I Like You Like This Page 5

  Two days later, Babette moved out, taking Deacon and her fortune with her.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I KEEP TELLING YOU, I DON’T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT TIME the robber got into the house. Sometime after midnight, after I went to bed. Geez, you don’t even care that someone broke in when I was home alone!”

  As expected, within minutes of their arrival home, Hannah’s parents had flipped over the state of the sliding door. She tried to hold it together, knowing she’d lose them if she started to cry. Smug, six-year-old Kerry stood like an obedient soldier next to their mother, who gently stroked the little girl’s head.

  “I was really scared Mom . . . Dad,” she said, looking into their faces for any hint of concern for her. “I hid for a while. When I didn’t hear any noise in the house I ran to the bathroom, and that’s when I must have fainted. I hit my nose on the sink, see?”

  “Just go to your room, Hannah,” her father said. Her mother said nothing, just absentmindedly played with one of Kerry’s braids.

  Hannah knew they didn’t give a crap about her; what else could explain their lackluster response to her weekend nightmare? Somehow, her being safe after an intruder invaded their home was not the ending they had hoped for. What if she hadn’t woken up from taking the LSD—what then? Would they have cared?

  She walked slowly to her room, her bruised body and aching nose still demanding cautious movement. The familiar letdown from her parents’ apathy slid into her chest like a blade. She was too tired to cry. She gave in to the pain traveling down her arms and into her thumbs and cuddled her oversized hippo to sleep.

  The sleeping pill she’d lifted from her mother’s wine cabinet before her parents got home had helped Hannah rest most of the night—except when she rolled onto her bruised side, which woke her multiple times—but she still slept through her alarm for school. When she woke up and saw the time, she closed her eyes again. I’m never going to make it anyway, she told herself. There was too little time to get ready and catch the bus. Besides, her body warranted other plans; it felt heavy and tethered to the bed. She could only imagine what her nose looked like. She gently rolled onto her other side and drifted back to sleep.

  She woke again when the kitchen phone started ringing.

  “Hannah? Well of course she went to school. Hang on—” Her mom dragged the phone to Hannah’s room, holding the receiver to her shoulder. Hannah pretended to still be asleep.

  “Okay, she overslept. I’ll run her right over. Bye now,” her mother said in her best singsong parental voice and hung up. Suddenly, she was back in Hannah’s doorway.

  “Get up! You missed the bus!” Her voice had lost all the friendliness it had held during the phone call. “Get up, Hannah! I have to pick up my prescription from Dr. Falso’s office today before they break for lunch. As is, I barely have time to drive you.”

  Hannah winced at the mid-morning sun streaming through the window. She looked over at her mother, still standing in her doorway with her hands on her hips. She was dressed in her new tweed blazer with the large shoulder pads, the perfect power suit for the stay-at-home mom.

  “Mom, my nose. I can’t breathe. I think it’s broken. Please, I can’t go to school,” Hannah croaked. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had set foot in her room. Even now, she held on to the doorframe like it marked the edge of a quarantine area, impatiently tapping one of her heels and studying her Fossil watch.

  “Sleep it off. I’ll be back by noon, after I get your sister from school.” She marched back down the hallway without waiting for a response. Hannah heard the jangle of her keys and the snap of her purse before the front door slammed.

  She exhaled, relieved to be free for a few hours and not at school facing those evil girls—especially Gillian, who had lied to Deacon about her being away. But she wanted to avoid Deacon most of all. Not only had she feebly attempted to punch him, she had hugged him like a child before he left with his “duffel bag of evidence,” the one filled with her incriminating bloodstained clothes and a few rags that wouldn’t get clean.

  She pulled a section of her hair across her lips, still thinking about him. She told herself he was just covering his own butt helping her. There was nothing between them; how could she believe for one minute that he, an incredibly hand-some senior, would ever be interested in her, a pimply-faced sophomore?

  She cringed at the thought of the whole school talking about her. She was sure those girls had spread multiple rumors about her by now. Hannah took LSD. Hannah’s a druggie! Didn’t show up for school, jumped out a window, she’s probably dead! If only she had someone she could talk to besides her diary, not only about the nightmare that nearly killed her but the strange reality of Deacon spending the weekend at her house. It was all too weird.

