Anathema

by Bowman, Lillian

  My stomach pitches as I grow aware of his body pressed up against me. I’ve seen what he can do against attackers, enough to appreciate the latent danger and grace contained within him. His chest rises and fall with rapid breaths, but it’s his calm, even gaze that holds me captive. It seems to brush my skin like a touch, heating it to a flush. He’s so tall I have to hike up my chin to hold his eyes. For a moment I imagine our hearts beating in frantic time.

  Effortlessly, he slides his thumb across my palm, prying my fingers open. “Not like this.”

  “What?” My question comes out as a stuttering, shaky breath.

  “Don’t punch anyone with your thumb tucked in.” I can feel the vibrations of his voice against my chest. “If you do that, you’ll break it.”

  My body feels like liquid suddenly, warm and soft and malleable. Alexander eases my fist closed again, positioning my thumb so it’s pressing up against the side of my index finger. His warm, long fingers curl over mine for an instant, his touch like a flame on my skin, sending a tingling path down my arm. Then he then aims my punch for me, in slow motion, until my knuckles brush the hard slant of his face.

  “Keep a straight line from wrist to knuckles and throw your whole weight behind the blow. Don’t lock your elbow. It’s going to hurt your hand, but the goal is to hurt my face a lot more.”

  All I’m aware of is the boy pressed so closely against me, the other anathema, the one who tore Russell away from me. The one who jumped out of the car to lead the hunters from my position. My wild, frantic anger has dissolved into numbed despair. Even when I try to hurt him, Alexander takes the time to show me how to do it more effectively. He’s that unflappable. My blood is humming with awareness of him yet he stands so close to me with a remote expression on his face like fog over distant trees.

  “How did you get like this?” I wonder. “You don’t feel anything.”

  His gaze touches mine, his irises a stark blue beneath his sooty lashes. “This is how I stay alive. This is the only way to stay alive. Detach. If you suffer all the injustices of the world and keep raging at a fate you can’t change, you’re not going to last long as an anathema. It’s too hard.”

  My voice is a whisper. “I can’t just turn my emotions off. I can’t just stop feeling guilt.”

  “Then I’m sorry for you. This existence is going to cause you a lot of needless pain.”

  He releases me. His touch slides from my waist, leaving a path of tingling skin. He steps back from me quickly like he’s locking something away, withdrawing into himself. I see his pulse leaping against the line of his jaw.

  His lowered lashes forms black crescents above his cheeks. He reaches down and picks up a family portrait, handling it very gently in his powerful grip. My parents are smiling, and I’m a toddler holding a big ‘K’. They gave me the letter to keep me from causing trouble while we were posing for portraits.

  “Your parents love you, Kathryn.”

  Through the haze of my misery, I feel a pang. “They do.”

  “So if you’re not going to fight for yourself,” his gaze caresses mine, “then do it for them.”

  I gaze at the photo, realizing suddenly what a terrible thing I’d just risked. After everything they’ve already given up for me, I planned to throw my life away. How would Mom and Dad have felt if a hunter had found me? They would have come home to discover their daughter’s mutilated body on the front lawn.

  My life doesn’t just belong to me. It belongs to them, too.

  I was stupid. I won’t do this again.

  “You’re right, Alexander,” I say hollowly. “You’re completely right. I shouldn’t have just risked myself for no reason. I owe them more than that.”

  He shoots me a searching glance. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m getting there.” I swallow hard and nod. “I’m going to live with this.”

  And I will. I’ll live with this guilt because I have to. The only alternative is to give up and die, and that’s not an alternative now. So I’ll live with it.

  He turns away, once again remote, removed from me. “I’ll go now.” He draws towards the door with that usual lazy grace of his, his movements so smooth he seems to sweep away rather than walk. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Hey, Alexander? Thanks.”

  I’m not sure he hears my whisper until he pauses by the door. Then he crooks me a fleeting smile over his shoulder before disappearing out into the sun drenched day.

