Delilah

The Making of Red

Jessica Sorensen

Prologue

If you think this is some kind of love story, you’re wrong. It’s not at all. Does it contain hearts, kisses, and passionate moments between a boy and a girl? Yeah, maybe, but maybe not. It all depends on how you interpret lovey-dovey stuff. If you’d asked me five years ago, when I was a naïve sixteen-year-old, I would have told you this story was leading to all of that. That by the end of my journey I’d be happy and riding off into the sunset with Prince Charming at my side, the love of my life, who always whispered sweet nothings in my ear and told me how wonderful I was.

Because that’s how things are supposed to go when you meet that one guy who looks at you like you mean everything to him. Who looks at you like you mean something. Who makes you feel like you’re the sunshine in his darkness. Who notices you and makes you feel like the center of the world.

Five years ago, I truly believed that’s where my life was going. There were so many possibilities blossoming in the beginning stages of becoming a woman. But I was clueless about love, happiness, life. I was clueless about who I was.

And now I’m lying half-dead on the riverbank, barely able to breathe, unable to move, knowing that if someone doesn’t find me soon, I’m going to die here with my soul sucked away, a skeleton of myself. Left for dead at twenty-one years old, a shell of who I used to be five years ago, when I was sixteen, when this all started.

Looking back, I can see the exact moment my life headed in this direction. The one where I was no longer Delilah, but Red.

It was a hot, record-breaking summer, full of possibilities—full of promise. The moment I put the red dress on, I could feel something was about to happen, felt myself transforming into someone else. The dress matched my fiery red hair, high heels, and a string of pearls. I had a gorgeous tan and my breasts had finally grown big enough that I had cleavage. I felt on fire when I looked at my reflection. Beautiful. Different. There was so much hope. Possibilities. I could actually spread my wings and fly.

But eventually I would crash and burn. Because after I got what I wanted, I lost it all and started my slow descent. And at the end of my journey, I’d go down in flames and pay the ultimate price for my choices.

Chapter 1 Poison Ivy

Delilah, sixteen years old…

Delilah. Seductress. Temptress. A treacherous woman. These are just some of the meanings linked to my name. But am I any of them? No, not even close. In fact, I might be the exact opposite.

My mother, on the other hand, is a prime example of these meanings.

She’s a complicated woman, who has a lot of ups and downs. She likes to look sexy and young just as much as she likes to yell when she’s stressed. Whether it’s over bills, her job, or the simple fact that she can’t find the right pair of socks, it seems like hollering is her way of letting all the anger out. But the one thing she never refuses to yell about is men. It’s her cardinal rule: Never let men own you—own them.

It’s not like she’s a terrible mother. She puts a roof over my head. Feeds me. Gives me clothes and spare money when she has it. She pays for me to take ballet lessons, even though I know she can’t afford it. We used to do things together too, but then my father divorced her after twenty-one years of marriage because he didn’t love her anymore. Those were his exact words.

She was forty-one. After three months of being divorced, my father remarried a twenty-six-year-old. Then began my mother’s desperate search for her fountain of youth. Metaphorically speaking.

She discovered it in bars, cheap dates, and one-night stands with men half her age. I honestly have no idea how she does it—how she manages to wrangle some of the guys home that she does—other than maybe she’s living a double life as Poison Ivy, a seductress with a potent kiss that stuns men into a delusional state so she can lure them into her bed.

My mother’s not bad looking at all. In fact, she’s sort of mesmerizing to look at, although I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly what it is about her that’s so striking. Her hair is still its original honey blond, her skin has minimal wrinkles, and her boobs don’t sag. But she doesn’t look twenty-five either, which is around the age of a lot of guys that she brings home. Like the one she brought home last night. He’s young, maybe not even twenty-five, with shaggy brown hair, baby blue eyes, and a decent-looking face. He’s wearing a button-down shirt, slacks, and a red tie, but the fabric is wrinkly and the clothes are too big, like he’s playing dress up in his dad’s clothes.

I study him as he eats breakfast at our kitchen table—my mother always cooks them breakfast the morning after—trying to read his thoughts as he eats his bacon and eggs, trying to figure out why he ended up here. Trying to figure out how she does it: makes guys give her that stupid doe-eyed look, because the only looks I’ve ever gotten from guys are the you’re invisible look, the not-interested look, and the you’re-such-a-good-friend look. To almost everyone, I’m Invisible Woman.

“Delilah, get yourself something to eat,” my mother says, rinsing out the pan in the sink. She’s wearing a silk robe that barely reaches her thighs, and it’s untied, revealing that she’s wearing a lacy nightie underneath that her boobs nearly pop out of. It’s not a big deal to me though. In fact, usually she only has a bra and pair of panties on, so I’m grateful for the nighty. Plus she looks good in it. If I looked like that, then I’d probably walk around in a nighty all the time too.

“Oh, yeah, okay,” I say, tearing my thoughts away from her outfit and reaching for the bacon on the table.

She raises her brow, giving me a suspicious look, like she’s thinking I’m going to seduce the guy she spent the last night with, live up to my name. But I wouldn’t even know how to if I wanted to.

“What?” I ask her innocently, stuffing my mouth with bacon.

She rolls her eyes at me and returns to scrubbing down the pan, while the guy across from me wolfs down his bacon. “It’s nothing,” my mom replies, turning off the faucet. Then she turns around and glances at the clock on the wall. “Aren’t you supposed to be headed to school?”

I look over at the time on the microwave. “I have like fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, but I have some things to do,” she tells me, staring at her latest conquest like he’s the bacon and she wants to eat him up.

The guy looks up at her, ruffling his hair with his hand, and he’s looking in my direction, but at the same time he’s not really looking at me, more like looking through me. I lean to the side, just to see if I can catch his eye and his attention. I fail epically, and in the end he ends up looking over at my mother. And once again I feel insignificant.

It’s like watching a play and my mom is center stage, the spotlights are all on her. Her eyes meet the guy’s from across the room. Lust fills their expressions. I can almost visualize my mom growing vines of poison ivy on her body that slide across the floor and tie around his legs and arms, binding him to her.

He stares at her like she’s the most amazing, beautiful woman in the world, the way I wish a guy would look at me, just once. “You ready to give me round two, babe?” he asks, forcing an overly large mouthful of bacon down his throat.

I scrunch my nose. This is not going to go well. My mother doesn’t like losing control. Doesn’t like giving anything to men, only taking.

My mom ties the belt around the robe and closes it up. “Actually, I was thinking about taking you home. I’ve got to go into work early, and unless you want to take the bus back to the bar to pick up your car, you’re going to have to leave with me.”

You’d think from what she just said she’d be done with him, but she’s not. It’s a routine for her. A seductress routine, full of toxic kisses and mind manipulation. She stands up straight and she’s wearing heels, so her legs look really long as she struts over to the table and traces her finger across the back of the guy’s neck. I catch him shudder. She leans down and whispers something in his ear, then she pulls away, but not before she snatches hold of his tie. His eyes widen as she guides him up, and then he lets her lead him into the bedroom like a dog.

Seconds later I hear the door shut and then music turns on. She always turns music on, either because she likes to listen to it while she has sex or she doesn’t want me to hear what’s going on. “Leather and Lace” by Stevie Nicks and Don Henley flows down the hallway.

The song continues to play as I finish off my breakfast, then put my dishes away and dance my way back to my room, singing the lyrics under my breath, pretending for a moment that I’m center stage.

I change out of my pajamas and get ready for school. Jeans and a T-shirt are my normal attire. A ponytail is my go-to hairdo. Add a little gloss and eyeliner and I’m good to go. It’s not like I’d benefit from trying any harder. Guys don’t notice me even when I try. Like the one and only time I wore a bikini to the town pool. I was thirteen and still filling out a little bit, but still I thought it’d be nice if a few guys looked in my direction. But Sandy Manderlin, the lifeguard, was wearing her bikini that day, and let’s just say that she could give Pamela Anderson a run for her money.

I felt stupid for even trying and severely inadequate, especially when Tommy Linford told me that I didn’t need to wear a bikini at all—that Band-Aids would have sufficed. I retorted with a simple remark about him needing to stuff socks in his swim shorts just to make it seem like he had something there.

He flipped me off and I went home crying. And burned the bikini.

After I get dressed, I slip my Converse sneakers on then throw my pointe shoes and leotard into my backpack because I have dance class after school. The instructor’s not the best, not like the instructor over in Fairview who’s actually been part of a company and danced on stage in New York City. But she’s cheap and it’s all my mom can afford. And even getting her to pay for classes, took a lot of persuading and promises to clean the house.

After I get my dance and school stuff, I head outside. It’s a bright day, the sun beaming in the sky, birds chirping. It’s a scene straight out of Sleeping Beauty, except for the forest is a bunch of low-income houses and the animals are crackheads, prostitutes, and poor unfortunate souls who’ve either had crap luck throughout their life, made bad choices, or, like me and my mom, gotten divorced and lost half of their household income because some deadbeat father won’t pay child support.

