Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  That whole thing with Preston was kinda awkward. You’d just asked me to fix you up, and then Preston volunteers you to take me. I want you to know that I totally understand if you want to back out. Really. You should go to Homecoming with someone you really like.

  Someone I really like.

  I wish it was as simple as liking her, but it’s so far beyond that. Maybe I should back out of this whole thing. That’d be safest. Preston has no idea what he’s done, forcing us together yet again. But as much as I don’t want to hurt him or do anything to compromise our relationship, I can’t look at this opportunity with anything but excitement. The thought of spending an entire evening alone with her—going out on a date—has replayed through my mind on a reel. We can’t cross any lines, but there’s nothing wrong with pretending.

  I pull a pencil from the small pouch on my backpack.

  Who said I’m not? I’m happy with the way things are.

  I fold it along the creases and drop it back over her shoulder. Jaycee clears her throat, and when Rayne glances up at her, she slashes her knife-hand across her neck and mouths “Stop.”

  Rayne shrugs and opens it. Her laugh is so low, it’s barely more than a whisper. She scribbles a reply and, when Madame turns her head, tosses it onto my desk.

  Me, too. Want to plan everything during lunch today? First floor, back hallway by the janitor’s closet?

  The smile’s involuntary, despite Jaycee’s evil-eye stare, which is now focused solely on me.

  An entire lunch period just the two of us, tucked away downstairs where almost no one goes? Yes, please!

  I’ll be there.

  I tap her on the shoulder. When she turns around, I flip the note, pinched between my fingers, toward her. She reaches for it, her skin touching mine and creating a firestorm that spirals like a tornado within.

  Heck yeah. I’ll be there.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrring!

  When the bell rings to end fourth period, most of the other kids in the class lean down to zip their backpacks. Not me. Mine’s been zipped and on my back, shoved between me and the chair for nearly five minutes now. I squish past all the slow-movers crowding the main hallways and even hurdle over some girl on her knees in front of the stairwell door, scooping up a big pile of dropped papers.

  Normally, I’d be nice and help.

  Not today.

  Today, I’m going to meet Rayne downstairs to plan Homecoming. Truth is, I don’t give a crap about the plans. We can do whatever she wants, and it’ll be fine. I just want to spend time with her.

  Alone.

  While I can.

  Though I can’t touch her or get too close.

  Even though I’ll want to.

  Like I already do.

  Geez, I’m a masochistic idiot.

  Normally, the trek from the third floor to the first takes a solid five minutes with foot traffic on the stairwell. I make it in about five seconds. There must be something about a 200 lb. offensive lineman barreling down the center of the staircase at 90 mph, taking two steps at a time. People scatter, pushing into each other while navigating to the handrails on either side. My size probably has something to do with it, but the get-out-of-my-way-and-nobody-gets-hurt scowl imprinted on my face seals the deal.

  I slam through the door and around the corner. She’s not here yet. No one is.

  It’s completely deserted so I throw my backpack on the floor and sit against the wall in the small niche beside the janitor’s closet. It looks as if at one time there might’ve been a water fountain here, but now it’s long gone, leaving only a strange little nook in the wall. Just big enough for two people to sit side by side.

  Perfect.

  My cell phone pinches into my side so I slide it from my pocket, staring at the screen’s wallpaper—a shot of me and Preston from last year’s championship game, both of us with matted, wet hair. That was a good night, but now that I stare at the picture, his eyes take on a new life, seeming to connect with mine. Like year-ago Preston knows what Gage-of-today is thinking.

  My stomach crumples in on itself, and I click the side button, turning the screen black. That’s better.

  Footsteps echo on the other end of the hallway, and I lean forward to get a peek. If someone’s crashing our spot, I’m going to remove them. At the far edge, Rayne stops by the trash can, talking to someone with animated hand gestures and a few laughs mingled in. As she turns and heads my way, I crane my neck further, catching a quick glimpse of Jaycee maneuvering toward the stairs.

