Heart on a Chain

by Cindy C. Bennett

  However much I wish against it, though, another day comes and I have to get up and go to school. I had hoped that he would leave me alone, but at lunch I see him again coming toward my corner. Hunger wins out over my fear since I didn’t get dinner again last night, and I curl protectively over my tray when I see him coming. Rather than looking directly at me or coming my way, he simply stops at the table and sits.

  The few students who’re gathered at the table look at him as if a viper has chosen to sit among them. I watch, my body still hunched protectively over my tray as he places his napkin on his lap, then makes sure to say hello to each person sitting there, introducing himself as if each one of them aren’t exceedingly aware of just who he is.

  You’d have to be blind or deaf to not know Henry Jamison. He has definitely not lost his ability to draw others to himself without even trying. Within days of his return to school he’s become popular, sought after; by the boys to be a friend, and by all the silly, swooning girls to be much more.

  After a few moments of silence, they resume their conversations, ignoring him mostly, but still glancing at him occasionally as if wondering why he’s there.

  A couple of Henrys friends saunter over, looking at those already seated, then eyeing Henry to gauge what their reactions should be. He introduces his friends to the “losers”, amazingly remembering their names. His friends just nod, sitting and proceeding to ignore the others as if they aren’t even there.

  The others seem intimidated for a few minutes, shifting uncomfortably and wondering if they should move. Finally, they decide to follow suit and ignore Henry and his friends.

  I watch all of this with wonder and suspicion. What is he up to? When he does not as much as glance my way, I finally ease my hunched stance and begin to eat. I don’t take my eyes off of him, though. I still wonder what he’s up to, but I haven’t eaten since my half-abandoned lunch the day before. I’m actually feeling somewhat faint from lack of food and that gives me the impetus I need to eat in spite of his proximity.

  In photography I studiously ignore him, resuming my edge-of-seat position, refusing to even allow my eyes to wander to his hands. He had said “hi” when he sat, which is usual, but I feel tension emanating from him, which makes me nervous.

  A new routine begins where he sits at that same lunch table each day, the table that’s now filled half with the “losers”, half with Henry’s friends (both the original two from the first time and adding more it seems each day), each half ignoring the other but finding a strange sort of uneasy camaraderie. This new practice makes me stiff with anxiety. I consider changing where I sit, but have a feeling he’ll follow me anyway. I just can’t figure out why.

  We pass another week without incident, my apprehension lessening a little, when an extraordinary thing happens. A boy who has been one of my worst tormentors both throughout Middle and High School comes into the lunch room. My stomach squeezes with fear.

  Usually Frank and his buddies leave campus for lunch. When they stay there’s a purpose, and that purpose is usually me. I cringed as I think of the times I’ve been forced to either dump my prized lunch because of something he spit or dropped into my food (once it was a small brown nugget of dog poop), or to try to eat around it. He takes great joy in my humiliation and I guess eventually he would start to miss my burning shame. Today is the first time this year he’s missed it, apparently. I watch him immediately zone in on my sitting place, a grin splitting his face.

  My eyes fly instantly to Henry, who’s involved in listening to a story being told by one of his friends. Oh please, I beg silently, please don’t let him see this. I’m not sure if I want him oblivious in order to keep him from getting a new idea for afflicting me, or whether I just don’t want him to see my degradation.

  I look back at my tormentor frantically, knowing from firsthand experience that trying to protect my food will only result in him pushing the tray against me, and then having to spend the day walking around vainly shamed that my front is smeared with the stains of my lunch.

  I feel Henry’s eyes on me and my gaze is drawn to his against my will. His brow is furrowed as if he’s trying to figure something out. I can’t keep my eyes in one place, though, gaze alternating between the two of them. He follows my flicking gaze to my tormentor, then back to me again. I watch as understanding dawns, but instead of the anticipation I expect to see when he figures it out, I see his face harden, anger darkening his eyes, jaw clenching.

  Automatically assuming the anger is for me as I’ve been conditioned to for most of my life, I cower and keep my eyes on him, knowing he’s the more immediate danger. He stands abruptly, causing every person at his table and even a few at nearby tables to stop conversation immediately and look his way. I cringe instinctively. Instead of coming my way, he turns toward Frank and steps in front of him, blocking his progress, back to me.

  “Can I help you?” his words reverberate with fury. I hear it clearly from where I sit, but somehow it doesn’t seem to register with Frank, who smiles cockily.

  “No, man, I’m good.”

  He takes one more step, and suddenly Henry clamps a large hand down on his shoulder. Henry is at least six inches taller than Frank, and he doesn’t lay it down softly, but rather drops it like a stone. Frank looks up at Henry and suddenly notices the clenched jaw. He hesitates for just a second, wariness creeping onto his face, to be replaced with an arrogant smirk as he realizes his friends are watching.

  “Can I help you?” Frank asks sarcastically, which garners a snicker from his own friends.

  “I don’t think there’s anything for you over here,” Henry snarls at him, frightening me. Frank takes a slight step backward, glancing nervously over his shoulder, trying to retain his swagger. “I think you and your friends,” Henry grits out, “should move on. I don’t think this is the place for you to be—now, or anytime in the future for that matter.”

