Spellbound (8 page)

“I think Anthony's gonna beat Frank up,” Jenn whispered conspiratorially. “They've been fighting all night. Too bad. Frank's kinda cute.”

I looked around anxiously for Cisco and Brendan, my friends—I could count Brendan as my friend now, right?

“What time do you need to be home, Jenn?” I asked, looking again at my phone. Even though I didn't have a real curfew, I didn't want to push my luck.

She shrugged, then ran down the green, yelling, “Cisco!” Jenn jumped on him, knocking him down. At the same time, Anthony shouted something I couldn't quite make out at the other guy—Frank Carney—and my feet started twitching to run in the other direction. Henry was quick with his hands when he was drinking, and his alcohol-fueled rages had taught me at least one thing—I had an uncanny ability to know when things were about to get physical. Even though it had healed, my scar began to throb.

I jogged over to Cisco and helped him off the ground.

“Hey, you're meeting Gabe soon, right?” I asked, darting my eyes to where Anthony and Frank were getting more agitated. Anthony menacingly shouted something in Frank's face. Kristin and her posse had moved away from the guys, but she pulled out her cell phone and started recording them, snickering as she clearly enjoyed watching someone else's misery.

“Yeah, I'm meeting him downtown. What's up?”

“I just— I want to get out of here before that—” I gestured to the fight “—becomes something else.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if it did. Anthony's always starting trouble,” Cisco said.

I knew it. There is no way Ashley is allowed near him.

“Where's Brendan?” I twisted my head around, searching for him.

Cisco smiled. “We couldn't get a cab. He sent me back here to make sure you were okay.”

I blushed a little, almost forgetting where I was. That was sweet.
Really
sweet.
First he stops drinking, now this…he's probably just a nice guy
. Then a shout broke through my thoughts.

With his lips curled back over his teeth, Anthony snarled several choice swear words at Frank before pushing him into a tree. Frank crumbled on the ground, then pulled himself back to his feet, charging at Anthony to shove him in his chest. Anthony barely budged—Blondo towered over the smaller guy. Anthony threw the first punch, hitting Frank forcefully in the stomach. Frank doubled over, gasping as he clutched his midsection. Anthony took advantage of Frank's vulnerability, kicking him again in the stomach with his heavy boot and knocking him down on the grass. Once the smaller guy was down, Anthony—stumbling a little in his drunken state—hurled himself on top of Frank, throwing a hard punch in his face. It connected with a sickening thud. I wasn't sure what to do—call someone? Why wasn't anyone stopping this? Fortunately, someone did, as a third figure ran past me and jumped in.

I realized it was Brendan, breaking up the fight. In one quick movement, he pulled Anthony off Frank.

“Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you?” Brendan spit out, steadying Anthony by holding a fistful of his collar. Frank sat upright, wiping away the thick smear of blood coming from his nose. His eye already looked red.

“Stay out of it,” Anthony growled, trying to stand upright. He couldn't quite coordinate all his limbs in his drunken state and fell on his rear.

Brendan leaned forward and helped Frank up, leaving Anthony on the ground. “Get up, dummy,” he said to Anthony, sounding annoyed. He turned to Frank. “You good?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Frank brushed some leaves off his brown jacket, glaring at Anthony. “We'll continue this later.”

“Oh, shut up, no you won't,” Brendan snapped, sounding more and more like a ticked-off kindergarten teacher. “Enough of this crap. Stop being such friggin' babies.”

Frank stalked away, while Anthony scowled at his back. Brendan leaned in and said some hushed things to Anthony, his hands gesturing wildly—it looked like he was reading him the riot act. Loudly, Anthony told Brendan where he could stick his head and walked—or should I say, stumbled—toward a concerned-looking Kristin.

The whole scene made me very,
very
uneasy. This was the real Anthony, I figured—not the charming sweetheart that my cousin thought he was. I turned to Cisco and said, “I'm out of here. Tell everyone I said bye, okay?”

“Tell everyone? Or tell him?” Cisco replied, with smart-alecky emphasis on the “him.” Before I could answer, Cisco said, “Actually, tell him yourself.” I looked up and saw Brendan walking over, a little faster than I was used to seeing him move.

“Hey, guys—Anthony and Frank had a fight at practice and clearly are taking things home with them. Anthony said something about Frank's mother. Anthony's an idiot. He's not going to start anything else tonight, though,” he explained, looking back and forth between both of us. Brendan then stopped and turned those emerald eyes back on me.

“You're leaving.” It wasn't a question.

“Yeeeah.” I drew it out slowly. “I'm— I've got to get home. Curfew, you know,” I lied, hastily draining the rest of my iced tea, then shuddering from the cold drink.

Brendan just nodded. “I'll walk you to a cab,” he said quietly. He stayed silent, walking toward Fifth Avenue with his
hands stuffed in his jeans pockets until we were back in front of the museum, looking down the street for an available taxi.

