She skipped her usual make-up mastery, mostly because her lovely nasal passages were packed in gauze and deeply yellowed on the outside around the bridge of her nose from slimy Dr. Kittleman shifting her nose back in place. It had hurt like hell despite the topical he’d given her, licking his lips before securing the bridge of her nose between his sausage fingers and, in one swift motion, repositioning it. The sound alone, like the crack of a batter’s bat, nearly made her cry. She’d immediately felt sick and lightheaded—something about an issue of equilibrium when dealing with the nose area, he said. Whatever it was, Hannah nearly hurled up her breakfast right there in his office while her mother waited in the car.
One positive to come out of her ordeal were her pain meds; what little were left in the original bottle seemed to help her acne. Or maybe it was just that she was too tired to pick at her face, as her tender nose kept waking her up at night, robbing her of sleep.
So, despite the circles under her eyes, Hannah left her house the most “natural” she’d been in years, with just mascara, eye liner, and some Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker over her crusty lips. And it felt good to be less made-up for once—until she spied the three of them at the bus stop, standing there in their designer jeans and crewneck sweaters, obnoxiously gaping at her.
Their laughter made Hannah alter her path and head toward one of the peripheral kids circling the coven. Peter, was it? She gave him a small smile, trying to be nonchalant and ignore them, but she heard every word.
“Oh my god, just look at her nose! Looks like she got into a fight. Total Scarebear. Fugly, fer sure,” Gillian screeched spectacularly in attempt to entertain the crowd.
“Yeah, why is she even here? I wouldn’t be caught dead going to school like that,” Leeza chimed in—adding, with her best Valley Girl movie voice, “I’m so suuuuuure!”
“She’s like Rocky Balboa,” Gillian continued, egging her friends on.
All the peripheral kids snickered.
“Pa-the-tic,” Taylor said in her most snooty, condescending voice.
“Shut the F up!” The words came out faster than Hannah’s brain could stop them. She caught the shocked looks from the peripheral kids as she turned around. It was now or never. “Bite me. No one cares what you think,” she said, getting right up in Taylor’s face, the easiest target of the three. Her eyes ablaze, she clenched her right hand, ready to hit Taylor’s pretty, perfect little nose. “Just one more word out of you . . . you . . . slut!”
Gillian and Leeza looked stunned. Taylor’s eyes started to well up.
Hannah stepped back, surprised at herself. She felt bad for making her cry.
“Whoa! Hold on there!” someone called out as Hannah stood there shaking, the adrenaline making her body feel warm and alive. Gillian and Leeza had already backed away from Taylor, leaving her vulnerable for the kill. Such loyal friends, Hannah thought.
The voice came closer. “Stay away from my daughter! Hannah, what in the world has gotten into you? Taylor honey, are you okay? Why are you girls fighting? . . . It’s okay, honey.” Taylor’s mom crooned in an exaggerated motherly tone, putting her arm around her sixteen-year-old daughter’s shoulder and walking her toward their house. Taylor was really crying now, and her mother looked back and gave Hannah her best evil eye.
Good, one down. Hannah didn’t feel bad anymore. Her juices still pumping, she readied herself for whatever the other two had next for her—but the sound of the bus interrupted the exchange. Everyone headed toward its open door in silence. Gillian and Leeza climbed on faster than normal and walked briskly to the back. Hannah plopped down in the front seat next to Peter. He slid closer to the window, and she suddenly felt spent.
Hannah had barely spoken to her seatmate before today, due to her preoccupation with the coven in the back. He was a tall, sort of quiet kid. She had noticed that he sported a different concert T-shirt, carefully tucked into his jeans, every day. His favorite bands seemed to be Depeche Mode and The Cure, as evidenced by the Robert Smith tee he was wearing today. Hannah looked at him briefly, out of the corner of her eye. He wore his dark blond hair parted down the middle and feathered to either side, the ends just skimming his shoulders.
