A More Deserving Blackness

by Wolbert, Angela

  But then he catches the expression on my face. “What?”

  You called me your girlfriend.

  He scans the message and looks up at me, just the flick of his eyes to mine, his face unreadable. “Aren’t you?”

  He acts like it’s so simple, so obvious, and I can’t explain why it terrifies me.

  Yes.

  A slow smile. “Okay, then.”

  He leans over to kiss me lightly on the mouth and when he pulls back he’s still smiling. I laugh and shake my hair back from my face and that’s when I freeze. Because we’re seated beneath the Ferris wheel and I hadn’t even known it and I’m looking up at it and it looks just like it did that night and I can’t look away. The spinning lights are mesmerizing and gaudy and sickening and I want to close my eyes but even if I did I know I’d still see it.

  “Bree.”

  I force myself to look back at Logan.

  “Is it that?” he asks cautiously, with a nod of his head toward the giant thing. His thumbs are smoothing over the backs of my hands. “The Ferris wheel?”

  Ashamed, I close my eyes and nod.

  “Okay.” He pulls me up from the bench. “Come on.”

  Logan leads me in a path straight away from the wheel, as direct as the crowd and the booths will allow. I follow him unquestioningly, just watching his wide shoulders as he weaves his way through, the movement of his back beneath the soft material of his shirt, allowing him to pull me along, oblivious to everything we pass. But when someone bumps into my shoulder I release his hand and grab instead for the back of his jeans under his blue shirt, cleaving myself to him so my nose almost presses into his spine. He reaches back, cupping a hand lightly over my hip, leading me past the large, showy façade of the funhouse and over the flimsy metal barricades, reaching back to help lift me over them when my legs aren’t quite long enough. Then the funhouse is blocking the lights of the fair and Logan is still leading me away, our shoes kicking little bits of trash and debris on the cracking blacktop of the parking lot, surrounded by a few dark, empty trailers from the carnival. The cacophony of music and screaming dim as we pull further away.

  Finally Logan stops, facing me. “Better?”

  I look back and then nod. This far away the lights of the Ferris wheel are almost completely hidden by the trees, just a few twinkling flashes peeking through like fireflies flitting in the sky.

  “Why’d you have me take you in there?”

  I glance back at it again, impotent now that it’s mostly hidden. I can’t explain it to him, not without questions I don’t want to answer. It’s too dirty, too awful, too ugly. I don’t want him to know.

  “Do you -”

  Logan stops abruptly. His head jerks up, his body rigid and still. Grabbing me with one hand at my waist, he roughly shoves me behind him.

  And that’s when I see them; several large, shadowy figures moving toward us in a slow semi-circle, their faces ghastly in the barely-there kaleidoscope of mostly obscured lights.

  In the tense silence I can hear the fear in my sharp inhale.

  Logan shuffles me back a few steps, the muscles of his arm tense and hard, his hand firm on my hip. Panic has me gripping his ribcage, just beneath his arms, and around his shoulder I see there are five of them, young guys about our age, all of them focused intently on Logan. Just right of center I make out a face I recognize, frighteningly stark like the rest. Dylan.

  Logan’s voice is tight. “Bree, get out of here.”

  No.

  The thought barely burns through my mind before everything explodes all at once.

  I hear Dylan’s low voice command, “Grab her,” just as one of them breaks off and moves forward. At the exact same time Logan shoves me hard, easily breaking my grip so I sprawl back onto my butt on the pavement. He sprints, lunging at the guy coming at me, crashing into him with enough force to send them both flying backward, Logan following him down with a fist in his face.

  He lands on the guy’s chest, pinning him, smashing him with his fists. The sound is wet and sickening and the guy stops fighting back but Logan is still hitting him.

  When the shock wears off I hear from one of the others, “Fuck! Get him off!”

  The four of them break into movement and I don’t even think, I just scramble up and run for Logan. I don’t even see the guy before an arm snags around my waist hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. I gasp, kicking and struggling, but he easily drags me back, lifting me from my feet. He doesn’t cover my mouth; he doesn’t have to.