“That was nice of you to get Austin a cab,” I said a little formally, leaning against a lamppost. I wasn't sure what to say to him all of a sudden.

“Least I could do. He's your friend, right?” Brendan said matter-of-factly. “I guess.”

“He sits right next to you at lunch every day,” Brendan pointed out.
Wait, did he get Austin a cab for
me?
Does he think I'm dating Austin?

Before I could clear up my relationship with Austin, Brendan spoke. “Did Anthony scare you?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.

“No,” I fibbed, then looked down. “Well, I wouldn't say
scared
….” I mumbled, hiding my embarrassment by picking at some chipped paint on the lamppost.

“I wouldn't let him hurt you,” Brendan said, his voice almost a whisper. I was taken aback by how seriously he said it. I tore my eyes away from the flaking paint to face Brendan, and was surprised at how close he was to me. His face was mere inches from mine. I took a deep breath, getting lost in those eyes as the lamppost above me flickered on and off. I could see the light dancing in the flecks of gold in his eyes, as he stayed close to me. The light fizzled out with a thin hiss, but I could still see the intensity in his eyes in the shadows. Brendan rested his palm on the iron street lamp behind me. He leaned in more closely, and I let my fingers brush against his side, skimming along his dark shirt. I felt that familiar fluttering in my stomach again, hoping, praying that he was going to kiss me. Brendan was so close I could smell his shampoo again, which overpowered the sulfuric smell from the burned-out light above.

But Brendan stopped short—pulling back and flagging the lone available cab cruising down Fifth. I straightened up awkwardly. If I wasn't already red from the cold, I would have blushed a thousand shades of crimson.

“Thanks,” I mumbled weakly. “And yeah—thanks for this,” I said, pulling the hoodie off.

“Keep it, it's cold out,” Brendan said, his tone businesslike as he opened the taxi door for me. He gave me another smile, then, slamming the door shut once I was inside, he turned on his heel.

I woke up late on Saturday morning, feeling oddly exhausted for having slept so long. I'd had the most vivid, disturbing dreams. They didn't make any sense—at first, all I saw were images of
me
. I was wearing my charm necklace—but I was wearing different outfits. They were costumes, almost—it looked like I was flipping through some kind of scrapbook that spanned centuries.

The scrapbook stopped short at one photo; in it, I was dressed in a heavy-looking gown, tending to beautiful roses that climbed up the stone face of a picturesque cottage.

The photo came alive and suddenly I was in the scene, feeling the weight of the heavy gold dress. I removed dead petals from a perfect red rose, which had just started to wilt, when I sliced open my finger on a razor-sharp thorn. I felt it rip through my flesh, shredding my skin. I pulled away my finger, gripping it tightly to stop the bleeding. But it wouldn't stop. Blood poured down my hand, pooling in the grass as I felt something warm on my chest. I looked down, and blood seeped across the front of my bodice, soaking the front of the gold dress with deep crimson.

I pawed at my chest but couldn't find the wound, my fingers frantic as I searched my bloody skin for an injury.

A familiar voice called me from behind. I whipped around, and my brother Ethan was standing among the roses. Even though I was dressed in this heavy medieval-looking gown, my twin looked the way I remembered him, in jeans, ratty Converse sneakers and a Ramones T-shirt.

“Emma, it's starting,” Ethan said, his voice sad. “Stay away from him.”

I bolted upright in bed as if I had been shocked by a Taser. It felt like Ethan was right next to me, his voice as real as the ambulance siren I heard wailing in the street four floors below me.

I hadn't dreamed about Ethan in some time. I tried to shake the weird dream off, but it was too unsettling. I chalked it up to my subconscious going haywire. I'd avoided telling Brendan about him last night, after all. That had to be the cause of the weird dream. Right?

I stretched out in the bed and rubbed my eyes, looking over at my pile of clothing on the floor—my boots strewn about, my jeans crumpled up with my socks still in the legs. The previous night came flooding back to me when my eyes flickered over to the white-painted desk chair, where I'd carefully laid Brendan's hoodie. I covered my face and giggled, then frowned when I looked at my grimy hands.

Ugh, I'd forgotten to wash my face when I came in last night! I'd walked to my room in a daze—thanks to Brendan's near-kiss—and started writing in my diary. I jumped out of bed and padded into the bathroom, trying to remove the now-smeared dark mascara that had taken up residence all over my face. I stopped and looked at my reflection—cowlick sticking up straight, hair knotted, raccoon eyes—and giggled
again. I looked like a goth model. I sucked in my cheeks and attempted a serious, model-like pose.

“What's up, Zoolander?” I said aloud, splashing water on my face. I was in too good of a mood this morning.