The bus ride seemed quieter than usual, except for the driver’s radio announcing the “high of the day” before kicking into another twanging country song. Hannah stared straight ahead all the way to school, as did Peter—but just as the bus pulled into its parking spot, she noticed him glancing sideways at her. A small smile crossed his lips, and then he said, “Nice going.”
“Ah . . . thanks,” Hannah said, surprised he was talking to her, let alone complimenting her. Well, at least she had a fan. God, she knew that it was a crazy thing to do. And going after Taylor may have been a bit unfair; she probably had the best relationship with her out of the three. Of course, that was why Taylor didn’t see it coming. And even though she wasn’t the ringleader and was basically civil to Hannah on her own, Taylor was still a mean girl, Hannah reasoned—one that had to be stopped.
Hannah turned to get off the bus, but couldn’t help stealing a glimpse at Gillian and Leeza in the back first. The two appeared deep in conversation.
A breeze washed over her face, lifting up her hair, as she stepped off the bus into the parking lot. Lightheaded, and feeling a little sick over what girl-trouble could be headed her way, Hannah found herself looking for him.
“Zandana.” He was right there, leaning against her bus with Toby at his side. He immediately approached her, appearing amazingly handsome as he left the jock abruptly once again. “Hey, how’s the schnoz? You look a little freaked out.”
Hannah fidgeted with her book bag, still unnerved by his gaze. He tilted his head, watching her. Gosh, he was charming. But why is he being so nice?
Deacon shook his head, smiling. “Come on,” he said, and he slung his arm around her shoulders and began walking her into school. Hannah felt her back melt at his touch, her clenched jaw replaced by a plastered-on smile that gave everything away. He was like a calming drug. Just knowing that he’d been waiting for her made her want to pinch herself.
“Hey, don’t worry about these losers,” he whispered in her ear as they walked toward her locker. “They’re just a bunch of doofuses.”
Hannah laughed at his word choice and tried to ignore the onslaught of stares and dropping jaws in their path.
“So are you still checking up on me?” she said. The words came out with a gasp, and she realized she’d forgotten to breathe for the past couple of minutes. “Seriously, your services go above and beyond the typical dealer’s,” she said, trying to sound like she knew what she was talking about.
“Always, Zandana. I want my customers satisfied,” Deacon said in a devilish tone, and he smiled a smile that reached his eyes.
The moment ended as quickly as it started when his beeper started going off in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and grimaced. “Ah, I got to take this. Catch you later?”
Hannah nodded, but she felt a stab of dread creep into her chest as he walked down the hall, taking with him her armor. She sighed and looked back into her locker, numbly staring at the shelf brimming with textbooks and spirals, trying to remember where she was.
Suddenly, Gillian was at her side. “That little tirade is going to cost you!” she hissed in her face, forcing Hannah to recoil.
Gillian sped away without looking back, but her venom hung in the air. Hannah tried to shake off the chill running up her neck. Gillian looked like she was out for blood. Hannah chewed her bottom lip, blinking back her wet lashes. The bell sounded. She grabbed her books and quickly headed to class.
Her classmates’ eyes popped wide open when she entered English, just like they had in her other classes. Hannah ducked getting to her seat, avoiding their stares and wishing that her desk would swallow her up. Her packed nose ached and a headache had claimed the space between her eyes, brought on by the unsettling energy around her. The other kids’ questioning looks and whispers only got
worse as she pulled on the ends of her hair, wrapping them tightly across her lips like a shield.
Finally, Mrs. Myers appeared, and Hannah could exhale. Get this day over with, she thought.
“Well, Hannah, I see you’ve returned to us,” Mrs. Myers said, peering over her glasses. “I presume you completed the assignments while you were home sick.” The emphasis she placed on that last word caught Hannah’s attention, and she searched her teacher’s face. Apparently everyone knew something had gone down over the weekend, something that caused her to break her nose and stay out of school. Hannah could only guess what people had made up to fill in the blanks.
“No, m-ma’am, I didn’t have the assignments.”
The class chuckled; they, like Hannah, knew what was coming next.
