

Could he be sticking up for me? Or just trying to shut his mother up?

"Thanks for the cynicism. If you have a safe and interesting activity you'd like to suggest, I'm listening!"

"You can go, Mom. We'll get along just fine without you."

Tristan's exasperated voice and his insolent attitude are making my stepmom fume. It takes all she's got not to scream. She picks up her purse, phone and keys, then yells from the front door, pretending to be cheerful:

"Your brother doesn't leave the house without my permission, end of discussion. You can decide on everything else. See you tonight, Harry, sweetie!"

The door slams. The car starts. And we sigh in unison in the kitchen. It's a relief for both of us that her toxic presence is out of the house, but her words, "your brother" applied to both of us, feels like salt in the wound.

"You can go do whatever you want, I'll take care of him," Tristan says, getting up.

"No, I want both of you!" Harry cries, running into the kitchen.

"Don't you want to try the skateboard I bought you?"

"Yeah, with Liv!"

"Okay, I'll leave you to it. Have fun!"

"No, you come too!"

"Jesus," he groans under his breath.

"I guess stubbornness runs in the family . . ." I whisper unassumingly.

Tristan turns his back so I won't see him smile. But his dimple betrays him. He picks up his brother and the three of us head outside. My "real estate management and transaction" class can wait. I'm bubbling with excitement, just thinking about spending some time with him, even if it's only because a three-year-old demanded it. When Harry has been equipped with his helmet and knee pads, the front driveway turns into a skate park. Harry asks each of us to hold his hand and run, pulling him. He sure knows how to make life easy for himself! He bosses us around, yelling, "Faster! Slower! Again! You go there! Push! No, not you!" Then he pretends to fall in a way that requires both of us to catch him. He strategically positions us in a circle or human chain, forcing us to touch each other. And funnily enough, neither me nor Tristan do anything to resist the mini tyrant.

"He's cuter when he acts like me instead of his mom, don't you think?" Tristan whispers to me.

"Totally."

Tristan is quiet, as if he regretted letting his guard down to make this little joke. I try to start talking again to keep him from thinking too much or censoring his actions.

"It's better when we're talking instead of pouting at each other, don't you think?"

"Hmm, no comment."

"Make a bridge, I'll go through!" Harry commands.

I lift my arms over my head and Tristan does the same, but they hang there without touching each other, just a few inches apart. We look into each other's eyes.

"Better! A real bridge!" Harry complains. "Wait, I'll go all the way over there! You stay like that! Don't move."

The little boy, who is getting better and better at pronouncing his r's, runs to the end of the drive, his board under his arm. And the older brother smiles at me, both embarrassed, amused and curious to see just how far this might go. I move my arms toward his until our hands meet.

"He's getting to be as stubborn as you, as bossy as his mom . . . and as determined as me!" I say, smiling.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He knows how to get what he wants . . ."

"And what is it you think he wants?"

"The same thing I want."

I intertwine my fingers with Tristan's. He doesn't pull away. I move towards him, ever so slowly, and Harry doesn't complain about the bridge getting smaller. Tristan bites his lip hard. I'm dying to kiss him. And I think he's feeling the same way. His blue eyes are staring at my mouth, his chest is heaving faster and faster. It's stiflingly hot.

"What are you doing?" Sienna screams in her high-pitched voice, making us jump.

Damn! Damn, damn, damn!!!

"We're playing with Harry, no need to yell," Tristan replies, dropping my hands.

"I hope it's not what it looks like!" she barks, glaring at us both. "I forgot my binder! You could have told me when I left!"

My stepmom storms into the house, ruining everything as she goes. Our peaceful silence. Our closeness. The sweet serenity that was hanging over the yard. And even Harrison's game. Now he's crying.

"But I have to go under the bridge!"

"Skateboards are dangerous!" Sienna scolds as she walks back out, her binder under her arm. "I told you he was too little! If you fall, you'll bust your chin open! And you're supposed to wear different clothes when you play outside, not that!"

The little boy looks down at his blue checkered shirt and beige shorts that are dirty at the knees. His eyes begin to brim with tears.

"It's no big deal, Harry! It was a bad idea anyway."

