by A. M. Rose
Staring at it, my hands start to shake. I ball them into fists. Dig my nails into my palms. My right hand still looks fine, like nothing ever happened. But as much as I wish that could be true, it’s not. The worst thing in the world has happened. With a stifled cry, I jump up and race to the bathroom mirror. I need to really see for myself. The thing that everyone else has said and I haven’t wanted to believe. And my reflection confirms it’s true.
Nothing in my appearance says I’ve been in a wreck so bad my dad died. Under my eyes is a little darker, and my cheekbones stick out a little more. But I’m not full of stiches or scars. My hair is even somewhat tame today.
Staring at myself, I want to slam my fist into the glass. Watch it spiderweb from the middle, as every piece stays together. Like me. Whole on the outside but broken inside. Except I’m still holding the jewelry box. The stupid, ugly, childish box I should’ve thrown away years ago. It’s crazy. Just as quick as the flash of a camera, my whole life has changed forever. A ring. A damn ring and this blue grandpa sweater are all I have. I don’t even want them.
All I want is Dad.
I heave the box across the room. Things fall out as it sails through the air. A necklace. My old watch that stopped working years ago. Some random buttons and a hair bow. It hits the wall, the lid breaking from its hinges, and lands on the floor. The ballerina’s gone. Just like Dad.
No, wait. There it is. I stride over to the tiny figure and crush it beneath my heel, grinding until it snaps in two.
I’m shaking. It hurts. Everything does. Missing him hurts worse than all the accidents and needles and tests in the world. More than falls from my bike or the ropes course or anything else.
“Is everything okay?” Mom calls from downstairs.
I take a deep breath and then another. Wipe the tears away. Acceptance. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
…
The steel table is icy, but my bones start to thaw. The metal oval above me flashes, and the room around me echoes with indistinguishable voices. Underneath them, my name is spoken in a hush over and over. It calms my nerves with its familiar tone, smooth yet firm, but I can’t figure out who it is.
“Get up,” the voice commands.
The oval cracks open. My body’s heavy, but I push against it to sit, before the violet light can break into a stream and scan me to take all my vitals and display them above. Silence falls over the room and then heavy footsteps get closer and closer. A man stops clicking buttons on the hologram computer screen, swipes his hand, and the screen disappears. Someone grabs my shoulders and tries to push me back. Flat computer-like buttons run up the sleeve of whoever is trying to wrestle me down.
The voice says, “Fight.” And my body responds.
I grab at the hands and pull them in toward me. They’re thick—strong—and they don’t falter for a second. A faceless man dressed all in black is in my grasps. I kick out hard and push him away like he’s nothing more than a giant stuffed teddy bear. He flies through the air and lands across the room with a loud thud, and something shatters.
“Run,” the voice says.
My feet take off, sending me into darkness.
My eyes fly open, heart racing, sweat trickling down my face. I grab my blanket from my bedroom floor and hold it to my chest. I’m not in some creepy room on some metal table. I’m alone in my room. In my own bed. Ever since the hospital, the dream was always the same, my body glued to the table, the Green-eyed man standing over me. Until now. But why has it changed? Who was talking to me? And that voice. I’ve heard it before.
I want to call for Dad, but he won’t come. I want to call for Mom, but she won’t understand. My body shakes and I wrap my blankets around me tighter. It’s not just a dream. That I can feel deep in my bones. It’s a message, maybe. Or worse…a warning.
Chapter Six
It’s Wednesday. And my first day back at school since the accident. My mind and body haven’t come together yet. I’m still two separate halves sharing the same body, but autopilot has gotten me this far, so I keep going. Not that it matters. Nothing matters anymore.
Every two steps someone’s whispering, “That’s her. The one whose dad died.” Some I know, but most are people who know me because of Dylan. A few people mutter their condolences. Some squeeze me tight. Most, thankfully, settle for less. They clasp my shoulder or my hand and tell me how sorry they are. It’s all too much. My skin feels brittle and too thin and every touch hurts.
