Jessica Sorensen - Delilah: The Making of Red

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.

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.