A More Deserving Blackness

by Wolbert, Angela

  I blink at her now, unsure what to say. Is what true?

  “Did Logan Brenner really get his ass kicked last weekend?”

  She’s not asking eagerly, but still. I stiffen, irritated by her distinct use of his first and last name, like she’s using the scientific genus and species of some lesser biologic organism.

  I tug at my sleeve, relishing the slide of the fabric over the cuts on my left forearm. I hadn’t bandaged them on purpose; somehow the shocking, ugly sight of them had felt . . . right. Better.

  “Andrea!” hisses her pixie-haired friend disapprovingly, but Andrea only shrugs.

  “What? I’m just asking. I mean, it’s all over school. She doesn’t have to answer if she doesn’t want to, but you know, she’s talking now, so . . .”

  “Yes,” I surprise myself in saying, and I feel Erik turn to look at me, black brows lifted over that hot dog he still hadn’t taken another bite of. “Yes, he was attacked. And no, he didn’t start it.”

  “Whoa, you can talk,” some boy I don’t know blurts out needlessly.

  At the same time, Andrea leans toward me over the table. “Were you there?” she asks, her black-lined eyes ready to pop out of her head and roll across the table at me.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he – how bad was it?”

  Bad.

  “Well, they didn’t quite manage to kill him, so I guess not bad enough.”

  She misses the unreserved agony in my words but Erik doesn’t. His tongue darts out to swipe up a dollop of mustard that hadn’t quite made it in and he shifts toward me infinitesimally. Not touching, but enough.

  “What did they do? Did they hurt you?” she asks, with something almost like real concern in her voice, that is if it wasn’t spiked like it is with shameless excitement.

  “Andrea, geez, lay off,” Erik chides, but I’m already shoving back in my chair.

  “No,” I answer her as I grab blindly for my bag.

  No, they hadn’t hurt me. I had.

  “Bree.”

  Erik calls after me, catching up as I turn the corner, fleeing the cafeteria with a wake of a dozen rapacious stares.

  “Hey, wait.”

  I stop but I don’t turn around, so Erik slowly walks around me.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Andrea was going to . . .” He shakes his head.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t have anything to say.

  “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I don’t – I don’t believe everything people say about him. About Logan.”

  It might’ve mattered. As little as a week ago it would’ve mattered; that someone could see something other than the murderous savage in Logan, and especially that it was Erik, someone I’d almost been ready to consider a friend.

  But now I just nod, wishing he’d stop talking about Logan. Everything hurts.

  “I’ll see you later,” he says regretfully, and jogs back to the cafeteria.

  The next time I see him I’m headed to my seat at the back of health, ignoring all the heads that turn to follow me. I’d just passed the same guy from the hall yesterday, the one who’d smiled while he’d held Logan that night. Though he hadn’t said anything to me this time, he’d watched me as I’d walked by, leering suggestively from the doorway of a classroom, the glint in his eyes making my skin crawl. I’d just glared back at him and he’d ducked inside the room, unperturbed, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

  I’m still unsettled when I enter health, and Erik looks up from his desk, his brows wrinkling, blue eyes heavy with concern before he flashes that dimpled smile. It’s sweet, his warm smile so different than the other faces that turn my way. I try to smile back at him, I really do, but I don’t know if I hit the mark and I’m too exhausted to care. Erik watches me all the way to my seat.

  Dropping into my chair, my head hanging, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I feel jittery and drained, my right hand easily finds the still fresh slashes on my left arm through my sleeve, gripping, rubbing over them. I soak in the welcome pain.

  The sound of familiar, heavy footfalls is like gunfire in my ears, and my whole world goes rigid. My eyes fly open and I’m staring at the table in front of me, at my arms hanging in my lap. Out of the corner of my eye I see his black boots first, as always. Well-worn, dust coated in the creases on the toes, one of the laces frayed and broken off short.

  I’m unprepared for the sharp slam of pain that hits me, just at the sight of those boots. As he slides carefully into his seat across the aisle I’m not even breathing, just staring down at my lap, afraid to look. But then I do, and it’s infinitely worse.

