Angel Kisses
By Leesa Freeman
Copyright 2011 Leesa Freeman
Smashwords Edition
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Angel Kisses
I sat on Taryn’s bed watching her sift through my duffle, panning through everything I owned for something she deemed worthy enough. I wanted to tell her it was a losing battle, but it hurt too much to speak. It had been a week since the wires had come off and I still couldn’t eat much more than glorified baby food. A week and it still hurt to talk or smile or, God forbid, laugh.
Her mom had married my father when we were eight years old, years after my mom had died in a car accident, not long after her dad had gone to prison for embezzlement.
Then, as now, I don’t know why Lydia married my father, other than he could be charming when he needed to be. When it suited him to be, but he was not the man she thought she had married and four years later, left him. I begged her to take me with them.
She wanted to. She couldn’t.
My father lost his damn mind after that, then found Jesus. Turns out Jesus wasn’t the man I thought Him to be. Or maybe he found the wrong one. An imposter. A wolf wearing the mantle of the Lamb of God, because I simply couldn’t understand how Jesus, the real Jesus, could condone him breaking my jaw in His name.
Taryn finally sighed in disgust, pulling out what had become my uniform, a pair of torn jeans and an old t-shirt. “Get dressed and then I want to do your makeup.”
And lord knew I needed it. The swelling had gone down, but I still had the yellow-and-purple-sunset-shading all along my jaw line, which was what launched this whole “makeover” as she’d laughingly called it.
I wasn’t completely certain I wanted her to paint me with creams and concealers, but I also knew I had no desire to go traipsing around town in grotesque technicolor either.
I’d been living with them for weeks now, sharing Taryn’s bedroom, Taryn’s bed, and now, Taryn’s cosmetics. And that was another reason I loved Lydia, she understood that after the Incident, as we’d taken to calling it, I needed someone to hold me at night. I needed someone to let me cry, sob, in the middle of the night and tell me that she loved me. I had to know that someone did.
I told them the story two days after it happened, written out in a green spiral-bound notebook; black ink covering page after page of college-ruled paper. Told them what had led up to sobbing into the phone, incapable of speech. Ten minutes later Lydia was screaming at my father and throwing clothes in a duffle for me while Taryn gently, slowly, led me to the car. It wasn’t much of a story, really. No real twists or suspense. No morals or redemption. What it did have, though, was deep bliss followed by deeper pain.
Derek Johnson had come over after school to study with me, beautiful Derek who I’d had a crush on since the first day of eighth grade. In the brilliant sunshine, he was tossing a football with some guys, I took one look at him and my heart fell out of my chest. Up until that moment, watching him run shirtless, his muscles shifting in his back, his sandy hair catching the sunlight, I thought the whole love-at-first-sight thing was a myth. Like the Loch Ness monster or caring Republicans. But Derek… god, he was breathtaking. And I watched him silently for two years, yearning for him, aching to speak to him, and not knowing what to say.
I probably would have gone on like that, but fate stepped in and transferred him to Mrs. Williams’ English class.
She liked to teach writing through creative expression, letting us write what we knew and what did I know? Longing, crushing, aching need for a boy I’d never spoken to and worshipped from the alter of my dark bedroom. That’s what I knew, and that’s what I wrote, somehow naïve enough to believe no one would ever read my creative expressing.
Again with the fate.
Mrs. Williams assigned us literary partners and mine was none other than Derek. Yup, he was going to read and critique my anguish about him. When I handed him my notebook, I hoped the school would suddenly catch fire so I could go hide in the closet.
After reading it though, he smiled, his amazing cinnamon brown eyes holding my blue ones. “I wish I wrote as well as you do, it’s honest. Would you be willing to help make mine better?”
I nodded, my throat dry, then laughed at myself. I was going to help him with his creative expression and I couldn’t even find it in me to say a single word to him? “I’d love to.”
We walked to his house, his feet pounding the cement, my heart pounding in my chest. But my feet? My feet were floating as I moved beside him, talking to the boy I’d been in love with for two years. Smelling his warm cologne, practically feeling the heat of his body. I could barely breathe but it almost didn’t matter, he was talking to me.
In his cozy kitchen, he got us a couple cokes and a bowl of M&Ms to share and led me to his room where he pulled his desk chair up to the foot of his bed, offering it to me, then took a seat on his blue comforter.
“Nice room,” I said, looking around.
It felt like someone who cared deeply about him had decorated it. Someone who had taken the time to ask his favorite color or if he’d rather have curtains or blinds or if he’d slept well the night before. As opposed to my room, which I not-so-lovingly called “postmodern abbey”: bed, dresser, a lamp for reading. That was it. And filling his walls, images of people; some embracing lovingly, others portraying anguish or hope or joy.
