Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Read online

  I speak with such confidence and assurance that the words seem true. Maybe a part of me believes they are true. Regardless, they do their job. John appears to be satisfied. He pulls me closer, and we embrace for a long time. He finally backs away, saying, “I better finish my lasagna. I have to be back at work in an hour.”

  “Tonight?” I ask incredulously.

  “Emma, I’m sorry, but one of the new doctors called off tonight and there’s no one in the ER. I have to go.” Sincerity floods his eyes. “I mean, I could try to see if Jake could fill in, but he’s having trouble with his wife and specifically requested tonight off and…”

  I interrupt, “John, it’s okay. Go ahead, I’ll be fine. We have this weekend. It’s fine.” I utter the words calmly and, unlike other times, I actually mean them.

  “You sure?” he questions.

  “Finish your lasagna!” I order. “Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll come home to an apple pie or something. This domestic thing is kind of growing on me.”

  “Let’s not push it. I mean, I’ll miss you tonight, but I don’t want to see you in the ER later,” he teases.

  I grin softly. John always knows how to ease a tense subject. He stacks the last few bites of lasagna on his fork, gulps down a few drinks of water, gives me a sloppy kiss, and heads out the door. I’m so lucky to have this man in my life. I truly do love him. I love him in a way that I didn’t think was possible. I stride over to the screen door and call Hank in. Reluctantly, he gives up his game with the cat and trots into the house, his nose whiffing in the smells of human food. I grab a seat on the couch. Hank glances at the remnants of dinner, drool dripping down his chin. He seems to consider launching himself onto the dirty dishes but decides that would be too much effort and follows me into the living room. As I snuggle with my only companion for the night, my mind wanders purposefully. No matter how hard I try to think about the coming weekend and the beach house waiting for our romantic getaway, I just can’t. As guilty as it makes me feel, it is not John who marauds my thoughts tonight.

  I mindlessly rub Hank’s ears between my fingers as my mind drifts back months, years, and decades. Like the floods of an unexpected tsunami, the memories drown me in their depths.

  Chapter Two: Secrets

  Emma

  Memories

  In my blinding, hot-pink shirt and denim jeans, I glided through the hallways. The first-day-of-the-school-year-exuberance and my new, sparkling sneakers had worn off. I had made it through my first four classes of tenth grade. I was now heading to one of the most dreaded classes of all—art class. For most kids, art was a place of freedom. There were fewer rules, the teacher was typically more relaxed, and there was virtually no homework. For me, however, art class promised the threat of embarrassing injuries and potential failures. Besides lacking creativity, I also greatly lacked any fine motor skills. Last year, I had sliced my finger so deeply on a penknife that I was rushed to the hospital for stitches. Covering everyone’s art projects in blood splatters was not how I wanted to make my first impression.

  I walked into the classroom, glancing around at faces I had seen since kindergarten. Ruby’s gleaming lime green headband, sequined and stunning, bounced the fluorescent lights aimlessly about the room. Noah had grown at least two inches this summer, and the giddy girls gathered around him didn’t fail to notice. Everywhere, familiar kids laughed and joked, feeling a fresh sense of social status due to their newfound label as tenth graders. But then my eyes stopped on a new face. I slowly inventoried his body, making note of his chestnut hair, thick and disheveled, and his even deeper brown eyes. Although I didn’t know his name, a sensation fluttered in the pit of my stomach. I hoped that my cornflakes and chocolate milk wouldn’t spew onto the floor (also not a great way to make a good first impression). Some would call the sensation love at first sight. At fifteen years old, I was pretty sure the feeling was just some undigested food matter sloshing in my stomach. All I knew was that I was curious. I listened closely as roll was called and we were given seats. “Jenna Hansinger, Ashley White, Emma Groves…” And then I heard it for the first time. The teacher read the name of the boy who would be present in my life throughout its entirety, if only in memory. She assigned him the seat next to me.

  My fate was sealed then and there.