  “Sorry,” Rayne calls out, her voice marked by a happy lilt. “You know how Jaycee is. She wouldn’t shut up.”

  Yeah, I know exactly how she is. But never mind her. As long as she’s gone, who cares anything about Jaycee?

  “Anything interesting?” I ask as Rayne tosses her backpack onto mine and squeezes into the cramped space beside me. Her leg slides along the side seam of my jeans, and for once, I’m glad to have this fabric between us. Otherwise…

  “She wanted to know why we’re meeting down here.” She gathers her hair into a ponytail and twists an elastic around it. “I told her we’re planning homecoming.”

  “Wait. You told her we’re going together?”

  “It’s not like it’s a big secret. Everyone saw us with Preston on the field yesterday. And I think they’ll kinda figure it out when we, you know, show up at Homecoming together.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gage, if it makes you this uncomfortable, we don’t have to do this. I can…”

  “No. I want to go with you.”

  “Well, then stop complaining.”

  I put my fingers to my lips, twisting them as if I’m putting my stupid tongue under lock and key. No way are these insecurities going to mess up this opportunity. So what if people talk. They always do.

  Let ‘em.

  Twenty minutes later, the only things we’ve decided is I’ll pick her up at her house and bring a wrist corsage—no pin-on types because she hates those—and that after the game, we’ll make some semblance of an appearance at the school event in the cafeteria and then wing it from there.

  “You do know there will be dancing.” She says dancing as if it’s synonymous with a stomach virus. “It’s okay if we bypass that, since you probably can’t—”

  “Probably can’t what? Dance?” I cock my head, wagging my finger in her face. “See? A common misconception. The big, dumb football jock can’t possibly have any coordination on the dance floor.”

  In fact, I can dance. Pretty damn well, if I do say so myself. I learned it by proxy. When we were in middle school, Mom hired a dance instructor to come to our house for weekly instruction. For Preston only. None of that frou-frou stuff, but those elegant ballroom styles you see most of the old people do. Mom said all fine Southern youth learned a specific group of “suitable” dances for cotillions and weddings and social events. Those included the fox trot, the tango, the waltz, the simple box-step and the South Carolina state dance, the Shag.

  I was never subjected to these lessons, though I was used as a substitute for Preston when the instructor needed to show him how it should look from the casual observer. After about a few thousand times, I sort of picked it up.

  But I’m not telling her all that. Too embarrassing.

  “Do you know how many agility drills I do every practice? It’s good for form.”

  She leans forward on her elbows, propping her head in her hand. “Football form?”

  “Among other things.” A crimson flush invades her cheeks as she drops her gaze to the floor. I tip up her chin and lean in nearly nose to nose, waggling my eyebrows. “I’ve got moves you won’t believe.”

  She pinches her lips into a slight pucker. Shivers race over every inch of me as I think about how soft they’d be to kiss and if they’d taste like the watermelon lip balm she keeps in her bag. “Prove it.”

  Challenge accepted.

  I jump to my feet and grab her
hand, yanking her up beside me so fast she stumbles a bit and reaches out to brace herself against my abs. She lingers there for a minute until I pull both of her hands into mine, one arm extended out and one squared and firm between us, regurgitating the same instructions I’d heard so many times before.

  Forward-side-together. Backwards-side-together.

  She picks up the rhythm easily, our feet moving around each other in seamless coordination. Her eyes never leave her feet, mouth moving in silent repetition as she remembers each step. I look at nothing but her. The way her eyes pinch up at the corners, the way her nostrils flare just a bit as she makes the step forward.

  Beautiful. But more than that, she’s real. Natural.

  Every fiber in me begs for her, gnawing inside like a pack of wild beasts. I drop her hands and reach around, pulling her into me with one hand on her shoulders and one pressed firmly into the small of her back. Every curve of her connecting with me in pinpricks of fire. Then I bend her backwards into a dip, so low the end of her ponytail drags the floor.

