by Doe, Anna B.
“Peachy,” I mutter, squeezing past him. My body brushes against his, the space so tight I can feel every hard muscle rubbing against me. A jolt of electricity makes my whole body tremble in awareness.
Even weeks after…
My heart aches in my chest. I can push it back for a while, but it always comes back. This dull, hollow pain.
That’s what happens when you break rules. You get burned.
Don’t I know it.
I was the one who set the rules to protect myself, only to end up breaking them all. I paid my price for two of them, and before long, I know I’ll have to do it for the third too.
* * *
BROOK
BEFORE – EIGHT YEARS OLD
“You little, ungrateful brat!” Her nails dig into my skin, drawing blood. I hiss softly, unable to hold it in. “Do you know how much trouble you just put me through? My boss ripped me a new one, and he took all my tips because I had to get off work early to come and pick you up!”
“Mommy, it hurts!” I cry softly, running after her. She’s been marching since we left the nurse’s office, pulling me behind her. My short, quivering legs could barely keep up.
I hadn’t felt good this morning. One minute I was too hot, the other shivering. When I looked in the shattered mirror above the sink in our bathroom, I could clearly see that my cheeks were flushed, but I couldn’t stay home. Mom’s boyfriend was at our house, and I didn’t want to stay alone with him. The looks he’d been giving me made my skin crawl. So even sick, I’d rather be in school.
But once I got there, I felt even worse. I was drowsy, it was getting harder and harder to concentrate, and my tummy started to roll uncomfortably until I finally puked my guts out in the middle of the school cafeteria. A teacher took me to the nurse’s office, and no matter how much I begged her not to call my mom and that I’d be all right if I just took a quick nap, she wouldn’t listen.
Mom turns around abruptly, making me crash into her. Before I can gain my stance, there is a whoosh of air, followed by a loud smack. I gasp, tears stopping abruptly as the pain spreads through my cheek, coloring it in bright red.
She leans into me, wide, bloodshot eyes staring into mine, her alcohol breath touching my skin and making me more nauseous than before. “Tears won’t save you! Stop wailing and move.”
My hand covers my burning cheek, my head still turned to the side from the impact. This isn’t the first time she’s slapped me, far from it. But she’s never done it in public. I could hear some people gasp. Feel their stares pointed in our direction.
Not one person stopped.
Not one person looked twice.
They all continued with their own lives like nothing happened.
I swallowed the sob that wanted to escape. The only thing it would do is piss Mom off even more, and that wouldn’t bring me anything good.
I often wondered if things would be different if I opened up to somebody, if I told them about my mom. If I told them what’s going on. And now, finally, I had my answer.
For all her faults, she was right.
Josephine Taylor was completely, undeniably right.
Nobody cares about little white trash girls like me.
Some probably think I deserve it.
Nobody would come to my rescue.
Brushing the tears from my cheek with the back of my hand, I sniffle softly. Turning around, she continues stomping away, pulling me behind her.
Well, I don’t need them.
I don’t need anybody to save me.
I’ll do it on my own.
I’m fine on my own.
Chapter Ten
MAX
NOW
I look at Brook’s back as she runs away, her head bowed down, dark mass of hair falling over and concealing her face.
Always hiding.
Always trying to stay invisible.
Helplessly, I look between her retreating form and the open door to the counselor’s office. I want to go after her, but Miss Jenkins already saw me so there is no escaping our meeting.
“Good morning, Max.” She offers a weak smile.
“Morning.” I mumble back the greeting, my eyes straying once again to the hallway, although I know Brook is long gone. “Is she okay?”
She looks at the hallway, pensive. “I hope so. Some people are determined to do it all alone. Brook is one of them.” Pushing back whatever happened in this office just moments before, she looks at me, her lips spreading into an inviting smile. “Come on in.”
Reluctantly, I follow her inside, closing the door behind me.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask, squeezing my body into a small chair.
Miss Jenkins sits opposite of me, folding her hands on the stack of files that are sitting on her desk.
“Yes, I did.” She smiles kindly, but I don’t let that smile fool me. She called me in here for a reason, and whatever that reason is, I’m sure I’m not going to like it. “Your coach reached out to me not that long ago with concern for your grades.”
My blood turns to ice.
Shit. I told him I’d take care of it. I took care of it. Didn’t I?
My Adam’s apple bobs as I swallow. “It’s been taken care of. I passed my make-up tests.”
“Mhmm…” My palms grow sweaty as she looks through the files until she finally pulls one out. “Did you decide on which college you’re going to?”
“I sent out some applications,” I say non-committally.
I tried doing what my last school counselor told me to do—leave my horizons open and apply to different schools. Both division one and two.
Money wasn’t an issue for my family, but only division one colleges with a great hockey team could bring me one step closer to my goal—playing in the NHL.
And those schools, the ones I was hoping to get into, wanted the whole package.
There is still the Ice Globe Tournament.