“You drew all these?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Some are better than others.”
“I can’t even draw a stick figure.”
I hadn’t meant it to be funny, but he laughed, making my heart swell. “I can’t write.”
He handed me his notebook and I forced myself to concentrate on his words, putting aside the thought that he had held this in his fine, strong hands, taking a blue pen to it, trying to create something. But it was stiff, halting, as if he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.
“When you are drawing, what do you think about?” I finally asked, looking at him.
“I don’t know. My brain kinda turns off and I get lost in my art, letting it come.”
“Write like that. Don’t think, just let it flow and see what comes out.”
He laughed, reaching for a handful of rainbow-colored candy. “Yeah, right.”
“It works for art, why not writing?” I reasoned.
“Hmmm…” He looked away, considering that; blindly reaching for the bowl, his fingers grazed mine.
In that heat, my heart forgot where it was, my lungs couldn’t remember which part of the sequence they’d been on, but my body… my body tingled from his touch. Suddenly overwhelmed I stood up, needing space and air. Needing to think past that quick, burning graze.
“I need to go,” I murmured. “My father won’t like it if I’m late getting home.”
“Call him, tell him you’re studying with me. My mom will take you home,” he said reasonably.
Inwardly I cursed.
Cursed myself for being so afraid of that simple, innocent touch. Cursed my father for the rage I knew I’d face if he got home and I wasn’t there. And for just a moment, cursed Derek for not seeing what was right in front of him. That he already had my heart, all he had to do was claim it if he wanted it.
“Let me at least walk you out,” he said standing, knocking over the M&Ms and sending them scattering.
I bent down, scrambling to pick them up.
“Ashton,” he whispered, kneeling in front of me, “leave them for a minute and look at me.”
I couldn’t meet his eyes, afraid of what I might find there. Rejection? Acceptance? I wasn’t sure which would be worse.
“When you were writing, who were you thinking of?”
“I… I don’t know,” I mumbled, staring at the floor.
One long finger touched my chin, gently raising it. I looked from his full, soft lips to his warm brown eyes and back to his lips, wondering what they’d feel like on mine. Wondering what they’d taste like. Kiss him, my brain shouted. Instead, I stood, dropping warm candy in the bowl and running out the door, wiping chocolate on my jeans as I ran down the stairs.
It wasn’t until three breathless blocks later that I realized my backpack was still propped against his bed.
~~~~~
Taryn was a self-proclaimed “cosmetics whore” but until she pulled open a deep drawer jammed full of creams, shadows, liners, and lipsticks did I have any idea what that meant. And up until that moment, captured by the colors and possibilities, did I realize what I’d missed growing up without a mom. Sure there was Lydia for awhile, but my father flatly refused to let me play dress-up in her heels or makeup drawer. The one time he came home and found Taryn and me laughing and posing for an invisible camera, she in Lydia’s red cocktail dress, me ecstatic in an Eileen Fisher black dress and layered in gold chains, he flipped!
He tore the clothes from me, like Cinderella’s evil stepsisters, and like Cinderella, I ran outside, crying at the unfairness of it. Taryn gathered me in her nine-year-old arms and called him horrible, hateful things. All the things I’d said about him in my heart but never had the courage to say out loud, wishing he had been in that car that night my mom died.
She pulled out oddly greenish and yellow tubes from the drawer, along with a couple paintbrushes, and then, with a huge grin said, “You’re a little darker than me so I picked up your shade last night,” and presented a brand new bottle of foundation in creamy beige.
It was such a stupid thing to cry over, but suddenly tears were streaming down my face, dripping off my discolored chin. It was more than a ten-dollar bottle of makeup, though, I felt like she was holding the keys to my salvation. The thing that would allow me to walk in blissful invisibility, a normal person rather than the beaten freak drawing curious stares. More than that, she had thought enough about me to consider my skin tone, to consider me. To not give me some half-cared-for hand-me-down. Some neglected cast-off.
“Don’t cry, Ashton,” she whispered, gently wiping tears away. “I can’t do make-up on damp skin.”
I smiled, ignoring the pain and pulled her into my arms. “I love you, my sister.”
She held on for a moment, then pulled back. “Of course you do, I’m incredibly awesome. So shall I show you how to do this yourself?”
As she gently dabbed colors on me, I watched the bruises in the mirror disappear like magic, undoing the visible damage my father had done with his hatred and fists.
~~~~~
Derek was waiting by my locker the next morning, my backpack over one shoulder, his books resting against one hip. “Hey,” he said casually, sliding the bag off his back and handing it to me. “I was going to call you last night and return this, but I don’t have your number.” He smiled broadly. “Maybe you should give it to me.”
