Breathe for Me

by Rhonda Helms

  breathe

  for me

  Rhonda Helms

  SPENCER HILL PRESS

  © 2014 Rhonda Helms

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spence City, an imprint of Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition: August 2014

  Rhonda Helms

  Breathe For Me/by Rhonda Helms–01 ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary:

  Description: A young woman seeks to break a centuries old bargain that binds her to a demon while juggling a normal life and the boy she’s fallen for.

  Trademarks: Coke, Dr. Pepper, Dumpster, iPod, Tulane

  Cover design by Arijana K., Cover It! Designs

  Interior layout by Errick A. Nunnally

  978-1-939392-06-0 (paperback)

  978-1-937053-70-3 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my poor husband, who knows way more about publishing now than he ever wanted to know, hah. Thank you for bringing me chocolate and wine, listening to my woes at all hours of the day and night, giving me hugs and telling me to never give up on my dreams. I love you so very, very much. ♥

  To my kids, who have spent many, many years being patient about late dinners, snack dinners, leftover dinners, Mom’s-in-her-zone-so-leave-her-alone nights, and so much more. You guys inspire me to keep doing my best.

  To my friends and family. You are my safe space. I appreciate you. XO

  chapter one

  “I’M TIRED OF CHEMISTRY,” Samantha grumbles under her breath. She drops the beaker back into its hole, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I’m going to be an artist. So why do I need to know how to use a Bunsen burner?”

  I suppress a laugh. “Art and science go hand in hand, you know. One can’t exist without the other.”

  “Maybe on Planet Isabel they do,” she retorts, pulling off the massive yellow gloves and slapping them on the black table. “But on Planet Samantha, it’s all oil paints and sexy male models.”

  “Ladies,” Mr. Watson says quietly as he strolls down the aisle past us, hands linked behind his back. “Focus on your experiment, please.”

  I tug my gloves higher and reach for the glass dropper, putting the requisite plops of mysterious blue liquid into the beaker. Some part of me knows what’s going to happen. I’ve probably done this experiment before.

  “It stayed blue,” I say. My gut was right.

  Samantha scrawls our answer on the bottom of the paper, adds our names at the top and runs it up to Mr. Watson’s desk. She drops back into her seat, sighing in relief, then whips out a fresh piece of paper. “Thank God that’s done. Now, hold still so I can work on my portraiture skills a little more.”

  I wince. “I’m not sure…”

  “I know it makes you uncomfortable,” she says gently, “but you’re a good friend, so you’re going to let me practice drawing.”

  She’s right. I flip through the chemistry book and try to keep myself occupied while Samantha’s pencil scritches across her paper. The urge to squirm overwhelms me, but I push it aside, forcing myself to remain still.

  She stops, raising a hand toward me. “Let me just fix this one strand of hair—”

  I jerk away, a sudden flush rising to my cheeks. “I’ll get it,” I tell her quickly as I smooth my hair down.

  Samantha blinks, her cheeks flaming, and withdraws her hand. “Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot for a second.”

  I offer her a chagrined smile, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. “No, it’s not your fault at all. It’s me. I’m sorry.”

  “You feeling okay? No sickness today or anything, right?” Concern deepens the lines between her eyebrows.

  I bite my lower lip and nod. “Yup. I’m doing fine, thanks.”

  The bell rings, saving me from the awkwardness of the moment. Of my lies.

  “Hey, let’s hit lunch,” Samantha says. She stands and gathers her stuff into her bag. “I’m starving.”

  We make our way to the cafeteria and push through the double doors leading to the outdoor patio. The hot August sun beats down on my face. Sweat drips down my back and pools at the waistband of my jeans. My black gloves cling to my rapidly dampening fingers.

  “Can we sit in the shade?” I ask. Thankfully, I recently discovered a breathable fabric that allows me to wear long sleeves but not suffer too much in the hot, New Orleans, summer sun. I’m determined to spend every possible moment enjoying the outdoors, the sunshine, the sights and smells and sensations of a warm afternoon.

  Samantha and I tuck our backs against the brick wall, the shade slanting across the grass and sheltering us. I open my lunch bag and pull out a sandwich.

  Three girls in skimpy clothes walk by, eyeing me as they pass. I hear one whisper, “Who wears gloves in August? What a freak.” The other two laugh.

  Samantha shakes her head and shoots them a disdainful look. “Ignore them. They’re just mad because they’re dieting. Living on two grapes a day would make anyone grouchy.”

  I give her a soothing smile. The names don’t bother me, honestly. And most people here aren’t hostile to me. It’s a peaceful sort of life, which is just what I want.

  I scan the courtyard, taking in the scene. Guys jostle into each other. Girls eye the guys. No one’s doing much eating at all.

  Then I connect with a pair of vaguely familiar, deep blue eyes across the way, framed by scruffy brown hair. It’s Dominic, a guy in my English class. He rarely speaks but seems intelligent enough. His numbers are high, like most of the teens at school—the promise of a long life still to be experienced. He stretches out his long, jean-clad legs and leans back against the brick wall, not breaking eye contact with me.

