Broken (3 page)

#

Second hour passes in a classical literature fog.

Given the season, Mr. Hansen is tormenting us with classic horror and Gothic fiction. We’ve read, discussed and acted out bits of Bram Stokers’
Dracula
—my favorite book and the reason my cat’s name is Renfield. After watching the second half of the latest Hollywood attempt at capturing the novel, Mr. Hansen reaches around his paunch to hand out
Further Reading
lists, complete with samples of some of the more popular choices. He looks like he might be salivating with delight, and an errant thought careens through my head: Mr. Hansen dressed as an executioner, pulling a lever...

On the
Further Reading
list are Hawthorne, Shelley, Poe, and many others. Our task for the week, according to our teacher, is to choose a title for class reading and use the week to read it. The first week of November, we’re to prepare a thesis and report, comparing and contrasting
Dracula
with the title of our choosing.

I run my finger down the list, names blurring into an illegible smudge.

The bell rings without me making a choice. Looks like I’ll have to visit the library after school. For once, I’ll be doing just what my mother thinks I am.

Hair down, head down, I leave class and aim for third hour by way of the cat walk between the second floors of the main building and the sports complex. Air whistles in my hair when I open the door, then my heart clenches and throat tightens. Last fall, on a sunny cool day like today, I had met Daniel about three feet from where I stand. Sunshine had beat down, warming the hallway, dissecting the red carpet into swaths of light and shadow, like puddles of new blood bordered by old. Daniel lounged against a metal support, bathed in white light, looking better than any senior should. I was awkward and shy, and a little in awe of him.

His friend was all in red, from his hair to his shirt to his shoes, reminding me of fire. The guy listened to headphones, music loud, howling along and flailing around.

Playing the damsel is distress is way passé, but I was a legitimate victim of a dance-by whacking from his oblivious friend and his swinging arms. Daniel whipped off the t-shirt he wore over his thermal undershirt and packed my gushing nose in it. On the way to the office, when the stairs swirled at my face, Daniel saved me from falling. Then, he’d carried me the rest of the way.

Today I walk in the opposite direction, heart aching, knowing Daniel is forever gone, as I aim for the torture chamber the staff of Shelley High likes to call the Gymnasium.

Group and Individual Sports takes up my third hour. Normally I hate it, but hope bubbles up, thinking it’s a chance to get physical and forget about Shelley High’s latest addition to the student body. The locker room flooring mini-tiles are shades of brown, beige, and pukey pink, the lockers are beige, the rest is white. An ugly room. Usually filled with gossip, and this morning’s no different.

Alex, Alex, Alex.

Alex Franks, his height, his leather jacket and the way his jeans hang on his butt are the main topics of conversation in the Ugly Room. Josie Cummings has him in her second hour. “He wears his hood up all the time,” and she thinks “it’s sexy, even if he is a killer.” Faith Lewis ran into him in the hall, “accidentally,” she swears with a giggle, and her “cell phone hasn’t worked right since.” Ally Rhodes places bets with a few of her friends as to how soon she can get him to date her.

Rolling my eyes, I pull on my gym clothes. I wish I could be like them, excited about a boy, whispering about his looks, gossiping over whether he has a girlfriend. Daniel was that guy for me. His hazel eyes were so easy to get lost in. He held me and the world disappeared . Daniel was the one to carry me home when I tripped over that hydrant and broke my ankle. He was mine and losing him the way I did ripped a hole in me.

No new guy was ever going to fill the void he left.

My cell phone comes alive in my locker, a swarm in a metal can. I ignore Bree this time, and whip my hair into a ponytail. Our gym Drill Sarge is neither understanding nor accepting of phones, iPods, or any other portable electronic device in his class.

There is no mercy in Mr. Ashford’s eyes or his shiny whistle when we walk in. A mesh bag of basketballs rests at his feet in the middle of the gym. His buzz cut bounces back the overhead lights as he struts back and forth barking orders. A full class hour of running and shooting baskets—my most dreaded activity. Running, dribbling a ball I lose as much as keep, and missing the baskets I shoot at anyway.
Dear God
, I think,
just kill me now
.

Slicked in saltwater, ponytail slid halfway down the back of my head, I stagger through the showers after running so much I thought I’d puke. Lather, rinse, repeatedly curse the Drill Sarge.

#

Somehow, the student body seems to double during the lunch hour, collecting in one hall and one big room. Voices echo in the side hallway, dismembered and blurry with volume. Laughter punches through the cacophony, an occasional squeal slashes above the din. The sound batters my ears, and I quash the urge to skip lunch to avoid the throng.

