by Kyla Stone
He tugs his hair behind his ear in that adorable way of his. “That Physics test? It was brutal. I got a C minus.”
“That blows.” I know it sucks for him, but I haven’t given a flying fart about my grades since I was nine.
“I have to get an A in Physics.”
Phoenix gives a little mewl. She’s lapping the milk harder, getting stronger. Her suckling makes a soft sucking sound. Her little belly is round and full, her fur drying into a silky blue-gray. “Getting a B is not the end of the world, you know.”
He gives a short, hard shake of his head. “I need a scholarship to pay for Notre Dame’s astronomical tuition. I’m gonna have to study more.”
“Okay, I guess?”
Just then, Eden and Simone wander in to refresh their drinks. Simone leans against me, wheezing. She loves to dance, and usually it doesn’t affect her asthma as long as she takes her medicine beforehand.
“You need your inhaler?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“I’m so gonna ask Dominic to dance,” Eden says, her cheeks two pink circles. “I totally am. Hey, Felix.” “Hey,” Felix says back.
Raj Patel walks up and slaps Felix on the back. He’s Felix’s best friend and fellow geek. They both love Star Wars, comic books, and arguing about Marvel versus DC worlds, which Avenger kicks the most butt, and other nonsense.
“Nightwing versus Daredevil,” Raj says, not even saying hi to the rest of us. He and Felix have this superhero battle thing going on.
“That’s easy.” Felix sits up straighter, preparing his argument. “It’s a good fight, but Matt has 360-degree perception. He hears human heartbeats. He times bullets. Daredevil knocks Nightwing out flat. End of the sixth round, tops.”
Simone stares at them, her eyes bugging out.
“Nightwing can throw his batarang so hard he cuts through metal chains,” Raj says. He’s super-skinny, with ears that stick out, these huge dark eyes, and a serious mouth that makes him look like he’s always frowning. “He tears open punching bags with his fists.”
“The humanity!” Simone mock-clutches her chest. “How can you bear it, Lux?”
Eden giggles.
“Haven’t you heard?” I deadpan. “Pocket protectors are the new sexy.”
“I don’t wear pocket protectors.” Raj pats his button-down shirt pocket anyway, like he’s checking just to make sure. He glances at me for the first time. “Is that a cat?”
“No, it’s a skunk bomb,” Simone says, shoving her black-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “For nerds, you’re both dumb as a pile of rocks.”
“I resent that statement.” Raj frowns. In spite of—or maybe because of—his almost perfect SAT scores, he completely lacks any sense of humor.
“Please,” Felix says with a grin. “Nerd is so passé. I prefer the term
‘intellectual badass.’”
I rub his bicep with my free hand. “See? Sexy as hell.”
Simone groans. “I can’t even.”
“As I was saying,” Raj continues. “Nightwing would use one of his sonic grenades to hobble Daredevil’s senses.”
“Not a chance. Heck, Daredevil can swat bullets with his cane. He’d be on Nightwing faster than he could react for sure.”
I sigh and slant my eyes at Felix. “We’re boring our friends to tears over here.”
Felix is smart enough to take the not-so-subtle hint. “Hey Raj, I heard they’ve got World of Warcraft set up on that massive TV downstairs.
Wanna check it out?”
Raj nods curtly and leaves the kitchen.
“Thank goodness that torture’s over,” Simone says. “I came over in the first place to tell you that guy’s here again. The one with the greasy hair.”
“Um, hair gel much?” Eden snorts.
The last party we went to, this older guy named Reese crashed the party. He had to be in his early twenties, and he stared at all the girls like we were his prey. We figured out later he’s the guy all the stoners get their dope, E, and Molly from, so someone must be inviting him. But still. Gross. I make a gagging mime with my free hand.
Simone sneezes, takes her glasses off, and wipes at her eyes. “Sorry, Lux. I think I’ve had enough of that thing and its allergy-laden fur.”
“It’s a ‘her.’ And her name is Phoenix, thank you very much. Go tear up the dance floor.”