  My heart thuds in painful surprise at his assertive gaze, and I look away.

  “God, he’s so hot,” Samantha says with a sigh.

  “Who?” I ask, though I know exactly who she means.

  She raises one eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb with me. I see you checking him out, too. Do you know him?”

  “He’s in one of my classes. Hey, let’s go back in,” I say, suddenly afraid to glance back over at him. Afraid that he’s looking at me, too. Or even worse, that he’s not. “I’m sweating way too much.”

  “I’m gonna chill out here, if it’s okay,” she says. She tucks a purple-highlighted strand behind her ear, shooting me a crooked grin. “I’d like to admire the scenery just a little bit more.”

  I grin and shake my head. “Go ahead. See you later.”

  I head back inside, wishing there was a strong blast of cool to relieve the stickiness in the air, and make my way down the hall to the library, my place of solace. Most high-school students wouldn’t be caught dead spending free time in here. Which is just fine with me.

  I brush through the door. “Hi, Mrs. Merchant,” I say to our librarian.

  She looks up from her magazine and grins. “Isabel. Haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

  “Sorry,” I say with a smile. “I’ve been busy with schoolwork.” Not completely true, but I don’t want to admit that, lately, I’ve been spending my lunches with Samantha as she scopes out guys.

  Mrs. Merchant chuckles under her breath. “Oh, yes—I remember being busy with ‘wor
k,’” she says in a sly voice, using air quotes. “I seem to remember my favorite subject was anatomy. Or was it chemistry?”

  Busted.

  I shrug, giving her an embarrassed glance, and make my way to my favorite section—world history. I tug a British history book out, then settle down into my chair at the table right beside the massive windows. The scent of fresh book hits me in the nose, and I breathe it in as I crack the cover. The pictures of illuminated manuscripts from the Middle Ages, of lush rolling fields and warm summer days, evoke an instant pang of bittersweet homesickness.

  A sudden swell of nostalgia overtakes me and, for a moment, I’m back there. My sister Jane’s small, sweaty hand clings to mine as she tugs me toward a creek just outside Lord Walstony’s manor. “Isabel, look—I found the prettiest fish.” Her giggles echoing when she skips through patches of brilliant green grass, her dark brown curls bouncing with every step. “Hurry, before they go away!”

  A fresh surge of guilt floods my chest. I bite my lip, blinking back the sudden rush of tears, and push the emotions away. Not now. This isn’t the time to get swept away by those thoughts. The past can’t be changed, but the future is still within my grasp. I have to focus on right now.

  I flip to the section on religious mythology. Maybe this text has the key to my escape. The answers have to be somewhere. It’s just a matter of being persistent and ignoring that ever-present knowledge that this could all end at any time. I can’t let the pressure overwhelm me.

  There’s a section that discusses Hell and its demons—the fall, their mission to gather as many souls as possible, and their hatred of humans, who were so loved by God that they were granted free will. I reread the passage several times, hoping to see a glimpse of some sort of insight into their minds. Especially his. I become so engrossed in the text that it takes me a minute to notice a shadow falling across the table.

  I glance up, blinking in shock. Dominic. What’s he doing here? With shaky hands, I close the book with a heavy thud and stare at the table.

  He slips into the chair across from me as he places a small book on the table’s surface. “You’re Isabel, right?”

  I peek at him, willing my heart to slow down and stop thudding so hard. “Yeah. Why?” My words come out more gruffly than I intend, but I’m a little uncomfortable with small talk, except with Samantha.

  “I’m Dominic.” His tone is low and slightly gravelly as he speaks.

  I fix my gaze on the picture of some rock band on the front of his well-worn white T-shirt, trying to keep my voice even. “I know who you are. We’re in English together.” The tension in my shoulders starts to hurt, so I force myself to relax.

  A quick peek at his face shows me a small smile. He rests his arms on the table, unfazed by my rejection. “I came in to check something out and saw you sitting over here.” He nods at my book, one eyebrow raised. “Not your usual teen read.”

  I’m not your usual teen, I want to say. But of course, it’s already obvious by my outfit and gloves. Most girls in school are eager to show off every possible inch of skin, especially in the latter part of summer. I strive to keep everything covered.

  “Yeah, I know,” I finally say. “Um, so what did you check out?”

  He twists the book around so I can see the cover. It’s an anthology of short stories.

  I flip through the table of contents, recognizing several stories I’ve read. I point at the entry for “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin. “This one’s great. The twist at the end completely shocked me.”

  “Really?” He gives me a crooked grin. “I’ll read that one first then.”

  My heart races from a swell of nervousness. I glance away, momentarily surprised at myself for breaking out of my shell and talking to him.

  We sit in silence for several long moments after that, looking, but not looking, at each other. My back is ramrod straight and my leg muscles begin to ache from being clenched. I can’t stop my brain from whirring. The logical side of my mind tells me he’s just being friendly, but the cautious side warns me about the dangers of friendliness with someone I find attractive.

  Caution wins.