Still, I pretend I’m Sleeping Beauty because it makes the walk to school easier, and by the time I’ve reached the end of the driveway I’m twirling along with my arms out in front in my “in first” position as I sing “Beautiful Day” by U2.

Halfway to the street, I swear I feel someone watching me, but shrug it off because no one ever notices me.

I’m in midturn when I hear someone say, “Well, aren’t you just a bunch of rainbows and sunshine.” The sound of the male voice causes me to trip over my next turn. I stumble and fall forward, slamming my elbow against the chain-link fence bordering the side of the driveway.

“Motherfucker,” I curse in a very unladylike tone as I rub my scraped elbow

“I’m sorry,” the male voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

My eyes lift to the house next door, and I find the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen standing near the fence with grease on his hands and forehead, looking at me. He’s got dark brown hair that’s shaved short, and he’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting jeans hanging on his hips and brown work boots. He’s also shirtless and his chest is cut with lean muscles and there’s a series of tattoos on his side that look like tribal art.

Tattoos that I’m staring at.

And he notices me staring too.

I blush, staring down at the sidewalk as I take a few steps back, squirming under his penetrating gaze. “You didn’t scare me,” I lie. “I’m just a klutz.”

“You’re not a klutz at all,” he says, and the sound of his deep voice sends vibrations through my body. “I was actually enjoying watching you dance.”

I glance up at him, shocked to find he’s still looking at me with so much intensity it’s hard to breathe. I search my mind for something to say, but my throat feels very dry.

“In fact, you’re probably the complete opposite of a klutz,” he continues, looking at me in a way that I’ve always dreamed a guy would look at me—like I’m not invisible or insignificant. Like I exist.

“What’s your name?” he asks, slanting forward toward the fence and resting his elbows on top of it.

“Delilah Peirce,” I tell him, shifting my backpack high on my shoulder. “What’s yours?”

“Dylan Sanderson.” He nods at my single-story stucco house that still has Christmas lights on it even though it’s May. “You live there?”

I nod. “Yeah, with my mom.”

“Aw.” He arches his brows. “So that blond woman I saw earlier coming out to get the paper off the steps is your… sister.”

I frown, feeling my invisibility surfacing again, the lights around me dimming, no longer center stage. “No, she’s my mom.”

His eyebrows shoot up even higher. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that one… how old is she?”

I’m battling to keep my disappointment contained. “Forty-one.”

He pauses, studying me intently, and it makes my skin heat, but not from blushing. It heats with want, because I want him to keep looking at me like that. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” I’m not sure why I lie, other than being seventeen suddenly seems a hell of a lot better than being sixteen, and besides, I think he’s a little bit older. “How old are you?”

“Almost eighteen,” he says, eyes still on me.

“Did you just move in?” I ask. “Or are you staying with the couple that lives here? I don’t remember them moving out.”

“They didn’t.” He hitches his finger over at the house. “I just moved back in with my parents for a little bit until I can figure some stuff out.”

I dare to step closer to the fence and notice how beautiful his eyes are. And how much emotion they carry. Like he’s feeling too much, but trying to keep it all bottled up inside and hidden from the world. “Well, where’d you live before?”

He seems to get a little tense from this question, his shoulders stiffening. “Here and there.”

I think about asking him what his story is, or, better yet, dazzling him with my flirting skills. But I haven’t discovered them yet, so instead I end up saying, “That sounds cool.”

He gives me a look like he thinks I’m adorable. “Where are you heading to so early in the morning?”

“School,” I tell him.

“It’s summer. Isn’t school out?”

I shake my head. “Today’s the last day.”

“And you’re going?” he questions, wiping the grease on his hands onto his jeans, seeming to lose interest in me as he gazes off over my shoulder. “Man, I used to always ditch the last day.”

I suddenly feel like a ten year old with LOSER stamped on my forehead. “Well, I have dance right after and I take the bus from school so I sort of have to go.” I make a lame excuse.

“You’re a dancer?” he asks, and it brightens me up a little bit that he’s paying attention to me again.

I nod. “Yeah, I do mostly ballet and sometimes hip-hop.”

His gaze slowly scrolls over my lean legs and flat stomach, and I struggle not to look away from the heat in his eyes and the heat surfacing in my body. The heat only amplifies when his gaze meets mine, and for a moment I feel this strange confidence inside me flicker and I stand up a little bit taller.

“I’d love to see you dance sometime,” he says with a smile. I’m not sure how to respond, nervous over the idea. The smile starts to leave his face the longer I stay quiet. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to,” I say quickly. “I-I will.”

His grin returns, bigger, bolder, more confident. “I’m going to hold you to that, Delilah,” he says. “In fact, I’m looking forward to it.” He pauses, his eyes skimming over my body again, and then he opens his mouth to say something. The look in his eyes makes me wonder if it’s important, but he snaps his jaw shut when a woman walks out the door.

She’s wearing a robe, but it’s not like my mom’s; this woman’s robe is made of pink furry material and flows all the way to her ankles. Her hair is in rollers and she has slippers on. “Dylan, get your ass in here and clean up the goddamn mess you left in the kitchen!” she shouts, loud enough that the neighbor across the street can hear.

Dylan’s jaw tightens, the bottled emotion in his eyes on the verge of bursting out. “I’ll be in there in a minute,” he replies in a surprisingly calm tone. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks; his gaze is still fixed on me, and all the emotion inside him is directed at me.

It’s overwhelming, and my breath hitches in my throat.

“Don’t give me that ‘I’ll be in there in a minute’ bullshit,” she shouts back, scooping up the newspaper from the porch. “With you that means your dumb ass is going to sit out here and work on the car until you feel like coming in.” She backs for the door. “I’m not putting up with your bullshit. Get your ass in here now and quit bothering the goddamn neighbors.” She turns away and steps back into the house, the screen door slamming behind her.

There’s this long pause where all I can hear is the sound of Dylan breathing. I want to ask him if he’s okay, because his mom seems like a real bitch.

Finally, I manage to gather up enough courage. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like he’s stunned, but the stricken look on his face swiftly vanishes and suddenly he looks calm. “I’m perfectly fine. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Are you sure?” I double-check. “I know how much of a pain parents can be.”

He nods, looking at me as if he’s trying to figure something out. “I’ll be okay, as long as you can do one thing for me.”

“Okay,” I say, a little confused.

“When you get home, make sure to say hi to me.”

“What if you’re not outside?”

“I will be,” he promises with a smile, and the dark cloud that rose over him evaporates.

“Okay,” I tell him, holding back a smile, despite how much happiness is bubbling up inside me. “I’ll make sure I do that.”

“Good.” His smile broadens. “I’ll let you get to school. Wouldn’t want you to be late for your last day.” He winks at me as he backs away toward an old car parked in the driveway with the hood up.

I wave at him and then head off to school, taking even strides, despite how much I want to dance up the sidewalk. I can feel him watching me all the way to the end of the yard where he can no longer see me as I disappear around the corner.

I let my smile break through. For once someone was looking at me. For once I feel like Poison Ivy instead of Invisible Woman.

Looking back at it now as I lie here on the shore, the water rising with the current and slowly rushing over my body, I realize that I was naïve. That I was nowhere close to being Poison Ivy. That I would never even come close. If anything, Dylan was Poison Ivy in disguise, and I was his next victim.

But it wasn’t all his fault. After all, I’m the one who chose to go back to him, even after I discovered his toxic kiss.

Chapter 2 Plastic Dolls

I make sure to say hi to Dylan on my way home. We talk for about ten minutes and then he has to go inside to help his mother with something. I don’t run into Dylan again for the next couple of days after that, and I’m surprised how sad this makes me. I’ve never been a girl who obsesses about boys, yet I find myself constantly checking to see, if by chance, he’s wandered out to his driveway again.

But three days after we meet, I still haven’t seen him again, and it looks like the start to a very long, boring summer. Bryant, my only real close friend, moved clear across the country a few days before school got out. That leaves me to hang out with Martha for the entire summer, who’s more Bryant’s friend than mine, and who I’m pretty sure thinks my mother is a prostitute.

“I can’t believe she walks around like that,” Martha says, flipping through a magazine while lying on her stomach on my bed. She’s got her brown hair pulled up in a messy bun, shorts and an overly large T-shirt on, and her sunglasses on her head. She could probably be pretty if she tried, but she doesn’t. Plus, I think she’s an extreme feminist and hates dresses and skimpy clothes. Maybe that’s why she’s so repulsed by my mom’s wardrobe.

“Yeah, you get used to it, though,” I tell her, leaning forward in the chair in front of my vanity to peek out the curtain again. I have the perfect view into Dylan’s driveway, but like the ten other times I looked out, it’s vacant. I sigh, sitting back down, knowing I should stop looking because I’m veering toward stalker behavior.