“Hells yes!” Simone shakes her hips. She loves to dance. Last year she was into a heavy jazz phase, the year before that it was hip-hop. This year it’s swing. It doesn’t matter whether she’s just walking across the room, she moves with the grace of a ballerina, like she’s skimming the surface of the world. “Come on!”
“Five minutes, I promise.” The kitten’s movements slow. She curls into a little ball, tucking her nose beneath her paws. The tiniest hint of a purr vibrates against my palm.
Simone grabs Eden’s arm and they head back out to the party.
Felix clears his throat. “Anyway, back to our conversation. What I’m trying to say is, I need to spend more time studying. And less time, you know, hanging out.”
My body tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means … we can’t spend so much time together. We need a break.”
It takes a second for the words to sink in. A break. Breaking up. I leap out of my seat, adrenaline flushing through me. “You’re breaking up with me? At a frickin’ party? While I’m trying to save this kitten’s life?!!”
He shakes his head, eyes widening. “No! It’s just a break. Just—”
There’s a roaring in my ears so loud I can barely hear his words. “A break? A frickin’ break? Are you for real right now?”
“No! I mean, yes. Sorta. You’re not listening—”
Pain explodes inside me. This is not how tonight is supposed to go. A dark thing wakes up inside my chest, rears its ugly head. “Then what is it? You think you’re better than me?”
“No!”
“You think I’m too stupid for you. That’s it.”
“That’s not what I said!” His voice is rough, pleading. “Please, can we just back up for a minute here?”
“I heard exactly what you said. And how you said it.” I shove the chair against the table with my hip. My mind blazes with indignation, with humiliation. I can’t believe it. All this time. He’s just wanted to use me, like the rest of them. “Screw you, Felix Avery. I wasn’t that into you, anyway. You’re just a social pariah posing as someone who’s cool, someone who matters. News flash: you don’t. You don’t matter at all.”
I storm out of the kitchen, leaving him sitting at the table with his mouth hanging open. Serves him right. No one screws me over. No one.
The music surges through my blood, lighting up my synapses. The volume is turned way up, blaring through me. I shove past the couches full of people chatting and drinking and clatter upstairs in my heels.
I open doors until I find Jayda’s room. A few rooms are already occupied. Curses follow me down the hallway. No one’s in here. No one would dare.
It’s dark, but I’ve visited enough times to feel my way to her massive walk-in closet. She keeps the boxes for every pair of shoes she’s ever purchased. I fumble for the top box, open it, make a little bed with my scarf, and tuck the sleeping kitten inside. No one will mess with her in here.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my jean jacket. It’s Lena. Again. Screw that. I don’t want to think about any of it right now. Or ever. I can’t. I won’t. I dump the phone inside the shoe box without looking at it.
Phoenix is safe. Now I can focus on what the heck just happened. How my tongue tastes coppery. How my head is buzzing like a thousand wasps are trapped inside, batting around against my skull. How my whole body’s trembling with outrage. How. Dare. He.
Something bad is about to happen. I can feel it.
And I’m the one who’s going to do it.
9
Lena
It’s almost 6:30 p.m. and dark
by the time I make it out to the garage. I spent the afternoon scrubbing and organizing the house until it gleamed.
Now I stand, my hands limp at my sides, staring at the minivan my mother drove for four years, until she didn’t have a need for driving anymore.
She used to say, “Ready to rumble?” mimicking Dad’s deep voice. It always made Lux laugh and laugh.
I make myself press the key fob. There’s no reason to freak out. It’s just a car. Dad and Lux have driven it plenty of times since Mom’s funeral. It’s not like her essence still lingers inside it, drifting like blue smoke, like a ghost.
I shake the thoughts out of my head and climb into the van. A pine air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror. There are a dozen gum wrappers stuffed inside the two plastic cup holders, a bunch of Us Weekly and Cosmo magazines scattered on the passenger’s seat. Lux.
The van coughs and sputters as I back out. I head for the grocery store, the vehicle groaning in protest. It bumps and jolts down the road as I make a mental note to ask Dad if it always sounds like this.