  Logan!

  I’m fighting the bands of the thickly muscled arms around my waist, thrashing wildly, and I hear a grunt from behind me when I throw my head back into his face.

  “Fuck! Stop! We’re not gonna hurt you!”

  It’s Carter. The guy whose hand Logan had smashed in the locker the second week of school.

  But I don’t stop and suddenly Dylan is bending over, grabbing something from the pavement near one of those trailers. Logan is still perched on the chest of that unmoving, bloody heap, and Dylan charges at him, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his arm shooting up behind him, bicep tight.

  With a sharp jerk of his arm Dylan arcs a long chain through the air and it snaps against the back of Logan’s head, cracking against his skull. Logan crumples forward, his head whipping down from the brutal impact and then jerking back again when the tail end of the chain snakes around, biting into the flesh of his cheek.

  Blood sprays from Logan’s face but Dylan doesn’t stop running. He wrenches the chain free of Logan’s body and snaps it up in a tight circle in the air, winding it around his fist. The other two descend quickly to where Logan is huddled, dazed and bleeding, on his knees. They capture Logan’s arms and yank them back roughly, hauling him up from the moaning shape of the boy and holding him suspended between them.

  Logan is barely standing in their grip, still stunned from the blow to the back of his head, and vomit lurches up my throat as Dylan rushes him with a wordless growl, smashing his chain-wrapped fist into the side of Logan’s face. Logan’s head whips to the side and then bounces as if barely connected to his shoulders before Dylan rears back and swings again.

  NO!

  I lift my knee and stomp down as hard as I can with the edge of my shoe on Carter’s jean-covered shin.

  “Shit! Fucking bitch!”

  He furiously throws me forward. My palms smack painfully against the gavel-strewn pavement, loose strands of my hair exploding around me. At some point my braid must have fallen apart.

  I barely blink before I’m pushing back up from the ground, just trying to get to Logan, but Carter drops to his knees behind me and snatches me back. He locks an arm around me, imprisoning both of my arms, my shoulders trapped against the hard wall of his chest. His other he winds tightly around my waist, his huge hand secured intimately over the bone of my hip below my jacket, and drags my butt back, hard, against his hips.

  God. God.

  He smells like sweat and beer and nausea pitches against the back of my throat, my chest constricting in fear.

  “You don’t kill a fucking cop and get away with it,” I hear Dylan hiss, burying his fists into Logan’s chest, his ribs, his stomach. He shifts back on one leg, breathing heavily, and then drives one knee forward with a grunt, slamming it into Logan’s gut with enough force that it lifts him from his feet.

  From the corner of my eye I see movement. I look, desperate for help, in time to see a familiar dark figure pause for a moment, shocked, before turning away. I recognize just enough to know it’s Dylan’s father.

  But by then he’s already gone.

  No. Please. No!

  I’m yanking feebly on the arm around my shoulders as Logan crumples, his legs giving out beneath him, sagging between the arms stretched out from his sides. His knees crack against the pavement and his head falls forward before he painfully lifts it again, bobbing slightly. Blood is dribbling, bright red down his face from the long split in his cheek, seeping fr
om between his lips, splattered over his shirt. His bruised, black eyes find me instantly, and I stop.

  My heart breaks a thousand times in that one second his gaze meets mine, because Logan knows he’s going to die. I can see it in the dread, the unchecked horror in his eyes. He knows he’s going to die, and he doesn’t want me to see it happen.

  Then his head whips back violently when Dylan knees him in the face, and he sprawls backward, his arms suddenly released, dumped to the ground. He doesn’t get back up.

  “LOGAAAN!”

  Dylan jerks around at the shrill sound that rips from inside me, his eyes wide with shock.

  I’m struggling hysterically against the hands that hold me, the sound excruciating as I scream again, loud enough that my throat should be torn to ribbons.

  “Help me!”

  Logan isn’t moving.

  “Somebody help me!”