  What am I doing?

  I can’t.

  No matter how much I want to.

  I pull her back to vertical, and she steps back, open-mouthed. “Where’d you learn to do that?” Her words fall out between heavy pants, her chest bouncing up and down like a pogo stick.

  “Long story,” I sputter. “Point is I can. And I will.”

  “You better.” Her smile drops, a new seriousness washing over each feature. A weird force brews behind my lips, making them want to pucker toward hers as if they were a life source. She steps closer, and the force intensifies, the whir of rushing blood thundering in my ears. “Sometimes, I feel like I know everything about you.” She places her palm against my chest, almost as if she’s torn between pulling me in and pushing me away. “Sometimes, I feel like there’s so much left to learn.”

  I swallow hard. “I’m pretty simple, actually. I know how I feel, and I know what I want.” My heart beats so loud, I swear it echoes against the concrete walls.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrring!

  The bubble we’ve somehow landed in breaks, and she looks down at the floor. I grab our backpacks, handing over hers. “Come on. I’ll walk you to class.”

  Chapter 25

  Rayne

  W

  hen the doorbell rings, I’m already seated in the ladder-back chair beside the front door, peeping out the mosaic sidelight window. I’ve watched him park, get out, and walk up the front porch steps, and now he waits patiently on the other side. Meanwhile, I’ve blown that “lusting in my heart” thing all to hell. The feelings aren’t going away. They’re getting stronger, and this “ol’ buddy, ol’ pal” routine sucks. But it keeps him around, so I do my best.

  I throw open the door and say through the screen, “No thanks, little boy. We don’t want any.”

  “Well, if you don’t want any…” He shrugs and pretends to head for the steps.

  “Oh all right. Get in here and give me your spiel.” I push open the screen door with my foot.

  He grabs the door and swings it wide. “You’re gonna want what I’m selling.” Yeah I do. Gimme Gimme Gimme. The door’s pewter handle bumps him on the padded football pants as it tries to shut. Never has an inanimate object created such jealousy in me.

  “You know what they say about the doorknob hitting you in

  the—”

  “I might’ve heard that one before,” he interrupts, nodding, and walks into the foyer. His eyes rove over me, up and down. “Damn girl, that dress…” He runs his hand down my arm and then interlaces his fingers with mine. “It’s… you’re beautiful.” His voice is at least half an octave lower in a rough whisper. It’s as if some invisible person is standing between us, slugging me repeatedly with a rubber mallet to the chest. My lungs don’t expand right when he touches me like this, like my body is caught somewhere between life and death, floating and rooted all at once.

  I’m glad he notices the dress. It’d taken forever to select the perfect one and even more effort in convincing Mama to buy something she deemed “too revealing” and “immodest” because of its scandalous mid-thigh length and v-neckline. And it’s red—the devil’s color. When she said that in the store, I nearly choked on my gum and died right there. Even the saleslady had to walk away “to assist another customer,” but I saw her snickering behind the counter with the other associate. When I pointed out the school’s colors were red and black, and that she herself had worn a red dress to her own Hillcrest homecoming nearly thirty years earlier, her argument lost its legs. Now seeing that expression on Gage’s face—these are the spoils of victory.

  “Thanks. You look good, too.” My voice barely registers a whisper. There’s something about the way he looks in those football pants that stirs semi-indecent daydreams like Gage tackling me in the turf or bending me in a pretzel like those pre-game loosening stretches. “Is it hot in here?” I pat sweat droplets from my hairline.

  He smiles. “Nah, it’s just me.” Yes. Yes it is. He flips my hand palm-up and places the corsage box there. “For you. Hope you like it.”

  The black box is knotted crossways with a white silken ribbon, which I untie and place on the foyer table. Inside rests a white orchid wrist corsage with a single fire-and-ice rose in the center. Gage lifts it out gingerly and slides it on my wrist. “It’s perfect. This corsage is totally me.”

