Melt Read online

  Table of Contents

  Advance Praise for MELT:

  No Place Like Home

  Part One: Munchkinland

  One

  Two

  Three

  Part Two: The Yellow Brick Road

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Part Three: The Great Oz

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thanks for reading!

  Q & A with Selene Castrovilla

  Saved by the Music

  The Girl Next Door

  BOOKS BY SELENE CASTROVILLA

  Copyright

  Advance Praise for MELT:

  “Dorothy and Joey’s plight is both an inner and an outer struggle, a reckoning with a cold world, and a psychological drama about the stakes of truth-telling that ends with a gratifying act of mercy. A fresh, emotionally complex bildungsroman of young American love that looks long and hard at violence, and at what can overcome it.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Melt is evocative, emotional, vivid, and powerful. Beautiful, painful, and ultimately healing, Melt is a gripping read that will make you feel and care about the characters.”

  —Cheryl Rainfield, award-winning author of SCARS and STAINED

  “It was so well-written. If I were to meet Selene right now, I’d clap in front of her for she has written something painfully real and beautiful.”

  —The Quirky Reader

  “MELT was one of the most powerful, stunning books I’ve read all year … Castrovilla sets MELT against a Wizard of Oz backdrop and the L. Frank Baum passages offer a unique insight into the plot of MELT.

  The plot was incredibly real, raw, and painful. Castrovilla takes on many different subjects, such as abuse, addiction, and first love. Despite the heavy subject matter, this novel reads extremely quickly and is amazingly well-written.

  If you are a fan of realistic, contemporary fiction, this novel should be a MUST READ. Bravo to Selene Castrovilla on writing one of the best books of 2014.”

  —Lady Reader’s Bookstuff

  “Melt … reminded me of why I love to read. My heart was literally pounding … I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Eve’s Fan Garden

  “This is such a captivating read from the start. I got so involved with the characters that I was afraid to leave them, afraid that I might miss out on something big if I stop reading.”

  —The Cursed Empire

  “I get the writing style of Melt isn’t for everyone. It’s written as verse, poetic-like. But the book is so deep, but yet such an easy read. I’ll never forget it. NEVER.

  And I’ll forever recommend it as a must-read. The fact that she could introduce these deep characters in such a structure and make me feel like I know them is mind blowing.

  I have nothing but praise to the author … she created a powerful book that will forever hunts the reader. Poignant and entirely realistic, MELT is a book that should NEVER be missed.”

  —Her Book Thoughts!

  “All I could think was ‘God help them’. And I couldn’t stop reading.”

  —Sheri’s Reviews, Goodreads

  “Different. Intense. Perfect.

  This story was all of these, and so much more.”

  —Bibilophilia, Goodreads

  Melt

  by

  Selene Castrovilla

  “Instantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as Dorothy looked at her in wonder, the Witch began to shrink and fall away.

  ‘See what you have done!’ she screamed. ‘In a minute I shall melt away.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, indeed,’ said Dorothy, who was truly frightened to see the Witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her eyes.

  ‘Didn’t you know water would be the end of me?’ asked the Witch, in a wailing, despairing voice.

  ‘Of course not,’ answered Dorothy. ‘How should I?’”

  —From The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

  For Joe Donovan

  Thanks to my friends, who have been life support over the years. Thanks to my fans, whose connection with my work has provided me with satisfaction and happiness beyond all conceptions. Thanks to my sons, who give me joy, unconditional love and latitude when I’m writing.

  No Place Like Home

  “‘What shall we do?’ asked the Tin Woodman.

  ‘If we leave her here she will die,’ said the Lion.”

  —From The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

  Mom stopped crying a

  long

  time ago.

  Now

  she don’t even

  whimper

  when he does it. He comes

  home

  in his steel blue shirt shiny black shoes shiny tie clip shining

  badge

  he blows in and the screen door

  slams

  behind him like it’s pissed off

  he’s

  back.

  He comes in shuts the front door clicks the lock closed

  he wipes his shoes on the mat

  back and forth

  back

  and

  forth he pads across the shit-brown carpet without a sound

  his eyes are empty his eyes are

  dark his eyes are

  wrought

  lead like his

  Glock.

  I catch a whiff of his favorite mouthwash

  Jack

  Daniel’s

  he used to smell of Listerine and Jack but he don’t bother trying to

  cover

  up

  these days.

