Chaste Read online

  Be grateful for what you have. My mother has drilled that maxim into my head from as far back as I can remember. It’s why I don’t complain about sharing this decrepit car with my sister when so many kids in my class drive new ones.

  “We live in Northern Virginia. It’s humid,” I say.

  Preston slides his seat back and puts his feet up on the dashboard. “And you’re wearing so much cologne, it almost covers it up.” He holds his nose. “You tryin’ to impress Molly?”

  I cup a hand over my mouth and smell my breath. “Yep.”

  “Nothin’ to worry about,” Preston says. “You’re the best cellist this school has seen in years and she’s the best flute player. You’re the only one who understands her. And believe me, I know because I’ve tried talking to her.”

  I punch him in the shoulder.

  “Seriously bro, no matter what they pretend, girls want sex as much as we do.”

  Great, now he brings up sex. The one thing I can’t help thinking about even though it’s completely off limits. As a Mormon, I’m supposed to wait until marriage, and while I have the option of going on my two-year mission at eighteen, I’ve decided to attend a year of college first, which means it’ll be years before I get any. Besides, Amy’s situation already freaks me out. She’s a walking advertisement for abstinence.

  Preston turns on the radio. “Did you sleep last night?”

  I shake my head no.

  The radio crackles and the voice of Pastor Larry Jackson comes in loud and clear. Mr. Jackson is talking about finding happiness this morning, explaining how material goods will never fill the empty spaces inside us. “Not a sermon, only a suggestion,” he says to wrap up his address.

  I flip the radio off and pull into a spot right next to Katarina Jackson’s Jeep. “That guy is so annoying,” I say. “Like I could ever, for one moment, forget he spreads nasty stuff about our church, going on about all the reasons we’re not ‘Christians.’” I put the word in air quotes. “There’s also the matter of Kat’s gas-guzzling yellow jeep, which I’m sure costs a fortune. You know, the one he bought so she could fill up the emptiness.”

  “Yeah, but he can afford it,” Preston says. “Unlike your parents. If they bought you a Jeep, you’d have to eat hotdogs for every meal until you graduate.”

  I shoot him a dirty look.

  “Hey.” He puts up his hands in defense. “Not a sermon, only a suggestion. You have to admit, she’s hot.” He puffs out his chest and struts toward the door where Katarina Jackson sways her hips in front of four tall guys on the basketball team. They can’t keep their eyes off her belly-button ring.

  I hurry after him.

  “Hello, Kat,” he says in a fake low voice, pushing his way into her group. I know he’s trying to sound masculine, but he comes across like a skinny nerd on some kind of high. Kat laughs. Mike Duvall drapes his arm around her, and the two guys on either side of Preston start shoving into him with their shoulders.

  “Leave him alone,” I say, charging into the center of their circle. Kat’s friends turn their backs like they don’t hear me. They open the door and step inside as my foot lands on some slimy piece of trash. It slides across the concrete, taking me with it. My feet slip out from under me as my right hand reaches for something, anything to hold onto. It lands smack on Kat’s rear end before I hit the ground.

  She freezes in the door with Mike beside her. Preston helps me to my feet, but I see Kat’s hands clench and unclench. The guys in front of her look back and stop walking. Preston swallows. “Maybe we should go around front,” he croaks.

  That might be a bit hard since Mike has just come around behind us. I can hear him cracking his knuckles. I walk forward and Kat turns, stepping in front of me with her arms folded over her waist. “Keep your hands to yourself,” she snaps.

  The girl could be a Victoria’s Secret model with her perfectly flat tummy, big chest and fierce green eyes, but that attitude of hers would get her fired in a heartbeat. Besides, jocks and nerds don’t mix at this school. Neither do Goths and computer geeks. While the rest of the world talks about equality and tolerance, our school has divided itself into segregated groups. Asia’s in the hall to the left of the freshman lockers, Africa’s next to the gym, India’s located one hall down from the office and our small group meets under the stairs in the science wing, also known as The Land Down Under.

