Far From You Read online

  when he said,

  “Math really isn’t my thing.”

  “What is your thing?”

  I asked.

  Then he pulled me to him,

  nibbled on my ear,

  and said,

  “You.”

  yes or no?

  Blaze works at

  a used-record store.

  Apparently

  a guy came in earlier that day

  who had a perfect copy

  of an English release

  of the Beatles’

  Magical Mystery Tour album.

  They gave him twenty bucks for it,

  and the dude was thrilled.

  It’s worth

  at least

  a hundred.

  Blaze loves it

  when people are

  stupid.

  I told him

  he should move in

  to my house.

  “By the way,” he told me,

  “I have Friday off.”

  “You do?” I squealed.

  “Can we go out?”

  “Can’t think of anyone else

  I’d rather spend my seventeenth birthday with,” he said.

  “Your birthday!

  Shit, I totally forgot.

  I have to get you a present.”

  “There’s only one thing I want,” he said

  in a low, husky voice

  before he kissed me.

  “Blaze—”

  “Don’t say anything.

  Just think about it, okay?

  I love you.

  You love me.

  Just think about it.”

  I sighed. “Okay.”

  Just think about it.

  Which meant

  think about it,

  and then say yes.

  Right?

  getting jerky with it

  Monday at school.

  I was telling Claire

  about Blaze’s visit.

  “He was bonding with Victoria.”

  “Well, she seems all right, Ali.

  Maybe you just need to get to know her better.”

  Seriously?

  “Claire, you don’t know what it’s like.

  What she’s like.

  She hates me, I think.”

  She started to reply,

  then changed her mind.

  She handed me

  a piece of her jerky.

  “Forgive my jerkiness?” she asked.

  It made me giggle.

  Claire is better

  than Tickle Me Elmo

  that way.

  “So,” I told her,

  “Blaze wants to—you know.

  For his birthday.”

  She nodded.

  She didn’t have to say anything.

  I knew where she stood on the subject.

  Abstinence.

  Yeah,

  she thinks

  it’s best to

  wait,

  wait,

  and then

  wait some more.

  Although,

  I have to wonder,

  how do you know

  where you really stand

  until you have someone

  you’re madly in love with?

  She hasn’t really

  had that yet.

  “So, will he get what he wants?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “I’m still thinking on that.”

  She nodded again.

  Took another bite of jerky.

  Then she pointed the remaining stick at me.

  “He’s not being jerky about it, is he?”

  I laughed again and shook my head.

  I held up my candy bar.

  “He’s a sweetie, Claire.

  You know that.”

  Then she got all serious.

  “Ali, I know it must be hard.

  If you want to talk to my mom—”

  “No. It’s okay.

  I’ll figure it out.”

  I like her mom,

  but I couldn’t imagine

  talking to her mom

  about THAT.

  But she probably figured

  the only thing worse

  than talking to her mom

  about it

  would be talking to my dad

  about it.

  And she’d have been

  exactly right

  about THAT.

  on the tip of my tongue

  Wednesday night

  Victoria went out

  for a little while

  with some friends,

  leaving the three of us

  alone.

  I’d been wondering

  about Mom

  and her first time

  and who it was with

  and what it was like.

  She met Dad

  in college.

  Was he the first?

  If he wasn’t,

  would he know who was?

  Would he even tell me?

  As he fed Ivy,

  I started to ask him.

  As he bathed Ivy,

  I started to ask him.

  As he dressed Ivy,

  I started to ask him.

  When he noticed me

  hanging around,

  he asked, “You want to rock her?”

  He thought I wanted to spend time

  with her.

  He didn’t know I wanted to spend time

  with him.

  I didn’t rock her.

  And I didn’t ask him.

  getting personal

  Homework

  was conquered

  and destroyed,

  so as a reward,

  Claire and I made plans

  to get together.

  Thursday after school,

  I went to her house,

  guitar in hand,

  thinking we’d practice

  our music.

  The basement belongs to Claire.

  One corner has

  a table,

  a sewing machine,

  and a mannequin.

  The other corner has

  a piano

  and a sofa,

  where we sit

  and play music.

  I strummed on my guitar,

  showing her

  what I’d been working on.

  She shook her head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She looked at me.

  Her eyes were like blocks of ice.

  Cold and hard.

  “You just keep writing the same sad stuff, Ali.”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “Mom says the people at church are talking.”

  “Talking?”

  “They want to celebrate God.

  They want to love Him and thank Him.

  They want something different.

  And to be honest, so do I.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It’s too sad.

  You’ve been writing this sad crap for long enough.

  It’s time to move on.”

  I felt like my best friend

  had just pushed me

  down

  the

  s

  t

  a

  i

  r

  s

  “Sad crap?

  Is that what you think of my music?”

  “Come on, you know I don’t mean it like that.

  But we need to take a break.

  I’ve already told them at church.

  It’s done.”

  Then she stood up

  and went to the piano.

  Her fingers danced

  across the keys,

  light and airy,

  like nothing

  was even wrong.

  I thought of Mom.

  How could I stop playing?

  It was the one place


  that hadn’t changed.

  The one place where

  I felt her with me

  no matter what.

  “They’ve found someone else to play,” she continued.

  “For a while.”

  “Claire, what the hell?”

  She shrugged.

  “I want to focus on my clothing designs anyway.”

  I was so pissed,

  I almost threw

  my precious guitar

  across the room,

  smashing

  the mannequin

  to pieces.

