8. I Like You
I LIKE YOU
I bite my lip and suppress the tears from leaking out.
I shouldn’t have to tell Conner to appease him. This is for the best. What he is doing is what I want.
I want Conner to stop speaking to me. Opening my old wounds is something I don’t want him to do.
This is what I want, isn’t it?
He parks in front of the home he assumes is mine. Mrs Crawford is awake. The living room light protrudes from the slit in the curtains.
To make it worse, she peeks through the blinds to watch us.
“Is that your mum?” he asks.
“No. My grandma,” I lie. “She, uh…can’t live by herself—and she doesn’t like the old folks’ home.”
It’s not necessarily that much of a lie. Mrs Crawford has told everyone on our street that she refuses to give up her late husband’s home.
“Can I ask you something, Noya?”
I don’t like where this is going.
When I don’t respond, he asks, “Who is that beer for? I thought it was for Sammy, and that maybe you two were sneaking off to bum around at the park. But when you noticed me noticing you holding the beer, you looked hurt. Besides, Sammy doesn’t live nearby.
I saw her get on a different bus from yours.
” Conner furrows his brow as he shakes his head.
“I can’t think of anyone else you’d buy beer for until it is actually just for you. ”
“You’re right.”
“You see, I can’t believe that, Noya.” Conner rests his arm on my chair and leans closer towards me. “You’re lying to me, and the more you lie, the more I want to know what you’re hiding.”
“Why? Why, Conner?” The tears I try to hold in spill onto my cheeks, and I clutch my bag with trembling hands.
Conner leans back, raises his hands, then settles them on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. I guess because I like you.”
I scoff. “Look who is lying through their teeth now.” I swing the car door open and step out, grabbing my bag and taking it with me. “You asked about my fear earlier tonight. I’m afraid of hurting you because that’s all I’m known for.”
As angry as I am, I still gently shut his car door.
“Noya!” Conner says as he leaves the confines of his car. “What does ‘I don’t want to hurt you’ mean?”
He comes around the front with a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand.
I dart a quick look down the darkened street; the croaking sounds of frogs are the only sound. “Exactly how I said it.”
“Well,”—he sucks in the toxic smoke and then tilts his head to the side, breathing it towards the breeze of the warm wind—“what if I don’t care?”
“Oh, so you’re a masochist?”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I suppose so.”
I dart another look down the street. A slight glow comes from the intersection.
“Can I pick you up tomorrow morning?” he asks.
“Um…”—the glow grows in size—“not here. Meet me at the bus stop in front of the service station. Now, can you please go? My parents are strict.”
“Oh, sorry! I don’t want them to get the wrong idea,” he says with a wink.
My face burns, and it wouldn’t surprise me if I burst like a balloon from the heat.
“I will see you at eight.”
“Eight?”
“We can get breakfast before heading to school.”
“Oh, I am—” the glow of the far headlights turns down this street. “Okay, just go… please.”
“See you tomorrow, Noya,” he calls before entering his car.
He makes a U-turn and leaves without hesitation. I guess the super strict parents and my grandma (not really my grandma) seeing me had played in my favour.
When I’m near the front door to my home, Dad drives across the lawn, leaving dirt tracks across the already dying, dry grass.
I wait as he stumbles his way towards me, the same chant occupying my thoughts. Give him the beer and head straight into your room!
Dad collides with the brick house, grumbling and swearing as he struggles to take the steps to the front door. Those beady brown eyes can’t focus, and he slurs, “Where the fuck is my beer?”
“Here, Dad,” I answer as I raise the bag with the pack inside.
He snatches the bag and spits, “Get the fuck out of my way.” And before I can move, let alone blink, the sudden pain surges across my cheek. “You shouldn’t have stood in my way.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Fuckin’ sorry. Everyone in this house is always fuckin’ sorry. It has lost its fuckin’ meaning!”
I cup my heated cheek while I stand by the front door. I imagine Dad stumbling into the kitchen, losing his balance against the counter, and a knife slicing across his throat. But before his body falls, I tear my thoughts out of my imagination and head into my room and lock the door.
Luckily for me, Dad is too drunk and out of it to start an argument. But I hear the sobs of Mum when their bed creaks against the wall.
I reach across my bed, open the first drawer, and take out my earphones. As I scroll through my playlist, the one I added in Conner’s car appears. “Would Anyone Care” by Citizen Soldier.
Pressing my thumb against the play button, I turn onto my side, close my eyes, and block out the whimpered sobs coming from the room next to mine.