The headlights are two cones of light in the winter darkness, the world beyond drenched in inky shadows. Street lights are few and far between in a small country town like Brokewater.
Brokewater has only one grocery store, Browne Meat and Grocery. Main Street boasts two gas stations, a McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Delia’s Ice Cream Shoppe, and a Chili’s. Bill’s Bar and Grill is ten minutes out of town, and if you want Walmart or Meijer’s, you have to drive twenty-five minutes into St. Joe.
There’s a huge dairy farm just out of town. At certain times of day, if the wind is blowing a certain way, you catch a whiff of something foul, the faint stench of manure.
By the time I park, the van is making raspy, clunky noises. I can’t worry about that now. I tighten my coat and duck inside.
I don’t want to see anyone I know, don’t want to answer questions or endure the pitying looks and muffled whispers the town has bestowed upon my family for years. For months after the funeral, everywhere we went, people whispered behind their hands, “Those are the girls of that woman.” Like we couldn’t hear, like we didn’t already know.
I grab a bag of shredded cheese and toss it in the cart.
“Freckles? Is that you?”
I freeze, instantly recognizing the smooth, rich voice behind me.
Eli Kusuma walks up to me, a carton of eggs in one hand and a dazzling grin plastered on his face. Eli Kusuma, star wide receiver of the Wildcat’s varsity team and one of the most popular guys in my graduating class. Eli Kusuma, still as appallingly handsome as ever.
Junior and senior year, I was the yearbook photographer in charge of covering athletics. I attended every single Wildcats game, roaming the sidelines, camera up and ready, taking pictures of every play. None of the jocks ever noticed me.
During our senior year, the Wildcats actually made it to the state playoffs. That first game, we were down by three with the seconds ticking on the clock. Eli ran a simple button hook play, but the quarterback was in trouble, just trying to elude the defenders swarming him. Eli went long.
I was already near the end zone, so I followed him in my viewfinder, snapping shots as the quarterback launched the ball his way. Eli had two defenders flanking him, but he leaped high, stretching for the ball. I managed to grab the perfect frame: Eli’s hands grasping the ball with his fingertips, his body arcing in mid-flight, both defenders pulling at him but unable to bring him down. His Hail Mary touchdown catch won the game.
The photo made the local paper. Then the Cass County Gazette picked it up and ran it on the front page. He noticed me after that, enough to nickname me Freckles and flash me that devastating grin every time he saw me on the field or in the hallways. But his smile always had a hard edge to it, like there was some joke only he was getting, and it was at my expense.
My heart clenches at the memory. “Um, hey.”
“I thought I recognized that hair. It’s nice to see someone my own age around here. Aren’t you supposed to be at some artsy-fartsy college in Florida?”
I wince. “I’m taking a furlough. Weren’t you going to Michigan State on some scholarship?”
His grin widens. “I guess you could say I’m taking a furlough, too.” His scruffy black hair falls to the top of his plaid shirt collar. I’ve always hated long hair on guys, but on him … It works. Everything about him works. His eyes are the color of amber, seeming to capture all the light in the room. His Asian features are perfectly aligned, his olive-toned skin sculpted over his cheekbones and jawline.
I try not to imagine how I would photograph him in deep shadow, how the light would highlight the fine lines of his face, the brightness of his eyes. I clear my throat. “It’s nice to see you again. I’ve got some refrigerated stuff in my cart, so I should probably hurry up and finish.”
He puts his hand on my cart, tapping his fingers against the metal. “Wanna catch up? Chat about old times?”
I highly doubt we had a single similar high school experience. He was the most popular guy in school, the jock with all the girls. I was a dork, the frizzy-haired nerd who stuck to the sidelines, capturing other people living their lives behind the safety of my camera.
I wish I had it now. My face burns. Once upon a time, I would’ve chatted politely until he was the one who got bored and left. But things are different now. “Those ‘old times’ were only three years ago, and we weren’t exactly friends.”
His cocky smile almost falters. Almost. He’s still so arrogant, like he expects the whole world to capitulate to his every whim and desire. It probably does.
