Christina (Daughters #1) Read online

  No way. Spurred by that, I start thrashing hard on the guy’s back and he keeps pulling at me. When the kid finally falls to his knees, I let go. I usually win. I am so good at being totally underestimated. As a rule, I am laughed and mocked and jeered at by the crowd. Most don’t think I am serious when I challenge them to a fight. A fight that I always intend to win. I’ve been doing this game for eight years. I learned from the best, my older brother, a former drug runner who is now in prison for kidnapping and overdosing my other brother’s girlfriend. But for a little while, he taught me how to win, and win no matter what the odds. And although I hate Quentrell, I took those lessons to heart. No one pushed Quentrell around or made him look stupid. And no one would do that to me, either. Between my height and speech problems, most of my youth was spent being humiliated by my peers. Now? I rely on my fists to make sure that doesn’t happen again.

  I have to be careful however, that my adoptive parents and family don’t catch on to what I do. I try not to do it too much or get a reputation. I try to do it only with college kids in the area who don’t know me or mine.

  But this time I fail. As the guy is straining and making weird grunt sounds, I spot her.

  Christina.

  Christina Hendricks is standing in the crowd around us. We’re in the front yard of some faceless, nameless (to me, anyway) farmhouse where these college kids like to congregate. I often insert myself into them, and when I’m sure no one recognizes me, I put on this little show. I start by finding big, drunk jocks who consider me no more than a joke, and never a threat. I make contact somehow. I might bump into them; or spill something on them, or do something to make them bristle and speak to me. When I’m rude enough, the guy wants to immediately kick my ass. I just laugh it off, and say that the jock would lose. I say it loud it enough to challenge the kid’s pride into taking me on. Then the kids all laugh at me because there is no way I could win. Sometimes I don’t. I’ve taken my fair share of beatings in my nineteen years. But most often, I get the better of my opponents before they do more than just tap me with their fists. And even when they do more, I rarely ever feel it. I have an aversion to being touched, but I have no aversion to being hit. Kind of screwed up, I know. Christina has pointed that out to me multiple times. But still, she respects my boundaries, and my proclivities.

  Except this. Fighting. She always hates when I fight. I rarely tell her when I leave her house or my own and sneak off to do it. I don’t do it all the time. Not like I used to when I was young. Just sometimes. Once in a while. Just when I need it. The rush of adrenaline. The sense of power and control. The supremacy of fearlessness. That, perhaps, is what I get out of it. It makes me feel invincible. My fear is gone once I’m hurt. A punch? A kick? A hit? They come at me, and even connect with me; and the bruises and blood eventually heal and go away. Finished. It’s the approach of the fist or foot that instigates the fear: not the actual deed. And I love beating the fear. Some say I’m crazy. A hellion. A psycho. Maybe I am. I don’t know. I’d like to know anybody raised the way I was and see how normal they are.

  My solution has always been to fight. Perhaps I seek retribution from a world that has, for most of my life, beat me down. Abused me. Hurt me. Humiliated me. When I fight, nobody can beat me down, or abuse me, or embarrass me, or hurt me. Why? Because I choose to be there. I choose my opponents. I choose the circumstances. I always choose. I put myself there. So it’s my choice every time.

  But I prefer not to do it in front of Christina. What is she doing here? How could she be here? I can’t believe at twelve o’clock at night I’d find Christina at some college party. Christina doesn’t usually show up at these kinds of places. She parties a little bit, but usually with kids in our senior class. And always I am there, watching over her, protecting her. Even if she never truly realizes how much I do. But now she is here. Worse still? The hand I notice that’s holding hers.

  The slight pause is almost my undoing. The guy gets a fist into the side of me. I let out an “oof,” but hold on tighter.

  Christina, her eyes round in horror, turns and flees, as if she’s afraid of me. I hate it when I scare her. I hate it when she runs from me. I hate it worst of all when any guy’s hand touches hers.

  Even if it’ll never be mine.