The lunch line is ridiculously long, as always. The queue snakes out the door and down the hall. Tired and wringing shower water from my hair, I take last position.

“Emma!” Bree pokes her face out of the doorway. Her fake blond hair swings out like a flag. “Didn’t you get my text? I’m saving you a spot.”

That was what the text was about? She always saves me a spot in line, I just forgot. Good thing Bree’s parents put her on an unlimited plan for her phone. I look up, blink and try to focus—when tired and a tad flustered, I run on auto-pilot, which includes standing in lines.

“Hey,” whines a zit-faced, greasy-haired freshman, “no saving spots.”

“When you’re an upperclassman,” comes a smooth tenor voice behind him, “you’ll use the same unwritten privileges.”

Heads swivel toward the source. Mine, too.

Tall, hood up, long sleeves pulled down over his wrists and thumbs shoved through the cuffs. Sadly, I look to see how well Alex Franks’s jeans look on his butt. The girls in the Ugly Room didn’t lie. He wears them well, fills them in all the right spots. No sooner does the admiration of Alex’s behind form, than a twinge of guilt pinches my heart. A ghost of Daniel’s memory glides behind my eyes. I don’t need to look at another guy, especially Alex Franks, when I have perfect memories.

Shaking my head, I schlep along the queue of shocked faces, then pause by his shoes.

Alex wears a bemused smile in the shadows of his hood.

“Thanks.”

He nods. “No worries.”

The strange tunneling sensation strikes again when his eyes meet mine. Under the garish bright lights, it’s easy to see their color, a rich hazel. Then he blinks, ducks deeper into the fabric surrounding his face and adds, “If you’re really grateful, you can save me a seat.”

Shock leashes my tongue. It’s not strong enough to muzzle some of the harpies with their sights obviously set on Alex, though. Hisses of in-drawn breaths remind me of vipers in movie scenes of Egyptian tombs. A couple of unkind things are muttered. Lots of heavily painted eyes glare daggers at me. I’m tempted to give them all the middle finger.

“Not sure about grateful, but I’ll save you a seat,” I say, then toss my wet hair over my shoulder and claim my spot behind Bree nearly at the head of the line.

“Well, well,” she simpers. “Looks like someone has a crush.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hellooo.” She scoops up a tray and turns into the alcove containing hot foods. I snag a tray and follow. “First he stops and openly stares at you, then he asks to sit with you for lunch?”

“Yeah,” I say, layering sarcasm into my voice. “I’m sure he’s talked to lots of other girls in a friendly manner, too.”

“Not that I’ve seen. He hardly talked to anyone in first hour.” She loads her tray with French toast sticks, tater tots and applesauce. I opt for tots and apple sauce—my stomach hasn’t liked me since memory caught up to ogling, and I wrenched my gaze from Alex’s back pockets. Bree pauses at the drinks cart, tosses a causal look toward the line where he clutches a tray. “Normally introverts don’t take theater and drama. Someone must’ve screwed up his schedule. And for not crushing on you, he sure looks at you enough.”

I jab her in the back with my tray, hard enough for her to gasp and stage whisper a cussword. Despite my will to stay loyal to Daniel’s memory, I find myself peeking over my shoulder. The shadows of Alex’s hood aim directly at me. I’m not sure, but I think there’s a ghost of a smile hiding in there, too.

Forcing my eyes back to my lunch, I grab a water bottle, and traipse after Bree.

The wretched brown/beige/pukey pink color scheme of the locker rooms repeats in the cafeteria and the bathrooms, basically any place at risk of getting wet has the horrible vomit-colored mini-tiles. We weave between battered faux wood tables crammed with people shoveling food, or picking at it, or sitting there drinking Diet Coke like that’s enough for them. Cliques spill in puddles from the food service doors; the In Crowd, the Sports Crowd, the Out Crowd, and the Thespians. Being Bree’s best friend, I’m an honorary theater nerd. Plus, I’ve been to every performance since we moved here in ninth grade.

“Wassup, Em?” asks Bree’s friend Jason Weller, pretty in a not-interesting way, and normally the leading male role in any Shelley High theater production. “You going to the dance this weekend? I hear Bree has some kickass costumes picked out for you guys.”

“I don’t know.” I turn it around on him. “What’s she dressing you as?”

“Oh…” His smile is perfectly practiced when he feigns interest in buffing his nails on his sleeve. “We have a theme this year. It will be ah-mazing.”

With Jason, everything good is “ah-mazing.” And for a straight guy, he has damn good taste. Well, not in girlfriends. When it comes to girls, his taste is somewhere between airhead and bitch. But I don’t judge...