I nodded, opening my locker and trying to think of something interesting to say. Something funny or brilliant, even mildly amusing would do. “Thanks,” was all I managed, speaking to the inside of the dark cave.
“No problem. See you in class.” He turned and strolled away, leaving me standing there. I rested my head against the cold orange metal of the locker, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. The guy I’d fantasized about talking to for two years had been standing right there and I had barely looked at him.
Nice job, Ashton!
When I finally settled into Mrs. Williams’ classroom towards the end of the day, he handed me his notebook. “I spent most of last night thinking about what you said, and letting it flow. I’m not sure if it’s any good, but I thought you could tell me what you think.”
I opened the notebook and began reading.
You fascinate me, it began. I can’t even tell you why, but you do. I see you in the halls, talking with your friends, the laughter dancing in your beautiful blue eyes, your incredible smile playing on your lips and hope someday to talk to you, get to know you. To bask in the warmth of your smile. I want to find a way for you to trust me, to let me in. I want to touch you, if you’d let me. If you’d want me to. Maybe I can’t be with you, but I have to believe someday I could. Anything less would crush my heart.
I looked up at him, his eyes studying my face, willing me to see his plea for what it was; not creative expression, but his heart poured onto the paper for me. I smiled. “I thought you said you couldn’t write.”
“I can write to you,” he whispered, his eyes burning with a passion I’d never known before.
Slowly I moved past my fears of talking to him, being near him, and patiently he waited for me to allow him to hold my hand, touch me gently, kiss me slowly, tenderly, wrapped in his strong arms.
At first it was strange, being held. Only Taryn had in the past, and occasionally Lydia when my father wasn’t around. He didn’t like that for reasons that were unclear to all of us and I was used to being solitary.
Secure in the safety of his room, warm in his arms, I told Derek about my father. About his inexplicable anger, his hate, and his hurtful words. As I spoke, he clenched his fists to keep from shaking with rage, wanting to confront my father.
“I’m not afraid him,” he growled in response to my requests to stay away from him.
“I am,” I admitted. “Just stay here and hold me a moment longer before I have to go home.”
He kissed me as if feeding me his courage and strength and I took them deep inside me, making them my own and counting my blessings.
~~~~~
Mesmerized I watched Taryn in the mirror, my eyes going from my faux-healthy face to hers, her mouth open as she lined her eyes carefully and precisely. I was sure I’d seen her paint her face before, but following on the heels of my own miraculous transformation, I discovered the importance of it. More than just simple vanity, it was about projecting for the world the face she wanted them to see. Portraying herself in the light she chose.
“Will you teach me how to do that?” I asked, listening to my voice echo in the tiny bathroom.
She smiled into the mirror, her pencil hovering over her eye. “Absolutely! You ready to go?”
I nodded, taking one last look at myself, again searching for the telltale purple and yellow. Finding nothing, I went back to her room, put on my leather jacket and counted my money once more.
Seventy-three dollars wasn’t much, but it was all I had.
Taryn had snuck into my old bedroom yesterday when I knew my father would be at work and bravely retrieved the sock of money I’d hidden in the slats that supported my bed. She returned, whooping triumphantly and handed me the sock that held all my treasures: the money, a locket that had once belong to my mother and held a tiny photo of her, and Derek’s phone number.
The locket was a simple gold oval hanging from a chain. Sitting cross-legged on the floor I opened it, examining my mom, young, beautiful.
I had one clear memory of her; I must have been four because it wasn’t long before she died, she was getting me ready for bed and discovered a mole on my tummy. “An angel kissed you there,” she said smiling, covering it with one of her own and making me laugh. After she died, I was convinced every new mole was a kiss from my mom.
“You look like her,” Taryn said over my shoulder. And I supposed I kinda did. Same blue eyes, same dark hair.
“You think she would have been proud of me?” I asked cautiously.
“Ashton, you’re kind, smart, and you have a good heart. Any mom would want you for their child.”
I stared at her beautiful hazel eyes, loving her, then turned back to the sock to fish out and recounted the money. If I was careful and only shopped the sale racks I might be able to pick up a new pair of jeans and a couple tees for school.
Finally I reached for the slip of paper holding Derek’s familiar handwriting. It was empty. Anxiously I went through the green bills, knowing it wasn’t there, but searching them anyway. Then checking the sock again. Nothing.
“It’s not here,” I said frantically.
“What are you looking for?”
I closed my eyes, forcing air through my lungs. It was only a scrap of paper torn from his notebook that afternoon he asked me to be with him. Trash, really, and I’d called it so many times I could do it in the dark and many times I had. Just to listen to him breathe. To hear his warm voice. His rumbling low laugh in the darkness of my room when I was alone and wishing I wasn’t. But without it here, I felt like I had lost him.