  Over the last two days his face had bloomed into a mess of bruises like stained glass, divided only by the deep, stitched gash over his cheek. He hadn’t shaved since I’d seen him last, and a shadow of stubble darkens the lower half of his face. He’s wearing his usual faded jeans and t-shirt, covered now with the black leather jacket I’d seen so many times, hanging just inside his front door. The one that looked like the one he’d given me.

  He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm resting atop the table in front of him, his posture almost casual but for the fact that he’s sitting perfectly still. Not moving, not blinking, possibly not even breathing.

  And firmly, coldly, not looking at me.

  When Apligian breezes in he still doesn’t move, dark eyes fixed stonily on the front of the room, and even though he’s resolutely ignoring me, I can’t help staring at him.

  I miss him ferociously.

  As if he can sense it, Logan turns his head to me in slow motion, appraising me silently with blank, red, sleep-deprived eyes. As if he doesn’t even know me. No anger, no hatred, there’s only apathy and then he’s turning away again, his deadened expression unchanging.

  My chest hurts. Having him this close but so cold and unfeeling; it’s impossible.

  I throw my hand in the air and Mr. Apligian drops off mid-sentence, blinking at me and adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses, obviously stunned.

  “. . . Bree?” he prompts, unsure at this unexpected development.

  Eighteen heads turn back to me, and I purposely don’t look at Erik. Only Logan remains rigidly staring straight ahead.

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  Apligian gapes at me in a way that is distinctly unprofessional before recovering and waving a hand at the door, conspicuously relieved. “Yes. Go ahead.”

  Scooping up my bag, my face flaming, I stumble getting out of my chair and then all but run for the door, my breath already hitching in my chest. I can feel everyone’s eyes on my back as I slip into the hall, trembling and gulping for air.

  Everyone’s but Logan’s.

  I spend the rest of the class period hiding shamefully in the girls’ restroom. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but not feeling like this anymore.

  God, I’m so sick of this pain, sick of dragging myself around with huge chunks of me missing.

  The clutch of my shaking fingers over my mangled arm shoots fire like electrified wires through my body, but it barely helps. Nothing helps.

  By the time the bell rings signaling the end of the period I’ve reopened one of the cuts and it’s bleeding freely. I snatch a handful of paper towels, ignoring the outright staring from the girl scrubbing her hands in the sink next to me as I slap it over the blood and press down hard. It takes a few minutes for it to stop but it doesn’t matter. None of my teachers care if I’m late, if I blatantly ignore them in class, probably wouldn’t care if I threw my clothes off and started grinding against their desk in the front of the room. They’d all been warned of my “special circumstances.” The broken little girl they were so afraid of setting unhinged.

  I slip into my next class without even a sideways glance from my teacher, and when the bell rings I shuffle off to pre-calc, numbly going through the motions. I can’t help but scan the halls for another glimpse of Logan, but he’s not there. I’m not even sure if I want to see him again, the cool d
isregard in those familiar almost-black eyes, but even that, just the sight of him, even when he’s not mine to look at, is better than nothing.

  I don’t expect to see Dylan in pre-calc, just sitting at his desk leaning over with his arm slung over the plastic back. He’s joking with one of his friends like nothing has changed, like he hadn’t three days before beat a man almost to death with his own chain-wrapped fist.

  I don’t expect it, but I should.

  The sight of him makes my stomach pitch sickeningly and I whip around, pushing through the crowded halls, desperate to get away.

  I can’t see him now. Not after everything. Not after Logan.

  I duck into the girls’ restroom again, gripping the sink and staring at myself at the mirror. Coward. Braided hair, minimal makeup, pallid face, bloodshot eyes. I hadn’t slept last night, I’d been too busy hacking at myself, and it hadn’t even helped. I’m still this terrified, shaking little thing.

  Repulsive.

  By the time I emerge from the bathroom, shamed and sickened, the school has all but emptied out. I glance at the face of my phone and realize I’d lost track of time - the day had ended thirty minutes ago, the bell had sounded and I hadn’t even heard it.

