Sempre (Forever) (6 page)

“Absolutely not,” he said. “You'd come home with underwear no bigger than dental floss.”

“And you think Jen won't? She doesn't even wear underwear.”

Vincent glared at him. “Go to school.”

“Yeah, fine.”

He turned to walk away, but his father called after him. “If you really want to make it up to me, there’s something you can do.”

Carmine glanced back at him. “What?”

“Stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll try, but I’m pretty sure wreaking havoc is in my genes, Dad.”

The bell rang just as Carmine climbed out of the car at school. His classmates rushed around him, but he just stood there in the parking lot. He had a test in first period and an oral report to give in second, neither of which he was prepared for.

“You're not going to class?” a voice asked behind him as the tardy bell rang, making him late.

He turned to see Meghan Rutledge in her black and white Durante High tennis uniform, her hair neatly pulled back with a ribbon. “Why, are you planning to squeal to your daddy about the delinquent loitering in the parking lot?”

Fidgeting, she toyed with the hem of her skirt. “No, I was asking since I wasn't going to first period.”

“You're cutting class?” She always seemed like the model student to him. “What do you plan to do for the next hour?”

“I don't know. What do people do when they skip?”

“Whatever they want,” he said. “Well, except for stand in the middle of the parking lot. The guy in the main office, Jackass Rutledge, will bust you if you’re out here.”

She cracked a smile. “I hear you see him a lot.”

“Probably more than you do.”

She laughed. “So can I skip with you? It's just that my boyfriend—or I guess my ex-boyfriend—is my lab partner and…”

Blah, blah, blah
was all he heard for the next minute as she rattled on about things he couldn't care less about. “Yeah, you can come with me,” he said when she stopped talking, fighting the immature teenage boy inside of him who begged to snicker at the innuendo.

She blushed, her eyes downcast. She looked so sweet, so willing, and Carmine didn’t feel guilty about the fact that he was going to benefit from it.

An hour and a half later, Carmine waltzed into his second period classroom and disrupted the American History teacher, Mrs. Anderson, in the middle of a lecture. She smiled curtly. “Mr. DeMarco, I'm happy you could join us. You're just in time to give your presentation on the Battle of Gettysburg.”

He groaned, having forgotten all about it. She motioned toward the front of the room, and he begrudgingly took his place as she sat behind her desk. “You can begin any time.”

“Uh, the battle happened in Pennsylvania. It was, like, 1800s.”

“1863,” Mrs. Anderson corrected him.

“Yeah, what she said. General Lee led his army up from the South; they met the North in Gettysburg. A bunch of people died on both sides, hundreds of thousands.”

“Tens of thousands, Mr. DeMarco.”

“Same difference,” he said. “The South lost and the North won. Abraham Lincoln came and gave the
Emancipation Proclamation
.”

“The
Gettysburg Address
,” Mrs. Anderson said. “The
Emancipation Proclamation
was delivered six months before the battle.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Who's giving the report here?”

She waved her hand. “Proceed then.”

“Like I said, the North won. The slaves were all freed.
Hurrah, hurrah
. The end.”

He bowed jokingly, and everyone laughed as Mrs. Anderson shook her head. “Did you even read the material?”

“Of course I did.”

“Who was the leader of the North?”

“Lincoln.”

“No, he was the president.”

“Yes, which means he was the fucking leader of everyone.”

Mrs. Anderson's face clouded with anger.
Oops
. “You won't use that language in my classroom.”

“Could've fooled me,” he said, “because I thought I already did.”

There was a collective gasp among his classmates as Mrs. Anderson stood up, and Carmine started toward the door before the words could even come from her mouth. “Principal's office,” he muttered, mocking her the same time she said it.

He strolled down the hall, in no rush to see the principal again so soon, and froze in the lobby when he heard voices. “You just don't understand, Dad,” Meghan said, standing right outside the office with her father. Carmine snickered when he noticed her skirt was crooked, but his amusement faded when Principal Rutledge spoke.

“I understand enough. I want to know what you did, young lady. Why weren’t you in class?”