I stiffen as another nameless student hugs me. I should’ve asked Dylan to bring me today, instead of Mom. She kept pushing me, saying I needed “to get back into my normal routine” and insisted on taking me. At least if Dylan gave me a ride, we could’ve stopped for coffee. And I could’ve gotten one of those apple Danish with the caramel sauce, instead of having flavorless cereal with unsweetened coconut milk. Mom watched me as I choked down each bite, saying I needed my strength. It took all the strength I had not to heave it back into that bowl.
Dylan looks up from his phone when I walk into English class and gives me a quick smile. I slouch down in my chair, right in front of him.
“You okay?” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and for the first time today, someone’s touch does what it’s supposed to do.
I shrug. I’m not. But I’m here. And that’s something. Now let’s get this over with. The bell rings, and Mrs. Notting wastes no time starting her lecture on the play we’re supposed to be reading, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Dylan brought me a copy of the book with the rest of my schoolwork. I told Mom I’m almost finished, but the truth is, I haven’t started. Even though I promised myself I’d try, some things are still too hard. This…this is too hard.
Mrs. Notting leans against her desk. “Love looks not—”
“Not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” A voice interrupts her from the back of the room. It sounds like a cappuccino, the perfect blend of bold espresso and smooth cream.
I turn around, and standing in the doorway is… Where did he come from? His Nike shorts hang low on his hips, and his white T-shirt clings to him, emphasizing his flawless brown skin. He’s tall with dark hair that dips over his forehead. Not too short, not too long.
Dylan coughs and nudges me with his knee. Crap. I’m staring. Like every other girl in the class. I want to turn around and say, “What do you care?” But I don’t. I’m being stupid.
“Excellent.” Mrs. Notting claps her hands together. “You must be Mr. Georgas. I’ve been expecting you. You can take the seat there in the back.”
“It’s Maddox,” he says as he walks farther into the room.
Mrs. Notting hands him a book. The whispers start as he struts down the aisle toward an empty desk. Wow. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Along the way those eyes find mine and he smiles, and all the hairs on my arm stand on end. Sapphires. His eyes are the color of sapphires. They turn up a little and are more oval than round. I know exactly how I’d paint them.
He walks past, and Dylan jabs me in the back. I spin around. His lips press into a thin line and he shakes his head. What’s his deal?
Mrs. Notting clears her throat. “What will happen to Hermia if she refuses to marry Demetrius?”
Everyone’s silent.
I roll my eyes, and then flip the stiff pages in my book back and forth, sending that new book smell up my nose.
Mrs. Notting isn’t giving in, though. She walks up and down the aisle. “Come on, someone has to know.”
“She’ll be forced to become a nun,” Dylan’s deep voice booms from behind me.
I turn back and look at him. Sure, he usually always knows the answers, but he’s never been the one to blurt them out. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
“Very good, Mr. Alonzo. So, what do Lysander and Hermia agree on?”
“To use a condom—Herpia is more like it,” someone in the back yells and a few people snicker.
“Come on now. Let’s act like th
e young adults I know you are.” Mrs. Notting floats by, waving her hands in the air.
Maddox leans back in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and puts his hands behind his head. “They agree to meet in the woods and go to Lysander’s aunt where they’ll be safe and can get married.”
“Excellent.” Mrs. Notting’s cheeks are red. I haven’t seen her this excited—like ever.
Class continues with Mrs. Notting drilling us about symbolism and imagery. Not that I’m listening that closely, but I have no idea what any of them are talking about, although it sounds like every romance movie I’ve ever seen, so like always, I stay quiet. A few volunteers help carry on the conversation about the play. Some of the boys murmur about Maddox coming in and acting like he knows his shit, but none of the girls seems to mind whenever he speaks. It’s an excuse to stare at him. I stare, too. My eyes refuse to look away, like I’m the moth and he’s the flame. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about him. Have I seen him before?