  I just stand there in the hall, looking around uselessly, before turning and heading for the parking lot. Maybe Erik had waited for me.

  I don’t even stop by my locker for books. I wouldn’t know which ones I needed even if I did.

  The sun is too bright and the air is too cold when I push through the doors, and I drop my head and cross my arms over my chest, missing the warm barrier of Logan’s leather coat. I step off the curb and out into the mostly empty parking lot, and that’s when I hear it. A familiar voice, laughing one row of cars over.

  I stop dead and look to where Dylan is surrounded by a group of friends, all of them gathered around a bright blue Ford Ranger I assume must be his by the way he’s perched on the back, brown boots propped on the rear bumper and his hands gripping the closed hatch. He’s laughing, his tanned face almost perfect in his merriment. Not like Logan’s; not bruised or discolored or broken open.

  And all the sudden I’m not afraid. I’m not disgusted or ashamed. I’m furious.

  I head straight for them, straight for him, not even bothering to scan their faces, to see if I recognize any of them. I don’t want to see them, don’t want to remember. They don’t matter. Even Carter, who’d held me while they’d beaten him, and that chuckling asshole from the hall; they’re all irrelevant. It’s Dylan I want.

  They stop talking as they note my approach, and Dylan’s face screws up into something obscure, watching me march over to him, before he pushes with his hips, hopping confidently down off the end of his truck and swiping the shaggy ends of his hair from his eyes. I don’t stop walking until I’m right up in his face, or at least his chest, as he towers over my much shorter frame.

  “What the fuck is your problem, Dylan?”

  Dylan blinks his surprise.

  “Whoooa!” one of his immature little monkeys hoots, elbowing the guy at his side.

  “Little mute girl’s pissed!”

  They both laugh but I ignore them, seething.

  “Seriously. Who the hell do you think you are?!”

  “What’s the matter, Beautiful?” Dylan asks lazily, smirking down at me. He makes an obvious show of ogling my breasts. There are a few snickers from the circle, but I don’t have patience for his games.

  “I saw everything,” I tell him, and he just raises his eyebrows at me sarcastically. “Including your dad.”

  Dylan pauses. His head tilts a little and then he flashes an arrogant smile at his friends before looping an arm around my shoulders. “Come here, Beautiful,” he drawls almost casually, guiding me away from the small crowd.

  I throw his arm off my shoulder, disgusted. But when I try to shove him away by the chest he just grabs me above the elbow and keeps walking, towing me out of earshot of his friends. It doesn’t scare me, though, it just pisses me off. Everything about him pisses me off.

  “You gonna beat me with a chain now, too?”

  “Like I had a fucking choice,” he snarls. “After he went fucking apeshit -”

  “Protecting me!”

  “He beat Bishop within an inch of his life!”

  He tows me around the side of a full-sized white van and spins me to face him, his fingers biting into my arm. “What the hell were you saying about my dad?”

  “He was there Sunday night,” I tell him unflinchingly. “He saw, and he walked away.”

  Dylan’s hand tightens to the point of pain over my arm, but I see a flash of surprise in his eyes. “Even if that was true no one would believe you.”

  “Maybe not.”

  He stares at me, squinting a little with the afternoon sun in his eyes, still holding my arm in a grip that flexes his huge bicep under his shirt. I’ll probably have a bruise and I don’t even care. I barely even feel it.

  “When’d you start talking, anyway?”

  “When I had to.”

  “We made sure to keep you out of it. I tried to keep you safe.”

  I actually laugh at that, a loud bark in his face. “Well, congratulations, Dylan. You fucked that up too.”

  He throws up his free hand. “What the fuck! I tried to warn you. Why didn’t you just stay away?”

  “Because I trust Logan. There’s nothing you could possibly say to change that!”

  He’s glaring at me, fury barely restrained in his eyes. “We weren’t trying to kill him.”

  “That’s funny,” I spit at him. “That’s probably what Logan thought the night his stepfather murdered his mother.”