“You didn’t call one of your classmates for the missing work?”
“No. I wasn’t feeling well,” Hannah replied, focusing her gaze on the greasy head of the kid sitting in front of her and wishing Mrs. Myers would cut her some slack.
“Hannah, see me after class,” the teacher said briskly.
Hannah did her best to feign interest in the adventures of Madame Bovary for the rest of class, but she could barely follow the discussion and longed to be back in bed, hiding under her comforter. She dawdled in her seat after the bell sounded, slowly packing up her stuff to evade any more attention. She knew what they were thinking: Hannah, you freak.
“Hannah,” called Mrs. Myers, her heels clicking toward Hannah’s desk in short, rhythmic strides. The steely look in her teacher’s eyes made her slink back into her seat.
Uh-oh.
CHAPTER 14
“COME HANG OUTSIDE WITH ME,” DEACON SAID, SURprising her at her locker, where she was crouched down filling her book bag to go home. Her heart lifted at the sight of him and his puppy-dog eyes with their long lashes. It had been a long and strange first day back, and she just wanted to get out of there. Then again, avoiding Gillian and Leeza on the bus ride home and getting to spend a little time with Deacon did sound enticing.
She stood up facing him. “Okay, for a little bit; then I need to get home.”
Deacon’s smile gave her heart another tiny jolt. He took her hand for the first time as they walked outside together to the open space behind the school. His hand felt warm and strong, and above all surreal.
She wondered where they were going. She didn’t play sports and only ventured to the back of the school during gym—her most embarrassing class, and the one she most dreaded, due to her innate lack of coordination.
The backside of the school consisted mainly of cracked slabs of blacktop with a couple of picnic tables that were a known hangout for smokers—or “Heads,” as they were referred to. On any given day, Heads could be seen wearing a Mexican serape pullover in a multitude of colors, their hair all greasy and wild, humming Grateful Dead tunes and usually cutting class.
There was one school payphone outside. Some of the kids used to use its phone number as their home number, so when the school secretary or a teacher wanted to check why a student was late or absent from school, his or her friend would be conveniently outside to answer it and act like the parent. Hannah had heard it was a great scam until too many kids tried it.
The surrounding fields including an outdoor track, soccer, and football stadium lay empty awaiting afterschool practices. Deacon steered her to the table nearest the payphone and casually sat on top of it with his forearms resting on his thighs. Hannah took a spot next to him, pretending it was the most natural thing in the world, hoping they’d actually have something to talk about to take her mind off wanting him to kiss her.
“I should call my parents . . . tell them I’m going to be late,” Hannah said hopping off the table. She felt Deacon’s eyes on her, which made her ears grow hot. She found a quarter in her bag and dialed home, but there was no answer. Figures, she thought, and returned to Deacon, who was staring at her and smiling.
“What?”
“Does it still hurt . . . a lot?” he asked, rubbing his palms slowly together, which for some reason she found distracting.
“My nose? Yeah, but only if I accidentally hit it. Still tender,” she said, and she self-consciously touched her nose to test it. But she could tell that Deacon was focused on something else. His eyes darted to either side and behind him as two pimply-faced kids approached, both wearing stone-washed jeans and Izods with the collars up. Good grief she thought, they’re only freshmen—band kids even. Hannah watched one of them nervously extend his hand. Deacon shook it while keeping his eyes steadily on the two of them before he in one motion slipped the kid’s ten-dollar bill into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. He cupped it in his hand with his palm facing the ground and covered the boy’s hand again with his own to complete the exchange. It all happened so quickly that before Hannah knew it, the two young boys were off again without so much as a word.
Hannah watched them walking away and shifted her position on the table uncomfortably. Until recently, she’d had no idea this even went on at school. She looked back to read Deacon’s face. “So this is what you do? Sit out here and wait for customers?”
“Yep. They come to me. No reason to get pushy or draw attention . . . plus, it’s safer here than on the streets or in the park. Less chance of getting jumped.”