  Kat hangs with the jocks who roam the halls. They wander like a pack of wolves, as if they own the school. Roland Jackson used to be their leader until he wrapped his car around a tree last March. Now they all hang around Kat like worker bees around their queen. Maybe they think she needs protecting. It sure doesn’t look that way to me.

  I swallow. “It was an accident, I swear.”

  The two guys who shoved Preston stand on either side of her. They smile, but the expression doesn’t reach their eyes. One at a time they roll up their sleeves. Kat gives me a hostile glare. Why do I feel like the small one when she’s four inches shorter than I am?

  I take a step back.

  “Don’t do it again,” she says in an icy voice.

  She’s asserting her supremacy. I’ve seen her do this with other guys, skinny wannabes like Preston mostly. She lets these meathead jocks touch her all the time, but apparently I’m not fit to run in her crowd. I hate being pushed around. So I stand up straight and puff out my chest, thankful for the extra time I spent at the gym this summer. My muscles push up against my shirt.

  “Like I’d ever want to touch you,” I say.

  “If you were a real man, you would.”

  “And if you were a real Christian you wouldn’t prance around in nothing,” I say, knowing I’ll likely get punched in the face by one of Kat’s friends for that.

  “What’s the matter, good Mormon boy can’t control his thoughts?” She takes a step forward and puts a hand on my chest.

  I’ve never been touched by a girl in such an intimate way. My cheeks heat and my retort catches in my throat.

  She looks down. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Let us pass,” I say, keeping my voice even, devoid of the humiliation still prickling my face.

  Kat whistles, and her thugs move aside. She bows in mock diffidence as Preston and I move past. We all know this is a joke to her. Mike Duvall winks. The other guys laugh. “Because I’m such a good Christian,” she says, smirking.

  “Your entourage is a joke,” I return.

  “At least I have one,” she bites back in a voice tinged with tension. “All you have are a bunch of outcast friends and outdated, bazaar-o beliefs. You pretend to be moral, but you’re just a hypocrite. Fake religion. Fake people.”

  “And you’re so real with your expensive Jeep, designer clothes and body jewelry,” I say, wanting to hurt her like she’s hurt me. “Where would you be without your daddy’s money?”

  Preston tugs on a strap of my backpack. We pull away from Kat’s pack of wolves. From behind me I hear her thugs calling me nasty names. When we’re far enough away not to hear them, I take a deep breath and turn to my friend.

  He scowls. “Since when do you pick fights?”

  “They started it,” I say. “You should thank me for going in after you. Someone has to stand up to her. She thinks she runs this place.”

  “She does,” he says. “And you’re the one who touched her butt. Do you want a black eyes and a broken leg? Insulting Kat will get you both. Those guys are wicked protective.”

  “They can’t touch me in school. They’ll get suspended. And I’m not gonna go around scared because a bunch of guys crack their knuckles and roll up their sleeves.”

  The bell rings. Great, now I’m late on the first day of school. Preston takes off down the hall. I round a corner, and there’s Molly leaning against my locker. Her red hair has a few blond streaks in it. She’s wearing casual jeans that show off her pointy hips, narrow thighs and tiny behind. The girl could be a fairy she’s so short and thin and perfect. My hands start sweating,
slipping on the combination lock as I try to open my locker.

  “Need help?” she asks, lifting one red eyebrow.

  “36-10-22,” I tell her.

  “Kiss me first,” she whispers. I keep my eyes open, tilt my head and brush my lips against hers. “That’s better,” she says before starting on my lock.

  “About that.” I clear my throat, thinking of how embarrassing that first kiss was. “Could we not talk about—”

  “It was adorable,” she says, throwing my locker open. “You, Quinn Walker, are adorable. And when we’re a little old couple and our kids have left home, you’ll laugh about that kiss and I’ll laugh with you.”

  “Little old couple?” I repeat. She did not just refer to us as a little old couple. Every ounce of blood drains from my face. “I think—”

  “It’ll be a temple marriage,” she goes on, “and we’ll have six children, a house in the suburbs, and a golden retriever named Buddy. I’ll hang our kid’s photos over the fireplace. What do you think we should name them? I like Ava. Do you think it’s too trendy?”

