“Oh, I just assumed you knew.” She looks uncomfortable now.
“About what?” My voice is getting louder.
She frowns. “Oh, Morgan, I hate to be the one to tell you.”
I grab her by the arm now. “Just tell me, Alyssa. What is going on? What happened to Jason?”
“He, uh, he . . .” Her eyes dart to the other kids. “He killed himself last night.”
I feel like someone has just sucked the oxygen out of my lungs, like I can’t even breathe, or like I’m underwater and sinking fast. “No,” I finally say. “That can’t be true.”
She nods. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I know you guys were close.”
I turn and stare at the other kids, hoping they will straighten Alyssa out and explain to this ditzy chick that Jason Harding is alive and well, and that people shouldn’t go around pulling crud like this. But their expressions seem to mirror Alyssa’s. They all have this weird mixture of sadness and confusion and fear on their faces.
“No,” I tell her again. “I don’t believe you, Alyssa. If Jason was dead I would know it.”
“It’s been on the news,” says Eric Stayton. “The whole school knows about it.”
“I heard there’s a special counselor to talk to kids,” offers Eva Fernandez.
“Maybe you should go see him, Morgan,” adds Alyssa.
They continue talking to me or at me or about me, I’m not even sure, but it’s like I can’t process what they’re saying. It’s like these heavy curtains have fallen over my eyes and my ears and I can’t absorb what’s going on around me.
Finally, I feel this hand beneath my arm and I am being guided somewhere. I try to take in a breath, try to steady myself as I attempt to walk down the hallway in a straight line. I turn to see that it’s Eva next to me and she’s talking to me as we walk. I don’t really get what she’s saying, but the tone of her voice is gentle and calming. And I’m hoping that maybe I’ve just totally misunderstood everything. I mean I realize that I wasn’t thinking too clearly this morning, and I was really bummed about Mom and Bradley. Maybe I’m just having some sort of a breakdown where reality gets all twisted and distorted. Maybe I just need to take a nap or a pill, or throw cold water on my face.
Then we’re in front of the office and I see this enlarged photo of Jason. It’s his yearbook picture and it looks kind of grainy and uneven, but I know it’s him. And beneath the photo is a computer-generated sign that says, “In Loving Memory of Jason Harding. We’ll Miss You!” And beneath that is a long sheet of white butcher paper that goes all around the office wall. It has what appears to be graffiti all over it, but on closer inspection, I see that kids have written their names and things they remember about Jason.
And suddenly it becomes painfully clear. Jason really is dead. And it’s like I’m the last one to know.
And then it’s like my legs just totally give in and I collapse to the floor like a broken toy. I crumple into this pitiful heap of misery beneath Jason’s enlarged photo and, right next to the office door where I hear phones ringing and voices talking, I burrow my head into my knees and sob. “Jason, come back,” I beg. “Please, Jason, come back.” I say these words again and again, thinking that maybe, if I say them enough or if I wish for it hard enough, just maybe I can undo this awful thing that’s taken my friend away from me. But my world is turning black. Pitch black.
about the author
MELODY CARLSON has written dozens of books for all age groups, but she particularly enjoys writing for teens. Perhaps this is because her own teen years remain so vivid in her memory. After claiming to be an atheist at the ripe old age of twelve, she later surrendered her heart to Jesus and has been following him ever since. Her hope and prayer for all her readers is that each one would be touched by God in a special way through her stories. For more information, please visit Melody’s website at www.melodycarlson.com.
CHAPTER ONE
I changed my look this morning. I straightened my curls into poker-straight, shiny locks. I like it. It’s sleek. The only problem is, without my curls my headband is too loose and keeps slipping off my head. I had to fix it in the girls’ room between classes. So now I bolt toward English with seconds to spare.
As I scurry toward the door, I run smack into Noah Hornung. He’s about twice as tall as me. He’s running his fingers through his dark hair that seems to naturally spike up in a messy kind of way. He probably can’t even see me from up there.
“Man, I am so sorry, Lindsey,” he says in a rich voice that reminds me of the dark brown suede vest I splurged on last week.