“So, do you do drugs too . . . like, a lot?”
Deacon laughed. “Not usually. Just an occasional toke from a batch of weed . . . you know, to be sure what I’m selling is good and worth the moola. Quality control, baby,” he said in his car salesman voice.
Hannah tried to wrinkle up her nose, but it ended up as more of a sniff. “Do some kids die . . . you know, from the drugs?”
“Overdoses are bad for business,” Deacon said matter-of-factly.
Hannah felt her throat catch. “Guess I would have been your first . . .”
“Don’t,” he said grabbing her hand. “I don’t want to think about it. I fucked up. Sold you more than you could handle. That’s not how I do things.” He looked away, releasing her hand.
“So, you feel bad, is that it?” Hannah said wrapping her arms around her legs. She could feel a heaviness inside her chest pushing her into the ground, yet still she needed to hear it.
“Yeah, I feel bad,” Deacon said quietly. “Especially since I like you.”
CHAPTER 15
“TAYLOR’S MOM CALLED TODAY. SHE SAID YOU ATTACKED her daughter at the bus stop?”
Her mother started her inquiry as soon as Hannah walked through the door, looking like a TV reporter from the comfort of her corduroy couch.
It was well after 6:00 p.m., and Deacon had just dropped her off. She still felt high from hanging with him after school, then riding in his car; she couldn’t wait to write it all down in her diary to relive it. They hadn’t said much on the drive home, except for shared sidelong glances that seemed funny at the time, like a private joke between them.
He’d held her hand as he drove, too, and squeezed it just before she got out of the car. Their eyes met for what felt like a long time when they said good night. The moment was straight out of a movie, and Hannah thought she’d die right there. She was still floating in dreamland when her mother stopped her.
The rest of the house was dark and the makings of any sort of dinner nonexistent. Hannah just wanted to crash and think about Deacon. But her mom persisted.
“Hannah, what in the world? I don’t need to be getting a phone call like that.”
“What’s this?” her dad said, walking into the room. He picked up his newspaper and settled into his recliner.
“Nothing,” said Hannah, and started to head to her room.
“Not so fast. Hannah got into some kind of scuffle with Taylor, the girl up the street. Her mom called me today. Taylor ended up staying home, she was so upset.”
Big dip, Hannah thought. She deserved it.
“First the glass door and now this?” Her father’s voice was already rising. “You’re turnin
g into some sort of hoodlum, and I won’t allow it!”
Hannah nearly laughed out loud. Hoodlum? “That’s right, Dad, I broke into our house even though I know the garage code,” she said, unable to control herself. “And now I’m beating up the local tramp!”
Hannah and her father glared at one another, neither one flinching as the kitchen clock knocked off each unbearable second. Her father’s face went from a slow simmer to a full boil before she could even blink.
“Just go to your room, you’re grounded! No kid talks to me like that.”
Hannah started to her room then changed her mind. “I’m tired of you yelling at me for every little thing! You never believe a word I say. You have the cops checking my story. And you haven’t a clue what those girls have done to me since we were kids! You two are the worst. Mom’s stealing my pain meds and your almighty righteousness—” Hannah realized her mouth was dispensing information faster than her brain could censor it. Her father stopped and looked at his wife, who suddenly sat up straighter.
“Is that true, Donna?”
Her mother’s features froze like a statue. Then she blinked. Her father shook his head. “Forget I asked! That’s just another damn lie out of your mouth. Now go to your room and stay there!”
Hannah woke sometime after 9:00 p.m., feeling out of sorts and more than just a little hungry. Her clothes were damp, like she’d broken a fever in her sleep. She listened for sounds coming from the kitchen before venturing out, wondering where everyone was.
Just the light above the stove was illuminated; the rest of the house sat still. With a peanut butter sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in a plastic McDonald’s Hamburglar cup in the other, she shuffled back to her room in her house socks and old sweats, where she eased herself onto her bedroom floor. She sat cross-legged with her back against the bed and took a bite of her sandwich, sensing a long night ahead.
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