“I don’t think you should have to get used to it,” she says. “She’s a mom and she should act like one.”

I get a little defensive. “Just because she dresses skimpy doesn’t mean she’s a bad mom.”

She glances up at me with doubt. “She’s setting a bad example for you and teaches you everything a woman shouldn’t be.”

“And how do you know what a woman should be?” I ask, knowing I’m being rude, but at the same time she’s insulting my mother and she didn’t abandon me like my father did. “You’re completely clueless about what guys want, which is why you’ve never gone out on a date.”

She glares at me as she closes the magazine. “You know what? I don’t have to put up with this,” she says, climbing off the bed and slipping on her flip-flops. “I told Byrant I’d try to be nice to you and give you the benefit of the doubt that you’d return the favor, but as usual, you’re being a bitch.”

“I’m the one being a bitch?” I say, irritated. “You were insulting my mom.”

She snatches her purse off the bedpost and gives me a harsh look as she swings it over her shoulder. “I wasn’t insulting her. I was just saying what everyone else in the town says about her—that she’s a whore.” She looks at me condescendingly. “Only I was trying to use nicer words.” She heads toward the door and I let her leave, even though I know that there’s a good chance I’m going to be spending the entire summer alone now.

“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath as I get up and cross my room to the phone on my nightstand. My mom gave me the phone when I was eight, back when I was still into dolls, and so the receiver is pink and glittery and looks like it belongs in Barbie’s Dreamhouse. I’ve been trying to get her to get me a cell phone, but she says we can’t afford it.

I dial Bryant’s number and wait for him to answer.

“Hey, how’s the sexiest redhead in the world?” he asks, which is how he always answers. We’re still pretty close, but we actually used to be closer until he started dating someone a few months ago and the girl thought I was some sort of threat, especially when she asked Bryant if we’d ever hooked up and he stupidly told her the truth: that yes, one time when we were fifteen, and tried drinking for the first time, we made out and touched each other inappropriately. After that she didn’t want him hanging out with me. He still did hang out once in a while, but not nearly as much as he used to.

“Did you tell Martha to try and give me the benefit of the doubt?” I ask, plopping down onto my bed and staring up at the ceiling at a poster of Flashdance, which is totally eighties, but as a dancer I can respect the movie.

“Shit, she told you that?” He curses under his breath and I smile to myself, knowing that if nothing else, Bryant’s going to chew her out for doing so.

“Yeah, after she told me that she wasn’t going to do it anymore,” I tell him, twisting the phone cord around my finger. “And that I was a bitch.”

“And were you being a bitch?” he asks.

“Maybe,” I admit. “But she called my mom a whore.”

He pauses. “But she kind of is.”

“Yeah, I know, but it doesn’t give her the right to say it.”

He sighs. “I know. I’ll talk to her.”

“Don’t bother.” I roll onto my side and prop my elbow onto the mattress so I can rest my head against my hand. “I know you want us to get along, but without you, it just feels awkward.”

“But I worry about you,” he tells me. “You don’t have a lot of friends, and I’m worried that you’ll just sink.”

“You make me sound suicidal,” I reply. “And I’m not.”

“I know you’re not,” he replies. “But you can be self-destructive when you’re by yourself.”

“How do you figure?” I ask, not sure whether I’m curious or offended.

“Remember when I went on that family vacation during the summer,” he says. “When we were thirteen.”

I frown at the memory. “I was going through a phase.”

“Delilah, you almost got arrested.”

“I was bored,” I argue. “And Milly Amerson was the only one who would spend time with me. It wasn’t my fault she was a klepto.”

“But it was your fault you tried to be a klepto. And a very bad one at that,” he says. “You chose to do it because you were bored and have such a hard time making friends. In fact, you’re better at making enemies than anything.”

I sigh heavyheartedly. “All right, I get your point,” I say. “Sheesh, you’re such a mom.”

“Well, someone has to be,” he says. With anyone else I’d get offended, but I always let Bryant off the hook because he was there right after the divorce when my mom hit rock bottom and she drank herself into depression and would barely get out of bed for three months. She did eventually get up, though, and start taking care of me again, and people are allowed to break every once in a while.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I say. “But I promise, even if Martha and I don’t hang out, I’m not going to go back to my klepto days with Milly.”

“Just be careful,” he says. “I worry about you.”

“I know you do,” I tell him. “But I promise, if things get too bad, I’ll let you know.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, I gotta go. My mom’s nagging at me to help her finish unpacking.”

“Okay, call me when you get a chance,” I say. “And I’ll tell you about my hot neighbor.”

He laughs. “Okay, that definitely sounds call-back worthy.”

We say good-bye, hang up, and then I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s quiet, and I’m guessing my mom went to work already, which means I have the house to myself until three, an hour after the bar closes, because she always spends an hour with whatever guy she’s tempting to come home with her.

Boredom starts to set in. I hate being alone. It makes me feel even more invisible. If I had my way, I’d have someone around me all the time.

Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore. I get out of bed, put on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, pull my hair up and grab my classical music record from the stack of records on the floor. Moving to the record player on my bureau, I place the needle on it and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata comes on.

I start to dance, letting the music own me as I picture myself on stage and everyone is watching. Fouetté en tournant. Grand jeté. Pirouette. My movements are slow, but graceful and powerful. Each brush of my toe, each twirl, each leg lift perfectly flowing with the music. I create a story simply by using my body, one of a girl who is not necessarily sad, but searching for something—she just doesn’t know what it is yet.

The longer the song goes on, the more into it I get. The more overpowering the story becomes. I transform into someone else. Someone alive. Someone noticed. Someone not overlooked. I can picture myself on the stage dressed in tulle and feathers, starring as Odette in Swan Lake, and everyone sees me. Notices me. Is in awe.

By the time I’m finished, I’m almost in tears and I don’t know why. I don’t feel sad. In fact, I feel content.

I wish I could go back and savor the moment, realize just how amazing it was that I could feel that happy. It was the last summer I ever felt like that. Danced like that. Felt content. Eventually, I’d lose the will to do it anymore, and my pointe shoes would go in a box along with my Barbie phone and my Flashdance poster, everything that made up who I was at the start of the summer.

When I did dance again, it wouldn’t be the same—I wouldn’t be the same. Yes, I would cry, but not because I was moved. It would be because I was dancing topless on a stage in a front of a bunch of screaming strangers who wouldn’t really see me, at least the real me who once dreamed of being Odette. To them I’d just be a plastic doll.

Chapter 3 She-Devil

Later that night, as I’m sitting in front of the television, debating whether I want to watch late-night reruns and keep folding laundry or go to bed, I hear the sound of music from next door. This isn’t out of the ordinary. At least one of the houses in the neighborhood usually has a party during the weekend.

But this sounds like it’s coming from next door, which doesn’t really happen. Before Dylan’s parents moved in, an elderly couple used to live there until they got sick of the noise and headed to Florida. And I rarely hear anything from Dylan’s parents, except for maybe yelling.

Not wanting to be a stalker again, I try to resist the urge to look outside. But eventually it becomes too much, and I get up from the couch and pad over to the window. The driveway is packed with cars, along with the front of the house, and people are standing outside, laughing and smoking and drinking out of plastic cups. It’s a full-blown party, topped off with a guy dancing in the front yard, high off his ass, and a blond girl wearing a leather dress, shaking her hips to the beat of the music on top of a car.

I’m about to look away, figuring I’ll take Bryant’s advice and steer away from any potential self-destructive behavior, when Dylan appears beside the guy smoking the joint. Dylan says something that makes the guy laugh, then he offers him the joint. He takes the joint and puts it up to his lips, inhaling slowly and deeply. I’m completely mesmerized watching his lips, the way he presses them tightly together when he pulls the joint out of his mouth. When he releases the smoke from his lungs, his tongue slips out and he licks lips.

I wish I was the one licking his lips. If I were my mother, I’d get out of my sweats and go over there. Put on a leather dress like the girl on the car and laugh and touch his arm until he came home with me.

But I’m not my mother.

I’m just Delilah.

So instead I just stare out the window, a little longer than I should, and he ends up glancing up at me. Because I left the light on in the kitchen, it lights the house just enough that he can see me.

I contemplate whether to duck and hide and prove that I’m a stalker, or just wave and shrug it off. What would Poison Ivy do? I lift my hand and wave at him, mustering up the best half smile that I can, then I start to turn around, but he holds up his finger like he wants me to wait. I pause as he hands the joint to the lanky guy then hops over the fence into my yard. He keeps his eyes on me as he makes his way up the sidewalk to my front steps, only looking away when he gets close enough to the front door that he can’t see me anymore.