  But I didn’t.

  I just squeezed it,

  looking at the girl

  I thought I knew.

  When she said, “You need to let God in, Ali,”

  it felt like she was rubbing

  sandpaper

  up

  and

  down

  my

  skin.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Come on. You know.

  Write about something else.

  Write about the good stuff!”

  As if sadness

  can be thrown,

  like a small stone,

  into a raging river

  and quickly

  forgotten.

  I can’t help it

  if Mom is there,

  in my music.

  She brought me to it

  in the first place.

  I squeezed my fists

  tightly around the guitar neck.

  I squeezed so hard,

  the strings

  cut into

  my hands.

  There was nothing

  I could think of to say,

  because she’d probably

  never understand.

  And so

  I just

  left.

  not a solo artist

  When I got home,

  I called Blaze

  and we talked.

  Well, I talked, shouted, and screamed.

  He listened.

  When I finally

  shut up for a minute,

  he said,

  “You can play your music for me anytime.

  You don’t need that church messing with your mind

  anyway.”

  “Blaze, please don’t.”

  “What? It’s the truth.

  I swear, that place is like a cult.”

  And here

  was the damn splinter,

  getting deeper,

  hurting more and more.

  I’ve learned

  the best thing to do

  is change the subject.

  “I know I can still play my music,” I told him.

  “It’s just not the same without Claire.

  But how can we ever play again?

  She called my music crap.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.

  I’m sure she’ll get over it,

  and you’ll be doing your thing together again soon.”

  Blaze is right

  about a lot of things.

  But I was pretty sure

  he wouldn’t be right

  about that.

  not hungry

  Friday at school

  was weird.

  Weird like

  mashed potatoes

  without gravy

  or

  a hot dog

  without mustard.

  It wasn’t

  how it was supposed to be.

  I couldn’t figure out

  if Claire and I

  were fighting

  or fine

  or what?

  I went to the library

  at lunch

  and worked on

  a science project,

  while hoping

  I wouldn’t be gravyless

  for long.

  foul

  When Dad got home from work,

  he yelled at me

  because I had forgotten to pick up

  his dry cleaning

  on my way home

  from school.

  His green eyes,

  with big, dark bags

  underneath them,

  scowled at me

  as he told me

  how much the family

  needed me to be

  a team player.

  “Dad,” I screamed, “I didn’t forget on purpose!”

  Then I ran up the stairs

  to get ready for my date,

  thinking what a

  rotten coach

  my father

  made.

  the answer

  That night,

  Blaze picked me up

  looking like

  he just stepped out

  of Rolling Stone magazine.

  Hot.

  “Blaze,” Dad said, coming up behind me at the door,

  “want to come in for a few minutes?”

  “He can’t,” I said.

  “We have, uh, dinner reservations.

  Bye.”

  I stepped out

  onto the porch

  and shut the door

  behind us,

  before they had a chance

  to say anything else.

  “You in a hurry?” he asked.

  “And should I take that as a good sign?”

  I smiled. “In a hurry to get out of there, is all.”

  He pulled me close,

  gave me a squeeze and a kiss,

  and whispered,

  “I’m excited to be with you, too.

  I love you so much, Ali.”

  And in that moment,

  knowing completely and fully

  that no one

  understood me

  or loved me

  more than Blaze,

  I heard my soul whisper

  yes.

  hold on tight

  Italian food

  is Blaze’s favorite.

  I remember that night so clearly;

  I can smell the oregano and garlic

  and hear the buzz of conversation

  wafting through the restaurant.

  We talked and laughed

  over plates of

  angel hair pasta piled high

  with tangy marinara sauce

  and fresh parmesan cheese

  sprinkled on top.

  Blaze twirled the noodles

  around his fork, and I thought,

  Those noodles are like me,

  wrapped around

  Blaze’s little finger.

  We shared a bowl

  of spumoni ice cream,

  one bite for him,

  one bite for me,

  and so on,

  until the little silver bowl

  sat empty

  between us.

  When I pulled his gift

  from my coat pocket,

  he smiled

  like a five-year-old

  on Christmas.

  “Happy birthday.”

  Blaze dreams

  of the day

  he rides off

  into the sunset

  on a Harley,

  so I was thrilled

  to find

  the vintage

  Harley Davidson key chain

  on eBay.

  He turned it

  over and over

  in his hands,

  admiring its beauty

  and the words

  I had engraved

  on the back.

  Another year ahead.

  Ready, set, go.

  Please take me with you.

  Love, Ali.

  Then

  Blaze’s hands

  reached across the table

  and cradled my face.

  “Of course you can come with me,” he said.

  An image of me and him

  on a Harley,

  riding far, far away,

  po
pped into my head.

  And I wished

  I had bought him

  the motorcycle

  to go along

  with the key chain.

  what does it mean?

  With happy hearts

  and stuffed bellies,

  we left the restaurant

  and walked out

  into the drizzly night.

  As we approached his car,

  Blaze pulled me to him

  and kissed my neck,

  sending tingles

  up

  and

  down and sideways

  through

  my

  body.

  “I got us a room,” he told me.

  “At the MarQueen Hotel.

  We can stay for a few hours,

  then I’ll take you home.”

  I kissed his delicious lips again

  and tried to imagine myself

  tangled in sheets

  with the boy I love

  in the old and charming

  MarQueen Hotel.

  “That’s sweet,” I said.

  “Your first time should be sweet,” he said