Why Me? : A Possessive High School Romance (Young Adult Version) Read online

  I go to grab a plate and glass, but that cupboard is bare. Grimacing, I reach into the crowded sink, pull out a greasy plate and a smeared glass, and wash and dry them. Clearing a spot on the cluttered counter, I make a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  As I’m finishing up, Mom comes in. The dark circles under her dull eyes are more prominent today. She sets her coffee cup down with a heavy sigh before shuffling out of the room. It’s as if I didn’t exist. It’s better that way. When she does come to life, it’s only to scream or cry about something, usually unpaid bills or Tony leaving yet another bruise.

  As I’m washing the peanut butter knife and jelly spoon and setting them in the drying rack, Tony comes in rubbing the protruding beer belly that makes him look twenty months pregnant. He goes to the fridge and gets another Old Milwaukee.

  “Clean this place up,” he says before leaving.

  Is he kidding me? I have to clean up their mess? No way, I’m not their maid. Grabbing the sandwiches and a glass of tap water, I head to my room. My door doesn’t have a lock on it, but Tony doesn’t come in here anymore.

  This is my ten-by-ten haven in this horrible house. They never clean anything, but I could eat off the floor of my room. It’s sparse, but it’s mine.

  A bed I got from Craigslist stands center against one wall. Next to the headboard sits a table someone tried to refinish in artistic alternating stripes of pale and electric blue. It’s a nice size and has a drawer like I wanted, but the paint job is hideous which is probably why it ended up at the thrift store.

  A wooden chest of drawers with deep scuffs stands to the left of the door. A white candlestick lamp with a faded floral shade sits on the corner closest to the door. Other than one window, it provides the only light in the room.

  A white desk that a moving neighbor didn’t want holds my TV. It’s an old fourteen-inch-box style that I rescued from someone’s trash, but it works and even has a remote. The worn wood floor gives me splinters sometimes.

  Setting the plate and glass on the tall dresser and switching on the lamp, I hang my coat on the door hook and kick my sneakers off. I flip on the TV before lying back onto the sagging mattress and start chewing on the sandwiches.

  The TV tries to numb my brain with its mindless sitcom squawking, but I get restless. The fall wind rattles against my windows. It’s been five hours since I’ve gotten home, and I have to take a piss.

  Opening my door, I peer out. Mom should be at the diner by now. Tony’s probably planted in the living room. I walk down the hall into the pink-tiled bathroom. This trashcan is overflowing too. Tissues and used floss spill onto the floor.

  I use the toilet and wash my hands in the iron-stained sink, preferring to wipe them off on my jeans rather than risk using one of the musty towels wadded on the towel bar. Leaving the bathroom, I find Tony’s bulk framed at the end of the hallway.

  My heart rams against my chest. It’s been a while since he’s tried anything with me, but judging by his unsteady stance he’s pretty plowed right now.

  “I thought I told you to clean the kitchen,” he slurs.

  “You did,” I say, heading to my room.

  He steps toward me.

  Fine. I’m ready.

  “Then why is it still a mess?”

  “Because you two are pigs.”

  “You gonna talk to your old man like that?” He steps closer.

  “You’re not my old man.”

  “Hell, I am, boy. I’ve raised you from the time you were two years old.”

  Thanks for that. I wish you wouldn’t have. “Go back to the living room, Tony,” I warn.

  He takes another step. My pulse pounds in my ears. It was four years ago when he beat me to within an inch of a casket, but I can take him now. I know I can. Should I wait until he gets to me, or should I rush him now?

  “Don’t order me around, you punk. Get in the goddamn kitchen and clean it now.”

  Adrenaline surges through me with the intensity of an arcing electrical cable. “Fuck you.” I steel myself for him to come at me.

  He drains his beer, crushes the can, then hurls it at me. I knock it aside then swoop to pick it up and throw it right back at him as hard as I can. It bounces off his shoulder.

  He puts a steadying hand against the wall, then turns and goes back down the narrow hall and into the living room. I wasn’t expecting this. What the hell is he up to? He’s in a mood, and I don’t trust him. I have a bad feeling. And I always listen to bad feelings.