  From somewhere back toward the muted glow of the fair I hear voices yelling, and then I a muttered, “Shit,” from Carter. His hands drop me and suddenly they’re all running, barely pausing to help their fallen comrade up from where he was still lying on his back, bleeding out over the parking lot.

  I smack forward without the bruising restraint of those arms and sob, scrambling on all fours to Logan’s motionless form. Tears are pouring, useless, from my eyes, and I’m dragging air into my lungs in loud, ugly gasps when he finally stirs with a low, weak groan, rolling to his side. He braces one hand against the pavement and pushes up shakily, his body sagging, barely able to hold his own weight. His head lifts and he searches for a second before finding me, pulling one knee up to try to get to me but collapsing, falling painfully back to his side.

  I crawl over to him and he grips the blacktop with both hands and drags himself across the ground to meet me. He reaches one hand out to cup the back of my head and hauls me against him, my face against his throat, before his arms fold beneath him and he falls to his back. I barely catch myself before landing on top of him, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

  A wet sob strangles me at the sight of him; the swollen, discolored flesh around his eye, the blood leaking steadily from his nose, the wide, gaping split in his cheek like a grisly red smile pouring red down over his face, off his chin. His shirt and pants are covered in it and there’s a dark, wet splash across the pavement. His blood everywhere.

  Somewhere past the soundless, frantic screaming and the gagging need to puke is the slap of running feet slapping across the pavement.

  Logan’s hand is still tight around the back of my neck and he pulls me down over him, pressing his face into my throat. His voice is rough, rasping in my ear. “Are you -” but then he coughs, his body jerking convulsively, wrenching away with a spray of blood.

  “Hey!” I hear a man’s voice call out. “Are you all right?”

  Logan spits a last mouthful of blood and rolls back to face me, arm around his ribs, breathing in pained, hitching gasps. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  His other hand gropes over the pavement toward me, knuckles grisly with splattered blood, and I find it with mine, tangling our fingers together, his warm with wet. I don’t know if I should nod or shake my head or just throw it back and exorcise the shrieking, serrated blade that is twisting inside me so I don’t do any of it, I just cry and hold his hand while he struggles to breathe.

  A man in a yellow baseball hat and a navy blue hooded sweatshirt drops to his knees at my side. “Is he all right? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No,” Logan grates, levering a hand beneath him and pushing tremulously up, trying to sit, but his torso sags in a hollowed bow from the broad line of his shoulders. He hasn’t let go of my hand, gripping it so hard it’s almost painful, like he’s afraid they’re going to rip me away from him. “No.”

  “Are you sure, man? It looks . . . pretty bad.”

  But Logan just shakes his head and then groans at the pain from that small motion, bowing his head, blood dribbling onto his jeans.

  “You know him?” the guys asks me, and I nod, suddenly aware of the small crowd of people gathered around us, hovering and staring. I feel a compelling urge to throw my body over Logan, to cover him, hide him from their gawking eyes; these people that would sneer and shake their heads if only they could recognize him past the brutality of his face.

  “Hey, guy, take it easy,” someone else says as Logan twists around onto one hand and his knees. Head hanging, the other arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, he pauses and exhales a growl through gritted teeth. In the muddy light from the carnival I can see him shaking, muscles jumping under his skin.

  I reach for him, unsure where to touch him without causing more pain.

  The man still kneeling beside us turns to me. “You need to take him to the hospital.”

  I just nod again, stiff with shock.

  “He’s gonna need stitches for that cut. At the very least.”

  With excruciating, slow movements, Logan pushes up, sitting back on his heels. He leans in to me, grabbing my forearms, running his hands up over my elbows, my shoulders, cupping my neck with his back bowed, like sitting upright is taking every ounce of strength he has left. He tips unsteadily against me, his forehead dropping to mine, and his skin is hot and damp. I wrap my arms around him, feeling helpless.

  Logan’s fingers are in my hair, along my jaw, on my face, touching me restlessly, searching for an injury.

  “Did they hurt you? Did they -”

  I shake my head, stilling his hands in mine and pulling back. I wait until his eyes meet mine to shake my head a second time, slowly, making sure he sees it.