“Maybe, then.”

Bree’s pink clad arm snaps across the table and she smacks Jason’s shoulder. “Leave it to you to pique her interest.”

A sarcastic grin tugs at Jason’s lips. “That’s because you don’t know how to sell it, B. She’s probably scared you were planning on Zombie Twins.”

I don’t make an effort to hide the relief in my voice. “You weren’t?”

Bree’s laugh is bright enough to light a dark room. “Not this year.” Then she sobers, and nudges me. “Look who’s coming this way.”

Alex, holding his tray in front of him like a method of defense, negotiates his way around the drinks cart, and almost clears the In Crowd’s ring of tables. Almost. Ally Rhodes, looking more perfect than I ever would after gym class, pops up from her seat and hurries over to Alex. She coos something not quite audible, then hooks her arm around his and takes his tray from him.

I cross my arms and lean back in my chair, watching him be dragged away.

He looks back over his shoulder, hood obscuring half his face when he shrugs. I lift one eyebrow and one shoulder. Doesn’t bother me that he’s falling prey to a girl placing bets on him. He wants to play Ally’s show pony, then let him. At the head table of the In Crowd, Ally motions imperiously for people to make room, then with one last glance at our table he settles in with them.

“Oo, girl,” Bree says, dragging out the -irl part. “That puppy’s going to get tired before you have a chance to play with him.”

“Who said I wanted to?” So I’m huffy. Sure, it’s my fault I let my hopes climb out of the hole Daniel isn’t buried in. Ally Rhodes booted them back in.

“Puppies as cute as that one don’t last in the window very long.”

“Awesome,” I deadpan. “At least you didn’t compare this moment to one of your stage productions.”

“No,” Jason cuts through the rising tension. “But I bet we could.”

The entire drama club leans toward center table, all pitching in play names that might match the new guy being sucked into the popular gang while secretly in love with the outcast. I tune them out, and chew each tater tot with force, trying to grind out my frustrations. My applesauce is woefully inadequate for stress chewing, though.

Uncapping my water bottle, I scoop up my tray and promise to call Bree after school.

She knows I mean I’ll call her after I leave the cemetery.

Tonight, I’ll really need the solace.

Chapter Four

Lunch was awkward. Fifth hour knocks awkward out of the park.

The classroom looks like the rest of the classes in the Sciences wing. A long black table stretches at the front of the room, with gas hook up for Bunsen burners at one end and a small sink at the other. Industrial grade gray flooring gleams beneath our feet, miniature versions of Mr. LaRue’s big lab table cluster in the back, and rows of wingtop desks march in formation between.

Our seats are not assigned in Dune Ecology. Mr. LaRue says we’re “up and running enough that assigned seating is a bother.” Which translates to a one-desk ring of empty space circling Asia Foley, who’s been coughing all day and is said to have puked between first and second hour. No one wants to get sick before the play-off game and dance on Saturday. It also means a free pass for Josh Mason to park his carrot top somewhere close, usually one seat over.

“So,” he says dropping into the vacant seat in front of mine. I suppress the urge to groan, but just barely. His gaze rakes me. “When’d you hire the guard dog?”

“Excuse me?” I arch one eyebrow despite my intentions to ignore him.

“Y’know…” He pulls his shirt collar onto the nest of his ginger curls. “Lurch. With his hood up?”

Wait. He thinks I asked Alex to run him off? My jaw clenches, I exhale an angry little puff I’m surprised doesn’t carry steam. My instinct is to deny it with enough venom to melt his exposed skin. I don’t need a guard dog, I can bite his ankles by myself. And I certainly wouldn’t hire the new guy. He…puts me on edge. Instead of denying Josh’s claim, I relax into our insult game.

“What?” I cup a hand to my ear mega-phone style. “I can’t hear you over the red in your hair.”

His brown eyes widen, eyebrows go up, too. Then a slow poison smile washes across his face. Not the response I was hoping for. Josh leans forward, his cologne assaulting my nose as I tilt in the opposite direction. His voice slips down in timbre when he whispers, “You know you like it.”

“Hardly.”

I’m tempted to tell him where he can shove his red hair, but I’ve tried that once. He grinned and offered to show me the hair already growing there. Cocky bastard won that round, and I’ve been playing catch-up ever since. At times I thought I hated him for not helping Daniel that night—maybe I just wanted to hate Josh because he didn’t fall. Either way, sniping at each other is our best way of coping with surviving Daniel’s loss.