  Going into my room, I slip on my sneakers and jacket and grab the glass and plate before cautiously heading down the hall. I’m about to go into the kitchen and give my things a quick rinse when I notice Tony swaying bleary-eyed in the middle of the living room holding a baseball bat. Goosebumps prickle my skin. He looks like Jack Nicholson holding the ax in The Shining.

  “You’re gonna clean that kitchen, boy. Imma see to it,” he slurs.

  There is no way in hell I’m getting hit with a baseball bat. But I’m not running away either. That asshole needs to be taught a lesson. I frisbee the plate at him. He grunts when it hits his chest and takes a surprised step back.

  Throwing the glass at him as hard as I can, I charge after it and tackle him to the ground. He lands heavily with me on top of him, and I wrench the bat out of his hands. Jumping to my feet, I raise the bat, poised to bring it down on his mean, drunk skull.

  But the fall seems to have momentarily jarred some sense into his alcohol-soaked brain because he looks up at me with a flash of clarity that turns to confusion. Seeing the bat in my hands, realization of what he was about to do flickers into his eyes.

  He holds his hands up and starts blubbering, “I’m sorry, kid. I don’t know what came over me.” He climbs heavily to his knees, tears running down his fat cheeks, his hands clawing at my arms. “I wasn’t gonna do anything. I wouldn’t have used that. I swear.”

  Watching him grovel in front of me, the alcohol jumbling his emotions and fogging his reality, bile rises at the back of my throat. What a useless excuse for a human being. I shake my head in disgust, step out of range of his pleading hands, and throw the bat down.

  I have to get out of here. I’ll sleep in the Mustang tonight. There’s a reason I have an overnight bag in my trunk at all times.

  Chapter 4

  “… and if I hear you’ve skipped one more class before this year is over, you’re in for a week of detention. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes sir,” I sigh. I didn’t sleep the best in the cold Mustang. Now that it’s almost October, I need to remember to keep a blanket in the car. Hackenburg didn’t turn me in. He never does. But, late and on my way to the music room to skip first period, I ran into the gym teacher who always seems to take every opportunity to get on me about something.

  “Now get out of here and get to class.”

  I get up and leave Mr. Douchebag’s office.

  “Mr. Dorsebaugh will see you now,” the secretary says to the next poor sap.

  I take my time wandering to algebra. Thornton doesn’t know when I left the office, so why not use that to my advantage? This thought no sooner occurs when I backtrack a few steps to the bathroom and light a cigarette. The bell rings before I’m done. Ah well, algebra is one of the few classes my grade is decent in. Plus, I don’t have to see Lexi.

  It’s time for yet another study hall, so I head to the empty gym as usual. Taking my t-shirt off to keep it clean, I toss it onto the lowest bleacher and grab a basketball off the rack. A few test bounces, and I return it for another. Settling on the third ball, I turn to find Mrs. Kroft standing in the doorway.

  She tries to look stern but succeeds only in appearing nervous. And hungry. I swear she blushes every time she sees me. And since she’s my English teacher, that’s at least once a day. It seems to keep my grade better than it might otherwise be, so I’m not complaining. But lately, I’ve noticed her coming around to the gym more and more frequently while I shoot hoops shirtless.


  As an amateur boxer at One-Eyed Mike’s, my physique is better than most. I’m six foot one and have a twenty-one-inch shoulder span I worked my ass off for. Even the so-called jocks are soft from too much pizza and partying. Not me. I need to stay fit–even better than fit–because of Tony.

  “Where are you supposed to be, Jett?” Mrs. Kroft asks, folding her arms. I notice she took off the dowdy sweater she had on earlier and put on some red lipstick.

  “Study hall,” I say, dribbling then shooting a basket. Nothing but net.

  “And why aren’t we in study hall?”

  “I’m not in study hall because I’ve been told it’s free time and I can come here if I want since there aren’t any gym classes now.” I retrieve the ball and toss it casually from hand to hand, eyeing her black pencil skirt and silver button-down. She’s even wearing black heels to show off her shapely calves. “As for why you’re here, I’m not sure.”