I back off the couch as he knocks and quickly run over to the laundry basket on the couch, rummaging through until I find a pair of my shorts and put them on. Then I tug the elastic out of my hair, shaking it out a little bit before running my fingers through it.

I move so fast that I have to catch my breath before I answer the door and forget to mentally prepare myself. When I catch sight of him, my heart slams so hard in my chest it actually hurts, and I almost fall to the floor, my knees shaking. I’m pretty sure he notices my reaction, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning against the railing, looking all relaxed and sexy in his jeans and pinstriped shirt, the sleeves pushed up so I can see his tattoos and lean arms. “What are you doing?”

“Watching TV and folding laundry,” I say, not realizing how lame it sounds until it actually leaves my mouth.

His lips quirk. “Sounds like a night full of possibilities.”

I try to make a joke and salvage the start of a conversation. “If by possibilities you mean staying up and watching Jay Leno crack jokes while I binge on popcorn, then yeah, the possibilities are endless.” I try to mimic the smile my mom makes every time she’s trying to be cute. “In fact, I might even get really daring and stay up past midnight.”

“Wow, staying up past midnight,” he says, pressing his hand against his chest. “How very adventurous of you.”

“What can I say. I like to live life on the wild side.”

“I bet you do.” His gaze flickers up and down my body and I feel something inside me lift. Then he glances over my shoulder and asks, “Is your mom home?”

My expression falters, and whatever was inside me that was lifting crashes. But as if he senses my disappointment, he adds, “I was just wondering if you were good to come over to the party, or if the parental was going to get in the way.”

I love that he calls her “the parental,” not “my hot sexy sister” or the many other things she’s been called that in no way imply that she’s a mother.

“Actually, she’s at work until three,” I tell him, the lifting sensation rising again, and I feel like I’m about to float away into the sunset.

He glances at the watch. “So you’re good to hang for at least a few hours, right?”

I nod, telling myself to settle down and not be a dork by getting overly excited. “Yep, I’m cool.” It’s so not cool to say you’re cool, but thankfully Dylan seems to find my dorkiness mildly adorable.

He grins at me and then motions me to follow him as he steps down the stairway. I shut the door behind me and follow him down the sidewalk, staying just behind him until we reach the fence. There he jumps over, and then gives me his hand to help me over. I hesitate, staring at his hand, offered to me. Me.

Finally, I take his hand, slipping my fingers through his. The contact of his skin is amazing, creates heat that’s more powerful than the hot summer air flowing around us. His touch is what authors write about. What women dream about. What singers sing about.

And even though I didn’t know it at the time, the moment he took my hand, he owned me, which would seem amazing, except for owning someone and loving someone aren’t the same thing.

He doesn’t let go of my hand after he helps me over the fence. I think he must like holding it. Either that, or he’s forgotten that he has it. I don’t say anything as I follow him across the small strip of lawn on the other side of the fence until we reach the side of the car where the girl is dancing. I realize I know her. Nikki, a girl I go to school with. The way she moves is enthralling, and everyone is watching her. It’s not like she’s the greatest dancer. In fact, I’m sure I’m better. But she’s like my mother, drawing in attention as if she were casting a magic spell over everyone.

I only look away from her when Dylan takes the joint from the lanky guy’s hand and takes a hit as he introduces me. “Landon, this is Delilah.”

Up close and in the light from the porch, I can see his face, and I realize that I know him.

I say, “Yeah, I know. We go to school together.”

He’s stoned, eyes bloodshot and ringed with red, so it takes him a moment to place me. But eventually recognition clicks. “Oh yeah, you had Mr. Melson for fourth, right?”

“And you always sat at the back and got lectured for drawing and not taking notes,” I say, feeling my pulse pound as Dylan grazes his finger along the inside of my wrist.

“And you always got in trouble for being late,” Landon says with a small smile.

I try not to shudder as Dylan’s finger makes his way up my forearm. I want to look at him, see what’s in his eyes, but I’m almost afraid to look. “What can I say,” I tell Landon, tensing when Dylan hands me the joint. “I like to make an entrance.” I stare down at the joint in my hand. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

I’ve never smoked pot before and I think about just handing it back, but everyone’s looking at me, waiting for me to take a hit—Dylan is waiting for me to take a hit. I don’t want to disappoint him, so I put it up to my lips and inhale just like I saw him do earlier.

But the smoke stings and unable to hold it in, I let out a sharp choking cough that makes me feel ridiculous, especially when a few people laugh at me. Dylan doesn’t, though. As I’m hacking my lungs out, Dylan takes the joint from my hand and gives it back to Landon. Then he swings his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him, kissing the side of my head.

I no longer feel ridiculous.

In fact, I feel like the exact opposite.

I feel like Odette.

And he is Prince Siegfried.

I look up at him and he smiles down at me, moving me with him as he steps forward. “Come on, gorgeous, let’s go get you a drink.”

A smile spreads across my face as I walk with him, squeezing past two cars in the driveway and onto the front yard. He takes me inside his house that’s full of people dancing and drinking.

“It’s my birthday,” he shouts over the music.

“Well, happy birthday then,” I shout back, and he smiles again at me.

As we make our way through his house, I find myself noticing how much his eyes light up when he talks and how much they darken when he looks at me, not in a bad way, but in an I-notice-you way. It makes me happy and nervous at the same time, because no one has ever looked at me like that. By the time we reach the kitchen, I’m sweating and jittery inside, so when he hands me the drink, I devour it, hoping to calm my nerves. But it’s vodka, and I choke on the fiery burn of it.

“Shit.” I cough, throwing the plastic cup like it’s made of poison.

He kicks the cup out of the way and steps closer to me, restraining a grin as he pats me on the back. “Are you okay?”

I nod, biting back a gag. “Super.” I cough, pressing my hand to my chest as I stand back up. “I’m sorry. I thought it was water.”

“Do you want me to get you a water so you can wash it down?” he asks, watching me, his eyes always locked on me, unlike a lot of people who usually look through me when they talk to me, like I barely exist. At least that’s what it feels like.

I shake my head. “No, I’m good now. I promise.”

He nods and then scoots a few liquor bottles out of the way so he can hop on the counter, where he sits and lets his legs dangle over the edge. “So, other than dancing down the driveway and staying up all night and getting freaky with your laundry, what else do you like to do?” He flashes me a grin, and I nearly melt into a puddle right there on the kitchen floor for the crowd to tramp through.

“That’s about it, really,” I admit, scooting closer to him as people pack their way into the already crowded kitchen. “I’m actually pretty boring.”

“I doubt that.” His eyes fill with want. “In fact, aren’t redheads supposed to be wild and fun?”

I self-consciously touch my hair, wishing that were true, wishing I could say yes, wishing I could be that for him. “I think that’s blondes.”

He shakes his hand, his gaze devouring me. “No way. It’s definitely redheads.” He considers something. “Blondes are known for being airheads.”

I snort a laugh. “Well, my mom’s a blonde, and she’s no spacier than I am.”

He considers something for a moment. “Your mom’s a beautiful woman,” he says, and it feels like a knife has entered my chest. He leans forward and touches the side of my head with his fingers. “You look just like her except for the hair.”

“Thanks,” I say, a little confused. “Wait, that was a compliment, right?”

He laughs as he hops off the counter. “It was, but since that wasn’t completely clear, here’s another one for you.” He inches toward me, and I have to tip my head up to meet his eyes. Even though there are people around us, it feels like we’re the only ones in the room.

We stand there for an eternity. He’s eyeing my lips, and I’m struggling to breathe. Then I stop breathing altogether as he reaches forward and grazes his thumb across my bottom lip. “You have the most beautiful lips I’ve ever seen.”

I want to say thank you, but I’m speechless, and the feeling only amplifies when he leans in like he’s going to kiss me. But that can’t be right, because gorgeous guys never want to kiss me.

But he does. It’s just a slight brush of our lips, but it’s enough for fireworks to shoot off inside my body. Enough for me to crumble into his arms. I lose myself in that kiss, and when he pulls away he takes a piece of me with him, one I’ll never get back.

With his attention focused solely on me, he licks his lips with his tongue like he’s savoring the aftertaste of me, then he takes my hand.

“You promised you’d dance for me.” Then he leads me to the living room as the song switches to a slow one, but with a deafening bass that vibrates the windows. Everyone starts dancing, and it makes it hard for him to get us to the center of the living room, but eventually we make it.

Then he watches me, expecting me to dance just for him. And I want to give it to him, be the swan and mesmerize him, especially with how he’s looking at me. But there are so many people around and not enough room and I’m a little nervous.

“You want me to dance for you here?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

He nods. “I do.”

I glance around at the crowd. “I’m not sure if I can do that here.”

Something flickers in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before, and it makes me hug myself tighter. “You’re not going to dance for me?” he asks.

“I want to,” I say quickly. “But there’s not enough room.” I inch toward him. “A rain check, though.”