  I realize it with a flicker of surprise: that’s the first time I’ve seen Alexander Metz smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Over the weekend, I survey my hair, the inch and a half of brown roots growing out. Mom’s offered to buy me hair dye so I can touch up, but I need a change. A big one.

  I want to feel like a new person.

  Monday morning in school, I reflect on the way it seemed like a good idea at the time. I run my hand through my newly short locks self-consciously. Mom tried to salvage my hair after I panicked and wailed for her help. She trimmed off segments that look too uneven, but, well…

  It is not quite what I envisioned.

  “Oh my God,” Heidi exclaims when I pass her in the hall. “It’s so…”

  “Yeah,” I say, cringing.

  “It’s edgy,” she tries.

  I laugh. “You’re incredibly diplomatic. It’s a disaster.”

  She tries to think of something else. “It really brings out your eyes.”

  I think my hair disaster would have been more upsetting a few months ago. Or even a week ago. Today I am preoccupied. This is my first day back in school since the massacre. Dad left late for work today to drop me off. My spontaneous self-haircut may have worried my parents more than mini breakdown did. I know he can’t do this every day, so I have to arrange new morning transportation.

  Nothing prepared me for the signs all over school.

  I turn circles in the hallway, taking them all in. Most pertain to the big news: the Shelter Valley Massacre. Our Fall Formal next Friday is also going to be a charity ball for the families of the missing Showdown victims. Police advisories warn about walking outdoors at night. There are tip lines people can call with any information pertaining to the fates of the Showdown people.

  And there’s a brand new Cordoba Bay High School hunting guild.

  I halt before the large sign in front of our chemistry classroom. Someone’s plastered a poster board, bright yellow with a girlish scrawl and hearts over the lowercase ‘i’s’.

  Cordoba Bay students unite against crime! Join the Bay High Guild and help protect our streets! First meeting Monday night at 7:00 outside the gymnasium. Pizza and refreshments provided. (Valid hunter registration required on sign up, bimonthly fee $7.00 with student ID, $10.00 standard membership).

  I stare at it incredulously. What can they possibly hope to accomplish? Apart from the anathemas at the Waste – the ones people don’t know about – there are only a handful of us in Cordoba Bay. The poster has glitter on it and a few stickers.

  I can imagine suddenly some girls making it, a few boys hanging around them as they do. All of them laughing and joking around. Like those disaster relief drives our school has sometimes, or that day in elementary school when teachers had us all send a dollar to kids in Afghanistan. We knew most of the things we were collecting weren’t actually going to the victims of the war, but it made us feel good to pretend we were doing something. Now my school is forming its own hunting guild to unite in outrage over the destruction of the Showdown people. None of them truly care. Not really.

  I bet they’ll spend the meeting tonight comparing weapons the way people compare cell phones or outfits. I’m sure a few will have Gucci or Dolce & Gabanna blade handles. Others may have those trendy pink ones designed just for girly girl hunters. There’s probably an ‘in’ weapon this year that every fashionable murderer carries. I saw an excess of machetes among the Showdown types, and those were people from Hollywood who were probably on the cutting edge o
f trends.

  The funny thing is, I bet if a lot of the hunters in this new school club saw an actual anathema being butchered, they wouldn’t gleefully Snapchat images of it to their friends. They’d scream and grow frightened and vomit on themselves. That’s reality. Reality is not cute little hearts over lowercase ‘i’s’ or glitter or designer brand names. Reality is ugly and cruel and totally without mercy.

  In the blackest, most vindictive corner of my soul, I suddenly hope the girl who put glitter on this stupid poster comes to see the world the way I have. I hope one day, she views it up close and personal in a way she can never forget. It’s the only justice I can hope for anymore.

  “Gives you chills, doesn’t it?”

  The skeezy voice from behind me does in a way the poster never could. Loathing and revulsion grip me like a vice. I turn slowly, fists clenched, to face Russell. He hangs back by the other side of the hall. His skin is bruised and swollen, his lip split. I’m satisfied to see Alexander’s damage has lingered on his face far longer than his has lingered on mine. My gaze drops automatically to his hand—and the cast encasing his thumb and wrist.

