Touching Melody

9

Maddie

He Likes the Kinky Stuff





“You look hot,” Gina squeals.

I hop off the chair and check my reflection. She’s lined my eyes in smoky grey liner. A darker shade of gray is on my lids, and she’s put on several coats of mascara. On my lips and cheeks, she put light pink lip-gloss and a touch of blush.

She’s also fixing my hair. Curling it with a thick curling iron. The end result is soft, romantic.

I wonder if Kyle will like it, I think, and then mentally kick myself.

“Wow, Gina.”

“Yeah, I know. The guys are going trip over themselves to get your digits.” She pushes me back in the chair. “Especially one boy in particular.” She sniffles. Still has a cold or allergies, it seems. “I got the scoop for you, by the way.”

I turn to face her. “The scoop?”

“Yeah, the scoop about Hottie TA.” She spritzes some of my curls with hair spray.

I clear my throat. “And?” I don’t want to give anything away. He doesn’t seem to know me, so I’m going to pretend I don’t know anything about him. Like the fact that he used to sleep with a nightlight. Or that he would tickle my back so, so gently while we listened to music. His favorite band was The Cure, and he said he wanted to be a poet when he grew up.

Once he wrote me a poem. My aunt threw it away, but I have it memorized.



You make me laugh.

I’m torn in half.

When I’m with you I feel whole.

I’ll never let you go.



That’s the Kyle I remember. Sweet. Kind. Caring.

Ass-grabbing Kyle doesn’t even register, but I know it’s him. Just a version of him I don’t understand. Plus he has no idea who I am.

“Earth to Maddie. Come in, Maddie.” Gina snaps her fingers in front of my face.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, and smile. “Thanks again for fixing me up. I love the dress, though the shoes make me wobbly.”

She sniffles. “You’re welcome.” She shrugs. “Now do you want the scoop or not?”

“Sure,” I say, standing. Following Gina to the door. It’s ten-thirty at night. The perfect time to get the party started, according to Gina. I have to admit I’m excited about trying alcohol again. The liquid is warmth and peace. It’s numbness, and feeling everything good. It makes me bold.

“His name is Kyle Hadley,” she begins.

That I already know.

“He’s a sophomore, and apparently Bitchy Spears thinks he’s a genius.”

I didn’t know that. Maybe he still writes poetry.

Her eyes meet mine. “He’s kind of a slut.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” She snickers.

“It’s…” I shrug. I have no idea what to say.

She continues, “And word is, he likes the kinky stuff.”

“What?” My eyes blink several times. “What do you mean by ‘kinky?’”

“Shit, roomie. Have you been living in a nunnery? Whips. Handcuffs. Hell, I don’t know. There are several levels of kink.”

I open my mouth. Close it. My heart is pounding. Handcuffs? Whips? I’m way out of my league. My brain can’t even attach those things to making love. If that’s what Kyle wants, then he’ll never be interested in me.

Which is what you want, I tell myself. But the desire spreading through my belly suggests I might be willing to learn. If Kyle were to show me.

“No, I haven’t lived in a nunnery.” Not quite. My home life is sort of throwback to the seventies. “When life was laid back,” my uncle has said on more than one occasion.

Her brows pinch together. “Are you a-a virgin, Maddelena Martin?”

My face heats up. “So what if I am?” What’s the big deal? I’m sure lots of people are virgins. Besides, the only boy I want to give myself to is the son of the man who killed my parents. It kind of takes the romance out of everything. Plus, apparently he’s a kinky slut.

“Shit.” Gina scrunches her hair and walks in a circle. “I mean shit, shit, shit.”

Tonight she’s wearing a black bustier attached to a tutu. It’s lacy and hooks in the front, with long black bow ties under her breasts. Black leggings and her ankle boots complete the outfit. Her eyes are lined in black again, and her hair is everywhere, but flawlessly placed. She looks gorgeous, but something feels off.

I wish I could be so daring. She’s got me in a red sheath dress. My legs are bare, and I’m wearing red strappy heels. I’m an inch taller, but Gina and I wear the same size clothes and shoes. This outfit is bolder than I’ve ever been. I long for my ballet flats.

“Okay, I get it,” I say, crossing my arms, covering my cleavage. “You’re shocked. Whatever. Let’s just go to this party already.”

She grabs my arms and looks directly in my eyes. Hers are twinkling with surprise, shock, and maybe disgust. “Shit,” she says again, this time smiling.

“Wh-when did you do it?” I ask, glancing down at her tutu.

“I was fourteen.” Her voice trembles slightly.

I look up. “I-I…” A part of me wants to tell her about my tattoos. How I got my first when I was fourteen, and what each of them means. That I get them because on the anniversary of the day my parents died the pain is too strong, and I can’t breathe until a needle is piercing my skin a thousand times a minute. I want to tell her that I can’t visit their graves, that I see a therapist just like she does. I get the feeling she would understand. But at the last second I chicken out. “I think that’s fantastic,” I add quietly.

She laughs, her face filled to brimming with genuine joy. “If you could’ve seen your face. “Someday you’ll tell me what you actually meant to say just now.”

I nod, relieved. “Yeah, someday.”

She grabs a tissue and blows her nose, then picks up her purse. “I’ve got to hit the ladies. Meet by the elevators in two?”

I’m about to agree, but decide against it. “Are you sure you’re up for going tonight?”

“Are you effing kidding me right now?” She plants a hand on her hip and pops a knee.

I shake my head. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated.” I glance at my hands, nervous. “If you aren’t feeling well.”

“Elevator. Two minutes. Bring your party face.”