For a brief instant I think he’s going to reject me, but then he smiles again. “You owe me a dance still.” Then he grabs hold of my waist and pulls me to him. I hook my arms around his neck, feeling myself smile. Then we move to the beat, our eyes fixed on each other, our bodies aligned perfectly. Even though there are a lot of people grinding to the music and moving around us, no one seems to touch us. It’s like we’re protected by this bubble, and I feel powerful, no longer invisible but standing in the spotlight. He makes me feel that way just by looking at me, like I’m not just Delilah, but someone else. Someone who deserves to be standing center stage.

That’s how we remain until the next song, moving to the rhythm, our bubble around us, eyes glued to each other, the crowd vanishing the closer we get.

Dylan leans in and his breath touches my cheek as he asks, “So on a scale of one to ten, how lame is this party?”

I slant back to look him in the eyes, but keep my hands on his shoulders, making sure I don’t put too much room between us. “It’s not lame at all. In fact, it’s pretty fun.”

He wavers, like he doesn’t agree. “It’s not the best one I’ve put together. In fact, in Alpine, I was known for my parties.”

“You lived in Alpine before this?” I ask and he nods. “What did you do there besides throw parties?”

He studies me closely. “I’m not sure I can trust you with that answer yet.”

“Why? Is it like a secret or something?” I ask.

He wavers again. “Or something.”

I’m not sure how to respond. “Well, what do you do now, or is that a secret, too?”

He looks annoyed by my persistent questioning, but it swiftly vanishes as he says, “I’ll tell you what. The next time we hang out together, on a real date, I’ll tell you some of my secrets, Delilah Peirce.”

At the time, I felt so happy about what he said, as if he cared enough about me to tell me his secrets, as if I had some sort of power over him. But if I had looked closer, hadn’t been so blinded by the need to be seen, I would have seen that he had the control.

But I didn’t see it like that and just kept dancing with him in a daze, engrossed by everything he did or said, like his looks and words were made of gold—maybe even worth more, because he made me feel like I was worth more.

Then Nikki showed up wearing her black leather dress that reminded me a lot of the black-feathered costume Odile wore in Swan Lake.

“Mind if I cut in?” she asks, tightening her arms at her side to create more cleavage.

Dylan snubs her. “No thanks, Nikki. I’m already dancing with Delilah.”

I smile sweetly at her and I nearly feel the burn of her death glare as she starts to back away. “Well, maybe later, then. After little Miss Sweet-and-Innocent goes to bed,” she says without looking at me, putting me in my place like a true she-devil.

Still, he ignores her and keeps his hands on my hips, swaying us to the music, and she finally walks away. We continue to dance and talk about lighter things, like our favorite food, color, band, car. We do this for hours, and every time he smiles or laughs at something I say, I feel my stomach somersault and feel myself never wanting the night to end.

But it does, and by the time I have to go home, I feel like I’m floating. Dylan walks me to my door. He brushes his lips across mine. And then he stays there until I’m safely inside and lock the door.

It’s a perfect night. Everything is so perfect and I dance my way back to my room, feeling as though I just got a leading part. But then I look out the window just before I go to bed and see Dylan standing in the driveway talking to the she-devil herself, laughing as she touches his arm and leans in to whisper something in his ear. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just talking and friendly touching, but as I lay in bed, hurting and on the verge of crying, I realize that tonight meant everything to me.

And that was a dangerous way to think, because I was already letting myself drown in Dylan and there was so much farther to sink. So many more tears. Heartache. Disappointment.

Pain.

Chapter 4 Maneater

It takes me some time to let the whole Nikki thing go. It’s not like I say anything to Dylan about it, but every time we talk, I can’t help but wonder if he hooked up with her that night, if he looked at her like he looked at me. Made her feel special like he makes me feel every day.

We haven’t gone on an official date yet, so I still don’t know his secrets. I do start spending a lot of time out in the front yard, though. Dance class has ended for the summer, so there’s not a lot of stuff to do. But I keep busy, reading out in the front yard, tanning out in the front yard, even going as far as mowing the lawn, just so I can watch Dylan work on his car, occasionally checking out his ass and anything else I can get my eyes on.

The amazing thing is, he always comes up and talks to me. Every day for two weeks straight. A lot of our conversations are centered around the car he’s working on. Even though I have no interest in cars, I nod and pretend that I’m superinterested in everything he says, so he’ll keep on talking to me and hopefully like me. He also asks me a lot of questions, like my likes and dislikes, where I’m from, what I do for fun. He doesn’t try to kiss me again, though, and I find myself missing the touch of his lips and the feelings the kiss stirred inside me.

“There’s no way that could be true,” I say after a very long conversation about music and concerts as we stand beside the fence. “You really saw Unwritten Law play?”

He nods as he wipes his greasy hands on a rag. “Yeah, three years ago.” He tosses the rag on the ground. “They’re even better live.”

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’d been mowing the lawn when he finally came out of the house, and so I’m sweaty and gross, but I didn’t want to walk away, afraid I’d miss the chance to talk to him if I did. “I think most bands are,” I say. “At least more powerful. Well, except for heavy metal bands, but I can’t stand that music anyway.”

He nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s probably my least favorite, too.”

“It’s such a shame that you still can’t watch old rock bands play like Lynyrd Skynyrd,” I say. “Now that would be something to see.”

“You seriously listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd?” he asks, making his way back to the fence after collecting a bottle of water from the cooler beside the car.

I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I listen to a lot of classic rock actually, but that might be because my mom’s been branding it into my head since I was five.”

He angles his head to the side as his gaze quickly skims to the front door of my house just behind me. “Your mom seems like an interesting woman,” he says.

I try not to react, even though I want to shout at him that she’s a true maneater. “Yeah, I guess.”

He leans against the fence, the muscles of his lean arms rippling as he crosses them on top of the metal post. “What does she do for a living?” he asks.

“She works at a bar,” I reply agitated. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know… I just see her coming and going with a lot of men.”

“That’s because she sleeps with a new one every day.” It sort of just slips out, but I don’t want to take it back. In fact, I’m hoping it repulses him.

He arches a brow at me, looking more interested than he did before, which means I epically failed. “Really?” He considers something for a moment and keeps glancing at my house like my mom’s going to walk out in her underwear, which probably wouldn’t be the first time.

I press my lips together, hating how interested he is in her. “Well, I’m sure if you hit on her, she’d probably sleep with you too,” I say spitefully.

He glances at me with a questioning look on his face. “You think so?”

Anger simmers under my skin. “Maybe. She likes her guys young.”

His gaze bores into me. “And you’d be okay with that?”

“If you slept with my mother?” I ask. “You can do whatever you want.” I hate my mother right now. Hate that she’s so pretty. Hate that she likes to sleep with guys more than she likes her daughter, because I know right now if Dylan hit on her, she’d snatch him up, use him, then spit him back out.

Which is exactly what I want to do, except for the spitting-out part. I’d want to keep him.

He stares at me for a few moments longer, and then his intense gaze softens as he almost looks pleased. “You want to go somewhere with me?”

My jaw nearly drops. What the hell? How do we go from asking questions about my mother to asking me out on a date finally? Still, I say, “Where?”

He stands up straight, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Me and a couple of friends are going to go down to the fair in Jackson to ride the rides and hang out. I’m sure it’s going to be pretty lame, but we could make it fun.” He winks at me and grins, dimples appearing, and my heart skips a beat.

“Sure, that sounds fun,” I say in a calm voice, despite my giddiness.

“Does it?” He bites back his amusement as he starts to walk back to his house. “Alright then, Red, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

My brows knit. “Red?”

He suppresses a grin as he steps back toward me and extends his arm. I stop breathing, terrified and excited as he hooks his finger around a strand of my hair. “Yeah, your hair.” He ravels it around his finger, tightly, pulling on it just enough that it sort of makes my scalp sting. “Red is actually my favorite color… I plan on painting my car red and everything.” He tugs on my hair a little bit harder, watching my reaction with fascination. “In fact, I think I’m going to call you that from now on.”

I’m not sure I agree with his nickname for me, because I can’t help but think of the Marvel comic book character Red Sonja, who was a redhead and an amazingly beautiful temptress who rocked a bikini, and none of that begins to describe me—well, except for my red hair.

He releases my hair and tucks his hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he says, and then turns away and goes back to his tools scattered on the driveway in front of his car.

I watch him bend over, rubbing my head where he pulled on my hair, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. It has to be a date.

I’m going on my first date.

I’m practically bouncing as I enter the living room. My mom must notice my overly happy attitude, too, because she immediately gets this weird look when she glances up from painting her toenails on the sofa. “Maneater” by Hall & Oates is playing from the stereo, and there’s some sort of soap opera on the television, but the volume is turned down.

“What do you look so happy about?” she asks as she brushes the nail polish across her toenail.