My attempts to wash my face just ended up in streaking mascara all over the place, so I hopped into the shower, turned on the pink plastic shower radio and sang along to a Paramore song, scrubbing my face.

Slipping into my worn plaid bathrobe, I pulled my wet hair back with a large clip, and opened the door to find a giddy Ashley standing there. I was not expecting to see anything but the short hallway back to my room—so I screamed.

She screamed back.

“What the— You can't just do that to people!” I huffed, leaning against the door frame.

“Sorry! I forgot that you had a cell phone now and I could just call you! I was afraid Christine would give me the third degree about you and Cisco if I called the apartment.”

“Ashley, for the last time, me and Cisco are not—”

“Whatever,” she interrupted, “I had to tell you the good news in person anyway.” She was a little waterfall, overflowing with good cheer. Ashley practically skipped back to my room, her high red ponytail bouncing on the top of her head like a genie. I saw my aunt, savoring her morning coffee in the kitchen. “Hold on a second,” I told Ashley.

“Aunt Christine, thank you so much for the cell phone,” I said, giving her a big hug. She hugged me back, a little more tightly than she usually did, then returned to her usual stiff demeanor.

“Well, I couldn't have you be the only one running around town without one,” she sniffed.

“I love it. Thanks.”

“Well, you're welcome. Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” I said, beaming.

“Good. I'm glad. Now go see what your cousin wants. That child is persistent when she wants something!” Aunt Christine laughed.

I trotted in to see Ashley, my slippers making a soft “swish, swish” sound on the floor.

“Okay, so I totally want to hear about your night, but first—oh, my God.” She giggled. “Remember how we were talking about Anthony?”

Before I could scream in protest, Ashley continued, “Well, he messaged me on Facebook again and asked for my number!”

I noticed she was tightly clutching her cell phone in her hand. Waiting to answer the second he called, no doubt.

Anthony? I braced myself to cut her daydreams off at the knees.

“Ash, I have to tell you something.” I sat down on the bed and looked at her. Well, I looked at her sneaker-clad feet. All along, she'd been so excited for me, and so supportive of me, and here I was, about to crush her new crush.

I quickly—and as kindly as I could—relayed what I observed the night before. Her jaw dropped so far, I thought it might fall in her lap.

“He's not a good guy,” I said gently. “I don't think you should talk to him anymore.”

“Maybe it's a different Anthony,” Ashley mumbled.

“It's a small school,” I reasoned. “How many guys in the junior class are blond basketball players named Anthony?”

“Maybe Frank started it,” she suggested hopefully, biting her lip.

“Not from where I was standing,” I said softly. “Regardless, it seemed like Anthony's a little quick with his hands. I think he might be trying to play you, Ash. I'm sorry.”

“Well, I don't agree.” Ashley raised her chin defiantly. “Are you sure you're not just overreacting, because of…well, you know. What you went through?”

I considered the Henry effect for a second. Sure, Anthony was arrogant and ready to punch a guy out at a moment's notice, but did I really want to put him in the same category as a raging drunk who had no problem backhanding me when I mouthed off?

“I can see where you think I'm overreacting,” I conceded warily. “But just understand that I also have some experience in this area. I think you should be extremely careful around him,” I warned.

“Okay, whatever,” she said, sticking out her bottom lip in a pout. I felt awful. To her, he was so hot, one of the best athletes at the school and definitely one of the “cool” guys at Vince A, whatever that meant. And he had singled her out, a freshman, for attention. And I had to come and rip her little wonderland to shreds.

“Well, tell me about your night.” Ashley sighed, resigned. She flopped into my desk chair and longingly stroked my sticker-covered laptop—a present from Aunt Christine. She probably wanted to open it and log on to Facebook, I realized.

“Did
you
get to make a love connection with Cisco?” she asked petulantly.

“We're just friends, Ashley,” I began. “But, that hoodie you're leaning against—” I paused dramatically “—it's Brendan Salinger's.”

That snapped her out of her glum mood.

“What?”

I bit my lip and grinned. She pulled herself upright and laid the sweatshirt against her. It fell below her knees.

“What is this, his car cover?” she snickered. “He's a giant.”

“No, you're just a shrimp.” I laughed, and Ashley threw the hoodie at me. She then leaned forward and said, “So, tell me
everything!
”

 

The rest of the weekend seemed like a never-ending ocean of time—all I wanted to do was get to school and see Brendan again. I distracted myself with homework for most of Saturday—even emailing Mrs. Urbealis a pretty big history paper about a week before it was due. My lack of a social life was turning out to be great for my grades. But thanks to Aunt Christine, I didn't have to worry about filling the rest of the hours with distractions. I padded into the kitchen where Aunt Christine was sitting at the table, perusing takeout menus and working on Uncle George's martini. (She drank both cocktails on Saturdays.)

“You need a haircut,” she surmised, swishing her martini around. “You're starting to look like that girl from that movie you made me watch.”