  I can’t tell you much about the first half of art class on my first day of tenth grade. Yes, I sat rigidly in my desk while the loopy Mrs. Shire animatedly divulged promises about pottery and painting. I heard references to Picasso and grading rubrics but not enough to know what was actually going on. For the first time ever, class wasn’t my focus; instead, my mind seemed glued to Corbin.

  Corbin didn’t seem too focused on the overly bubbly art teacher either. Instead, he mindlessly fiddled with his pencil, flipping it over and over as his brown eyes gazed ahead. I began to wonder why I’d never seen him before. Sure, I wasn’t Miss Popularity. But in a town this small, every face was at least somewhat familiar. Then again, maybe statistics had been defiantly against us, preventing us from having a single class together in our ten years of schooling. What were the odds of that? Since math was never my thing, I decided to just accept the fact that maybe I had just passed over Corbin without noticing him. Then again, I became more certain than ever that he had to be new to the school district. I knew for a fact that even I, “Miss Nose-in-her-books,” couldn’t possibly have looked past that face…

  Suddenly, a bit of chaos blasted through my thoughts. The previously silent environment bubbled over with the conversations and laughter of twenty students. What was going on? Great, I thought. The only time I decided not to pay attention, and I actually missed something important. Now what?

  “It’s Emma, right?” Corbin offered.

  “Yeah…why?” I replied with more defensiveness that I had intended.

  “Uh…the project…”

  “What project?”

  “The one Mrs. Shire was just talking about—you know, the collages?”

  “Oh, right,” I retorted with an air of assurance.

  A smile gently spread across his face. “You weren’t paying attention,” he accused.

  “Of course I was paying attention,” I snapped. “You were the one flipping your pencil around like some sort of magician.”

  “It’s called multitasking. I was still listening, unlike you,” he joked. “Should I fill you in?”

  I sighed. This was going just swell. “Please,” I reluctantly uttered, swallowing my pride.

  “Well, we have to work with the person beside us, hence, we’re a pair,” he began.

  A pair. I liked the sound of that. Okay, I scolded myself. Pay attention this time.

  “We have to get to know the person beside us, you know, the usual, what they like to do, where they’re from, all of that. Then we have to make a collage that represents our partner and share it with the class,” he said.

  “Like from magazines?” I asked hopefully.

  “Um…no, like drawing or painting it…you do at least know that you’re in art class, right?”

  “Are you kidding? I have to draw? This is just great. Why do I have to take a stupid art class anyway?”

  “Okay, so you’re a daydreamer and you hate drawing. And you like to complain. I’ll write this down for my collage,” he teased.

  “I don’t like to complain! You’re getting me all wrong. I’m just not so creative, and I don’t want to get a bad grade.” The words piled on and on as my panic set in.

  “Well, then we better get to it.”

  “When is this thing due?” I asked.

  “Not until Friday. Which means we have all week to learn about each other.”

  All week to learn about each other. Which meant we would be spending a lot of time together. As long as he didn’t already think I was a major freak and ask Mrs. Shire for a new partner. I grimaced at the prospect.

  He mistook my expression. “You’re still worried about the drawing part, huh? Don’t worry about
it. I can help you. I happen to be semi-okay at it,” he assured me.

  “That’s kind of cheating.”

  “You worry way too much. Relax, it’s going to be fine. This is art class. It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “Great. Now you think I worry too much. Wow, can’t wait to see how exciting my collage is,” I sneered.

  “Well, then you better start telling me some good things about you. There are good things, right? I mean, it’s obvious you’ve got the looks down. But you do have some good personality traits, too, right?” he asked with a grin.

  Wait, did he just compliment me? Or was he just joking? I opted for option two; no one ever noticed me for my “looks.” After all, mousey-brown hair on a girl with a boyish figure wasn’t exactly what all the guys were after, at least according to one of my mom’s magazines that I carefully stole every month.