  “Mrs. Brenner died of -”

  “An abdominal aortic aneurysm, I know. Pretty rare, actually.”

  “What -”

  But I don’t even let him finish. My hands are balled into fists that are shaking with fury and he doesn’t have so much as a scratch on him and Logan spent that whole fucking night in the hospital. For nothing.

  “Your father would’ve read the full autopsy report, Dylan. Ask him. He’ll tell you it said that she’d most likely had the aneurysm for months before that night, and that it was ruptured by acute physical trauma to the abdominal region. It might even mention the other bruising undoubtedly found on her body, all in areas normally hidden under clothing.”

  His jaw is clenched when I finish, his grip painful on my arm. “Lieutenant Dawson wasn’t abusive,” he says slowly, furiously, like he’d said it a dozen times before. “He was like family. I knew him. We all did.”

  “You knew Logan, too.”

  “Yeah, right up until the night he came over to my house pissed and left crazy as hell. Few hours later my dad was called over there and it looked like he’d slaughtered a fucking cow. Dad made it there just in time to hear his partner drowning in his own blood. So excuse me if I think maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

  He shakes his head like he doesn’t even know why he’s talking about this with me, narrowing his eyes to angry slits. “What the fuck do you know about it? You weren’t there.”

  “Neither were you! God, stop being such a coward! Open your eyes! Logan’s the only person who was there that night that didn’t die and you won’t even listen to a word he says!”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I wrench back, pulled short by his hold on my arm. “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter what the fuck he has to say! He killed a good man with his bare fucking hands!”

  “You’re an arrogant little prick, Dylan, you know that?”

  Dylan tightens his grip, hauling me roughly up against him. “Brenner’s a murderer, I don’t give a shit what the courts said. He needed to pay for what he did.”

  “He has paid for it!”

  Dylan sneers. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s paying for it real hard every time he bends you over.”

  I jerk back and slap him across the fac
e, hard enough that it stings like fire across my palm.

  Dylan’s head whips to the side, his eyes snapping wide with shock. Then his huge hand bears down on my arm, yanking me against him, and I cry out at the flash of pain through the fog of adrenaline.

  Out of nowhere, Logan is there. He lunges, tearing Dylan away from me with a swing of a fist that cracks solidly against the side of Dylan’s head. Dylan is flung backward, crashing into the van at his back and stumbling to catch his balance, but Logan just follows, his face sharp with rage. Muscles bunched and ready, he fists his hands in Dylan’s shirt at the shoulders and smashes him hard into the side of the vehicle.

  “You think I’m dangerous? You think I’m fucking psycho?” Logan roars in his face, lips pulled back into a disturbing snarl. He slams Dylan back against the van once more before shoving him callously to the ground. Glaring down, Logan’s voice is low and ominous. “You ever fucking touch her again you’ll find out exactly what I am.”

  Then he turns away, not waiting for the rage in Dylan’s eyes to crack open, and snatches my hand, pulling me to his car and flinging the door open for me. I hear Dylan push to his feet, yelling irately after us, but Logan slams the door shut, silencing it. He drops grimly behind the wheel and stomps on the gas, without ever even glancing in the rearview mirror.

  Chapter 17

  We tear out of the parking lot, Logan’s hands in white-knuckled fists over the steering wheel. One of mine is gripping the door handle tightly, my arm braced and tense, the other wrapped protectively around my stomach. My left arm throbs from the grip of Dylan’s fingers.

  Logan drives with clipped motions, jaw clenched, silently fuming. Huddled in the seat next to him I feel fragile, like a carving made of ice.

  He doesn’t speak to me. Driving silently, the fury in his features slowly disappears, leaving only staid detachment. I can feel it, the intense loss, feel him slip back into the cold reserve, even without looking at him.

  I want to shout at him, shake him until he looks at me, but I don’t.

  Expressionlessly, Logan pulls the car into my driveway, and I barely register that Trish’s car is parked there again, unusual for the middle of the day.