I looked at her confused, then my eyes widened in horror.
“The Ring?”
I asked incredulously, touching my hair. It had gotten long and my ends were screaming out for a trim. But really,
that
bad?

“Yes, that's it, dear. You look like the girl from
The Ring
. And not the blonde one,” she said, pointing a manicured pink fingernail at me. “The wet one. You need a haircut. Hand me the phone, dear. I'm going to see if I can sweet-talk Melissa into seeing you tomorrow afternoon. She sometimes takes special appointments on Sundays and with the amount of clients I've sent her way, I think she'll squeeze you in. You can't go around looking like you're about to climb out of my television set.”

I chalked that last comment up to the martinis, pleased that when I did see Brendan, I'd have a nice new 'do. And it was a few more hours of diversion—where I didn't have to think about how his shampoo smelled, or how he felt pressed up against me.

Monday morning, I carefully hung his hoodie in my locker, since it wouldn't fit into my overstuffed backpack. It still smelled like that fresh, clean-rain scent, now mixed with the light beachy perfume my cousin had sprayed on me. I touched the sleeve and sighed—then stifled a giggle. What must I have looked like, standing near my musty basement locker like a gremlin? “My precious,” I snickered in an awestruck, strangulated Gollum-like way.

My thoughts continued to be unfocused throughout the morning. Absentmindedly, in math class, I was tap-tap-tapping my pen on the coils of my spiral notebook, not really paying attention to anything Mr. Agneta said, until Jenn whipped around and slammed her hand on top of my pen. I was taken aback.

“Too…loud,” she hissed in a raspy voice, and I noticed her eyes were bloodshot.

“You okay?” I whispered.

“Long night.” She grimaced, then paused. “Did I… I saw you this weekend, didn't I?”

“Yeah, Jenn, by the Met, on Friday.”

She looked dumbfounded. “Oh. I don't really remember.” She turned back to her notebook, then whipped back around at me. “Wait, did I do anything stupid?”

“I wasn't there that long,” I said, realizing this wasn't what she wanted to hear. “I mean, while I was there, you were fine.” I considered my statement and amended it. “Well, fine-ish. You were having fun. It's okay. Most people were drunk.”

“Well, that's a relief. I remember nothing.” She paused again. “Hey, haircut!” Jenn exclaimed. “It looks nice.”

“Girls, is there something you'd like to share with the class?” Mr. Agneta interjected, staring at us and tapping the large chalk protractor against the board.

“No sir,” we both replied.

“Well, since you're already done with your work, Miss Connor, perhaps you can tell me the answer to this equation?” Mr. Agneta glared at me.

I looked at the jumble of
x
's and
y
's on the board and tried to bluff my way out of this.

“Uh…pi?” I asked, hopefully.

He grimaced, his mouth set in an angry line. “It would be nice if you paid attention, Miss Connor.” All discussion was clearly on hold until later.

I slid into my desk in English, where Cisco greeted me warmly. Jenn, for her part, was looking greener by the second. Suddenly, all those times when she kept her head down and didn't talk to me made total sense: she was completely hungover. Often.

“You guys, I really gotta get out of here,” Jenn said, rubbing her temples. “Let's go outside for lunch. Okay? I need air.”

Before I could answer her, Brendan sauntered in, his black hair messy as usual, his white button-down shirt untucked and his black tie undone. I felt that familiar fluttering—only it was stronger now, spreading through my body like a dull ache. Seeing him again confirmed it for me: I really, really liked Brendan. And it scared me, because the word
like
didn't seem strong enough to describe how I felt. I craved him in a way I wasn't used to. It was a little—okay,
a lot
—more intense than a crush. My feelings for him could kick a crush's butt.

I never found out about Halloween Movie Night, I realized.
Is he going this Friday? Could we go together? And there's a winter formal coming up….

My toe tapped a little impatiently. I couldn't wait to talk to him. Brendan sauntered over to his desk and I leaned forward, opening my mouth to say hi.

Without even casting so much as a glance in my direction, Brendan sat down in his desk and slouched low, stretching those long legs in front of him like he was lounging at home in front of the television, not sitting at attention in class.

I sat back and closed my mouth, and cast a furtive glance to Cisco, who just shrugged. Jenn, for her part, looked like she was too busy holding on to her breakfast to notice, but I caught a smug glance coming off of Kristin to her left.

Damn it,
I thought, and whipped open my notebook with such fury that I ripped one of my pages.

The next hour was torture. I would rather have been waterboarded, suffocated, forced to lick the subway floor—anything!—to get out of that classroom. I found myself studying the back of Brendan's head as if it would give me any answers. Every scratch of his messy hair, every time he leaned forward, every twist he gave the small silver hoop pierced in his cartilage, I just wanted to throw my pen at him. I envisioned it ricocheting off the back of his head.