Page 19 of Tainted Love

As if on cue, Darius chimes in with a playful remark. “And I must say, I am quite pleased with Oscar De Larenta's bold new fall line.” We both burst into laughter. The rest of the lunch period is spent laughing and talking about anything except Michael Tazman.

Unfortunately, that brief respite is soon shattered when I find myself standing awkwardly in the middle of the familiar field, feeling like a lone tree in a vast expanse of grass. My usually confident demeanor falters as I try not to draw attention to myself.

As someone who prefers solitude most of the time, I now find myself wishing that one of my friends was here to keep me company. But as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

“Sascha,” Landry's voice cuts through the air from ten yards away, his tone insistent and commanding. Why is he intent on killing me this week?

I respond with a small shake of my head and an unconvincing wave, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave me alone.

But he doesn't give up so easily. With determined strides, he jogs over to me and calls out again, this time louder. “Sascha!”

Feeling annoyed and exposed, I muster up the courage to yell back at him. “I'm cool!” I lie, avoiding eye contact and purposely looking away from his direction. Landry can be so oblivious sometimes, or maybe he secretly enjoys making me uncomfortable because he continues to pursue me despite my obvious attempts to avoid him.

“Why are you just standing here by yourself?” he inquires. I turn to face him, forcing a fake smile onto my lips.

“Waiting for class to start,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Why don't you come to meet the guys?” he suggests, gesturing toward his hockey friends.

“I'd rather not,” I respond curtly.

“What's going on with you?” he asks, his handsome features etched with concern. He steps closer, his eyes searching mine for an answer.

I force a smile and shake my head. “Nothing,” I lie. “I just don’t want to meet your hockey friends.”

“Why?” Landry's voice is laced with hurt and he takes a step back as if I've personally insulted him.

Letting out a sigh, I know he won't let this go unless I give him more information. “Look, Landry,” I start, bracing myself for his reaction. “I know Michael Tazman.”

“You do?” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Yeah,” I say off-handedly. “I knew him in kindergarten.”

“Cool,” Landry says, seemingly unfazed by my revelation. “Well, come say hello.” He grabs my hand and tugs me toward their group. They've all turned to look at us by this point, so I follow him begrudgingly not wanting to make a scene. “Might as well get it over with."

As we approach them, the warm sun beats down on me, but my skin prickles with nerves. Michael tosses the ball to Corey as he takes off in a run. “Hit me,” he calls out confidently, his voice carrying over the sound of laughter and shouts. Corey quickly throws him the ball, and Michael effortlessly catches it, slowing down to jog back toward us. A smirk plays across his lips for a moment, but he doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

Landry introduces me to the group. “This is my friend Sascha.” I’m met with a chorus of hellos and what’s up, but Michael doesn't even look at me. It's like I'm invisible to him. My heart sinks a little, knowing that any friendship we had all those years ago has been completely forgotten.

Landry's curious gaze bounces between us as one of the guys I vaguely recognize from some classes starts making small talk. The rest of the group disperses to throw the football around again, but I struggle to stay focused on the conversation. Emotions swirl inside me—confusion, sadness, frustration—my hands trembling slightly. I guess I have my answer now. He doesn’t remember me from the past and he doesn’t care who I am in the present.

Chapter 9

“Renegade”

Taz - Age 13, 1983

As I trudge inside after a grueling hockey practice, the thud of my bag echoes through the entryway. “Hello?” I call out, but my voice is met with a hollow stillness that’s become all too familiar.

With heavy feet, I jog up the stairs and peek into my dad’s room, only to find it empty as usual. He’s been traveling for work since we moved in with him, and though I’m glad he’s working, I don’t know him any better now than when he was in prison. The time apart has created a distance between us that I struggle to close. My mind wanders to what might be happening on these work trips—could he be getting involved with drugs again? It’s just a hunch, but deep down, I worry. I have no evidence to support my suspicions, yet they persist in nagging at me.

I knock on Brian’s door and cautiously peer into his room, but like my dad, he’s nowhere to be found. It’s Friday night, so he’s probably out with his college buddies. Lately, he’s been spending more time with some guys from his football team.

Sometimes, he drags himself home at 5:00 am, reeking of cheap beer, his eyes pink from lack of sleep and possibly other things. I can only hope he isn’t following in our dad’s footsteps.

I want to talk to him because I know he’s driven in that condition. He, of all people, should know better than to put himself and others in danger like that. But he never wants to hear it.

Under exhaustion, I trudge down the creaky stairs and make my way to the kitchen. The refrigerator greets me with a chill. A few lonely lunch meat slices, forgotten hot dogs, and various condiment bottles line its shelves. My eyes quickly turn to the cabinets, where I find some stale cereal and a can of Spaghettios.