  I clear my throat. “We’ve been on two dates.”

  “Two wonderful dates.” She pulls me forward by the belt loops of my jeans. “I can totally see our future, can’t you?” And now she’s wrapping her arms around my waist and smiling up at me with her big blue eyes.

  I nod, even though I want to tell her to stop, to slow down and not get ahead of herself. I nod because saying what I really think would smother the light in her beautiful eyes. It’d be like crushing a butterfly, and no one is that cruel. Then someone catcalls us and slaps my rear end.

  I whirl around and jump back because Katarina Jackson has her hands on her hips and is staring me down.

  “Just wanted you to know how it feels,” she says, turning to walk down the hall.

  Molly slams my locker shut and storms off. “Wonderful,” I mutter, resting my forehead against the cold metal of my locker. Can this day get any worse?

  4

  Katarina

  I figured I’d get to see the new school counselor at some point this week, but not on the first day and certainly not in the middle of my lunch period. Mr. Sanchez, who I’d seen once a week at the end of last year, said the new counselor would be someone who’d do a better job of getting me to talk, someone with a solid background in psychotherapy. Personally, I think the whole thing is nuts. I don’t need a therapist. I need space.

  So I sit here as Mrs. Burns of the broad shoulders and oily brown hair drones on about how much she’d cried while mourning for her cat.

  “Don’t you see that you have to go through the grieving process?” she asks.

  The way she looks into my eyes, you’d think comparing my brother to a cat is perfectly sane. She has no idea what my life is like, how it feels to live with parents who stopped caring the moment he died. She probably grew up in a house with a dad who came home at a decent hour and a mom who cooked a warm meal every night.

  She stands, walks over to her filing cabinet and pulls out a folder with my name on it.

  “I told your dad I’d do everything in my power to help you grieve this year,” she says. Her eyes travel over the paper in her hand. “You wouldn’t talk to Mr. Sanchez, but I hope you’ll talk to me. You can trust me to take your feelings to heart. Crying is okay.”

  I don’t understand why everyone’s so intent on me crying. It isn’t as though it’ll bring my brother back. Wimps and sissies cry, not strong girls who have it together. I’d rather do cartwheels naked across the football field than throw a pity party in front of this stupid woman.

  “You can start by telling me about this boy who’s verbally harassing you,” she says.

  I hit the palm of my hand against my forehead. Mike, you idiot! I know it was him. Who else would report Quinn Walker to the principal for touching my ass and picking a fight? The only thing worse than crying like a baby is tattling like one to Mr. Bates, then expecting administration to act in your defense. I refuse to behave like a defenseless victim.

  “Everything’s been handled,” I tell her.

  Mrs. Burns narrows her eyes at me. “We have strict anti-bullying policies at this school. Say the word and we’ll call this boy in. Make sure he never bothers you again.”

  Now she has gone from stupid to irritating. Someone kill me now. I stare at my red nail polish as the clock ticks, wishing I could have avoided the torture of this session for at least a few more days. Stupid Mike! I want to throttle him. Stupid Quinn! It’s his fault I’m in here. Him and his phony goody-goody friends.

  No one would ever force them to see a counselor with their big fake smiles and functional fathers, their too-good mothers who bake them cookies from scratch. They probably don’t even know the meaning of the word loss.

  That little prissy redhead, Molly McCormick, acts like she has a spring in her arm. Every time a teacher asks a question, her hand shoots up like a Jack in the Box. It’s as if she thinks she’s a tub of polish and every teacher in the world is an apple. I hate how they think she’s so great because she kisses up and smiles. No one had even bothered to hear my side of the story when she copied the answers off my biology final two year ago. Instead all the teachers assumed she was the victim and I was the cheater. If my dad hadn’t stepped in, I would have failed for sure.

  Mrs. Burns lets out a big sigh. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” she says in a pseudo-calm voice.