  She must have dozed off at some point, because she awoke to the sound of the kitchen phone ringing again. Probably her mother, she thought, and let it go. But the voice on the answering machine was nothing like her mother’s.

  “Ah, yeah, this is Officer Stevenson from the 16th Precinct. You asked me to check on all phone calls coming and going to your home this past weekend. We came up with nothing, Mr. Zandana. No calls were made to our station or 911. Thank you and have a good day.”

  She felt sick. Her parents were checking her story; they didn’t believe her. She did call 911 Friday night, more than once. She’d genuinely thought there was an intruder, and in fact there had been—except it was her drug dealer coming to check on her. But they didn’t know that. Screw them, she thought, steaming inside. If they really knew what had happened to her, would they have even cared? No, she thought, it’s all about that damn sliding glass door and finding out who broke it.

  She had to get out of her house before she went crazy.

  She pulled back her knotted bedhead into a ponytail, slipped on her sweats, and walked out to the front porch. She closed her eyes, resting her hands on the railing, and inhaled the sweet scent of the fall trees still holding on to their leaves. The crisp wind circled around her neck like a scarf, creeping into her sweatshirt. She lifted her face to the autumn sun and was just thinking of going inside to get something to eat when someone called her name.

  “Hannah!”

  Her eyes snapped open wide, afraid to turn in his direction. Oh no, my face. She just woke up; she must look awful. Her skin. He couldn’t see her without her makeup.

  “There you are . . . guess you’re alive after all,” Deacon said.

  Still not looking at him, she tried to make a mad dash inside.

  “Hey wait, don’t go . . .”

  “I-I I got to do something . . .” She ducked her head in the doorway and sneaked a look back at him.

  “Just wait a minute, will you?” he said impatiently, walking faster toward her.

  “Deacon . . . I can’t . . . I don’t . . . please, don’t see me like this.” Her voice sounded like a child’s, but she couldn’t help it. No one, absolutely no one, ever saw her face natural and unmasked. She panicked at the thought of him seeing what she really looked like. Oh my god, he just can’t. She couldn’t bear it.

  “You look fine, Zandana. Really,” he said softly as he walked closer, stopping just below the porch steps and gazing up at her.

  “W-What?”

  “You heard me,” he said with a small smile.

  Hannah tried to act cool and relaxed about the fact that he was at her house again, while inside her heart spun in a constant rotation of backflips. All at once, she didn’t know where to put her hands or how to stand upright.

  “Did you ditch school?” she said after a moment.

  “Sort of. I showed up. Then left.”

  And came here, apparently, she thought, but all she could manage to stutter out was, “W-w-why?” She hated the way her words got stuck when she was nervous. God, he’s beautiful, she thought. He was looking up at her with his hands casually stuck in his pockets of his trench coat, wearing black jeans with his combat boots this time. Way cooler
than Hannah’s lame, frumpy gray sweats and dusty house socks. She pressed her lips together, tasting her wretched morning breath. And—oh god—she didn’t have a bra on either. Her nipples must be hard as rocks. She self-consciously crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto her left foot, placing the other one on top.

  His smile grew wider. “Well, you’re alive.”

  “Yeah, I stayed home, not feeling great, and my nose . . .”

  “It’s less swollen, looks a bit crooked.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “Yeah, my mom is going to take me to the doctor when she gets home.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Soon . . . ahh, come in the house, I’m getting cold out here.”

  Deacon followed her and closed the front door behind him. He reached for Hannah’s hand and turned her around slowly, bringing her inside his arms. She immediately felt a wave of protectiveness, his dark mystique enveloping her all at once and making her self-consciousness fade.

  She closed her eyes and buried her face in his leather jacket. He smelled like an intoxicating mix of spicy vanilla and Drakkar Noir. She rested her head upon his chest, and this time their bodies pressed together. She knew her nipples were definitely hard now, but at the same time she didn’t want him to try anything. She hesitated, feeling scared. He pulled back and tilted up her head, cradling the side of her face. Hannah shuddered at the sensation. It had been a long time since someone had touched her skin. She worried what he must think of her, especially her acne. She felt so exposed and naked under his gaze. But he just looked in her eyes and smiled.