I flop down on the sofa that’s across from the one she’s sitting on, grab a pillow, and place it on my lap. “A guy asked me out.”

She glances up at me. “You mean the one that’s been the cause of you over-mowing my front lawn.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I feign dumb, not because I’m afraid she’ll tease me or tell me he’s too old for me. But because I’m afraid she’ll steal him.

“Sure you don’t.” She shakes her head, smiling as she twists the nail polish lid back on. “So he finally asked you out?”

“Yes,” I tell her, hugging the pillow against my chest.

She muses over this. “He’s quite the catch. I’m proud of you, Delilah.” I feel this ping of pride as she says it, and the sun feels a little brighter, like I’m not standing in her shadow. Then she turns on the sofa, props her feet up on the coffee table in front of her, and pats the spot on the sofa next to her. “Come sit by me so we can talk.”

I sigh, get up, and cross the room, sitting down beside her. “Please tell me you’re not going to give me a sex talk, because I already know how that works.”

She raises her eyebrows at me with curiosity. “How well do you know?”

For some reason, I feel ashamed as I admit the truth. “Not that well.” My cheeks heat. “I mean, I’m still a virgin.”

She looks me over, like she’s trying to weigh if that fact has anything to do with my looks or not. I’m not sure what she decides, but when she looks away, she reaches for her purse on the table. She unzips it, reaches in, and takes something out. “Take this with you.” She hands me what’s in her hand.

I stare down at the condom. “Mom, I don’t think—”

“You may not think anything’s going to happen,” she interrupts me. “But you’re a beautiful girl, Delilah, and if you decide to use that beauty, I want to make sure you have control over the situation.” She stands up and walks awkwardly toward the hallway because her toenails are still drying. “Don’t ever leave it up to the guy to make decisions for you,” she calls over her shoulder, exiting the room.

As much as I was jealous of my mother, she had an excellent point. One I wish I would have listened to on a deeper level, taken it as a subtle warning not just to protect myself from sex, but to protect myself from getting hurt, lost, losing myself.

It’s funny, but it was one of the last real conversations we had that really meant anything. As the years went by we drifted, and when I left, she never came looking for me. I wonder if she’ll ever find out that I died. Or when or if my body is discovered, I’ll just end up as another insignificant and unidentified Jane Doe.

Chapter 5 The Red Dress

Dylan wasn’t lying when he said he’d come pick me up. He actually walked over to my house, even though I was planning on wandering out to the front yard so we could just meet.

My mom’s the one who answered the door, and I can hear her chatting away with him in the living room, laughing. The sound is heavy metal to my ears, and I hope she’s wearing clothes, but I doubt it.

I’m trying to hurry and get ready. I was so nervous I couldn’t figure out what to wear. At first I was going to go with something more along the lines of my normal wardrobe, like skinny jeans, sandals, and maybe a fancy tank top. But then I couldn’t help but think of that busty blond girl named Nikki and the slutty leather dress she was wearing and how she captured everyone’s attention when she was dancing on the car. So I decided on something a little less Delilah and a little more sexy and fitting for the nickname “Red.”

“Heart of Glass” by Blondie is playing from my record player as I work to get my hair up into some kind of fancy ’do and dance around every once and awhile. But it’s hot, and the stifling air is making my hair limp. I wanted to make it look really sexy since Dylan was playing with it, but I’m giving up hope the more it falls out of the clips. Finally I just pull all the strands out and run my fingers through them, so they’re a little wavy. Then I stain my lips with some red lipstick I stole out of my mother’s makeup stash. After adding a string of pearls to look more grown up, I go over to the full-length mirror and examine my reflection.

I’m wearing a red dress that hugs my body and a lacy push-up bra that’s been sitting in my dresser since my mom gave it to me when I was fourteen—I even had to pull the tags off. But it’s padded and has an underwire and makes my breasts swell out of the top of the neckline.

“I have cleavage,” I say, turning to the side and sticking out my chest proudly as I run my hands all over my curves. My hair running down to my shoulders and the white pearls sort of clash with the sexy black heels, but it’s only minor, and for once I actually like how I look.

Because I’m not bland.

Invisible.

I radiate like fire.

For the first time ever, I feel confident.

I feel like Red.

But then my mom walks into my room, wearing nothing but a silk shorts and matching tank top with no bra, and suddenly the illusion of the goddess in the mirror shatters.

“You look nice,” she says, after opening the door.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for my perfume on the dresser. “Is Dylan out there waiting?”

She nods and then leaves the door open as she walks away. I take a deep breath, feeling my nerves shiver inside me, but keep my chin up as I grab my purse and head out to the living room.

When I enter, Dylan has his back turned to me as he looks at some of the photos on the wall of what used to be my family. I’m not sure how to get his attention, so I clear my throat.

He turns, and I clutch onto my purse as he scans over my outfit, my hair, my body. “You look amazing,” he says with lust in his eyes that makes me glad I chose the red dress.

A slow, unsteady breath eases from my lips. “Thank you.”

He glances over me again and more lust radiates from him. “You’re welcome,” he says, and then offers me his hand.

I take it and again I feel the magic in his touch as he leads me toward the door. I thought the night was so full magic and possibilities that I was going to change because of it.

And I did.

But not for the better.

Chapter 6 Red and the Big Bad Wolf

Summers in Maple Grove are surprisingly hot, considering how intense our winters are. It’s eight thirty at night and it still feels as hot as it did midday. But I’m enjoying the heat as I wander around the fair with Dylan at my side, the smell of cotton candy and caramel apples in the air, the sounds of roller coasters and other rides in the background. Lights flashing everywhere. It’s a magical night and I feel like Cinderella at the ball, especially with the way Dylan keeps looking at me and how he holds my hand for the entire world to see and doesn’t let it go, even when a few of his friends join us for a while.

We spend a lot of time riding the rides, ones that he lets me pick, never complaining even when I say I want to ride the Ferris wheel, which is known as the “couples’ ride.” He tells me I look pretty, that he likes my laugh. He smiles a lot. He has a really nice smile, one that makes people turn their heads and makes me forget how to breathe.

By the time we’re coming off the Tilt-A-Whirl, I’m high off the night, so elated I do a few pique turns when I’m going down the exit ramp with my arms out in front of me, spotting all the way to the bottom.

Dylan laughs as I reach the bottom. “That was impressive.”

“That was nothing,” I say proudly and then do a few fouetté turns, swinging my leg out as I spin in place on one toe. I smile when I finish and Dylan smiles back, completely entertained, and it makes me feel warm and breathless inside.

Then he steps off the exit ramp and brushes his hand across my lower back before heading toward the concessions. “So, Red.” He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans with a little bit of fray on them. His black shirt is just tight enough that I can see how solid his chest is. He’s also got a black baseball cap on that he’s wearing backward, hiding his hair, but he still looks as sexy as he does standing out shirtless working on his car. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“Like what?” I ask, fiddling with the strap on my dress, my skin damp from the heat and doing the dance moves.

He shrugs. “Anything,” he says. “Who you are? Where you’re from? I want to learn more about you.”

I fan my hand in front of my face. “Well, I actually used to live in Fairmount, but then my mom and dad got divorced a few years ago and we moved here because my mom needed to start over.”

“Do you ever go visit your dad?” he asks, watching me as we walk, the lights around us reflecting in his eyes.

I shake my head. “I haven’t seen him since the divorce.”

He gives me a sympathetic look. “That sucks.”

I nod in agreement, staring at a candy apple booth beside me. “Yeah, but it’s probably for the best.”

There’s a brief pause, and when I glance over at him, he’s giving me a quizzical look. “How do you figure?” he asks.

I shrug, stopping and shuffling my heels against the dirt. “Well, he wanted a do-over too, like my mom, only instead of relocating he got a perfect new family, and I don’t really fit into that picture.”

His eyes leisurely scan over my legs, my cleavage, my neck, finally landing on my eyes. His eyes are hooded and gorgeous and his attention makes me feel special. “You look pretty perfect to me.”

My cheeks heat from his compliment. No guy has ever talked to me like this, and I feel like I’m going to melt. “Thanks, but I don’t think he agrees,” I say, and we start to walk again. “In fact, he made that pretty clear when he signed over full custody to my mom because he”—I make air quotes—“didn’t have time to raise a teenager the right way.” I lower my hands to my sides. “Whatever the hell that means.”

“I think your dad is an asshole,” he says with so much anger in his voice it startles me a little. And it should have startled me more. I wish I could go back and shake that girl, tell her to wake up and see the signs, but I can’t. All I can do is remember.

He reaches out and cups my cheek. The anger still there, and I can feel his hand trembling. “How could he not want you?”

His words are so overwhelming I start to tremble, fighting to keep my legs under me. He can feel it, too, and he brings his other hand up and cups my face between his hands.

“Hey, you want to go somewhere more private?” he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Somewhere where we could talk some more without all the noise and chaos.”