  Logan holds my gaze, just breathing for a second. Then he leans forward, dropping his other hand to the ground, painfully getting his feet under him. When he falters, his skin paling, I grab him under his arm and help to pull him to his feet. And then we’re just standing there in a circle of spectators, my arm around his waist and his over my shoulders, his back bowed as he leans against me, bent almost double.

  “Can I help you take him somewhere?” someone asks, but I don’t even pay attention to where the voice comes from as Logan shakes his head.

  “Fine,” he pants, but his eyes are shut so tightly his brow is caving in on itself and his face is ashen.

  Breathing in jerking gasps, Logan whispers to me, “Car. Please.”

  I feel eyes watching us as we leave.

  It’s a grueling walk back to his car, slow and brutal; me straining to hold him on his feet while he staggers along beside me, his body vibrating in pain at every torturous step. We’re almost there when he collapses, tripping and dropping to his hands and knees with a sharp sound of pain.

  I drop next to him and dig through his pockets until I find his keys, pressing the button with my thumb as I lurch back up, crossing to the car and tearing open the passenger side door. With my back turned I hear the wet, gagging sound of him vomiting into the long grass of the field and I close my eyes, giving him space until the retching stops. When I come back to him he’s wiping his mouth on his wrist, his face pallid and colorless beneath the bright red of his blood. He pushes up again and makes his way to the car without help, bracing a hand on the frame and lowering gingerly into the seat.

  Quickly I close the door behind him and run around to the other side, stabbing the keys into the ignition with hands that won’t stay still.

  “Bree.”

  I look over at him in the unnatural yellow of the dome light, the sight of his face a lead ball in my gut. Leaning back against the headrest, he’s staring at my hands on the wheel.

  “Sorry.”

  But I just shake my head. I didn’t give a shit about driving. Not now.

  The seat cranks forward when I adjust it for my shorter height and then I slam the car into drive, yanking the wheel hard to point it back to the road. I’m crying as I drive us to the hospital, trying to be quiet about it as I wipe my fingers over my cheeks when the tears overflow.

  Logan reaches unsteadily
across the car to clasp my hand in his, pulling weakly until I let him thread his fingers through mine, resting them on his thigh.

  “It’s okay now,” he says tiredly, closing his eyes.

  But I just bite down hard on my lip, tasting the cold sting of my tears rolling into my mouth.

  Nothing is okay.

  Chapter 14

  It’s Monday morning before Logan is released. Sometime over the night I texted Trish, explaining to her as briefly as possible about the attack, reassuring her twice that I was fine and leaving out the part where I’d spoken again for the first time in over two years.

  I move Logan’s car to the small Patient Discharge lot and tuck the keys into my pocket, once again entering the building where I’d spent the last night in the Emergency Department sitting silent at Logan’s side. They’d cleaned him up, done their scans and their tests, and when the plump grandmotherly nurse had asked what had happened he’d lied to her face, flatly informing her that he had no idea who it had been, that he hadn’t recognized any of them. Holding his bruised hand, his blood already washed from mine down the sink, I’d met her eyes and hadn’t said word.

  I make my way down the hall, focused on my destination, trying not to think of another hospital, another time. The nice young nurse with her gloved hands, her touch gentle as I’d stared up at another set of lights, endless tears pouring down onto the white sheets.

  A nurse pushes an elderly woman in a wheelchair past me and she smiles at me with watery eyes past the oxygen tube under her nose. She’s wearing a mint green gown, the same kind Logan had worn all night, after I’d helped peel his t-shirt from his body. The fibers had been stuck to him with sticky, drying blood.

  At the door to his room, I pause. Logan hadn’t questioned me about last night, other than to ask how I was doing. He’d asked if I was okay, he’d asked if they’d hurt me, he’d asked it a million different ways and I’d just nodded repeatedly, not speaking. And though the questions had been loud in his eyes, he hadn’t pressed me for more. When I’d slid from the chair and crawled up onto the bed with him, careful not to jostle him too much, he’d scooted over and lifted an arm, tucking it around me.