  “Not totally. It’s a little me, too.” He brushes away some baby’s breath on the wristband to reveal a small silver medallion with his jersey number, 67, engraved on it. I stroke the sunken numerals. “I hope it’s okay. The others are wearing huge numbers on their corsages, but I didn’t want you—or Preston—to feel awkward. This’ll be our little secret.”

  Our secret. Quite a few of those hang in the air around us lately. He hid the charm in my flowers and covered it with baby’s breath. I hid the fact I’d fallen for him in my heart and covered it with dating his brother. One’s much more dangerous than the other.

  Before I respond, Mama and Daddy walk in. She picks up my hand and studies the corsage. “Very pretty.” She grimaces as if slamming her thumb in the door. I hate that expression. This isn’t one of her good days, and she’s grappling to keep it together. Daddy walks up behind her, puts his hands on her shoulders and pulls her in tight to his chest. He’s walking Prozac to her, the one medicine that religiously calms her anxiety.

  “Let’s get a picture.” Daddy waves his new Nikon DSLR around. “Been looking for an excuse to try this out.”

  “How about the front porch?” I edge Gage out the screen door and away from Mama’s impending meltdown. Daddy sits Mama in the ladder-back chair and walks out behind Gage. I stop to say goodbye.

  “Be careful. Drive safely. Watch out. Boys… expect things…” Her voice is quivering and choppy except for the word “boys,” which she spits out like soured lemon juice.

  “Mama, he’s a good guy.” I nod toward the porch. “He won’t let anything happen to me. Remember, I’m spending the night at Jaycee’s. I’ll text you when I get there.” I kiss her on the cheek and look back once more. She’s staring at me, bottom lip trembling, as I carefully shut the screen door behind me.

  The parking lot is full when we get to school, but Gage finds a space on the last row and backs in under the pine trees. He insists on coming around to open my door, and as I wait on him, I run my fingers over the tattered arm rest, the yellow foam peeking through the tan vinyl. Gage had apologized he couldn’t bring me “in style” the way Preston could’ve, but I couldn’t care less. I love his old Scout. It’s his two-ton metal twin—rough around the edges but dependable.

  But the high lift is impossible in a dress, especially when I’m trying to climb down without flashing the whole senior class.

  “Grab hold.” Gage presses himself into the seat, slides his arms behind my back and under my knees and lifts me out princess-style. His arms fold around me, his biceps bulging under the silky dry-w
eave shirt.

  “Selfie before you put me down!” I hold out my phone, and we squeeze close together in the frame, his freshly-shaved face butter-soft against mine.

  Across the parking lot, Jaycee and Barrett stand by the double doors. When she catches me staring, she waves us over.

  “Do we have to?” Gage whines through pouted lips.

  “Just for a minute.” I grab his hand and haul him behind me like a toddler.

  Jaycee runs to me, grabs my shoulders and spins me a full 360. “That dress is on fi-ah. You must’ve drugged your mama to get out of the house in that.”

  “Nope. She let her walk out—with me.” The irritation seeps through Gage’s words. Aggression looks good on him, especially when he almost seems possessive.

  “Hi, Gage.” Jaycee shakes her head and clicks her tongue in annoyance then plunges her finger between the 6 and 7 on his jersey. “Your old uniform? That’s the best you could do?”

  “Kinda have to play the homecoming game.” He inches backwards and breaks contact.

  Jaycee snatches her hand back and plants it on her hip. “Really Einstein? I hope you brought a change of clothes for after. Hopefully your brother lent you a nice suit, like he lent you his girlfriend.” She throws Preston casually into the conversation like a grenade, armed and ready to explode. Gage steels his jaw, his molars grinding against each other.

  “Bitch much?” I grab hold of her arm and sink my nails in.

  She jerks it loose and rubs the five little indentations with her opposite hand, frowning. “Geez. Take a joke.”

  “You are a joke,” Gage mumbles beside me.

  Jaycee stares at him, eyes narrowed. “You say something?”