“No problem.” I crane my neck to look at him. How did he know my name, and has he always been that hot? I mean he’s always been here. Noah goes to youth group with us at my best friend Emma’s church. But so do a ton of other kids. And he always sits with a bunch of guys I hardly know. He lives in my sprawling subdivision, but on the other end. He’s a junior, so even when we were kids and played in the neighborhood, he hung out with kids a year older than me. Noah’s dark green eyes, topped by thick, dark eyebrows, lock with mine. I feel my cheeks turning as pink as my headband.
Brrriinnngg!
The class bell, announcing that I am officially late, echoes through the vacant hallways.
“We’re late,” he laughs.
“Yeah, see ya.” I cock my head and smile as I duck into my doorway.
Mrs. Pearson shoots me a dirty look as I try to sneak into my row.
I slide into my seat. My books softly thud on the desk. I lift my head to see Noah in the doorway winking at me before disappearing down the hall. Lights dance in my head, like flashbulbs of the paparazzi. His eyes are so big and my fingers itch to touch that messy hair. I don’t know much about him, but I feel all tingly and freezing and burning at the same time, like my hand feels when I’ve held my hair dryer for too long. Slow down, I tell myself. This is the first time he’s ever spoken to you.
I should relax, anyway. Boys and I put together have always been a “Fashion Don’t.” I’ve been asked on plenty of dates, but the boys all seem to want one thing: something physical. Nobody wants to listen to me or talk to me or even watch a movie with me. Sometimes I curse the fact that I’m pretty. I know it doesn’t seem to make sense. I can’t say that out loud to any of my friends. Who would understand?
I was so gawky when I was younger. I remember wishing I could look like my sister, Kristine, so that boys would notice me. Then, in eighth grade, I had eye surgery and said good-bye to my glasses. The orthodontist removed my braces. Kristine gave me a full makeover before I entered high school so I wouldn’t embarrass her by being her “nerdy little sister.” Now it seems like overnight, I’m not the geeky girl anymore, but I’ve evolved into the pretty girl I dreamed of being. It’s so ironic. Now that I got my wish and people do think I’m pretty, I’m wishing for something else, that boys would be interested in me — what kind of music I listen to and what my thoughts on God are and how I feel about my family — instead of what I look like.
Tommy Bayer invited me to his house to watch a movie with his family. That seemed innocent enough. But it turned out his family wasn’t even home. So about ten minutes into Shrek the Third, he leaned over and tried to stick his tongue down my throat. When I turned my face away from his, he turned from “Tommy Bayer” into “Tommy Bear” and tried to grab every part of my body he could with his grubby paws.
To prevent that from happening again, when Warren Adler asked me out, I suggested he come to my house. Wrong! He came over and kept trying to slide his hand in between my legs under the kitchen table. I squeezed my knees together so tight, my thighs ached by the time his mom came to take him home.
A beautiful boy named Brock invited me to our Christmas dance, the Sugarplum Stomp, last year. Mom bought me this amazing dress with a fitted waist. We had a seamstress take it in to fit perfectly, and it had a skirt that flared out just enough to swoosh while I was dancing. I told my friends I ended it with him because he popped his g
um. The truth is, Brock tried to slip his hands into that gorgeous gown anywhere he thought they could fit.
Maybe I’ve just been interested in the wrong boys. The underclass guys seem unsure of themselves. They get all nervous and fidgety when they talk to me. Most of the upperclassmen seem so full of themselves. They act like they’re doing me a favor if they speak to me.
Which brings me back to Noah. How did he even know my name? I still can’t figure that out.
The fifty-minute class takes an eternity. Each second rigidly ticks on the black and white circular clock affixed above the door. I look out the door, half expecting to see Noah winking. I must be going crazy. Clearly, he’s gone to class. I struggle to remain still. I have lots of practice from dance team. We are supposed to be like puppets, completely immobile until we’re brought to life by music.