Carmine turned around and went the other direction.

The house was silent when Carmine made it home. He headed to the third floor and paused when he reached the top of the stairs. Standing in the library, in the same spot she'd been hours earlier, was Haven. She stared out into the backyard with a vacant look on her face, her arms wrapped around her chest.

He cleared his throat to get her attention, and she flinched but didn't look his way. After a moment, he strolled over and paused beside her. Her body grew rigid as she held her breath, and he could feel the tension rolling off of her when their arms brushed together. The simple contact wouldn't have even registered with him if not for her reaction. “Have you even moved? I saw you here hours ago.”

“Yes.”

He waited for her to elaborate, but no more words came. It wasn't until that moment that he realized she was wearing his shirt and pants, vaguely recalling his father taking them from his room. “You have on my clothes.”

Carmine didn't think it was possible, but she somehow managed to grow even more rigid. “I can take them off.”

He stifled a laugh at her words. “You're offering to take off your clothes for me?”

She shook her head. “Your clothes. I have none.”

And just like that, she made him feel a twinge of guilt. She'd have clothes if he would've done what his father asked of him. “What happened to whatever you came here in?”

“They were bloody, so Dr. DeMarco got rid of them.”

“Whose blood?”

“Mine.”

He tilted his head and stared at her. There was something strange about the way she stood motionless but still managed to seem like she was fidgeting. It made him uneasy.

“Well, you can keep the clothes,” he said. “They look good on you.”

Her blank expression slipped, her mouth falling open, and he started backtracking when it dawned on him what he’d said. “I mean, you know, just keep them on. No need to give them back.”

She regained her composure. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna take a nap, Heaven,” he said, wanting away from her to clear his head. He didn’t like feeling uncomfortable in his house.

“Haven,” she corrected him as he started to walk away.

“I know,” he said. “I kinda like Heaven though.”

She turned to him, and their eyes met for the first time since he’d walked into the room. “Me, too.”

*  *  *  *

Despite Carmine’s fierce protectiveness over his belongings, he wasn’t careful about what he did with things. His bedroom was cluttered, his possessions haphazardly strewn around the floor. Shoes were scattered among the heaps of dirty clothes, his hamper sitting empty in the corner of the room. His desk was covered with papers and books, a laptop buried somewhere in the mess.

It never bothered him. He was used to it, nothing about his life neat or tidy. He felt safe there, tucked into the chaos, surrounded by the things only he controlled. It was that which he craved—control over his life—because it was the one thing Carmine felt he never got to have.

A loud succession of bangs pulled Carmine from his sleep. He climbed out of bed and staggered to the door to find his father standing outside. He barged into the room, stumbling over some stuff that was lying on the floor. Grumbling, he kicked it out of the way. “Where are your keys?”

Carmine rubbed his eyes, his guard going up now that someone was in his space. “What?”

“Your car keys,” Vincent said, starting to search through the desk. Carmine watched with shock as he opened a drawer, furiously pushing things around and tossing half of it on the floor. He slammed the drawer after not finding what he was looking for and moved onto the next one.

“What the hell do you want my keys for?”

“Just give them to me!” Vincent opened the top right drawer and grabbed Carmine’s wallet. Fumbling through it, he pulled out the silver American Express credit card and shoved it into his pocket before tossing the wallet aside, going right back to searching.

Carmine’s blood started to boil. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I tried to be your friend,” Vincent said. “I cut you some slack, hoping it was a phase, but you only got worse. So I got tough and sent you away. After what you did last year, so help me God, I hoped you’d get the message. But no, you come back home and start the cycle all over again. The fighting, the back-talking, the disrespect... I can’t take it anymore.”

“What the hell did I do?”

“The better question would be what didn’t you do.”

“Christ, is this about that damn list again?”

“No, it’s not about the list.” He slammed a drawer and grabbed the bottom one, but it wouldn’t budge. “What's in here?”

Carmine didn't answer, just watching as his father yanked on it.

“Where's the key to open it, Carmine?”