I hadn’t seen him since the day of the Incident, too afraid of what he’d think when he saw my misshapen, swollen face. Hadn’t talked to him, it was too hard with my jaw wired shut. Even Taryn and Lydia had a hard time understanding me and more often than not I’d get frustrated and pull out a whiteboard, which kinda made talking on the phone impossible.
Lydia walked into the room now, jingling her keys and carrying her purse. “Ready to go?”
I shoved the seventy-three dollars in my jacket pocket. “Yeah. I think so.”
She gave me a long look. “You know I love you, right? And it hurts my heart to know your father will never see how wonderful you are, but I do. I just wish it hadn’t taken this for me to find the courage to protect you.”
I blinked back tears, wondering if they would ruin Taryn’s cover-up. “It’s okay, Lydia.”
“No, it’s really not, but I’m gonna do better by you from now on. That’s a promise, okay?” I nodded and she took a shuddering, cleansing breath and opened her wallet. “Now, you’re gonna need some more clothes for school, so I want you to take my credit card and get whatever you need.”
“Lydia…” Embarrassed, I didn’t want to take the offered card. I was sleeping under her roof, eating her food, recovering from jaw surgery she had paid for.
“Ashton Carmichael, don’t make me tell you again,” she scolded with a big smile on her face. “You take this card and get what you need. Now say ‘yes, Lydia.’ ”
I smiled. “Yes, Lydia.”
“Good. Taryn, you’re beautiful enough, get your tail out here before we leave you here to take the bus!” she shouted, grinning at me.
She dropped us in front of Dillard’s with strict instructions to meet her in the same place in five hours and to have a good time.
I watched her drive away, then heard my name shouted over the roar of a nearby DART bus. I glanced at Taryn, thinking I was hearing things, but there it was again… my name, so warm and familiar, like a dream.
She smiled, handing me the missing piece of paper. “I’m sorry I took it, but I had to call him. He cares a lot about you, you know?”
Over her shoulder, Derek was striding towards me on long, powerful legs. I closed my eyes, thinking of the last time I saw him.
I’d bravely asked him to come over, wanting one memory of him in my room. It was a small, selfish thing, but my father wasn’t going to be home for hours and just once I wanted to hold him in my bed. Hear his voice echo off my barren walls. Be loved, for once, in my own home. But for reasons I still don’t know, my father came home early and I froze hearing his footsteps echo through the house.
Derek wouldn’t go. Over my whispered, urgent pleas he climb out my window, he refused to leave, valiantly promising to stand with me against my father. And then it was too late.
The door opened and my father stood there, paling as he saw his son and the boy he loved holding each other. One so frightened he was shaking, the other bravely facing the rage of the coming storm.
“You’re a fag?” my father shouted. “I always knew there was something wrong with you, but a faggot? A cock-sucker? A goddamn queer?”
“There is nothing wrong with your son!” Derek shouted, stepping in front of me like he could shield me.
And that’s when something inside me snapped. I could either let my father bully me forever, cowering behind someone else, or I could stand up to him and finally claim my life as my own. Love who I loved, be whoever I was created to be.
“Derek,” I whispered, “go home. I need to do this myself.”
He turned to me. “Ashton, he’s…”
“I know,” I put my hands on his cheek, gently stroking his lips with my thumb. “I know, but I have to do this. I’ll call you later.” I kissed him, absorbing all his love and courage, then let him go, listening to his hesitant shoes hit the stairs.
When the front door closed, my father growled, “You like to kiss boys?”
“I like to kiss that boy,” I smiled, feeling light surge through me. He stalked towards me, years of unexplainable hatred swimming in his eyes and I raised up to my full height. “Do what you need to do, it won’t change who I am.”
As he hit me over and over, he repeated, “If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.”
While the pain overtook me, I closed my eyes and sank into heavy oblivion, remembering Derek’s kiss, his strength, his amazing brown eyes lending me his courage. I made his courage mine as blood filled my mouth and choked me.
With the fumes of a DART bus filling the air, Derek wrapped his arms around me. “Are you okay?”
“It still hurts, but it’s getting better.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking about my jaw or my life, but I had a feeling it was kinda both. He put his arm around me to lead me inside, but I stopped. “Wait, there’s something I need to do first.”
And I kissed him with everything in me, not caring who saw. Maybe there was redemption in that after all.
About the author:
Born and raised in Texas, I recently returned to one of my early loves: writing. There is something magical in going deep inside yourself and discovering the people who live inside your own imagination. If I didn’t know for certain I’m not completely insane, I might question my own sanity, having full conversations with the people only I can hear, but I am simply the medium, recording their lives. I live in Connecticut with my husband and our two daughters.
Connect with Me Online:
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/leesafreeman
My blog: http://www.leesafreeman.com
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