I could only hope that my stellar performance on the ice will outweigh my shitty academic record and they’ll take a chance on me.
“Anywhere specific you’d like to go?”
“As long as they have a great hockey program…” I leave the rest of the sentence hanging in the air. I don’t think she wants to know I don’t give a damn about school and just want to keep playing.
She nods, her eyes scanning through what I suppose is my file.
What the heck is so interesting about it?
“Well, I can see that your grades have improved.” In other words, I wasn’t failing anymore. Good, that is good. For a second she had me worried that I was failing something, again. “I’m sure one of your dream schools will reach out soon.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“But if you feel like everything is becoming too much…”
“It’s not,” I say quickly, done with this conversation. I don’t even know what the point of it was. Why call me here if my grades were good enough to make me eligible to play?
“If it becomes…” She persists stubbornly. “You’re more than welcome to come here. This door is always open.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I agree quickly. Anything to get out of here. “If that’s it, I have to catch up on some homework before my first class.”
Miss Jenkins holds my stare for a few seconds longer before finally nodding. “Of course. I hope you have a great day. And good luck with your game on Thursday! Go, Wolves!”
“Thanks,” I murmur rapidly as I grab my things and hurry out before she changes her mind. “You too.”
Walking through the busy hallways, I wave to some people I know but don’t stop to talk. Coach and Mrs. Rayan, my homeroom teacher, came to an agreement. Instead of attending homeroom each morning, I can go to the library and use the time to catch up on some studying until the season is over.
So that’s where I go. I was already late since Coach told me Miss Jenkins wanted to see me after practice, so now I’ll have to play catch up all day. Mentally I go over the list of things that needed to b
e done.
Finish math homework. Check.
Start working on my biology paper. Check.
Catch up on English reading. Yikes. Check.
And the most dreaded one: figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my future. Check.
There is probably more that should be added to that list, but these were the most pressing. And I can only do a handful of things at once before going crazy.
Running my hand through my damp hair, I feel my throat close, making it hard to breathe. A sheer layer of sweat coats my skin, causing my hands to go clammy. The pressure to excel—keep my grades up, win games, bring the trophy home, and get into a division one college—is getting the best of me. It’s happening more and more lately too. With just a few short months before graduation, the pressure is so high it’s messing with my head.
I stop in my tracks, taking a moment to compose myself before I go to the library, and when I do, something in the corner of my eye catches my attention.
Someone.
Peeking through a small crack in the door, I find her standing in front of a canvas, completely oblivious to the outside world.
I knew Brook was an artist. Remnants of paint often adorn her fingertips and occasionally end up on her face too. But I’ve never seen her work.
Until now.
She’s alone in the quiet classroom, but even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t notice anybody else. That’s how immersed she is in her art.
Her eyes are zeroed in on whatever she’s working on, a deep frown crossing her forehead. The mass of brown hair is pulled up in some sort of twist or bun or whatever on top of her head, but one stubborn strand slipped free, curling against her cheek.
A should-be-white, but in reality covered in paint, smock is slipped over her shoulders. It swallows her delicate frame and falls way below her knees.
I can’t see what she’s working on because her profile is turned to me. If I moved, I could probably see it, but it would also mean letting her know that I’m here. Watching. I’m not quite ready for that yet. Brook is one of those people who’s always tense, careful of what to say and how to act in front of people. Afraid she’ll reveal too much. Finding her like this, in her element and oblivious to the outside world, is a unique opportunity and I want to savor it to the fullest.
Making a few taps here and there, Brook takes a step back. Nibbling at the tip of her brush, she observes her canvas while I observe her. The way she stands, with her chin lifted high. Her eyes take in the whole painting, slowly observing every detail.
What does she see? Is she one of those quirky, self-conscious artists who questions every single thing, not letting anybody see her work until she deems it presentable?
Her fingertips are covered in gray and black paint. The strand of hair brushing against her cheek must have irritated or tickled her, because she tucks it away, and in the process, leaves a paint smear on her cheekbone.
Moving closer, I lean against the door frame.
“Not the healthiest of eating habits, I’d say.” I break the silence.
Brook jumps, startled by my presence.
“Jesus Christ!” Her hand shoots to her chest, pressing against her heart as she turns to look at me. “You scared the shit out of me, Max!”
Grinning sheepishly, I scratch the back of my head. “Sorry?” I offer weakly.
“Don’t you ‘sorry’ me!” Brook grits, and before I can even see it coming, something’s flying at my head.
If I were somebody else, I’d either take cover or get hit in the head because, damn, her aim is good, but I’m not one to scare easily. Instead of dodging, as any sane person would do, my hand shoots up, grabbing the thing she threw at my head tightly in my palm.
Unclenching my fingers, I look down. “Paint tube? Seriously, Brook? Violent much?”
Green eyes narrow at me from across the room. “Showoff.”