  “Well, yeah, I might have a few good things to share. Let’s see…I have a great memory. Like, I can remember any fact I hear in biology or history after hearing it just once. Oh, and I never forget an author’s name of a book or poem or something,” I said excitingly. Who didn’t like a girl with a good memory?

  “Okay, that’s great. But tell me something that doesn’t have to do with school. Like, what do you do for fun?” He seemed genuinely interested, to my surprise.

  “Well, I don’t have a lot of free time. I play the clarinet in the marching band. I guess that could be considered my hobby,” I noted in a questioning tone.

  “Okay, that’s good, but it’s still school related. Tell me something unique.”

  I racked my brain for a minute. Panic again bubbled. I wasn’t yet ready to admit to Corbin how lame I truly was. I finally responded, “There’s nothing unique about me, unfortunately. And besides, why is it all about me? What about you? I don’t know anything about you. My collage is going to be blank.”

  “By the sound of it, you’d like to have an excuse to turn in a blank collage,” he badgered. “We’ll get to me. But first, I want to know something about you. I’m sure there’s something unique about you. Some dream or something you’ve always wanted to do,” he pleaded.

  “Well…kind of. It’s stupid, though,” I abashedly admitted. Why did I even offer this as a possibility? I should’ve kept my mouth shut or made something up. I should have pretended to be studying karate or told him I wanted to go sky-diving or something. This social interaction thing wasn’t going so well.

  “Come on, you can tell me. Spit it out,” he encouraged. “You can trust me.”

  “Um, I’ve only known you for like five minutes. And it’s not like I can trust you to keep it a secret,” I reminded him. “It’s going to be on a collage.”

  “Well I won’t put this on the collage then. I just want to know something about you that no one knows. So spill it!” His eyes pierced into mine, and I knew that I was doomed. I couldn’t say no to Corbin Jones.

  “Fine!” I asserted. “You asked if there’s something I’ve always wanted to do. There is. I’ve always wanted to…” I paused, searching for courage “…to get a tattoo.” There, it was done.

  “Of what?”

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to get a tiny dove, somewhere no one will see it.”

  “A dove? For like, religious reasons?”

  “No, not really. I just always think of a dove as symbolizing innocence, freedom. I always thought that if I got a tattoo, it would have to actually mean something,” I offered. Suddenly, it occurred to me how dorky this must seem. I waited for him to laugh. Instead, he seemed mystified.

  “That’s it? That’s the big secret?” he asked incredulously.

  “What do you mean, that’s it? It’s a big deal to me,” I countered.

  “Okay, okay. When you mentioned a tattoo, I thought, well, maybe she wants something…naughty. But a dove isn’t exactly what I would call rebellious.” His face was plastered with that crazy-gorgeous grin. I started to think that his grin could get him just about anything he wanted.

  “I told you it was stupid,” I said sadly. I felt my face getting hot.

  “No, Emma, I don’t think it’s stupid at all. You’re missing the point. I think it’s a great idea, really sweet. But that’s the point. Most people have big secrets that aren’t so pure,” he remarked.

  “Okay, well, if you knew me better, it would make more sense. I’m that girl who’s always doing what she’s supposed to. I never get detention hall, I get straight A’s in every class. I never go out late or skip class. I never drink or smoke. I’m kind of a boring square, if I’m being honest. Maybe not your idea of exciting, but it’s good enough for me,” I explained. I tried to appear confident in my words, as though I actually believed them.

  “Okay, fair enough. When I get to know you better, I’m sure I’ll get it,” he said seriously. “But I don’t believe you. Yeah, you might be a great student, which is good. But I think there’s a lot more to you than you’re letting on. I don’t believe that you’re as simple or boring as you’re letting everyone think,” he suggested with a bit of intensity. “All I know is that I’m going to find out, Emma. I’m going to find out what you’re all about.”

  “Yeah, for the project,” I said. “I don’t think you really have to get to a deeper meaning for it. It’s just a dumb art project so we can learn the basics.”

  “Who says I’m just talking about the project? Maybe I want to get to know you just to know you.”