Mrs. Pearson lectures about the symbolism of Shakespeare and his description of Queen Mab. I doodle swirly designs on the borders of my spiral-bound notebook with my favorite aqua blue pen. My swirls are like the dreams described in the Shakespeare passage, hard to follow but seemingly purposeful.
At lunch my right foot nervously taps up and down by my plastic chair as I sit with my plate of French fries and a chocolate shake — about the only two things the cafeteria serves that I trust. I wait for my girlfriends to find their way to our table. The cafeteria smells like the old gum that’s stuck under the tables and the mysterious gravy the cafeteria ladies ladle over suspiciously bright yellow mashed potatoes. I sip thick, frothy chocolate to avoid looking like a loser as I sit by myself and wait. One by one my friends plop their trays on the table.
“Hey, Linds,” Raven says. Today, her thick, dark hair is coaxed into a sixties flip. With her is Emma, who never lost her baby fat, but has gorgeous fiery hair and the eyes of a cat.
“Ladies.” Gracie nods. She is the classic beauty. With straight black hair and flawless skin, she’s one of the few girls in school I don’t have an urge to make over.
With her is Melissa, my partner from dance team, towering over me. “Hi, guys,” she says between crunches of the golden apple she’s holding.
Emma and I have known each other forever. Melissa and Gracie have been friends since grade school too. Freshman year, Raven moved here from Atlanta, and she plays on the JV soccer team with Gracie. That’s how we all got connected.
Once they’re settled, I try to sound as casual as possible.
“So, do any of you know Noah Hornung?”
“Sure.” Raven nods. “He plays hockey with my brother.” Her eyes are as dark as the black coffee my dad drinks in the mornings, but somewhere in those inky irises, a glint of mischief lurks. She’s on to me.
“Really?” I lean over. And immediately, I lean back in my seat, adjusting my icy blue sweater with pink-striped cuffs.
“Somebody has a crush!” Emma sings, her red curls bouncing over her broad shoulders.
I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows, unable to deny it. “So, what if I do? What do we know about this boy? Is he a total dork?”
“Drew’s on the JV team, and varsity helps out a lot. Drew says Noah’s really nice and helpful and stuff — not like some of the other macho varsity players,” Gracie pipes in. Her narrow eyes smile like they always do when she talks about her boyfriend, Drew. “You should come to the games with me.”
“Yeah! Come to the games!” Raven cheers, her bag of Cheetos letting out a whoosh as she opens it. “I always sit with my folks, which is fine, but I’d love y’all to hang out with me. Plus Noah’s super cute.”
“How’d you meet him?” Melissa asks, munching another bite of apple. She’s the quiet one in our group. In the spring of freshman year, she confided in us that she’s struggling with an eating disorder. I think she’s tentative about piping in sometimes, afraid we’re judging her. We’re not.
“He’s in youth group,” adds Emma. “But I’ve never seen you talk to him.”
“Yeah, I thought he was.” I dip a fry in ketchup. “I never had talked to him, until right before English. I know this sounds goofy. We just ran into each other in the hallway today — literally, BOOM — and he knew my name, which was completely surprising, and I felt something.” I shake my head at myself. “I know it sounds cheesy, but it was like we connected or something.” To stop anything more ridiculous from coming out of my mouth, I pop a fry in, licking the tangy ketchup so it doesn’t drip on my chin.
I look past my friends and gaze out to the chaos of the lunchroom. A group of guys including Raven’s brother, Randy, is huddled around a broad-shouldered blond intently engrossed in his Nintendo DS. It’s the varsity hockey players. Noah stands in the back, watching his friend defeat electronic enemies, weaving his fingers through his messy hair. He looks up and sees me looking at him. I feel like grasshoppers are jumping inside my body. I drop my eyes and slurp the life out of my milkshake.
“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage,” Emma sings dramatically in her gorgeous voice.
I roll my eyes. “Please, God, don’t let him hear Emma,” I say with mock intent.
Melissa jumps in, “At least those babies have a chance at being tall, Linds.”
“You might have to marry him for that reason alone,” Raven adds.
Torch Red: Color Me Torn with Bonus Content Page 18