  “I like you like this,” he said. Then he kissed her forehead gently, pulled away, and walked slowly out the door.

  CHAPTER 11

  “MO-OOM!” KERRY WHINED. “DID YOU GET ME MY LUCKY Charms, did ya, did ya?”

  Hannah barely heard her little sister’s words as she walked into the kitchen. She was freshly showered and feeling a little more human—and she was still on a high from Deacon’s visit that morning, recalling his last words and how he’d looked at her. Utterly giddy, she kept repeating them to herself, sending her heart into flutters.

  Her mother looked up from unloading her grocery bags and watched Hannah hand Kerry her box of cereal. “You’re looking better.”

  “I feel better, thanks. But Mom, my nose . . . I think it’s broken. It’s crooked, see?”

  Her mother squinted from across the kitchen counter.

  Hannah leaned over. “Look, it’s not even straight. I can’t go to school like this.” She won’t even take me to the doctor, Hannah thought, seeing her mother’s skeptical expression.

  “Humph,” her mom managed after a moment. Then she looked tenderly at Kerry like Hannah wasn’t even in the room. “Guess we’ll be heading back out, my little one.”

  Kerry screwed up her face. “I don’t want to go, I want to stay here and watch my show!”

  Hannah made an immediate about-face and headed for her bedroom, not wanting to hear her sister’s complaints. It was a joke how much they indulged her. Such a brat; get a life. Leaning against the inside of her door, she thought of Deacon again and smiled.

  “Well, we can’t fix her nose until the swelling is completely down,” Dr. Kittleman repeated, his eyes fixated on the wall just past Hannah’s shoulder. Her mom refolded her arms, appearing unsure where to look when the doctor addressed them. Dr. Kittleman was a diminutive man with squirrely eyes that were strangely magnified by his thick, foggy lenses. His peculiar pupils darted up and down when he spoke, but never met your face outside of a handshake—but even then, your forehead was as good as it got.

  “Who knows,” the doctor said with a nervous laugh, “maybe you’ll like the way it looks.”

  Real funny, doc. Hannah scowled. Who likes a crooked nose? She wished she could kick the jerk.

  “What about some pain medication for her, something to help her sleep? She’s been complaining an awful lot,” her mother said, to Hannah’s great surprise. Wow, maybe the woman did care. It certainly hadn’t seemed that way on the way over, which she’d filled with complaints about what an imposition this trip to the doctor’s was on her day. Oh, and comments about how the family’s health insurance was less than adequate to handle something like this, heaping on another layer of guilt.

  “I suppose I could prescribe something,” Dr. Kittleman said.

  “How much will that cost?” Hannah’s mom responded, her tone sharp.

  Hannah sighed. Once again, she closed her eyes and imagined being with Deacon, the only good thing to come of this mess—almost worth getting in this much trouble.

  CHAPTER 12

  “I GOT YOU GIRLS STRAWBERRY HAAGEN DAZS,” HER mother called from the kitchen, where she was unpacking grocery bags. Hannah winced; she thought she’d barf if she ever tried to eat that flavor again.

  She looked over at Kerry who was thoroughly engrossed in her Little House On The Prairie episode. The sisters on the show, Laura and Mary, seemed so cute together in their earthy flowered dresses and bonnets—nothing at all like their relationship, Hannah thought. Maybe she should try harder. It would be nice to have someone on her side.

  “So, Kerry, what’s up?”

  Hannah waited a few moments, but Kerry continued to ignore her.

  “Yo, Kerry. Step away from the TV—”

  “Shut up, you muddafudder, I hate you!” screamed Kerry, scrunching her nose so tightly the wrinkles obliterated her freckles.

  Hannah was less amused at Kerry’s mispronunciation and more shocked that words like that had come from her little sister’s mouth. Where in the world did she learn that? Someone had snatched her cute sister and turned her into a monster.