Before I can formulate a good comeback, the door opens and Alex Franks walks in. He’s thinner than I thought, now that I see him without his leather jacket. His black hood and sleeves cover as much as possible, but still can’t camouflage the long lines of a swimmer’s build. Girls’ breaths catch classroom wide—Asia’s too, then she coughs a nasty wet bark of a sound. Josh snorts something less than nice, his grip white-knuckled on the edges of his desk.

Mr. LaRue’s dress shoes slap the floor as he hurries to take Alex’s transfer slip. Our new student must stand a head higher than the rail thin, balding teacher. He reaches one cuff-clad hand near the light switch to place his paperwork into the spidery waiting fingers. Above our heads the banks of fluorescent lights surge in brightness, a hum rising to a complaining pitch. The lights burn bright enough to sting my eyes, then die back to normal.

Heads tip up, faces turn toward the lighting fixtures. If possible, Alex sinks deeper into his hood. Mr. LaRue smoothes his tie, a nervous habit, and then says, “Welcome to Dune Ecology, Alex. Hopefully you’ll enjoy our many preservation projects.” He waves the papers toward the class in a vague gesture. “We have open seating.”

“But not open season,” Josh mutters just loud enough for Alex to hear. The pesky redhead shifts his bulk in between me and the front of the room, and then flings his legs across the aisle. His sneakers land with a bang in the seat opposite him.

I shove the back of his desk with a foot, sending the metal legs on a screeching skid far enough for Josh’s feet to drop from the seat. Alex turns his shadowed face toward us. And I’m sure I see a flicker of a grin, one that seems to radiate, “Game on” toward Josh. The air turns sharp between the two guys when Alex strides even with Josh and eyes him. Neither moves. Josh’s normal smirk shrivels, the corners of his mouth sinking when he curls his long legs back under his desk. Alex hikes his backpack and steps right to left over the seat, making a point to step through where Josh’s feet had been moments before.

He stands one aisle over, still eyeing Josh, who looks back and doesn’t respond. Satisfied, I guess, Alex walks one more desk back to the last empty seat outside of the sick zone around Asia, and directly across from me. My gaze is drawn to him, the smooth movements, and quiet confidence. As if Alex can feel me gawking, he turns his hood my way, and his calm smile falters. The earlier look of disbelief widens his eyes, then he blinks and ignores Josh. And me.

I can’t wrench my gaze away. Is his hood a human version of blinders on a horse? Or does he not want people looking in? The rumor mill pegs him as some kind of bad, even though what I’ve seen of him says different. Some part of me sings in his presence, and I don’t think I like it. Maybe his bad is my good?

Alex’s hood shifts slightly, I catch a glint of his eyes, a hint of a smile. Then he points toward our teacher like he
knows
I’m still staring at him.

Mr. LaRue stands behind the big lab table at the head of the room, talking about preservation projects and idly toying with a potted tuft of dune grass. The first day of class I’d run my thumb along the edge of one long green blade and cut myself to feel the sting. Anything was better than the empty ache ghosting behind me from class to class and screaming Daniel’s absence. Now, almost two months since that day, and four months after his fall, the edges of the void are numb—I’m not sure if they’ve expanded, or shrunk.

One phrase pulls me from my mulling: “joint project.”

Groans lift from the class, fluttering and wispy, then die. Eyes roll. Josh straightens in his chair, tosses a wolfy half-grin at me. Alex’s hood edges toward Josh, and his shoulders straighten.

“And I’ll be picking your partners.” Mr. LaRue says, sending a fresh volley of moans around the room. “Too many groups played on the beach last time instead of worked, and I don’t want it going on tomorrow.”

Josh’s hand stabs the air above his head. Papery whispers lift from our teacher’s desk as he rifles around. When he looks up, his eyes narrow on the fish-flesh white hand waving above Josh’s head. He has the attention of the entire class. Even Asia looks our way after she barks another seal-sounding cough. Mr. LaRue heaves a sigh and gives a minute shake of his head.

“No, Josh. No special treatment for members of sports teams…”

Red curls slide from his face as Josh turns and stares over his shoulder. The possessive glance skims my face before he arches an eyebrow and needles a glare at the side of Alex’s hood. Dread uncoils in my gut.

Please don’t put me with Josh,
I pray silently.
Please don’t saddle me with the egotistical, red-headed, pain in my—

“Tamara Abernathy,” calls our teacher, “and Scott Ames.”

He continues down the alphabetical list he doesn’t use for seating, making it a hit list of class partners doomed to epic failures. Two pairings in and Josh Mason realizes he won’t be harassing me, and lets out a heavy groan. He’ll be paired with Shane Lowenstein or Kinnely Minor, both major competition for his prized pitcher’s position on the baseball team and two of his least favorite people.