I step into the cool shower and let the icy water run down my back, goose bumps springing up over every inch of my body as I listen to the music. The songs aren’t too bad actually, but of course all I can think about is Mr. Slate. I wonder which tracks are his favorites and imagine him driving in his Tahoe listening to this album.
I lower myself onto the floor of the bathtub as the arctic stream pelts my body. A new song comes on, and it catches me—it’s as if the words were written about him. . . . I close my eyes, recalling Mr. Slate at the study session—his body over mine with that raw hunger in his eyes and how he whispered my name. I haven’t allowed myself to think about that night for weeks, but I finally let my mind go there as the music echoes through the bathroom. Fire burns inside me despite the frigid water, and I force myself to picture Tommy’s face. I imagine Tommy holding me and kissing me at the study session instead of Mr. Slate . . . I imagine us in a hotel room. Pain throbs in my veins as I try desperately to hold on to the sensation, but it slowly dissipates, and I give up. The water turns unbearably cold, forcing me to open my eyes and stand up. So much for that. Feeling dizzy, I throw the faucet onto hot, nearly scorching myself, and rush to wash my hair and body. Just as I turn off the shower, a knock on the door startles me.
“Just letting you know we’re home,” my mom shouts through the door.
“Okay,” I holler back. I turn off my iPod and wrap myself in a towel and head back to my bedroom.
Slipping into my pajamas, I stare at my prom dress hanging on my closet door and try to will myself to feel something. Anything. The harsh reality is that Mr. Slate doesn’t want me. Clearly, he’s attracted to me, or at least was for a moment, but that’s the extent of it. He doesn’t want an eighteen-year-old senior in high school—he just got caught up in the moment. He’s a man. A typical, red-blooded man. No different than Tommy, or any other boy I know. Hot coals of frustration burn inside me, quickly sparking into small flames.
I’ve been holding this man on a pedestal.
Here I am listening to an album just because I know he likes the band. What am I doing? Why do I think he’s so sophisticated and distinguished? Because he’s older? Because he has a career and fancy clothes? Please. You could put Tommy in designer outfits, give him a briefcase, and the dude would still want to bang me in an elevator—he’d probably even give the security camera a thumbs-up while doing so. Mr. Slate made out with a student in his classroom—how’s that any different? Underneath the designer suits is just another boy who can’t control himself. The small flames of fury burst into a blazing wildfire.
That’s it.
I’ll be damned if I let him ruin my senior prom. This is my time. I can’t let some stupid schoolgirl crush destroy my life. Prom—and losing your virginity—is like a rite of passage. And I’m sure his attraction for me never stopped him from going out on dates, or pounding the sheets with The Blonde every night. I bet he stopped bringing her around so she wouldn’t mess up his game. After the way he handled our situation, I have no doubt he has dozens of beautiful women at his disposal. There’s no way he’d ever put his life on hold for me. So why am I letting him stop me from living my life?
I’m going through with it tomorrow night. I love Tommy. He’s fun, sweet, and gorgeous—I bet I would’ve slept with him already if I hadn’t let this selfish infatuation get in my way. I know I can find pleasure with him if I just block this stupid man from my mind. I’m going to have the time of my life with my friends tomorrow. We’re going to laugh, party, and make it unforgettable. This is going to be one of the best nights of my life—I will make sure of it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TODAY IS THE LAST DAY I will see myself as a virgin. Staring into the mirror at my reflection, I examine every inch of my face. Will I look any different after tonight? Of course not. But I can’t help wondering if I’ll be able to notice a change in me. Red catches my periphery, and I turn to my closet door. Running my fingers over the silky fabric, I feel a grin stretch across my face. My beautiful prom dress stares back at me, full of hope, full of promise. I let out a deep sigh. It’s going to be a perfect day . . . and an unforgettable night.
The coffee aroma calls me out of my introspection, and I obey. I wander out of my bedroom and glide down the stairs. My mind feels freer this morning. Peaceful. When I reach the bottom of the stairway, I halt. My dad sits slumped over in his favorite recliner, staring out the window, cupping his coffee mug. He looks like he belongs in some sort of dystopian Folger’s commercial. Something about his behavior, and the stillness of the house, sets off my internal alarms.