Seeing him brings back a torrent of memories I’d rather not relive. Like every other girl at Brokewater High, I fell victim to his charms. But not now. I’m smarter now. Older. Stronger. But still, my mouth is dry. My heart thuds in my chest.
“Come on, now. You’re not really gonna leave me hanging, are you?”
“Actually, I’m really sorry, but I am.” I jerk the cart out of his grasp and walk purposefully down the dairy aisle. A toddler giggles nearby. To my left, an old guy with a puff of white hair picks out a tub of sour cream.
“I still have that photo on my wall,” he says behind me.
For a second, my legs won’t move. The same photo is framed and hanging above my bed in my room. It’s the one thing that connects us.
“That’s cool,” I say woodenly. “See you around, I guess.”
This isn’t like me. Even with people I despise, I’m polite, demure, meek. But today, that veneer’s been stripped away. My father is dying. My sister is gone. I have zero emotional reserves to deal with anything else. I just need to end this conversation.
I walk around the corner to the frozen foods aisle, grab a box of waffles, a bag of frozen peas. But he doesn’t take the hint. He never did. He pushes his cart up beside me.
I glare at him, about to tell him off, when I notice the little girl sitting in the front seat of his cart. The one who was giggling a minute ago. She’s almost a mini-me of Eli, but her skin is darker, her curls kinkier. Her huge eyes shine like topaz.
“Lena, I’d like you to meet Hadley. Hadley, this is Lena. Hadley is my daughter.”
The little girl is bundled in a knit sweater, her round cheeks dimpling as she grins. She grips a small red polka-dotted purse in her chubby hands and shakes it. “Yook!”
My face must register my shock, because Eli laughs. “You might remember I was with Nyah the last half of senior year. She was five months pregnant at graduation.”
I’d left in June for a summer photography study tour in Washington D.C., so I never heard the news. I glance at his left hand. No ring.
“We never married,” he says in a low voice, his brows knitting together. “She took off three months after Hadley was born. She needed to live her life. Now I live in my mom’s basement and spend my weekends with a two-year-old, changing diapers and scraping spaghetti off the ceiling. Not quite what you imagined, huh?”
&nbs
p; “I didn’t know,” I mumble, unsure what to say.
He shakes his head, a scrap of hair falling into his eyes. “It’s not so bad. We have fun don’t we, Chipmunk?” He makes a goofy face, and she bursts into a fit of giggles. The sound is pure and bright as church bells on Christmas morning.
“I’m happy for you.”
He steps closer. “How about some coffee at Delia’s later? Or a walk by the river. Hadley likes to play at the park.”
Instinctively, I take a step back, banging into my cart. My head is a thicket of confusion. I can’t square this new version of Eli with the suave, arrogant ladies’ man I knew before. Besides, I’m not here to fraternize with a member of the opposite sex, no matter how hot he is. I’m here for one reason only. “I’m sorry, I really can’t. My dad is—he’s sick. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
I leave him in the frozen foods aisle and finish my shopping, quickly tossing items into the cart. He isn’t my type, like at all. So why is my mind replaying that cocky grin over and over? I close my eyes, take a breath, and force Eli Kusuma out of my head.
I make it to the checkout without seeing anyone else I know. The Hispanic girl behind the register is tall and extremely thin, nearly gaunt. Her black hair is pulled back in a low bun, a single side lock dyed Windexblue. “You look the same as I remember,” she says as I put a box of Golden Grahams on the conveyer belt.
I look at her again. Narrow, pinched face and a tilt to the corners of her mouth, like she’s about to slip into a scowl or sneer at any second. She does seem familiar.
“Isabel? Hello?” she says in a bored tone.
Now I remember. Isabel Gutierrez was also in my graduating class. Her mother, Maria Gutierrez, used to babysit me and Lux occasionally when Dad was on a long-haul run and Mom had the presence of mind not to leave us alone by ourselves.
“Hey, Isabel. What’s up?” I stack the rest of the groceries on the conveyer belt.
“Oh, the same old stuff, obviously,” Isabel says airily. The scanner bleeps as she scans cans of low-sodium tuna and tubs of non-fat yogurt.