When the bell rings, I’m more than relieved. I grab my notebook and novel, put them in my backpack, and walk toward the door with Dylan. One class down, six more to go, then I can climb under my covers and disappear until tomorrow.
“Ms. Smith,” Mrs. Notting hollers.
I hesitate. What are the chances I can round the corner and make my escape?
“Ms. Smith, can I have a moment with you please?”
I grab Dylan’s arm and he spins around, his hair falling over his forehead. “I’ll catch you later, I guess.” I gesture back toward Mrs. Notting, ignoring the itch in my fingers to brush his hair back.
He looks past me for a moment. “Okay, cool. Meet me at my locker for lunch.” He steps in like he’s going for a hug, but then pats my shoulder, turns, and walks away.
I take a breath and head back into the room. A few people linger. Maddox is one of them. Nadia, a.k.a. Ms. Superflirt, is trying to make her move. I resist the urge to gag as she brushes her long, dark hair over the shoulder of her bright pink sweatshirt and bats her lashes.
They’re totally lash extensions, but I don’t say anything. I sweep past like I didn’t even notice them and meet Mrs. Notting at her desk.
She leans against it, half sitting on the corner. “I want to make sure you’re okay. You’ve been out for some time now. Have you had a chance to go over the play?”
Nope. Haven’t read a page. “Just a little. I have a ton of work to catch up on.” Which is true. I do. I just don’t know how and where to start.
“I understand. If there’s any way I can help, let me know. Maybe I could pair you up with someone for the next assignment, to help you out a little.”
Dylan. He’ll do it. And Mrs. Notting doesn’t have to tell him to. Nadia brushes past me on her way out the door, and I cringe on the inside. As long as it’s not her. Anyone but her. “I’ll—”
“I could help her.” Maddox walks forward, running his hand through his wavy hair. A skull keychain hangs from his pocket. Is that a New Lang—
“What an excellent idea. And maybe Ms. Smith can show you around a little in exchange.”
My head snaps up. They both stare at me. “Ah, sure, sounds great,” I say in an attempt to sound calm, although inside my stomach, an enormous brick has formed. I try to ignore the urge to dive under one of the desks to hide.
“Right on. I’m Maddox.” He extends his hand toward me.
Right on? Who says that? And who shakes hands unless they’re meeting an adult? A guy with perfect hair and bright white teeth does. And he’s smiling at me. Waiting for me to say something, do something. Crap. I extend my hand. Please don’t let it be sweaty. “Hi, I’m Alexandrea.”
As soon as he takes it, something inside me ignites. I barely passed chemistry, but it’s the only word I can use to describe the feeling. It’s not a connection, it’s something deeper. Stronger. More powerful. Like energy maybe. And it’s hot like fire. I pull my hand away and grip my fist to my chest.
Maddox Georgas has a beautiful smile, model worthy. But when he sees my confused expression, it falters some. “Everything okay?”
“Just…I’m not much of a Shakespeare scholar.” The warmth that ignited my skin when we shook hands is gone now. It was nerves, that’s all. “You might regret this.”
His smile widens again as he sweeps an arm toward the door. “I won’t. After you.”
Chapter Seven
“So what’s your next class?” I ask Maddox as we walk into the hall. The dingy beige paint and old spirit week flyers look older and dingier with Maddox standing near them. He’s almost as tall as Dylan, and the brightness of his blue eyes pops against his ultra-white shirt. He leans in so close that the scent of his cologne overtakes me. It’s oaky with a little citrus, and it makes my skin tingle. “Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”
Maddox takes his time pulling a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. Rather than read it himself, he hands it to me. I don’t know why, but I’m careful to only grab the corner of the paper; I don’t want our hands to touch again. He smirks as if he knows exactly what I’m doing. Our eyes lock and my cheeks heat up.
“It says you have…” I start, but my voice wobbles so I clear my throat. “Spanish Three with Señora Romero. Me, too. I’ll show you where it is.” Okay, that was dumb. Really dumb.