  Without a look he goes past me and Jimmy and Warren. Warren’s got his textbooks spread out across the couch but he ain’t studying

  not

  no more. Grim music drifts from our video game low

  chilling

  sounds like any second the reaper’s gonna

  strike. Me and Jimmy we’re playing Halo on Xbox, least we were ‘til

  he

  came

  back. It’s like we’re paused

  we’re all on

  pause whenever

  Pop

  comes

  home.

  We ain’t putting down the controls ‘cause if we look at him if we act like we’re paying attention to what he’s doing then he

  might

  come

  after

  us

  next.

  The freakish Halo music plays on and

  on and

  on. He heads through the arch to the kitchen his shoes

  stamping on the green

  linoleum he goes right over to

  her

  at the stove cooking his goddamn mashed potatoes stirring

  stirring

  stirring she don’t move don’t run she just stirs

  stirs

  stirs

  he says

  nothing

  to her to the

  girl he married to the

  mother

  of his kids he comes behind her at the stove

  his shoes squeak he

  grabs

  her

  the spoon plops in the potatoes no not even a plop not a sound it

  sinks soundless

  like

  her.

  He holds her against him blue sleeve on white apron

  squeezing

  squeezing

  squeezing into her ribs like he’s doing the Heimlich

  his tie clip presses in her back

  he sticks his semi-automatic piece of crap weapon in her mouth clanks

  it against her teeth shoves

 
it

  down

  her

  throat clicks

  off the safety and she don’t

  make a sound

  she

  just

  stands there and takes it. Not a peep not a flinch not a blink of panic

  nothing she just takes it she

  melts

  for him

  melts like the butter she stirred in his mashed potatoes made from

  scratch

  peeled one by one

  eyes carved out

  she

  melts she just disappears

  she’s

  gone.

  Like every husband in the world kisses his wife like this.

  Like she

  deserves

  it like she did something that’d

  make

  it

  okay

  for the man who

  swore

  to

  love and cherish her

  to do

  this

  in front of

  me.

  Hey, I saw the video.

  There wasn’t nothing in those vows ‘bout guns or fists neither for that matter. Do you Caitlyn Ruby Shields promise to take a pounding anytime Joseph Thomas Riley damn well feels like laying one on? No, I don’t think Father Gallagher mentioned that.

  God I

  hate

  that name I

  hate that I’m

  named

  after

  him. My pop I mean. Not Father Gallagher.

  Mom in her satin white dress with the lacy veil and the puffed

  sleeves the long

  train

  dragging

  behind her the big-ass bouquet of white roses she

  cradled

  in her arms

  poor

  Mom she looked so happy no one told her ‘bout the guns. And

  him

  he’s standing there by Father Gallagher in his black tux black bow-tie

  that

  prick

  he’s always

  so neat

  looking

  so smug

  hair slicked

  back I could’ve killed him even then if

  only

  I was born.

  That’s a

  lie

  I can’t even

  kill

  him

  now.

  I just sit here

  pretending

  to

  play

  Halo while my mom gets a Glock rammed down her throat I can’t even save my mom from this piece of shit who goes out to serve

  and

  protect

  all day

  some

  joke.

  She stopped crying like five years ago.

  She stopped crying when I was twelve.

  Me I never cried much not in front of him he warned me not to.

  He told us me and my brothers not to let one tear drop on the carpet or we’d get it too. He don’t hit us much he just

  says

  he might.

  Me and Jimmy we’re pussies I guess Warren’s nine what could he do but me and Jimmy we sit there

  day

  after

  day fingers touching stupid useless buttons day after

  day night after

  night he hits her hits

  her hits

  her and we watch.

  Week after

  week month

  after month we

  watch.

  She gets slammed

  into walls so hard pictures fall she gets shoved

  so rough his finger marks are in her arm she gets thrown

  to the floor and kicked

  kicked

  kicked

  and we hold our controls and we hold our breaths and watch we

  watch

  we watch.

  Warren cries in bed. I check on him before I go to sleep, stick my head in his door. The blankets are pulled up over him he’s just a

  lump

  underneath. There’s no noise but the covers shake he’s under there holding it

  all

  in

  I know ‘cause I did that too.

  He’s only nine.

  He’ll learn to cut that shit

  soon

  enough.

  Me and Jimmy we don’t cry.

  And she don’t cry neither.

  So

  what’s the

  problem maybe this is

  normal maybe this is

  life maybe everybody on Long Island does this behind the doors they close and lock when they come

  home.

  This’s all I know and

  maybe

  this’s right but it

  don’t feel right I wanna help her

  but

  I

  don’t.

  I watch Mom suck steel and then we all eat. We sit at the

  table slide our chairs in

  we pick up our forks

  like

  nothing.