  I glue my eyes to the gold flowers on my red painted nails because I know she’s trying to catch my eye. And if she can’t stand ten or fifteen minutes of silence, I have no idea how she’ll last the whole year.

  “Fine then, you can go.” She waves me away with her hand. Her frustration is palpable, but I don’t care. She chose to take this job, and I’m here against my will. I stand and throw my backpack over my shoulder, walk out the door and into the flow of students.

  I have exactly three minutes to get to physics with Mrs. Williams. The woman has a reputation for craziness. The classroom is all the way downstairs and on the other side of the building. Wonderful. Just what I need, to deal with another wacko adult.

  5

  Quinn

  I log off the computer in the library, throw my empty water bottle in the trash and worry about what I just emailed to my mother. She wrote me a long message about the fast drivers in Florence, the loudness of the people and how Italian hot chocolate is practically pudding.

  I’d wanted to tell her about my long night with Elijah and ask her to come home. Was it too much to ask that one of the adults in my family share some of Amy’s responsibility? Then, when I read her email, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Her words seemed so … joyful. Crushing that kind of happiness is wrong.

  I pick up my bag and run a hand through my hair, reminding myself to focus on what matters. Curtis Institute of Music is my first-choice college for next year. They have some wicked audition requirements: scales, etudes, a major concerto. All things I need to have ready by January. Never mind that all this work is kind of pointless if they won’t let me come back to school after my mission. I walk into physics and stop in front of Molly.

  “Find someplace else to sit,” she says, waving me away.

  The room has eight lab tables in it, each one seats two. She’s obviously mad, and I’m not sure what to say. So I just stand there looking like an idiot.

  “What did I do?” I ask.

  “You know very well what you did,” she says in a fierce whisper. “Katarina Jackson is bad news. She goes to every drinking party in town, has piercings on her nipples and has slept with half the basketball team.” She points into her open mouth with her index finger to show her disgust. “The girl is a skank.”

  Molly might be right, but I still doubt where she gets her information. The rumor mill in our school can get pretty vicious, and as a former victim of the wretched thing, I tend to think most of it’s crap. Even so, I’d rather avoid Kat since she’s managed to humiliate me not once, bu
t twice this morning.

  “I don’t care a flying leap about Katarina Jackson,” I say. “Could you, um … I don’t know. Trust me a little?”

  Molly’s cheeks turn pink. “Sorry, Quinn.”

  The bell rings.

  “Everyone take a seat,” Mrs. Williams says.

  I plop down on the stool next to Molly and pull out my spiral notebook. The room smells like bleach. A blackboard covers most of the wall behind the teacher, and on her desk are quirky trinkets: metal balls hung in a row, a piece of volcanic rock, a fake skull.

  Just as Mrs. Williams is about to close the classroom, Kat sticks her foot in the door. “I have a late pass,” she says, shoving a piece of paper into the teacher’s hands.

  From the back table, John Lindner whistles. Kat sways her hips as she goes to sit next to him, every eye on her. That’s how much charisma the girl has.

  I tear my eyes away and look up at Mrs. Williams. She has short gray hair that would look like a baseball helmet if it didn’t have so much curl in it. The woman must be nearing retirement. When she stares at us over the top of her glasses, I think of a stern nun. Not that I have any experience with nuns. From everything I’ve heard she’s not right in the head. Last year she taught her classes some corny physics song. Then she screamed at the students when they laughed about it.

  “I won’t tolerate goofing off in this class.” She picks up a clipboard lying on her desk before pacing up and down the aisle. “The seniors last year were very disrespectful. I’ll have you know I don’t believe in letting students slide just because they’re about to graduate.”

  Kat and John whisper in the back of the room.

  “No talking!” the teacher yells, slapping the clipboard on their table. “I know how you kids think. You all sit with your best buddies on the first day. But I don’t want any whispering in my class. Thus, I’ve made my own seating assignments.”

  I groan. As does the rest of the class. Mrs. Williams smiles as if she’s pleased by our reaction. There’s only one explanation: the woman is nuts.