“Dad?”
He jerks out of his haze and turns to me, revealing a reddened face.
“Hi, kiddo,” he says, cracking a strained smile.
Kiddo?
“What’s going on? Where’s Mom?”
He turns away from me, focusing out the window again. “She’s at Tammy’s.”
Tammy is my mom’s best friend, and her boss. She must be grabbing some extra hair supplies for Emily and me. But what’s up with my dad?
When I realize he’s not going to divulge any further, I ask, “Why?”
He takes a moment before speaking, and I realize he’s trying to hold his composure. He sets his mug down and rubs his face before resting his elbows on his knees. He folds his hands beneath his chin, his gaze never leaving the window.
“We’re separating, Kaley.”
It takes me several seconds to process his words before they slowly seep into my gut, wrenching my insides.
“What?” I whisper.
My parents’ fighting has been intense, sure, but this can’t be happening. The house has been quiet the past few nights. It’s too sudden; where was the warning? I mean, there are way more steps to take before a separation, right? Like, counseling and dates and—
“Wait,” I say. “You went on a date last night. You seemed fine—you weren’t even fighting. You seemed good!” My voice rises to a pitch I don’t recognize.
“Kaley,” he says with patience. “We didn’t fight last night, you’re right. We had a calm discussion over dinner and stayed up late talking over everything. It was a rational, peaceful conversation. She’s just . . . done.”
“She’s done?” I say, my voice cracking. “And what about you, Dad? Are you done?” A sharp ache in my hand startles me, and I realize I’m gripping the banister with all my strength. I release my hold and shake it out just as he rises from his chair. He’s by my side in three long strides, wrapping his arms around me.
“Yes, I am, Kay. I’m sorry.” A pain in my chest swells, and I break away.
“I can’t cry right now,” I say, stepping back. “I’m sorry, but this is an important day for me.”
Realization crosses his face. “Oh, Kay, it’s your prom today.”
“Yup.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, repelled by his pity. Slipping by him, I rush into the kitchen and pour myself a large cup of coffee in my favorite mug. It has a picture of my parents and me at the state fair several years ago. They look so happy in the photo. How long have they been living this charade? Tears spring up, and I frantically wipe them away. No. This is my night. I can cry about it tomorrow, I just need this one night. My dad enters the kitchen as I’m pulling a carton of hazelnut-flavored cream out of the fridge.
“Is Mom coming back soon?” I ask over my shoulder. “I need to let Emily know what time to be here.”
He leans against the counter. “I just told you she left. . . . Are you okay?”
I turn to him, confused. I guess it was a stupid question. “Yeah, I just . . . I mean . . . well, she was supposed to do our hair.”
“Oh,” he says, grimacing. “I didn’t realize. She didn’t say anything about it. But she probably just forgot; I’ll call her.” As soon as he picks up the phone, I snatch it out of his hand and slam it back down.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“It’s fine, Kay. I’m sure she wants a picture of you and Tommy and all that. She’ll be upset if she misses this.”
“She’ll be upset?”
“Kaley.” He pauses. “Don’t let problems between me and your mother ruin your day.”
A sharp laugh escapes me. Like their problems aren’t my problems—are my parents for real?
“I’ll even leave the house,” he continues, “and let you girls have your day.”
“No, Dad,” I say, exhausted. “Just please . . . leave it alone. It’s no big deal.”
The kitchen falls silent, with just the lonely sound of my spoon scraping the edges of my coffee mug as I stir in the cream. I watch the dark liquid slowly transform into a light, warm caramel, causing the image of Elijah’s eyes to flash in my mind. . . . Mr. Slate, not Elijah, I remind myself.
My dad’s brittle voice breaks through the uninvited image. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call her?”
With my gaze transfixed on the steaming liquid, I give a sharp nod. “I’m sure,” I say, trying to sound convincing.