  Frank swallows nervously, holding up his hands in submission with a laugh meant to sound careless but which comes out sounding panicky. He throws a perplexed glance my way past Henry’s impressively bulky arm.

  “Alright, man, no harm no foul, right?”

  Henry still has not removed his hand from Frank’s shoulder and I watch as he squeezes, causing Frank to wince slightly.

  “Not today, anyway,” Henry growls ominously, glancing back at me, “but I’m guessing probably in the past.” He leans in, putting his face closer to Frank’s. “Not anymore, either. Capice?”

  Frank gives a jagged laugh. “You’re kidding, right, man? You’re protecting her?” This is spit out as if I were less than a bug. I watch as his friends bristle behind him, affronted that they’re being kept from their fun.

  Then, amazingly enough, some of Henry’s friends stand, all big football player types, clearly not understanding what’s going on, but willing to back up Henry anyway. They don’t move from where they stand next to the table, but Frank’s friends immediately back down.

  So does Frank, backing away from Henry’s grip. His eyes dart my way and in that brief look I see something worse promised. Just as quickly he looks back at Henry, face carefully blank as he turns and walks away, trying to resume his careless swagger, but failing at least a little.

  Henry’s friends sit back down, muttering about punks, and the other kids at the table look somewhat awestruck at the scene that’s just played out, that someone who is considered cooler than them has been taken down by these guys, while they are being allowed to share a lunch table. A couple of them shoot me confused glances, wondering what about me could have earned such defense.

  I observe this from my peripheral vision, however, as I’m staring at Henry myself, awed. He’s turned toward me now, and gazes back evenly, an expression in his eyes that I can’t decipher. He doesn’t seem to be angry with me, even though his breathing is still accelerated. As I watch, he takes a couple of deep breaths, mouth relaxing from anger to grim, clenched fists loosening. He nods tightly at me, resuming his
place at the table.

  I’m no longer hungry, but I don’t move from my place, openly watching Henry. I can’t help it. It almost seemed as if he…protected...me, as Frank had said. But…why would he do that? I’m confused, perplexed. A couple of times he glances covertly at me, but in those looks I can no more garner a reason than sprout wings and fly to the moon.

  For the first time all year, I spend the afternoon looking forward to photography. I can’t get the drama of lunch off my mind. No matter how I look at the situation, it still looks like he stood up for me.

  Why?

  When he comes into the classroom, I’m looking directly at him, trying to read his face. He stops next to the table when he sees my questioning look, looking at me with the same unreadable expression he had had earlier. A flush creeps up his cheeks, and he looks away, jaw clenching. He gives me another tight nod, for the first time not saying hello and I suddenly understand.

  He’s bothered and embarrassed that he had stood up for me, and in front of not only his friends but other students, among whom the story has spread like wildfire. I’d heard it being talked about when others didn’t know I could hear, and people have been looking at me as if trying to figure something out. Now he’s obviously sorry he had done it.

  Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I turn my head back down toward the desk. For just a little while I had felt the elation of having a guardian angel, having someone who wouldn’t let someone else be mean to me. Those couple of hours of feeling that safety only makes it more painful to have it taken away.

  As soon as the bell rings, I quickly scoop up my books, ready to flee. I feel a hand clamp down on my arm. Heat floods from the point of contact as I still, staring at the hand that now holds my arm firmly. The same hand I’ve studied so much, with the light scar across the back. His grip is solid, and yet gentle enough that I know I could easily break contact.

  “Kate,” Henry says softly, and my heart lurches at the sound of my name coming from his mouth. “Please, I want to tell you—”

  I don’t wait to hear what he wants to say. I run, pushing past the other students in the doorway. A few people shove at me as I pass, but I manage to keep my footing.

  Chapter Four

  I run through the halls, pushing and shoving through the thick throng of teenagers until I reach the safety of the doorway. I leap down the steps, running toward my escape. I’m not sure if my feet tangle up as I reach the sidewalk or whether someone trips me, but suddenly I’m sprawled on the sidewalk, my books and papers scattering.

  “Kate!”

  I hear him call my name and look back to see him coming out of the door. I scramble up, leaving my books and papers where they lay. Taking the time to gather them will only give him the chance to catch up. I run faster without the hindrance of them anyway, ignoring the mocking laughter from behind, not knowing if part of that laughter is his.

  I don’t stop running until I’m halfway home, until my lungs are screaming and I have a stitch in my side, forcing me to stop. I lean over, hands on knees trying to catch my breath. It’s only then I realize I’m crying. I stand up, putting my hands on my cheeks, feeling the wetness there. Ow!

  I pull my stinging hands down, seeing that they’re scraped and bleeding, peppered with small pieces of cement and rocks from when I had fallen. That stops my tears.

  “Idiot!” I curse myself. Luckily, I’m near a small stream that runs along the side of the road. I take a step and nearly fall again, my throbbing knees buckling, adrenaline no longer carrying me. I look down and see that my left pant leg is shredded midway. “Great!” I mutter. I roll my right pant leg up above the knee. No scrape but a bright red mark that means a bruise tomorrow. I lift my left pant leg and see this knee is in much the same condition, only with an angry slice just below my kneecap which oozes a small amount of blood.