  “Your work?” I say to Russell. “I should’ve guessed. Must’ve been tricky doing bubbly letters with your fingers all broken.”

  His eyes narrow. “I didn’t do the poster, but I’m a member. Anything to serve my community. I’d invite you and Metz to join, but it might not end well.”

  “For you. Or did Alexander hit you so hard you don’t remember begging him to stop? Oh, and by the way,” – anger like pure venom makes my voice shake – “so, so sorry you’re off the team. I could’ve wept for pity when I heard you’d lost any shot at the NFL.”

  His face reddens, quivering with rage. “You will be sorry. I can’t wait to get you. I don’t even want you anymore, not with that butch haircut. Next time, I’ll slit your throat and watch you bleed out.” An ugly smile crosses his lips. I tense as he leans very close, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper, “Oh, and Amanda knows all about how you begged me to be your patron. Too bad you couldn’t take it when I rejected you.”

  I don’t realize what I’m doing until my fist lashes out. Then pain slams up my wrist, my arm, and Russell rears back a step. I clutch my knuckles, shocked by the throbbing of my hand, by the instinct of my aggression. Around us, people spin around to look, gaping. Then they look away quickly, realizing it’s the anathema assaulting a hunter—not taboo citizen-on-citizen violence.

  At least I remembered to keep my thumb out. I definitely got him with my knuckles. And my wrist really hurts.

  Russell straightens, touching his face. For a moment he looks stunned, and then he forces a laugh and raises his voice so the whole hallway can hear. “I told you, I won’t be your patron! I love Amanda, not you!”

  Anger bursts through me. I’m ready to go after him again when I see her. Amanda.

  Russell and I both freeze, looking at her where she’s appeared, white-faced and expressionless a few feet away from us. A knot forms in my throat. I am dreading and desperate to hear what she’ll say.

  She brushes past us both into our shared homeroom.

  I look at Russell one last time, such white hot hatred pouring through me I wish I could incinerate him with the sheer rage in my heart. He holds my eyes with malice, and slowly draws a finger across his throat in silent promise.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  My usual desk is still empty besides Amanda. She’s looking down at her cell phone rather than at me, even though any minute now, Mrs. Carney will spot it and take it from her.

  I debate a moment, then force myself to sit in the chair next to her. Every one of my muscles feels like a spring wound too tightly.

  But as the last precarious minute ticks down before the bell rings, Amanda still says nothing. Not about Russell, not about me. It’s like Friday never happened. It’s like she knows nothing, and only the tight tendons of her neck betray any tension at all.

  But Friday did happen. And I know Russell must have told her that patron thing. She saw us just now: she saw me hit him, she saw his excuse. She knows. She has to choose who to believe. There has to be one person she’s siding with here. I need to know who.

  I can’t stand it anymore. “So?” I blurt out. “Come on, Amanda. The silence is going to kill me.”

  Amanda glances at me, her face very neutral. She tucks a chestnut lock behind her ear. “Well, to be perfectly honest, you should have consulted me before making such a drastic change to your hair, but I think you’re pulling it off.”

  “I wasn’t asking about my hair. You know I’m not.”

  Her face shutters.

  “Amanda…”

  The bell rings. Mrs. Carney’s voice fills the room. “Amanda Sykes, give me that cell phone.”

  I am forgotten. Amanda gives a loud, put-upon sigh and surrenders her phone, dangling it between two fingers until the teacher snatches it. She and I are close enough to the front that we can’t talk during class. Amanda doesn’t look at me all. I keep hoping she will. I just want some indication about whether I still have her or not.

  * * *

  At lunch, I get an answer.

  Maybe Amanda doesn’t intend it as an answer, but it’s enough of one for me. I walk into the cafeteria to find Russell at the table with her, arm tucked possessively around her, large body curled half over hers. Across from them, Conrad is hunched over his lunch, Siobhan beaming and stroking his shoulder.