  Her blush is possibly the brightest and most thorough I’ve ever seen. I wonder where it reaches too.

  “Did you need something?” I ask, keeping my tone nonchalant with a hint of underlying meaning.

  “It’s just … I don’t think students are allowed in here unsupervised.”

  I have to give it to her for standing her ground. If someone had asked me, I’d have been the one betting she’d have tucked tail by now.

  “You see me in here every day,” I say and slowly move toward her. “Why choose today to mention it?”

  She shrinks back against the doorjamb as I advance. Her eyes almost comically can’t seem to stay on my face but, instead, keep raking over my body. I know what she’s seeing. My jeans hang low on my hips. White cotton boxers peek over the top of my waistband. And, yeah, I’m ripped. I’m pretty proud of it.

  She looks up at me and licks those ridiculously red lips. I stand over her, waiting, my hand dangling next to the ball that now rests on one hip. “You want to go talk to Snedbecker? He’s the study hall teacher.” I’m gentle, not challenging. “We can go to him together. Get this straightened out. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I am being bad.”

  She continues to gaze up at me, and I’m close enough to see the perspiration that’s beading on her upper lip. Her hands press into the doorframe behind her, and her buttons strain at me. I can see she’s wearing a turquoise lace bra. It’s nice.

  “Yes, I-I think we should do that,” she finally stammers and wipes a hand across her forehead.

  “Okay, no problem,” I say, smooth and easy. “Give me a minute to put my shirt back on.” Her eyes fall to my pecs and rippled abs yet again. “Unless you want to go now.” I make this last sentence barely audible, intimate.

  She swallows, devouring my torso with her eyes like a kid tasting candy for the first time. “N-No, put your shirt on. Please.”

  I do love it when a woman says “please.” Leaning forward a little closer, I catch a hint of some perfume I don’t recognize. It’s a little too floral for my taste but not unpleasant. A hopeful longing springs into her eyes, and there’s very little doubt in my mind that my English teacher wants me to kiss her.

  I choke back a chuckle at her reaction. Good ole Mrs. Kroft. She has to be more than twice my age, but her figure says, “I eat salads and go to spin classes after school.”

  I turn to put the ball on the rack. Without glancing over my shoulder, I know her eyes are probing my broad back like a professional masseuse. Grabbing my shirt, I return to stand in front of her. Without breaking eye contact, I pull the form-fitting, white cotton over my head and down my stomach. A small sigh escapes her ruby lips.

  “After you,” I say, gesturing to the doorway she’s blocking.

  As we’re passing through it, the bell rings. She turns to me as if asking what we should do now.

  “Same time tomorrow?” I ask.

  She nods wordlessly, and I swear I’m about to lose it.

  “There you are.”

  My shoulders sag ever so slightly. Mrs. Kroft turns at the girl’s voice and, upon seeing Lexi, scurries away.

  “Oh, did I interrupt something?” Lexi asks playfully as she watches Mrs. Kroft stumble into a student in her haste to retreat.

  I don’t answer and keep walking.

  Lexi hurries to catch up. “So why weren’t you in algebra?”

  “Got called in to see Douchebag.”

  Lexi giggles. “What was it this time?”

  “He needed a blowjob.”

  Her giggle turns into a full-on laugh and she smacks my bicep. “You are so bad, Jett.”

  I’m almost to my next class.

  “Slow down, Jett,” she says, grabbing my arm. “I want to talk to you.”

  I sigh and step around a vending machine out of the flowing throng. She follows. I still don’t understand why I’ve suddenly been getting all her attention the past two days. She’s the captain of the cheerleading squad and can have any guy she wants with a crook of her little finger. So why me? Why is she treating me as if I’m her boyfriend now?

  “You’re coming to the game tonight, right?”

  I snort. “Why would I do that?”

  Her pink-sheened lips fall open as if no one’s ever spoken to her like that before. “I’m going to be cheering.”

  “So? I don’t watch football.”

  She presses herself against me and lowers her voice. “I didn’t think you’d be watching the game. I thought you’d be watching me.”

  “I have plans tonight.”