  “Listen Kerry, you can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Why not? I just did, stupid.”

  Holy moly, what had gotten into her sweet baby sister? Hannah’s nose began to throb along with her irritation. Kerry, meanwhile, went back to her show like nothing had happened.

  Hannah got up to find her pain meds, but the new bottle was already half empty. That’s weird; she’d only taken two so far. Hannah walked back to her sister.

  “Get your feet off the couch,” she said calmly, and swung her little sister’s legs to the floor.

  Like Drew Barrymore in the movie Firestarter, Kerry turned to her with the deadest, creepiest, possessed eyes, opened her mouth so she resembled a hungry baby bird, and screamed, “Heeeeeeelp meeeeeeeee, Mommmmy! Hannah’s hurting me! Stop it, Hannah! Stop it! Stop hurting me. Heeeeeeeelp!!!!” The intolerable pitch of her shrieking sent Hannah’s brain reeling.

  Oh my god, shut up . . . shut this little thing up! She jumped off the couch just as her mother came barreling into the room.

  “What did you do to your sister?” Her mother’s pitchfork stare made Hannah back away before her mom scooped Kerry into her arms. Lovingly, she began stroking the little girl’s hair. “It’s okay, darling,” she said softly.

  The sight of them together made Hannah’s stomach unclench, a sourness rose up the back of her throat. Why her and not me, Momma, she cried inside. The palpable love between her sister and mother hit Hannah like a blow; she couldn’t catch her breath. One by one, the kitchen walls started to vibrate and crowd in on her. She took off and slammed her bedroom door behind her. Her feet slid out from underneath her; the bed caught her before she hit the floor. She wrapped her arms around her legs, rocking herself, until a familiar rush of hollowness carved through every cell and she grew numb from the exquisite pain.

  It happened in a strange house, on an overcast rainy morning when she was six: she fell hard off a bed she’d been playing on with other children, ones she’d just met. Hannah’s mother sat concentrating over a pile of papers at some lady’s dining room table, along with the other mothers. What started as a silent cry turned quickly into a full-blown howl. Hannah’s mouth splayed opened, blood drops appeared down the smocking of her dress. Her face contorted in the hurt and shock of the fall; it was the fir
st time she’d had the wind knocked out of her.

  She became immediately afraid in the unfamiliar house, full of kids who just stared, some pointing. Hannah ran to her mother, trailed by another little girl who stood there holding her ears.

  “Momma!” Hannah cried, relieved to have found her. Believing comfort was in sight, she threw her body over her mother’s carefully crossed legs, but someone pushed on her shoulder and she suddenly found herself on the floor, treated like an animal begging for scraps. Startled, Hannah looked up to see only the wave of her mother’s hand, her signal that she was too busy for her now.

  A mother’s loving touch, that’s all she wanted—to be pulled into her mother’s arms. But her mother never touched her in that way, and never had. It was Hannah’s job to pull herself together and swallow the pain—and, in this case, the blood in her mouth. Around her parents, crying was not permitted, and any form of childlike “carrying on” was not tolerated. But for Kerry, it seemed, the rules were dramatically different.

  CHAPTER 13

  SHE’D MISSED THREE DAYS OF SCHOOL NOW, MOSTLY wallowing in bed and watching TV when her sister was out with her mother. (Ever since Kerry’s last spaz-out on the couch, Hannah had been avoiding her like she had AIDS.) But Hannah couldn’t take another bored minute being home. Eventually, she knew she was going to have to face the inevitable drama at school and the whispers behind her back, and she was unsure how it would all go down.

  That morning, she slowly made her trek to the bus stop—her mother, of course, had refused to drive her to school—with a pit growing in her stomach. She’d wanted to call Deacon for a ride but was afraid he might laugh. “Two house calls for the newbie drug-taker and that’s it,” she imagined him saying. And yet she’d still mustered up the courage to call him—only to discover his number was unlisted. Figured. Just as well, she thought. They hadn’t spoken since his surprise visit on Monday, and Hannah wondered what he was thinking, especially about her.