  I go cold.

  Fine.

  I mechanically set about getting lunch. Pasta. Loads of carbs. Heaping with cheese. And bread. It will make me feel better. I feel like eyes are prickling on the back of my bare neck, exposed by my short hair. Like I’m being watched.

  Then I turn—and for the first time in years head to a table other than Amanda’s.

  “How’s it going?” I say to the startled Heidi, where she’s sitting with Edgar and other newspaper people. Now that I’m off features, I don’t see them much, but they’re friends. I still feel stiff and unnatural, smiling casually at them like it means nothing, sitting with them instead of Amanda.

  “Kathryn. Hi! Join us,” Heidi says uncertainly, even though I already have.

  A slight awkwardness hangs over the table. I’m still one of the two school anathemas, after all, but until now I’ve managed to socially survive it, so I haven’t been relegated to outcast status. Conversation resumes uneasily, with a lot of glances darted my way, and a lot of polite questions.

  “What did you think of the last issue? We’ve missed you!”

  “Great. I liked…” I rack my brain. “I loved the article you did about community activism.” Even as I speak, I’m aware of being watched. I peek across the room, and see Amanda sitting stock still at her table, staring my way. Wondering what I’m doing.

  What does she think? Did she think I’d sit at the table with Russell after he attacked me? I look away, heat in my cheeks. Things can’t just go back to normal because she’s in denial. Things will never be normal again.

  For her part, Heidi is eagerly talking activism. “… can see how the internet has already changed everything. Like hunting. Look at the new school guild and the way it’s already got so many members. If you’d started a school guild just five years ago…” She trails off when I look at her.

  The silence at the table is suddenly more awkward than ever, as she remembers I’m an anathema now.

  “Um, uh…”

  I fold my arms. “I know about the school guild. It’s hard to miss.”

  Heidi colors fiercely. “Oh, Kat, it’s not for you. It’s aimed at real anathemas.”

  “What are real anathemas?” I ask her calmly.

  “You know. Dangerous ones. Whoever it was who killed all the Hollywood people.”

  “Yeah, it must have been anathemas,” Edgar puts in. “Everyone says so.”

  I give it a moment of thought, then just tell her, “Heidi, I did that.”

  She blinks. “What?”


  “The Showdown people. I killed them all. It was me.”

  For a moment, Edgar and Heidi just stare at me. Then they start laughing.

  “I’m being totally, completely serious here,” I say.

  They keep laughing. Edgar mimes stabbing someone. “Oh yeah, you’re scary, Kat.”

  Heidi makes a big show of dragging her tray back like she’s protecting it from me, still giggling. I sip my drink, letting them laugh it off.

  And then someone sweeps in next to us. I look up, startled, as Amanda makes a show of stumbling on Heidi’s backpack—and spilling her drink on her.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Amanda erupts, as Heidi rears up to gape down at her stained sweater. “People walk here. You can’t just leave your stuff out to trip people.”

  “Sorry,” Heidi gasps. She reaches down to grab a wad of napkins, soda still dripping down her blouse. “Did it spill on you at all? I’m sorry…” She reaches out to dab at Amanda – impeccably dry – and Amanda shoves her hand away.

  “Ugh, do not smear your old food residue on me. My shirt is fine.”

  “Good. I’m so glad it’s not stained.”

  “Unlike yours.” Amanda bats her eyes prettily, her tone mock sympathetic. “Gosh, I hope Kmart is still selling them.”

  I know what this is. “Stop it, Amanda.”

  Her gaze swings down to me sharp and furious. “This isn’t your business, Kat.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say, rearing to my feet. “You’re upset about something else entirely and you’re directing it at Heidi. This is about you and me.”

  She huffs and whirls away.

  I follow her swiftly. “Don’t run away. Talk to me.”

  She turns on me, her eyes flashing. “Way to have my back there, Kat.”

  “I won’t back you up when you’re attacking someone who’s done nothing to you.”

  “Your simpering little friend tripped me.”