  ~Christina~

  Tonight’s the night. I have waited over eighteen years to have sex, and I’m doing it tonight. And the one I’ve chosen for the honor? A sophomore at Central Washington University who brought me to the party tonight. I live in such a small town, where the only real bonus is that it’s a college town. There is always a fresh influx of students each year; so since I’ve turned sixteen, I have new guys to choose from every year. Behind my parents’ back, of course. They treat me as if I’m still about eight, and not a senior in high school, only a month away from graduation. It hasn’t dawned on them, or anyone else, really, that I’m officially an adult.

  We are in a two-story Victorian with a raging party going on. It’s out in the middle of nowhere at one of the old farmhouses that surround Ellensburg. Some idiots rented out an old, historical house to a group of college students. Not a smart move. But there are bedrooms! Lots and lots of bedrooms and I agreed to use one of the rooms with Brad, the sophomore. He isn’t anything all that special to me. Just some guy I dated a few times. He’s cute enough. I’m figuring since he’s in college he must be a lot more experienced than the boys in my own class. At least, he can’t be any worse.

  I don’t really care who does it, just that it gets done. I really want to do this and get it over with. Get on with it. Whatever you want to call it. I cannot graduate high school and still be a virgin. So lame. I am really tired of being lame. But having my parents for parents, it’s hard to be otherwise. They don’t allow me to do anything. They are strict to the nth degree. I might as well have been raised in a freaking prison.

  I came with Brad and we’ve been milling about for an hour or so. I really hate the taste of beer so I only pretend to sip it. Brad downed several glasses and took a few hits off some weed. I pretended to be enthralled with the crowd and ignore it. No. Don’t need that on my breath. I was supposed to be at my girlfriend’s tonight. I hope the cover worked. Oldest trick in the book. But I so rarely lie to my parents, I have a good chance of getting away with it.

  My stomach is a little jittery, considering what I plan for tonight, I think I’m keeping my cool and all. I am not talking or giggling too much, or doing the usual things I do when I’m nervous or excited. I am standing here, pretending to sip my drink, while I smile when it seems to fit, and hoping I blend into the average age of the crowd around me.

  Commotion. Almost the entire room shifts and starts out the doors to the front yard. I glance at Brad just as he yells, “Fight!”

  My stomach curdles. Fights only made me think of Max. I hate that. Luckily, he doesn’t do it very often anymore. And tonight, I do not want to be thinking about Max when I’m trying to have sex.

  Brad pulls my hand so I have to let him drag me with him towards the fast-growing crowd outside. I am near the back. My shoes sink into the soggy grass. The crowd hollers and yells catcalls. They seem to be chanting a name, “Johnson” or “Jackson” or something like that. The obvious favorite. More “whoo-hoo”s and “wow”s. To me, it’s sick the way people revere such a blood sport. It’s sick to cheer on people that are hurting each other.

  My stomach has cramps. I hear the grunts and the flesh smacking. It makes me feel like running inside and hiding under a table. I can’t stand to witness the revelry and merry making over anyone hurting another.

  When the crowd clears, I see him.

  Max Salazar.

  He’s on the other guy’s back. The guy is bigger than he is and slowly losing as it’s evident Max is choking him. My stomach completely churns. How can he do that? How can the Max I know, the Max who plays basketball with me, and messes around on video games, and is just there all the time at my house, now be choking someone?


  He sees me. I memorize the moment his eyes find mine. They grow big and shocked. His mouth opens as if he is about to say, “Christina?”

  But he misses the fist coming right at him and I scream when it connects. Max’s face contorts in pain and he almost lets go. Oh my GOD. I cannot watch him getting hurt like this. I am sickened by it. For his pain, and for the pain he is inflicting on the other guy.

  I run into the house and search for privacy until I find a small, empty, half bath. I sit on the toilet seat and let my tears fall. I hate him. I sometimes hate Max because I just can’t begin to understand him or why he does the things he does. Some are terrible things, like right now, choking another human being!