Tristan pulls his little brother up onto his shoulders, and they disappear into the house.

It was the best idea ever! You can all go to hell!

I check my phone is in my pocket and slip behind the gate, leaving Sienna alone in the middle of the yard. I start walking away, praying hard that she'll trip over the skateboard and split her chin open, twist both ankles, tear her designer dress and rupture her vocal chords screaming hysterically.

Twenty minutes and six text messages later, Bonnie joins me at dog beach, a messy braided bun on top of her head and huge movie star sunglasses hiding her eyes. It looks like spring break was not exactly restful.

"I got home an hour ago and I haven't slept in six days. This better be important!"

"Major emergency."

"I'm listening, Porcelain."

"I need one of your sneaky plans . . ."

"Okay, you've got me curious now."

"To win back you-know-who."

"Tristan Quinn?"

"No, Fergus O'Reilly! Yes, Tristan, who else?"

Bonnie slides her sunglasses down her nose and lifts an eyebrow, then pushes the glasses back up with her finger. Has she been to drama school or what?

"Don't ever mention that Irish name in my presence again. He puked on my flip flops just before I was about to hook up with a gorgeous black guy, right in front of Drake. It could have been my moment of glory, Liv! The perfect vengeance. Anyway, I have a plan for you."

"Spill."

"Breast implants. C or D cup, at least."

"Bonnie!"

"Oh alright, if you want a less expensive option, why not hook up with one of his band mates right under his nose? Not Drake, of course. But there are three others."

"The goal is to get Tristan back. Not scare him away forever."

"Elijah isn't bad, you know. And we even have the same braids. I think I'm going through a Black Power phase. What was I thinking, going for a white guy who just can't appreciate my African beauty?"

Bonnie sits up on her knees in the sand and begins moving her hips in a frantic trance-like dance.

"Focus, Beyoncé!"

As she sits down next to me and catches her breath, I tell her of my failed attempts to get closer to Tristan. My little nudges that Tristan has ignored. His speech when I slipped into his bed the other night. His exasperation. Then Sienna ruining our moment and him declaring it was "a bad idea anyway."

"OK, I think you're trying too hard. It's like me when I'm desperate. Or me, all the time! But you're not usually like that. Tristan says he doesn't want to fight anymore, but that's what he loves about you! How difficult you are. You're a constant challenge. Now, he knows all he has to do is snap his fingers and you'll come running. You need to make him want you. Pretend you're indifferent. Stop batting your lashes and running your hands through your hair when he's around."

"You want me to shave my head?!"

"I'll braid it for you whenever you want, you know?! No, you need to make him miss you, Liv! Make him want you. Stress a little, make him wonder how you're getting comfort, and from whom. Until it's killing him not to know."

"You think? He says he's sick of seeing me run away."

"No, he's sick of you hiding, then coming back for more without owning up to what you want. But he never said he wanted things to be over completely. He wants to see you make a real decision. It's simple: leave and take responsibility for your decision. Move in with me!"

"I love your family, Bonnie. But there are already twelve of you!"

"Only seven, but yeah, it might be a little tight. So go see your mom for a while! Maybe you'll meet a gorgeous Parisian who will make you forget Tristan in no time. Are there black guys in Paris?"

"Of course there are. But you're losing focus. I have a job here!"

"Oh, I know! Your grandma! Go live at her place! You get along so well. She'll cheer you up! You could still work at the agency with your dad and keep an eye on what's going on at home. And if it doesn't go as planned, she'll have something you can sniff or smoke to console you."

"I promise I'll share!"

I kiss my best friend loudly on the cheek, just like my grandmother would do to me. I don't know if this plan will have the effect I want on Tristan. But I have nothing to lose. I said I'd try everything. This idea is my last chance to fight for him.

I take out my phone and type a message:

[Betty Sue, do you want to adopt me? Liv]

Her answer arrives at least fifteen minutes later, full of weird letters and symbols, missing spaces and extra periods.

[I welcomed ALL. the animals in thiscity, I can certainly. Make room for my grand&*daughter! #We'll have $o much fun!++]

[And we'll learn to write text messages too. :) Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll be there tonight!]