  “But the party’s tonight. After the game.” She’s whining now and batting her lashes, trying to be cute. I can’t stand whining.

  “I told you I have a fight.”

  She bites the bottom of her lip and reaches up to stroke my cheek. “Don’t mess up this pretty face of yours.”

  I lean away from her seeking fingers and catch her wrist. She’s acting like she owns me or something, and that’s another thing I can’t stand. If she thinks our moment of passion in the locker room yesterday meant anything, she’s wrong.

  She laughs, but it sounds more like an attempt to cover up embarrassment than genuine mirth. I shake my head and merge back into the dwindling stream of passing students, not caring what she does behind me.

  The late bell rings as I slide through the door of chemistry. At my seat in the back corner, I’m about to resume my full-desk masterpiece of Godzilla battling King Kong, when a new girl enters. At least, I think she’s new. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered her.

  Her straight, sandy-brown hair brushes the tops of her shoulders, and she gazes around the room with an open curiosity. Broad cheekbones slope to an adorable little chin. A pert nose perches above a generous mouth. She’s wearing a smoky blue, scoop-necked, jersey t-shirt over jeans rolled at the cuffs. Gray high-top sneakers complete the outfit.

  “Anna,” she says to Clarkson.

  The name sounds fresh and unassuming. It fits her perfectly. All the girls here try too hard, wearing outfits of desperation, and plastering on make-up with putty knives. They act as if being single is a disease they have to cure or they’ll die.

  Clarkson gestures to an empty desk, and she saunters to it as cool as an ocean breeze. I idly wonder if Anna needs an escort around school as she gets acclimated, but I’m not generally the one to do that type of thing. After class, I can’t think of a way to approach her so continue on with my day. If it happens, it happens, I guess.

  “Jett,” Lexi calls my name over the afternoon rush after the last release bell.

  I sigh. But when I see that she’s wearing the white and teal cheerleader uniform that she wore yesterday in the locker room, I stir at the memory despite whatever I might think of her. She reaches into my back pocket and grabs my phone before I can stop her.

  “What—”

  “Shh,” she says, bending over both our phones. After a minute, she reaches around me and sticks my phone back where she got it, giving my ass an impudent squeeze as she does. She leans forward and presses her lips aga
inst mine. I’m not proud to say I let her. Whatever yesterday was, it was damn good.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot sandy-brown hair passing by. Of course it’s Anna. And, of course, she sees me kissing Lexi. I step back and wipe greasy lip gloss off my lips with the back of my hand.

  Lexi persists, wrapping her arms behind my head, pulling me to her again, and whispering, “Please come tonight after the fight. Please?” Warm breath brushes across my ear. Stepping away, she says, “We have each other’s phone numbers now, so call me.”

  She turns and sashays away, her hips sending the fabric of her short skirt brushing just under that perfect ass. I can’t help but wonder what kind of panties she has on today. Surely nothing better than yesterday’s pink lace thong. Watching her go, I sigh again and run a hand through my hair.

  The busses have pulled away and few students remain as I walk out the front doors. On the sidewalk, a lone girl stands looking lost and confused. It’s Anna.

  Chapter 5

  “Was that all the busses?” she asks me.

  I see now that her eyes are a warm, chocolate brown, and she has a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “Yeah, you miss yours?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Want a ride?”

  She smiles, and I swear it blots out the sun it’s so bright. It nearly takes my breath away. Yeah, that sounds corny. So, sue me. It’s true.

  “My car is over here,” I say, hoping I’m not letting on how incredibly attractive I find her. Karma sure is a bitch. Wasn’t I just toying with Mrs. Kroft today over her attraction to me? I lead the way to the Mustang parked in the student lot.

  “Nice car,” she says.

  I have to admit that I swell a little at the compliment from her. “Thanks,” I say, carefully maintaining an air of indifference. Pulling out my cigarettes, I hold out the pack. “You mind?”

  “Not if I can have one.” She takes one and holds it to her lips for me to light then inhales deeply and exhales a cloud of smoke. “God, this is exactly what I needed right now.” She flashes me that smile again, and she could ask me to rob a Quickie Mart of every cigarette they have and I would do it for her.