  I limp along the road until I find part of the bank that looks safe enough to climb down to the water’s edge. I half-slide sideways down the bank to the edge of the stream, knees screaming in protest. I sit on a flat rock and lean over to rinse my hands. I wash them as best I can, trying to dig the little rocks out, scrubbing the blood off. I splash water on my face, drowning the tears in the cool water.

  A car drives by slowly above me, which wouldn’t have caught more than my passing attention except that I hear the brakes, then the car backing up to stop directly above me. I look at the stream and the bank on the other side, gauging how hard it might be to make a run for it.

  “There you are!” I freeze, stunned that he has found me here. “I have been looking for you everywhere.”

  I force my legs into action, ignoring the pain from my knees as I stand. I crawl back up the bank toward the road, pretending it isn’t hurting me at all. I have to use my hands to help me up the steep slope, grinding dirt back into my newly clean hands. As I come to the top he reaches for me, but I dart to the side, hurrying away, trying not to limp, failing miserably.

  “Please, Kate, will you just stop for a minute? Wait—are you hurt?” he almost sounds genuine. I growl silently. “Kate, please, stop, I want to talk to you, to ask you—”

  I round on him.

  “What!” I demand angrily. “What do you want from me?” I limp-stride back over to where he stands, mouth agape at my outburst. “You’ve been gone for so many years…why now? Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why do you have to be just like them, but worse because you were better!” I’m yelling now. I shove him on the solid wall of his chest with both palms, leaving muddy, bloody smears.

  “Go away!” I command, as tears begin to fall.

  He’s staring at me, that odd expression in his eyes again. It makes me furious and with a yell I slam my hands flat against his chest again. He catches them and holds them there when I would have pulled back, and then suddenly his arms are around me, pulling me tight against him as I sob. Unthinkingly, I bunch his shirt front in my fists which are trapped between us as he holds me. His hands sooth down my back, chin resting lightly on the top of my head.

  The feel of arms around me, in comfort rather than as restraint or in harmful intent, undoes me. I cry for all the years of mocking and teasing received at the hands of my peers, for having been born to hateful, careless parents. I cry for the fact that this one good, kind boy has joined the game. And that makes me think it’s hopeless to find any good in anyone, which only makes me cry harder.

  Gradually I become aware of where I am and whose chest I’m buried in. Mortification floods me. Still, I stay where I am for just one second longer, for one second reveling in the feeling of being held, touched with tenderness, even if it isn’t real.

  I push away, and he loosens his hold but keeps his hands on my shoulders. He ducks his head to look into my face and shame rises in my cheeks. I keep my eyes downcast, not wanting to see his expression which is likely disgust.

  “Hold on a sec,” Henry says, letting go of me, hurrying towards his car. I immediately miss the pressure and warmth of his hands, sure he’s leaving now. Suddenly, he’s thrusting a napkin at me. I take it cautiously, still unsure of his motives. I use it to wipe my face and nose with mumbled thanks.

  I look, horrified, at the mess I’ve made of his shirt with my hands. I nod toward it. “Sorry about that,” I concede, sure that this story will make the rounds tomorrow.

  He smiles, and my heart skids to a halt before lurching into a staccato drumming. The smile actually looks genuine.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says, kindness in his voice, throwing me further off kilter. Then he looks down and sees the blood smears. He looks back at me, horrified. “You’re hurt,” he accuses.

  I ball my hands into fists and shrug, taking a step backward in case he’s angry now that he’s seen his ruined shirt.

  “I’m okay.”

  And I am, compared to some of the other injuries I’ve had in my lifetime. He steps forward, pulling my hands towards him, gently uncurling my fists, ignoring my flinch at his touch.

 
“Come on,” he tells me, leading me gently back down the embankment. It’s an easier descent with him steadying me, though definitely more terrifying. I still don’t know what he wants from me.

  He sits me back down on the rock I’d been sitting on before, then tears a strip of his shirt off. At my shocked gasp he grins and shrugs, causing my heart to speed up again. He dips the cloth strip into the water, and begins wiping my hands clean. Though he’s surprisingly gentle, it stings and I suck my breath in through my teeth.

  “Sorry,” he says, leaning over to blow gently on my palms. It relieves the stinging there, but causes a burning to begin in the pit of my stomach—it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. He continues the wiping and blowing with both my hands, until I feel like I’m on fire. I think I even groan because he suddenly looks up at me, eyes unreadable. I duck my head in shame. He then cleans my knee, which is still exposed by my rolled-up pants.

  He tears two fresh strips from the back of his shirt, which is still clean, and uses those to bandage my hands, tying knots like a professional. When I raise my eyebrow at the knots, he grins again and says, “Eagle Scout. First Aid merit badge is required, you know.”

  I look at my hands, clean and bandaged, then back up at Henry.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” I ask, bewildered by his attention.

  His puzzlement matches my own as he says, “I don’t really know.”

  My heart sinks at his answer. He must see that on my face, because he holds his hands up, palms facing me.