We both make our way through the hall, our footsteps landing at the same time. People bang their lockers and chat all around us. We don’t say a word, though, just walk in silence, and it isn’t the good kind. It’s tense, uncomfortable really. I should probably talk to him. But what do I say? Cool shoes? No, that’s lame. Nice hair? No, that’s worse. Maybe I could ask to take a picture of him, not of all of him, just those eyes. That blue paint I have at home is a perfect match. Oh my God. What am I saying? He’ll think I’m insane.
“So have you lived here long?” He breaks the silence between us.
Great. He must feel it, too, since he’s moved on to the awkward questions. The get-to-know-you-even-though-I-don’t-really-care-to-know-the-answer questions. “Since I was born—so yeah—basically my whole life.” That was bad. Worse than bad. Stupid. And why am I even trying? It’s not that I like him or think I need to impress him. And it’s not like I could impress him even if I wanted to. I am average, completely, and he is anything but. Jesus. He’s gorgeous and smart. My stomach rolls around, and my palms are covered in sweat. I tuck them in my back pockets and focus on the ground, not on him and the way his chest fills out his shirt.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Nope.”
He peeks at me from the corner of his eye and gives me a small grin. I guess it’s my turn to ask him something. But my mind is still completely blank. I look to the ceiling, but nothing up there helps, either. I should’ve asked if he had any brothers and sisters, but now I’ve waited too long. Pets. I could ask about pets…or where he lived before. My mouth stubbornly refuses to cooperate, which is probably a good thing. Asking if he has a dog seems like the stupidest question in the world. Oh God, can someone shoot me now?
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice how much of a social idiot I am and keeps walking. Or more like marching, shoulders back, head held high. It’s definitely different from the casual stroll most guys have. He catches me watching him, and I quickly avert my eyes. I totally wasn’t staring. Was I? When I glance back, his shoulders have relaxed a little, and I do, too.
He continues to pepper me with questions. “What’s your favorite class?” “Do you play any sports?” “Are you in any clubs?” He’s probably just being polite. Although I suck at making conversation, he doesn’t let it stop him. It’s considerate, sweet even.
We bump into each other a few times, and each time our bodies connect my insides tremble. He has an allure about him, a familiarity I can’t explain. It’s like I know him from somewhere, like we already have a history. Except we don’t. When he mentions he’s going to see New Language ne
xt month, I practically jump out of my skin. “No way. Same here.”
“They’re my favorite band.”
“Mine, too.” I grin, and for the first time it doesn’t feel forced. “Martin is a total animal on those drums.”
Maddox laughs a good, deep one. “Have you been following his posts?”
“Seriously? Of course I do. That guy is hysterical.”
Maddox pulls out his phone and brings up Martin’s latest story. He’s running around L.A. commentating about all the stars on the walk of fame—his face pressed against the cement.
And just like that, because Maddox loves New Language as much as I do, my mind and body make peace with each other. The awkwardness lingers, but it doesn’t incapacitate. “Favorite song?” I ask.
“‘Wake Up.’ You?” he shoots back.
“Me, too.” I can’t believe I’ll get to see them soon. I still don’t know how Dylan managed it. We’d been planning for months to get the tickets, but they sold out so fast that even the nose-bleed seats were gone in seconds.
Dylan had flashed his crooked smile. “It wasn’t easy getting them, but it was worth it.”
I kissed him on the cheek. His face flushed, and the smile faded. I’ll never forget the fading smile.
“So…” Maddox says and brings me back to the here and now. “Maybe we can meet up at the concert or something…” He shifts restlessly from one foot to another.
“Sure, I don’t think Dylan will mind.” My words come out in a rush. I’m excited about the concert, not him asking to come with us. He knows that, right?
Maddox’s eyebrows arch, the corner of his mouth turns up. “Is that your boyfriend?”
I laugh, not the funny ha-ha kind, but one that’s forced and a little pained. Wow, that was blunt. “No. Dylan is my best friend.”