  A knock sounds on the door. Brad? Has he come looking for me? I doubt if he noticed my eye lock with Max. Last I saw him, he was entrenched in the fight. But then, there it is again, our knock. The special knock that only Max and I know. We made it up when we were fourteen. We were in trouble and put in separate rooms. He started tapping on the wall between us, my imaginary jail cell. Like I said, my parents are my jailors. Anyway, by the end of it, we devised this complicated code of taps and knocks that only we knew. We only used it when entering each other’s house or room. And now there it was.

  Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands while I consider telling him to go away. But it’s Max. He’ll just stand there and wait for me to come out, without a word of complaint. He’ll wait five hours if that’s how long I take. I could picture him simply leaning against the wall, his arms crossed… and not a word would he say. He wouldn’t knock again or beg me to come out. He’d just let me stew… and wait. He can be that persistent. I save myself the trouble, get up and unlock the door.

  He steps inside. I gasp when I spot the blood on his forehead. His hands are dripping in blood too. He split his knuckles. My stomach turns at the sight. I hate blood. I detest that he does this to himself. It repulses me. It sometimes makes me so disgusted, I want to hit him just to try and knock some sense into him.

  I stare at him. He stares at me. I am five-foot-one, and one of the few people that gives him the effect of having height. His face is completely expressionless. He is half Latino so his eyes and hair are dark. He holds my gaze. He has balls unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. He is freakishly fearless. He will take on anyone, no matter how much bigger or fiercer than he. He is small, lithe, and scrappy. He is also quiet. So quiet, most people forget he is in a room, or even in their lives. His dark eyes rarely show what he thinks or feels. Because of his ethnicity, and Ellensburg having a high number of transient workers from Mexico, both legal and illegal, to work the farms and ranches of the area, most people think he doesn’t speak English. But instead of correcting them, he almost revels in that mistake. He loves the anonymity. He craves it. He is there, but more as a ghost than a human being.

  Sometimes, I feel the weight of Max’s burden on me. I am his voice, and his only connection to the world. I assumed that role by myself, when I was in seventh grade and I first met him. I took him to school with me, and back then, his severe speech impediment made him stutter and slur his words. He’d been mocked and jeered at all his life, while I was well liked and popular. We live in such a small town, that I became a kind of queen bee around everywhere. And I claimed Max as mine.

  He and I are completely different. I am outgoing to almost everyone. I am usually friendly and I hope most people think I’m a nice person. Max is so introverted, like I said, many think he can’t speak English or only broken English. Not true. He can speak perfectly when he chooses to. He remains unfriendly to almost everyone. Except me. Max is usually nice to me.

  And always… there is Max. Sometimes, he is like this huge albatross around my neck. He never even tries to fit in anywhere. He has no friends. He’ll beat up anyone for no real reason. Another oh so not appealing fact about Max is: he loves to pick fights. I mean to the extreme. He’s been running street fights since he was in the fifth grade. He earned a sufficient amount of money doing so, as he was the perfect hustle, owing to his slight build and stature. I’ve seen him fight. He’s fierce. No one sees it coming. And I hate it. One time, I saw him bring a kid to his knees. I ran from him, afraid and crying, and refused to speak to him for a week. He really scared me. He always scares me when he fights. He becomes a different guy when he goes into what I call his fighting “trance.” It’s creepy. This blank expression comes over him. It’s all-consuming and impenetrable. It’s also lethal. Or at least, almost lethal.

  I stare at him, and his facial expression doesn’t change.

  He is usually my best friend. I mean like my real best friend. Not the BFF you hang out with at the lunch table, or exchange idle gossip with about who hooked up with whom. No, Max and I go much deeper. We just are. Always. Best friends. I love and trust him. My aunt and uncle adopted him shortly after he and his brother came to Ellensburg. They were escaping from a really bad life in California. After that, we were officially cousins, so I spent all these years mostly with him. He tagged along everywhere I went, even when no one else really wanted him. Not that anyone dared to be mean to him in front of me. He didn’t even try to defend himself against idle gossip or rude kids. He only fought to make money. I was the one who, more than once, ripped into someone for mistreating him, or assuming he didn’t speak English. Some even tried speaking louder to him, implying that his reluctance to speak indicated he was a moron.