  My heart fluttered a little at the prospect that he could be serious. Even after this awkward conversation, he still wanted to know me. The real me. I hadn’t scared him away yet. Maybe there was hope.

  “Well, now you know my big, dark secret. It’s time I find out some of yours.”

  Just then, the bell rang. I looked up in shock; the class was over already? Everyone started grabbing their backpacks. Mrs. Shire yelled something over the crowd, but I didn’t hear. My attention was fixed on something a tad more interesting.

  “What do you have next?” Corbin asked as he grabbed his black backpack from the floor. I grabbed my pink messenger bag, also brand new for the first day of school, hauled it over my shoulder, and turned to him.

  “Lunch. You?”

  “The same,” he smiled. “Walk with me?”

  “Sure. Maybe I can actually get to interrogate you for a change.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he said as he followed me to the chaotic cafeteria.

  As we glided through the people, I couldn’t help but think that it just might be the best lunch period ever, even if lunch was Salisbury steak.

  Chapter Three: White Promises

  Emma

  Memories

  Entering the cafeteria together felt like we had entered a war zone. As is typical on the first day of school, everyone was overly exuberant and loud. Friends who had a whole summer’s worth of stories anxiously gabbed as they grabbed their food. Just like in junior high, tables were claimed by individual cliques. A group of five scandalously clad girls tossed their blonde hair in the corner of the room while the football team hungrily ogled them. Looking around the room, one could see all of the typical high school groups: the self-proclaimed science geeks with their fancy gadgets, the punks with their shocking clothing choices and purple/black/every-color-in-between hair, the quiet kids silently sipping on their lemonades, and every other group that exists within the strange world of teenagers. I glanced over at Corbin as he took in the room. I figured he was wondering where I would be sitting, what group I was associated with.

  Confused by the myriad choices of lunch lines that were now present in our school system, I slipped into a line and pretended I knew what I was doing. Potatoes splattered onto trays, and vegetables were discreetly discarded in a hidden corner of the lunch line. Girls grabbed single bags of chips in an attempt to seem dainty and skinny, pretending that the small bag would fill them up. I maneuvered through the chaos, grabbing a tray of mystery substances and some bread. At least something would be edible.
r />   Corbin followed. As we stood behind two girls anxiously chatting about some guy named Steven and their date that night, I turned to him. He was loading up his tray, already clad with a double lunch, and chips and cookies from the “extras” bin.

  “So I’m guessing you’re not from around here? I mean, I’ve never seen you before.”

  “No, I’m not. I moved here this summer from Arizona,” he said nonchalantly while he grabbed chocolate milk. Note to self, he’s not a health nut. That was a big check in my list of attributes. If we went on a date, at least we’d be going somewhere that there was real food.

  “Arizona? Why’d you move to this crappy little town then?” I questioned.

  “It’s kind of complicated. Let’s just say my family needed…change. My dad originally grew up here, so he thought it was good place to relocate,” Corbin offered, his focus purely on organizing his tray.

  “Okay, fair enough,” I added quickly. “Hobbies?”

  “I played football back in Arizona. I wasn’t very good, though, so I doubt I’ll play here.”

  “That’s too bad. At least I’d have someone to watch then on Friday nights,” I said smiling. Where was this flirtatious side of me (if you could call it that) coming from? I usually couldn’t think of two words to say to any guy, let alone a flirty line to a gorgeous one.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You’re in the marching band. Well, maybe I’ll have to reconsider,” he said, winking in a way that actually was cute. We moved through the line, aimlessly grabbing our plastic utensils and cardboard-like napkins. After we paid for our food, I glanced around the jumbled mess of a cafeteria. Finally, I saw my group and walked over, trying to remain confident that I wouldn’t trip and do a face-plant into the gravy on my Salisbury steak.

  From my peripherals, I could see Corbin following behind me. Feeling poised in his answer, I coolly asked, “Um, do you want to sit with me and my friends?”