  Pass the potatoes.

  Part One

  Munchkinland

  “She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was, the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally. Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room. She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran and opened the door.”

  —From The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

  One

  Dorothy

  He looks like a sculpture by Michelangelo. Like his body was intricately carved, chip by chip until it was perfect.

  He’s beautiful.

  When I saw his muscles—even half covered by his Metallica T-shirt they couldn’t be denied—when I saw his arms, I knew they could keep me safe. Funny, I never thought I needed protection, but there it was, that thought, and just like that everything changed.

  He was sitting with a bunch of guys in Dunkin’ Donuts when Amy and I walked in. Dunkin’ Donuts is apparently the mecca of teen society in Highland Park. Not that there’s much to choose from in this one-square-mile town. There’s a pizza place, a Chinese restaurant, a laundry … well, you get the picture. Manhattan, it’s not. Anyway, the cool crowd gathers in Munchkinland.

  Personally, I find the bright fuchsia and orange colors a tad aggressive on the eyes, but what the hey. When in Rome …. And it looks like I’m going to be in Rome for a while.

  So Amy—the one friend I’ve made thus far in my two days here—she headed right past all those guys, just ignored them and headed for the counter. I meant to follow, but those biceps … they held me back.

  Imagine if they were holding me.

  The rest of the guys, they were yammering away, making crude jokes and cracking themselves up. He sat slightly apart, leaning his wrought iron chair back against the oh-so-pink wall.

  My eyes scanned higher, rising over his thick, strong neck to his finely chiseled jaw, lips, cheeks, nose.

  He’s a work of art.

  To his eyes then, to his smoky-grey eyes that stared back at me. He had the look of an animal caught in a trap. It was like he was caged inside that beautiful body, like he was asking me to carve deeper and set his soul free.

  “What are you doing, Dorothy?”

  I guess I didn’t answer fast enough because Amy grabbed at my arm, pulled me closer to the counter. “Those guys, they’re jerks. We don’t talk to them.”

  “I wasn’t actually talking to ….”

  “Listen, they’re losers. Get your donut and come in the back room, that’s where everyone is.”

  I turned and looked at him. He was still watching me, tracking me with those eyes ….

  “Are you insane?”
Amy yanked me around again. “That’s Joey Riley. He’s the biggest loser of them all.”

  “He doesn’t look like a loser.”

  “Hel-lo, do you think losers come with big ‘loser’ signs attached? No, they can come in some exceptional packaging. But when you unwrap them and you peel away all that plastic coating stuff and rip off the safety tags, then guess what, it’s too late to return them.”

  “Could you be more specific?” I asked.

  “How about Joey Riley beats people up for fun, sends them to the hospital. How about Joey Riley drinks and smokes weed. How about Joey Riley’s been arrested, sent to jai— Oh, crap, he’s coming over …. Hey, Joey! What’s up?” Amy’s lips widened into a faux smile. I was beginning to not like my only friend. Maybe it was time to make another.

  I turned around, faced him.

  Faced those muscles, faced those eyes. If Amy was correct about him fighting he must’ve been awfully good, because he didn’t have a visible mark. I tried to think of him as bad; I tried to shut him down in my head, but who was I kidding? He didn’t answer Amy, he didn’t even glance at her. He was all about me, and it was reciprocal.

  “Hi, Doll,” he said in a voice low and husky.

  “Doll?” I echoed. “Are we in some sort of 1940s gangster movie?”

  “What? No, I … I didn’t mean anything by ….” His face tensed, reddened.

  “It’s okay,” I jumped in. “Doll should be the worst name I’m ever called.”

  His jaw loosened, and he smiled just a little, around the edges. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he said.

  “I just moved here, from New York.”

  He nodded, his long brown hair brushing ever so slightly against his shoulders. Lucky hair. “That’s cool. I’m Joey.”

  He hesitated, then offered me his hand. It was calloused, kind of bent and bumpy-looking. His knuckles were uneven, bruised. I guessed he did punch people.

  I hesitated, then took it.

  A warm energy moved through me when we touched. It was all I could do not to melt into his arms, and I’m not the melting type.

  I swallowed deeply. “I’m Dorothy.”

  Joey

  She looks like a

  doll

  like one of them

  porcelain

  dolls something so

  fragile and

  precious

  you should put

  high

  on

  a

  shelf to keep

  safe and never

  never

  touch.

  Mom had a bunch of them three shelves full ‘til Pop had

  enough

  he said he couldn’t stand them all