  I break our silent standoff. “You’re bleeding again. Sit down.”

  He doesn’t comment, but sits on the closed toilet seat. There are no towels. I find a roll of paper towels under the sink and pull several sheets off, which I run under the faucet before approaching him. His eyes never leave mine as he watches my movements. His distrust is high. His fight or flight instinct is ever on alert. Except it’s usually turned on to fight. I lean over and gently touch the paper towel to his bleeding cut at his hairline. It looks like a ring or watchband sliced the skin. He has dark skin, darker than his brother even. No one knows for sure if his father was the same father as his brother, Derek.

  I leave the wet paper towel there for several long, silent moments. Yes, still quiet. We often do that. We do not communicate like any other couple or friends in the world. Everything we say comes through our silences with each other. He knows how upset I get. I talk to everyone, all the time, and sometimes I prefer being with Max because I don’t have to talk or be happy, or really be anything. I can just be Christina in whatever form or mood I feel like at that moment. And stranger still, Max usually senses whatever mood I am in.

  I step back and throw the wet towels in the trash before ripping off some more. This time, I drop to sit back on my heels. No way am I letting my knees touch the dirty floor in the bathroom, but I lean forward to grab his hand and bring the wet, cool towel over his bleeding knuckles. He jerks back at first. I tug harder. I lift my face to his and glare at him. He hates to be touched. Anywhere. Yet he willingly tolerates guys who are much older and bigger than him to slam their fists and feet into his vital body parts. Stupid thing to do. Stupider still, that he is afraid of my hands being on him. I can count on one hand how many times during the five years we’ve been best friends that I’ve actually touched him.

  “You’re bleeding. Let me.” I hold his stare. He is stiff now. His back is straight and his jaw clenched. I tug his hand back towards me and touch it with the wet towel. I don’t mean to, but the sight of his bloodied knuckles causes tears to come to my eyes. I sniff and try to hold them in. It is just so wrong. He does this to himself, and yet he won’t even let me hug him. I am not able to hold his hand or…

  No. I spent too much of my adolescence wishing things about Max that could never be. Things he doesn’t feel for me. Things that could include touching.

  “Why are you crying?” His tone is soft, and his eyes are genuinely confused. He lifts a finger as if he’s about to trace the tears or wipe them, but he hesitates, as always, and drops his hand, as
always. I lower my gaze as his usual rejection stings just as much as the first time.

  I shake my head. “Why do you do this? Why do you bloody yourself like this?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t know you’d be there.”

  “That doesn’t change what you did! Or what you do. I thought… I thought you didn’t do this anymore.”

  “I try to make sure it doesn’t get back to you guys.”

  “So you still do it? Don’t you dare lie to me. This wasn’t just a fluke, was it?”

  He drops his gaze and tugs his hand from mine to wrap his other hand around the wad of paper towels. I stare at his entwined hands and feel the loss from my own. He still, after all these years, and all our times together, hates my touch. “No. Not a fluke.”

  I drop my hands to my lap. “I hate you doing this. Why? I just don’t understand why.”

  “I like the power,” he mutters.

  “There’s no power in pain. Just stupidity,” I snap as I rise up to my feet. His gaze follows me. I can feel his burning, black eyes digging into my skin. He can handle any insult in the world, but he hates it when I call him stupid.

  For years after coming to live here, Max stuttered and struggled to even make a single, normal sentence. He underwent intense speech and occupational therapy. He’d come so far, but still rarely spoke to anyone outside of our family. He mostly only talked to me. But I didn’t totally know him or understand him either. Even after all these years, and all the days I invested in trying to simply talk to Max. I’ve tried so hard to get to know Max, and still I realize that I don’t know him.