I nod eagerly. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

* * *

He takes me up to Star Lookout, where teenagers are known to go and make out. I’ve never been there, but once we get up there I realize the allure of the place. It’s got a gorgeous view of the city, the lights sparkling below and the stars twinkling from above. Plus it’s quiet and there’s no one around, so we have a lot of privacy.

“You know, I used to come up here a lot in high school,” he admits after we park and he puts the parking brake on, leaving the air conditioning on and the radio, along with the headlights.

I want to ask him if he’s brought other girls up here, but not wanting to seem absurdly jealous, I ask, “Wasn’t that, like, this year?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t been to school in two years.” He pauses, watching me. “I dropped out at the beginning of my junior year.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how to respond.

“Do you think less of me now?” he asks, more entertained by my uncomfortable reaction than anything. “That you’re on a date with a high school dropout?”

“Not really.” I turn in my seat and face him, tucking my dress under my legs. “I’m not that great in school myself.”

“Yeah, but you still go,” he says, rotating in his seat and leaning against the door, his attention still fixed on me. “I chose to give up and be a deadbeat.”

“You’re not a deadbeat,” I tell him. “You work.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a steady job,” he says, bitterness slipping into his voice for a brief moment. “I’m just a washed-up loser at eighteen.”

My heart aches for him. “I don’t believe that’s true at all.”

“Yeah, but you barely even know me. And if you asked my father, he’d tell you how wrong you are.”

“Well, I think your father’s an idiot. In fact, most are.”

He sits quietly in the dark for a moment, and when he speaks again he sounds calm and content. “You think so?”

I nod, loving that I made him feel better. “I know so.”

He scoots closer to me and leans forward toward the console. “You know what, Red, you are very wise for a sixteen-year-old.”

My expression immediately falls. “I’m seventeen.”

He reaches for me and grabs a lock of my hair. “I think it’s cute that you’re trying to pretend you’re older,” he says. “But I promise it doesn’t matter.” He plays with the strand of my hair, tugging on it. “And word of advice. The next time you lie about your age, you should let your mom in on it.”

“She told you.” I frown, feeling ridiculous.

He chuckles lowly. “She actually told me a lot.”

“Like what?”

He starts twisting my hair around his finger, forcing my head closer to him, almost like he’s reeling me into him. “Lots and lots of stuff, like how you’ve never had a boyfriend before,” he says, seeming pleased. “But let’s not talk about that.”

Then, giving me no time to get embarrassed, he tugs on my hair just a little bit and my lips crash into his. The taste of him soars through me. I feel high. Powerful. Intoxicated. And the sensation only builds when he pulls me over the seat and onto his lap so I’m straddling him, and he does it somehow without breaking the kiss.

At first everything starts off innocently. Our tongues gently searching each other’s mouth, him playing with my hair and running his fingers along my shoulders. He even shudders once when I bite gently on his bottom lip, something I saw a woman do on television once.

Then his hand starts to wander under my dress, inching under the fabric. And the more heated our kiss gets, the higher his palm slides up, until finally he’s cupping my ass.

I’ve never done this with a guy before, and I feel breathless and excited and terrified all at the same time, because it’s new and I’m not one hundred percent sure that I should want him to touch me this way as much as I do.

I’m so confused, and my confusion only increases when he leans back, gripping the bottom of my dress, and tugs it over my head, without even giving me time to react. But he looks really distracted right now as he tosses the dress aside, his eyes drinking my body in.

I’m still afraid, although the longer he looks at me with desire burning in his eyes, the more relaxed I get. But as he reaches for the clasp of my bra, I panic.

“I’ve never done this before,” I sputter, crossing my arms across my chest.

His eyes slowly slide up from cleavage to my eyes. “I sort of guessed that,” he says, placing a hand on my cheek and wetting his lips with his tongue.

I feel transparent, no longer special, like how I felt at the carnival. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, briefly searching my eyes. “The first time can be scary, but I promise it’ll be worth it.”

I swallow hard, because I’m not sure I want my first time to be right now. I try to figure out the best way to tell him that as he reaches around and unhooks my bra, but I’m conflicted between wanting him to keep touching me and looking at me like this and wanting him to stop.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says as the bra falls from my body and my breasts are exposed. He reaches out and brushes his finger across my nipple with this hunger in his eyes, and I gasp. The noise seems to turn him on more, the hunger darkening and taking over everything about him, from the way he moves to the ragged intake of his breath, and it makes me feel powerful for a moment. “I just want to kiss you all over.” He keeps touching my breast as he leans forward to kiss me, and my stomach spins with emotions. “I promise this will be good,” he says with his lips hovering over mine.

“But what if I can’t,” I whisper, hating myself at the moment for not being more confident, for not being able to be like my mother and own the moment.

“You can,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

I don’t want to make him mad, but at the same time I’m terrified out of my damn mind. “But I’m not sure I’m ready,” I say, feeling the slightest bit of weight lifted off my shoulders until he leans back a little and looks at me and that intense emotion in his eyes looks like it’s about to burst out.

He’s angry with me and is no longer looking at me like he wants me. I can feel myself disappearing, vanishing back into Delilah. Becoming Invisible Woman again.

“Maybe I should just take you home,” he says, leaning away and looking out the window, not at me.

My mind is racing, and I keep feeling myself fading the longer he looks away from me. And then he starts to move me away and I open my lips to protest, but all that comes out is, “Wait, I want to do this.”

I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to say, but he looks at me and I feel the slightest bit better. Yet for some reason my shoulders feel more weighted as the pressure builds inside me.

“Are you sure?” he asks, leaning closer, his eyes focused on my chest.

I give a very shaky nod, my whole body trembling. Then he looks up at me and the lust in his eyes is so overwhelming I have to shut my own eyes. Seconds later, he kisses me and I kiss him back, letting his hands wander all over my body, feeling my skin, touching me. The longer he feels me the more settled I get. I don’t feel as nervous. As scared. And when he lays me down on the backseat of the car and looks down at me, I literally become lost in him.

I’ll spare you the details of the rest, other than we had sex, it hurt, and he held me afterwards. That was probably the only part I liked about that night; lying in the backseat of his car with my head resting on his chest, my thoughts racing a million miles a minute.

Even looking back at it now, I still get confused over what was going on in my head that night. Why I couldn’t see it for what it was. Why I couldn’t be stronger and tell him that I wasn’t ready. Why I couldn’t just do what I wanted to do, instead of what he wanted to. Why I couldn’t see that I wasn’t Odette and he wasn’t Prince Siegfried. That instead I was Little Red Riding Hood and he was the Big Bad Wolf.

Chapter 7 The Thunder Before the Rain

It’s funny how when I look back on my life, I can see all the mistakes I made and how blinded I was by wanting to be noticed. I’d spent so many years in my mother’s shadow that when a guy finally noticed me, I thought it made me stronger. But really, it only made me weaker.

Maybe if I knew what lay ahead of me, I’d have wanted to stay in the shadows and remain unnoticed. But honestly, I doubt it. I think I was too vain at the time to believe that anything could happen to me, especially death.

And now all I can do is lie here in the cold water, staring up at the storm clouds, listening to my heartbeat fade away, and reflect on how I lived my life… let my memories take me over and haunt me…

Despite my awkward and uncomfortable first time, I end up having sex with Dylan a lot. By mid-July, we are one hundred percent consumed by each other, spending every waking hour together. We go to parties, and instead of hanging out in my front yard, watching him work on his car, I sit in a folding up chair beside the car while we talk.

Not to say that everything is perfect. Sometimes we argue over stuff, like what we’re going to do for the night. It’s nothing major and we make things work. Plus, he always makes me feel special. Always holds my hand. Always kisses me. Touches me. Always lets everyone know I’m his.

I’ve pretty much been walking around with a huge smile on my face for weeks now, something my mom’s noticed.

“God, I forgot how exciting everything is when you’re young,” she comments as I enter the kitchen wearing the red dress, because I love how Dylan looks at me whenever I wear it.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and skip toward the doorway, doing a little pirouette. “Aw, to be young again,” I joke, and part of me loves that she’s looking at me with a hint of jealousy instead of the other way around. That I don’t feel so insignificant standing in the same room as her when she’s wearing nothing but a nighty.

“So where are you going tonight?” she asks as she takes out a pan to cook dinner.

I check my reflection in the small mirror on the wall. “To a party.”

She sets the pan down on the stove. “You’re being careful, right?”

I nod. “Always.”

She turns up the temperature of the burner. “Good.”

I leave the room and go get my purse before heading out to meet Dylan. It’s nearing sundown and storm clouds are rolling in. I hear a boom in the distance, the thunder before the rain, and I step back inside and grab my jacket off the coatrack. I slip it on as I cross the lawn and wind around the fence to Dylan’s driveway. Then I sit on the hood of his car and wait for him to come out, because he told me never to knock on the door, that his mother hates when people come over.

