Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓

Part 10 | Friday, 25th September

"Slow down, girl," I complain as K-Stew yanks me towards Holy Poop Land. Today, it's my turn to deliver her to her daily 7:00 PM destiny.

I have to jog to keep up with the St. Bernard. The poop scoop held in my free hand slaps against my leg, making a loud clanking noise.

K-Stew squats on the ground, maintaining painfully awkward eye contact with me. I'll never understand why she picks this moment to look at me as though she's staring into my soul.

A few seconds later, I use the elaborate plastic scooper (They poop 'em, we scoop 'em!™) to pick up my dog's offerings to the earth mother. This exercise immediately reminds me of the human embodiment of feces: Greasy Bitch.

Thanks to Justin Summers and Greasy, I can't eat a damn fruit for lunch without jocks hooting and whistling at me. Of course, Greasy's minions also contribute by calling me a bitch, slut, ho, etc.

But I wasn't their biggest victim today. It was, of course, Dylan Frost. He had dropped his books in the hallway by accident. Greasy and her wannabes (fuelled by diet coke and self-adulation) came down on him like a ton of bricks. All I could think about when they called him a loser and a waste of space was his smile from yesterday.

I'm still thinking about it as I'm sitting on the living room couch with Dad, sharing a large mozzarella pizza. As usual, K-Stew is at my feet, waiting for me to drop some food. Completely absorbed in Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Dad and I don't notice Mom walking in.

"Look at you two!" she exclaims, shaking her head at the coffee table laden with pizza and soda. "This is so unhealthy."

"Let's be unhealthy together, honey." Dad offers her a slice absent-mindedly, his eyes focused on the TV screen.

"I'm serious, Bryan!" she says. "I take so much care to buy organic. It's so expensive and hard to find these days, and you two —"

Goddamn it. I missed what Kim said about Kourtney's career. I grab the TV remote, point it at my mother and press mute. Her rant about healthy eating habits does not magically get silenced. 

So much for being a universal remote.

***

I trace my index finger along the sparkly blue tape wound around the splitter. I can feel Dylan's eyes on me. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything. He hands me a pair of earphones, and a new song starts to play.

I withdraw my hand and focus on the music. Faint silver light of the moon combines with the swirling lighthouse beam. The salty breeze whips around us, cold and fierce. My legs feel weightless as they dangle through the old railing, the ocean forty feet below. I shiver as goosebumps erupt across my skin.

"It's good, isn't it?" Dylan asks, turning back to look at me.

"I love it," I admit with a nod. "Play it again."

The sea is churning with what seems like excitement tonight, the waves higher and louder than usual. My heart thumps against my ribcage as I look down, but somehow, I'm not afraid.

I steal a glance at Dylan. His eyes are lowered to the waves, too. But he looks so far away like he's on the other side of the ocean, instead of right beside me. Furrowed eyebrows, mouth turned down, jaw set tight. He raises a hand to brush his wavy hair away from his eyes.

There's this horrible guilt gnawing at my stomach as I look at him. I pull my earphones out and tap him on the shoulder.

"You're not what they said," I blurt, shaking my head.

His eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"You're not a . . ." I struggle to get the words out.

Loser, loner, waste of space.

Dylan lowers his head until his eyes are level with mine. In this light, I can't decide if they're gray or blue.

"You're not what Gracie or any of her friends say you are," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He watches my lips as I speak. Suddenly, there's not enough distance between us. I lean back and fix my gaze on the scrapes etched into my palms. Fresh bruises combine with old ones, forming a gruesome red-and-purple pattern on my skin.

I look up when Dylan says, "Thanks."

He smiles at me softly, and I feel a little less cold.

"Today wasn't that bad, though," he says. "They're at their worst on Monday mornings."

Sean Larsson's party and the drill that follows.

"I can't wait," he adds dryly.

The words leave my mouth without my permission. "You should come."

"What? Where?"

"To the party. You should come."

Bad idea. Stop talking.

"But I'm not invited, remember?"

"I'm inviting you."

Shut the fuck up.

"Are you serious?"

At this point, my brain gives up on trying to control my tongue. My common sense and worldly wisdom are nowhere to be found. I don't know what I'm trying to accomplish. Maybe, by some stupid, twisted logic, I feel like inviting Dylan to this party might make up for all the times I failed to defend him.

"It's at Gracie's tomorrow. Sean can't host it at his place. His parents are staying in for a family night or whatever."

"I don't know, Ambrosia."

"I'll go with you. Come."

Dylan looks at me as though I've sprouted a second head. As well he should; I'm asking the house cat to waltz into a room full of rabid Rottweilers.

"Okay, I guess."

"Good."

Well, shit.

***

For the first time since Tuesday, I can't sleep. I'm tossing and turning again. K-Stew grunts in annoyance when I accidentally nudge her black hole (I mean, stomach) with my foot.

"Sorry, sorry," I mutter as I turn to my side.

Dylan Frost owns my thoughts. I can't bring myself to do anything but worry about the party tomorrow. I have — very stupidly and thoughtlessly — erased the line I had painstakingly drawn between him and my social life.

Crap on a cracker. I have a terrible feeling about this.

---

Dear reader,

A word of warning: Do not try to aim a remote control at your mother and press mute. I learned the hard way that not only does it not work, it also makes her angrier. xD

Please vote and comment if you enjoyed this chapter and the song featuring Lindsey Stirling. Thanks so much for reading!

Love,

Amethyst