“You're not getting it. You're not getting any of my keys.”

Vincent stood up straight at his words. “I am getting your keys. You're on restriction. I mean it this time. You'll go nowhere but to school, and you'll stay there. No more cutting class. You'll do your work, you'll watch your mouth, you'll keep your hands to yourself, and when that last bell rings, you'll come straight home. That's it. Nothing else!”

“I can't,” he said. “I have football.”

“You don't tell me what you can and can't do. I tell you!”

Carmine clenched his hands into fists. “So you're just gonna take football from me? Just like that?”

“You brought this upon yourself.”

Carmine narrowed his eyes as his father moved from the desk over to the dresser. “I brought none of this on me. I'm just living the life you gave me!”

“You can't blame me for this,” Vincent said, opening the top dresser drawer. Carmine groaned as he pulled out a set of keys. “Your brother turned out perfectly fine.”

“My brother didn't go through what I went through! But you know what? I don't care anymore. Go ahead and take football. You may as well, considering I lost everything else because of you!”

There was a brief moment, when those contemptuous words hung in the air between them, that it seemed like time had stopped for Carmine. It was a low blow—he knew that—and he almost felt guilty when he saw the hurt in his father’s expression. “You'll always blame me.”

“You're damn right I will,” Carmine said. “Give me back my keys.”

“No. I paid for the car.”

“I don't care who paid for it,” he said. “It was bought for me, so it's mine. Give me the damn keys.”

“I said no.”

Vincent started to leave, and every ounce of sensibility Carmine had slipped away when he turned his back to him. “If you don't give me my keys, I'm calling the cops.”

His father turned back around so fast the movement startled Carmine. “You wouldn't.”

“I would.”

“You'd risk everything over a car?”

“Yes,” he said. “You would, too, if it was all you had left.”

That flicker of hurt returned but faded just as fast as before. Vincent threw the keys at Carmine, hitting him in the chest with them. “Fine, keep the car. And go to football if it’s that important to you, but the credit card is mine.”

“I don’t care. I don't need your money anyway.”

Vincent laughed bitterly. “We'll see about that, son.”

*  *  *  *

A dozen overflowing shopping bags littered the bedroom floor, splashes of brilliant color against the dreary carpet. Dr. DeMarco had brought them in, saying they were just necessities, but Haven had gone her whole life without so much stuff. She glanced around at them, thinking it had to be some sort of misunderstanding. “Are you sure this is all for me?”

“I’m positive,” Dr. DeMarco said, standing in the doorway behind her. He rocked on his heels, irate, though she wasn’t sure why. “If you find there’s something missing, let me know.”

Haven mumbled her thanks as he walked away, leaving her alone with her new belongings. She unpacked them carefully, hanging the clothes in the closet and putting the bathroom items away. Used to having a bar of white soap, she had no idea what things like bath salts and pumice stones were for.

She changed into some fresh clothes, taking off what belonged to Carmine, before heading downstairs to start dinner. Cooking hadn’t been her main job in Blackburn, as Miss Clara worked in the kitchen, but Haven often helped her whenever she got the chance.

Cooking, according to Miss Clara, was an art. There was no need for recipes or instructions, because the best meals were made with intuition and heart. Miss Clara always put her all into her food, even if she hadn’t often been allowed to taste it. It was a trait Haven had picked up, one that was coming in handy as she stood in the DeMarco’s kitchen.

Dr. DeMarco walked in as she was finishing a pot of spaghetti, and she stood back, nervously awaiting his reaction. He scanned the meal before nodding. “Will you be eating with us?”

Instinctively, she shook her head.

“You don’t have to, but I do insist you eat something every day. I won’t allow you to starve under my roof.”

Even something as generous as offering food sounded like an order coming from him. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he said. “Set the table, and you can be dismissed.”

Chapter 4

Living in Blackburn hadn’t been easy for Haven, with an overabundance of work and a lack of food, but she always found a way to pull through. It was a dismal life, but it had been hers, and it was the only one she’d ever known.