  I swallow, standing. “I’m sorry. I…need to go.” Unsteady feet lead me back to the history section, and I slip the book in its rightful place. Without a backward glance, I dart out of the library, just in time for the bell to ring.

  English class. I can’t stop my eyes from sliding casually across the room every few minutes to stare at Dominic. He has one lock of hair that flops onto his forehead. For some reason, my fingers itch to push it off his face.

  When was the last time I touched another person? I can barely remember what it’s like. Even a small gesture, like brushing the small hairs on someone’s arms with the tips of my fingers, is forbidden to me.

  Dominic looks up from his notebook at that moment. I tear my gaze away, cheeks flaming from almost being caught staring, and turn my attention back to my assignment. We’re supposed to be working on a poem, which is usually one of my favorite activities. For some reason, I’m having a hard time concentrating.

  Okay, I know why. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to think about him or our talk in the library. I’m going to finish this poem. I’m going to finish school today. And then I’m going to retreat to the sanctuary of my apartment, where I can shed these layers of clothes and be free of my constraints, if only for a little while.

  I reread what I’ve written so far:

  Alone on a shore, I am swallowed

  By a stillness, body

  Bowed over, hair like a tree willow.

  I skim the water surface

  With my fingertips, as

  Sand engulfs my feet, my ankles, my calves.

  The water licks

  Closer—

  Sighing shores beckon me

  To dance upon the swirling currents.

  I can feel Dominic looking at me. Emboldened, I lift my eyes and stare right into his. The blue of his irises remind me of the body of water in my poem. Dark. Tempting. Heavy with an unspoken awareness.

  Everything falls silent except the rush of blood in my ears.

  The rest of the poem’s words come to me out of nowhere, and I spill them out onto my paper:

  I close my eyes,

  Fall into my escape, where

  The tide’s fingers

  Drag out my air.

  Tug me closer,

  Fill me,

  Absorb me—

  I gasp

  I freeze

  I am no longer alone.

  The bell rings, jarring me out of my hypnotized state. I slip my poem into my notebook and stay seated, waiting for the room to empty before I leave to go to my next class. Girls cling together in tight groups, laughing and talking to each other as they pour through the doorway into the hall.

  I stay back and watch.

  chapter two

  WHEN I GET HOME I finish my homework, make a sandwich and take a quick shower to scrub away midday’s sticky sweat. After changing into fresh clothes I head out of my apartment and stroll down the street to one of my favorite destinations—Jim’s Books. Normally the walk soothes me—dog-owners jogging alongside overly excited labs. Moms pushing cooing babies in strollers. Old people walking hand-in-hand.

  But not today.

  I keep my focus on the sidewalk, my brain unable to stop whirring. Thinking about Jane earlier triggered a renewed surge of old, old memories. When I was fourteen and she was eleven, we took our mother’s old scraps of ribbon and made a mismatched bonnet—we were so proud of our efforts, even though our father chuckled under his breath about its eclectic pattern and colors. Jane wore the hat for a week straight, even sleeping in it. “It’ll match every dress we own,” she whispered as she scrutinized her reflection in the rippled creek water. “I think it makes me look older. Don’t you?”

  But no matter how badly it hurts to think of her, I don’t want to shut it off. I’ve spent the last several months, since arriving
in New Orleans, desperate to cling to any scrap of my history I can unearth within my brain. It’s all buried in here somewhere, even if most of it is shuttered from me. Sitri’s managed to block my current past, for the most part, but he can’t block the time before I met him.

  I pause mid-stride and cast blind eyes across the neighborhood, breathe deeply and swallow as my sister’s small, freckled face at age eight pops up in my mind. Her two front teeth were gapped, but she didn’t care. She always wore a huge smile and never let the teasing of other kids rattle her. I envied her easy happiness with her lot in life, the way she found the bright side no matter what the situation.

  So unlike me.

  I bite my lip, make myself keep walking. The ache for Jane is bone-deep, persistent. She was three years younger than me, but she was my best friend. So many whispered secrets while we curled up in our small bed, clutching a too-thin blanket and each other for warmth. She knew me inside and out…at least, until Mr. Baker happened. Then I turned inward, stopped talking. Angry, bitter, resenting our parents for essentially selling me to the highest bidder. I should have trusted Jane with my feelings. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be here now.

  A woman in a business suit nods at me as she goes by. I shake off my sadness and guilt, remembering my mantra—I can’t change the past. But I can use Jane as my inspiration and find satisfaction with my current life, fight for any scrap of control possible. She wouldn’t want me to stay sad.

  I make it to the bookstore door and slip through, inhaling deeply. The musty scent of old books makes me smile.

  “I’m in the back,” a deep voice rumbles. Jim. “Be there in just a sec.”

  “It’s just me,” I say with a chuckle.

  “Oh, Isabel—help yourself. I’m—” pause, then a thumping sound, “—trying to take care of inventory. Gimme just a minute.”

  Jim’s store is cluttered and disorganized. He has his own method for sorting and storing books, one I haven’t quite figured out yet. But it’s an intriguing mystery, and I’m determined to crack it and surprise him.