But twenty minutes go by and he still hasn’t come outside. I eye the door, willing him to come out, but it stays shut. The sky starts to rumble again. Lightning strikes and flashes across the land. And then the rain comes pouring down.

I jump up from the car and run up to his front door, soaked by the time I get there. I hesitate before I knock quietly. No one answers, so I knock a little harder, then I startle back when it swings open. Dylan stands there with more anger in his eyes than I’ve ever seen, and it’s all directed at me.

“I thought I told you to never knock on the damn door,” he growls, his chest heaving with his breaths.

I trip backward and into the rain. “I’m sorry.”

His mom starts shouting in the background, telling him to shut the damn door, that he’s in deep shit for making noise and waking up his father. That he’s such a fuckup. With each one of her words, he gets tenser. Angrier. But he doesn’t say anything back. He just bottles it in and steps outside, slamming the door behind.

He doesn’t say a word to me as he brushes by me, stomps through the puddles to his car, and climbs in. I stand on the porch in the rain, my jacket drenched, wondering if I should follow him. He seems so angry that I’m not sure what to do. But he keeps sitting in his car with the engine running, like he’s waiting for me, so finally I run to the car and hop into the passenger seat.

His knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel, breathing in and out. He’s not wearing a jacket, his T-shirt is soaked, and beads of rain roll over his skin.

“Are you okay?” I ask, wiping some of the rain off my forehead.

He doesn’t look at me. “I’m fine,” he says coldly, and then he puts the car into reverse and backs into the road.

He doesn’t speak as he drives down the street toward the edge of town. The longer the silence goes on, the smaller I feel. I watch the buildings and houses blur by, the rain crashing down against the ground and washing everything away.

“I’m sorry I knocked on the door,” I finally tell him as he turns off the main street and down a dirt road where trees line the side and mountains are in the distance.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re sorry,” he says, his attention straight ahead on the road. I can see the lightning reflect in his eyes every time it snaps, and it lights up his anger.

I start to grow nervous. “Where are we going? Is the party up here or something?”

He doesn’t answer me and a few minutes later he stops the car at a turnout beneath a canopy of tree branches. I look around, wondering why we’re here, wondering why he won’t look at me. Wondering if he’ll ever look at me again.

Without saying a word, he turns off the engine, gets out of the car, and stands in the rain in front of the car. I watch him lower his head, the rain pounding down on him, making him sink lower, like he’s drowning.

Finally I get out of the car and take tentative steps toward him, the ground below me soft, and my sandals sink into it. When I reach him, he doesn’t look up at me right away. He stares at the ground, a thin trail of water trickling off his forehead. The longer the silence goes on, the more I wish he would look at me. Please. I can’t take the silence anymore. The invisibility.

Eventually, he gives me what I want without asking, elevating his chin, and his eyes lock with mine. Part of me wishes I could take back my inner wish, that I could tell him to look at the ground, because he’s looking at me like he hates me.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he asks, stepping forward. “How much I’m going to deal with for you knocking on that damn door?”

“I said I was sorry,” I tell him in a shaky voice. “But you weren’t coming out, and I don’t know another way to get a hold of you.”

My excuses make him angrier, his face reddening. “Then you should have just waited by the car like I told you.”

“But it was raining,” I say, wrapping my arms around me as the cold seeps into my bones. “And I got cold.”

“Cold.” He gapes at me, fury burning in his eyes as thunder and lightning snap above us. “You’ve made the next week of my life a living hell because you were cold.” He lets out this sharp laugh, but not because he thinks it’s funny. He starts pacing in front of the car, running his fingers through his wet hair, clenching his hands into fists. “Do you know what it’s like? To be yelled at all the time?” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to answer, and I shake my head. “Of course you don’t.” He laughs again, and it’s filled with so much pain and anger that it makes my hairs stand on end. “I should have never got involved with you,” he says. “You were too immature. I knew it, yet I looked past it because I wanted you.” He turns away from me and starts walking toward the trees, like he’s going to disappear into the forest and leave me alone. “God, you can’t even listen to a simple direction.”

I panic the further he gets from me, not wanting to be alone, and ultimately I rush after him. “Dylan, I’m sorry,” I say. “I promise, I’ll make it better. Tell me what I can do to make it better.” I catch up with him and wrap my fingers around his arm, trying to pull him back to me.

As soon as I touch him, I feel this ripple course through his body. I don’t even realize what’s happening until it’s over. Until his fist collides with my cheek. Until my ears start to ring. Until the world spins. Until the pain sets in.

I cup my aching cheek as he stands in front of me, looking so much calmer as hot tears spill down my cheeks and the raindrops instantly wash them away.

When I replay the moment in my mind, I can see how my pain brought him some sort of peace from his own internal pain, pain that I would never fully begin to understand. But at the time, I didn’t see it. At the time, I only felt my own pain and shame. My own worry that this meant it was all over.

That I was no longer Odette.

The swan.

That I would become Delilah again.

It seemed so repulsive. So horrifying. To become that girl again. The one no one saw. The one that lived in the shadows.

God, what I would give to be that girl again.

Chapter 8 The Death of Delilah and the Making of Red

Over the next couple of days, I keep my distance from Dylan, and he seems to be keeping his distance from me. I see him working on his car sometimes, but I don’t dare go out, afraid of what he’ll say to me, afraid he’ll hit me again, afraid he’ll say that’s it’s really over, that he never wants to see me again.

I’d like to tell you that part of the reason I kept my distance was because I was mad at him for hitting me, but sadly that wasn’t the case. Anger over that never crossed my mind. Only fear. I was so afraid of being alone again that it consumed my mind.

The fear only grew whenever I’d spend time in the kitchen, eating breakfast with my mom and her latest one-night stand.

“Your cheek looks like it’s healing,” my mom notes as she pours syrup onto a stack of pancakes. It’s the fifth morning in a row I’ve eaten breakfast with her and a different guy.

I touch my cheek, remembering the snap of lightning before the strike, remembering how Dylan dropped me off at home without saying a word, and how when my mother asked me what happened, I said a got into a fight with a girl at a party. “It still hurts, though,” I say.

“Well, maybe you should walk away from the fight next time,” she says, cutting her pancakes with her fork.

Her twentysomething-year-old with a goatee looks up from his pancakes. “Why? Girl fights are hot.”

She smiles at him, this haunting smile, and I’m pretty sure he catches his breath. It annoys me the way that he’s looking at her, and I want him to stop it. I want him to look at me.

“I get into them all the time,” I say, trying to get him to look away from my mother.

He doesn’t. In fact, he leans in and kisses her. A few touches and groans later, they’re in my mother’s room and music is playing. And again I’ve become Invisible Girl, sitting in the shadows of the kitchen, the quiet wrapped around me.

I eat my pancakes, taking my time, knowing that when I’m done I’m going to have nothing else to do. I’m swallowing my last bite when I hear a knock on the door. I get up and make my way over to the door, sadness overpowering me. I no longer feel like Odette. Not even a swan. My wings are gone, and all the magic that Dylan created is dead, and I feel like I died right along with it.

Then I open the door, and he’s standing there with a single rose in his hand. His eyes are on me, remorse on his face, pain and sadness in shadowing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says with agony in his voice. His gaze locks on my cheek, where a bit of red still remains. “I was just so upset and I… God, I’m such an asshole, hitting you like that.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I can’t find my voice. So he steps closer into the doorway and I don’t step back. “I was just upset… my mom was yelling at me all morning and it just made me so angry… it always does.” He swallows hard. “I promise, I’ll never hurt you again. I swear to God, if you give me another chance…” He dares to touch my face and holds my cheek in his palm. “Please tell me you’ll give me another chance.”

As his words crash into me, so does the music from my mother’s room. They both overwhelm me, one washing me away, one giving me back the light I so desperately want. I’m not even sure if I fully believe him, yet I tell myself I do as I nod.

“I forgive you,” I say.

He smiles, leaning in to kiss me, and I kiss him back, let his kiss consume me and make everything feel better.

One might look at it as the point at which my fall started, where I made the wrong choice that would lead to five years of wrong choices that ultimately would lead to my half-beaten body being left for dead near the riverbank, reflecting on my life instead of living it.

But I don’t believe it was.

I believe I started falling the moment I put on that red dress; the moment I stopped being who I really was. The moment I changed for someone else simply because he noticed me.

The moment I stopped being Delilah and I became Red.

Content

Delilah
The Making of Red
Jessica Sorensen

Prologue

Chapter 1 Poison Ivy

Chapter 2 Plastic Dolls

Chapter 3 She-Devil

Chapter 4 Maneater

Chapter 5 The Red Dress

Chapter 6 Red and the Big Bad Wolf

Chapter 7 The Thunder Before the Rain

Chapter 8 The Death of Delilah and the Making of Red