Without another word, she turns her back to me, shutting me out. But I’m not ready to go just yet, so I enter the classroom, letting the door fall shut behind me. I can hear the coach’s warning voice in the back of my mind, reminding me what’s at stake and not to screw it up, but I can’t make myself go. I’m already late, so a few more minutes won’t make any difference.
“It’s called natural talent, Firecracker.”
She rolls her eyes at me, not bothering with a retort. “What are you even doing here, Sanders? The hockey rink is that way.”
Back to Sanders, I see.
Irritation prickles at the back of my neck. It seems like for every step forward I make with this girl, she runs two steps back.
“Following my schedule, Taylor?”
She laughs her you-actually-think-you-are-the-shit pretend laughter. “You can only hope so.”
“I was actually going to the library.”
“This is the art room,” Brook points out dully.
“I can see that.” No shit, Sherlock. No matter how much I want to say it out loud, I keep the comment to myself. Walking closer to her, I look around the room. Big, floor-to-ceiling windows letting natural light illuminate the space. Stools, empty easels and the smell of paints and oils fill the room. It’s the complete opposite of the hockey rink, which only serves as more of a reminder of how different the two of us are.
Yet, here you are again.
She looks over her shoulder wearily. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Light’s good in here,” I continue, ignoring her question. “Way better than a dim library.”
Narrowed green eyes follow me without blinking, and just when I think I’ll get to look at what she’s hiding on that canvas, she rotates it so it’s hidden again.
“You’re not staying here.”
I wasn’t planning to, but now that she said it...
“C’mon! You’ll do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”
Really, would it be that bad? Last time when I was freaking out, trying but failing miserably to concentrate on studying, Brook was the one who helped me through it. There wasn’t one person, except Jeanette—not my parents or teachers or friends—who could understand how my brain worked. Not one person who could help me when the panic and mixed words became so overwhelming my head was going to explode. But somehow Brook understood it. Without me having to say a thing, she understood it. She knew what to do; she knew how to help me.
“No way.” Brook shakes her head decisively. “You go on your way, and I’ll stay here and finish this.”
“What about homeroom?”
“Keeping tabs on me, Sanders?” She throws my words back at me.
“You won’t even know I’m here.”
“No.”
“Please, Brook.” I shoot my, what Anette calls, panty-dropping smile her way. “The library is stuffy, making it hard to concentrate, and I need to get this shit done.”
She stares at me for a while, her lips pressed in a tight line, expression cool. Unreadable. I hold her gaze, letting her take her fill as I take mine.
There is something about Brook Taylor that draws my attention, and no matter how long or how hard I stare at her, there is always something more to see, something more to discover about the girl who holds all her secrets close to her. Something about her calls to me, and I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. And when I feel anxious and restless, all the obligations and expectations making it impossible to breathe, being in her presence makes it all take a backseat.
“Fine,” she finally says, breaking the silence. “But you better keep to your side of the room and stay quiet. I have to finish this.”
Chapter Eleven
BROOK
What the hell has gotten into me? I should have said no. Firm and unapologetic. I have to finish this piece and I don’t need any distractions. And Max is the biggest distraction of them all. Especially after everything that happened Saturday night.
His wounded gray eyes still haunt me. I can see them clearly in my mind. Wide, hurt and filled with sorrow.
Nibbling at my lip, I peek over the edge of the canvas.
True to his word, Max has stayed on his side of the room, leaving enough distance between us. He’s sitting on the floor with a drawing board propped on his bent knees, his back leaning against the wall. When I agreed to let him stay, I thought it’d be enough, keeping distance between the two of us. Thought I’d be able to ignore him and do my own thing, but apparently not.
His presence is so strong. Overwhelming, really. It’s like he sucked all the air from this room and filled it with tension. Thick and intense.
Deafening silence clouds the space, worse than any noise could ever be, all the unsaid things between us making it almost unbearable to be in his company. But bringing it all up won’t do us any good, so there is no sense in saying anything.
Max needs somebody to anchor him, guide him so he doesn’t drive himself crazy while studying, and for some weird, fucked-up reason, he thinks I’m the only person who can do that. No matter how mixed up and confusing my feelings are for the guy, I can’t say no to him. Not when it comes to this.
“You’re drilling a hole in my forehead,” he murmurs, not lifting his gaze from whatever he’s been working on. “Thinking of fun ways to kill me off?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I roll my eyes. “I just got lost in my thoughts for a bit, that’s all.”
Returning my gaze to the canvas, I face the silvery orbs staring back at me.
I was so immersed in my work that I didn’t even hear him when he first approached. The only thing I can be grateful for is that my station is turned so nobody can see what I’m working on. Purposely so. Because if he saw it… A shudder runs through my whole body. And people wonder why I’m reluctant to show my work to the world.
It’s so personal. So… telling. It could reveal my deepest, darkest secrets and desires, and I’m not ready for that. I’ll never be ready for that.
“Lost in thoughts of me?” His light chuckle makes my head snap.
I narrow my eyes, looking at him through tiny slits. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll find something heavier than a tube of paint to throw at you.”