Broken

by A. E. Rought

  Then his gaze falls and life crashes back.

  Rumors whisk in front of him, brittle as fall leaves, darker than crows in a murder.

  “He’s been in juvie,” says the baseball player a few feet away.

  “No way,” the third basemen says. “He was in jail.”

  “I heard he killed someone with his bare hands,” one girl says. Her friend argues, “Not with his hands. With a knife!”

  “Back from the dead,” another Ravens baseball player murmurs behind me.

  “Weird day to start school,” mutters Bree.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “In the middle of the semester, too.”

  Then Sam Ashton, last semester’s Sadony Academy transfer says, “Hi, Alex.”

  He nods his head in a very guy-like gesture, gives them a short wave, and the flock of biting words die at his feet. Guys appear to shrug off his arrival, but still pin Alex with sneaky, kill-the-interloper glares. Girls, despite still whispering, slather on predatory smiles, thrust up their boobs and tip their hips in curvy poses. Alex’s appearance may have shook up the quad, but it settles back to a more normal morning routine quickly.

  “Alex?” Bree whispers to me, her brown eyes wide. “As in Alex Franks?”

  I shrug. Doesn’t sound familiar to me. I’m too busy trying to figure out what happened when he looked at me to worry about his last name. Something tingled deep in my chest, a sparking wire with a faulty connection. Bree’s saying something about recognizing him from elementary school, thinking out loud that she pulled his hair in a sandbox. The only coherent thoughts I can formulate are: What’s he doing here now? And, Why is he coming this way?

  Alex whoever-he-is walks closer, and the tingle in my chest becomes a steady electric current. Slowly every gaze on the high school campus zeroes in on us. A hot blush abrades my cheeks. With everyone looking in our direction, I feel like one of those bugs on display, skewered through to a corkboard in the biology lab. Only a livewire buzzes in me instead of a stick pin. The sharp elbow nudge Bree gives me registers in the same way movement registers in peripheral vision.

  A couple of steps away, Alex stops.

  Cold sunlight reaches inside his hood, washing his features. A nervous twitch at the corners of his full lips could be a smile. Then he looks at me, I mean, really looks at me, like he’s counting every freckle the DNA faery rudely splattered across my nose. An expression of wonder, disbelief maybe, lights his face. My head’s a mess, my chest’s tingling, and all I can think is that he feels like an echo ringing through the hollow left inside me, undeniable and utterly dwarfed by Daniel’s memory.

  I want to speak. I should. A muscle twitches on his jaw like he does, too.

  Bree, of course, beats us both to it.

  “Hey, Alex. Remember me? We went to kindergarten together. I think I pulled your hair…” she says, sliding close to me and edging closer to Alex at the same time.

  “Bree, right?” The corner of his eyes crinkle. “Yes, you did.”

  “Sorry about that.” Red floods her cheeks. “Do you and Emma know each other?”

  “No,” comes out in stereo, his a velvet tenor and mine a thin soprano.

  I drop my gaze, pretending interest in his over-priced shoes. His jacket creaks like new leather, and I look up when Alex lifts his arm and shoves off his hood. Longish brown hair shot through with natural coppery highlights tumbles loose, dusting his collar, brushing his cheekbones. He shoves a long, thin hand through his hair.

  The electrical current shorts out, and I’m hollow again.

  “So,” he says, then points at the coffee cup in my hand, twitching slightly, “Mugz-n-Chugz has the best breves, right?”

  Realization slams into my gut. The shudder I felt before slides down my spine. Alex watched me buy my coffee. He’d had to have, otherwise, how would he know I was holding a breve? Why was he watching me? Before I can formulate the question, Alex gives me a short wave, identical to the one he gave the guy who called his name. He buries his face in the shadows of his hood, then leaves. The scent of leather lingers in my nose, and unconsciously I draw another deep breath of it after the side door slams shut behind him.

  “What was that all about?” Bree’s eyes are wide pools of confusion.

  “You tell me.” I hike my backpack and chug down the rest of my coffee in the hope of burning the smell of leather and taste of embarrassment from the back of my throat. “Remember I moved here in sixth grade? I’ve never seen the guy.”

  “Well, he certainly acts like he’s seen you before.” Then a Cheshire grin spreads over her glossed lips. “Are you hiding secrets? Bet you are! You know him. You had a hot summer fling never expecting to see him again, and now he shows up here…”

  “Shut up, Bree.” I chuck my cup into the trash can. A satisfying hollow bang rings from it. “That’s the plot to Grease. I know your group did the show last year, but all life doesn’t fit one musical.”

  “Maybe you two are star-crossed lovers, and he’s finally found you on his soul’s ageless search…”

  “Maybe,” I hit her with a narrow look when we reach the door, “or maybe he has a girlfiend…”

  “Not the way he was looking at you.” Utter conviction n her voice.

  “Fine.” I’m not winning this one. Arguing with Bree when she’s entrenched is a lot like arguing with a brick wall. “Then how about you get your own boyfriend and quit dumping your fantasy relationships on me?”

  “That’s always a goal of mine.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Inside, Shelley High is hell on the eyes. Bright lights, chipped flooring, battered lockers and neon flyers litter the walls. And people everywhere, milling in the halls like cattle in slaughter pens. The popular crowd I’ll never be a part of and never want to, Bree’s theater nerd Thespians, and half a dozen other cliques jostle and shout, close to half of it in abbreviated text lingo.

  I tuck my arms in, and weave through the throng. My locker is close to the main office. Usually it smells like coffee at this end of the hall. Not today. A lingering wisp of leather hangs close. I bend my head to my locker door, spin the combination, and tug. It’s no use. Damn thing’s stuck, again. It’s only October and I’ve already had to get help from the janitor five times to force it open.

  Josh Mason breaks free of the surge behind me. He leans his frame against the locker beside mine. I shoot him an exasperated look, then spin my combination again.

  “That was a nice insult,” he says.

  He’s trying to be sexy, I can tell, with his casual slouch and plaid, button-down shirt open to show a little skin at his neck. For me, a 6’ ginger with curling hair and freckles is so not sexy. Cute, annoying, but never attractive like Josh wants to be to me.

  “Yeah?” I slam my palm on my still-locked locker. “Well, you make it so easy.”

  He snorts, and has the decency to look like he’s struggling for a nasty response when Alex Franks glides from the rabble and push of bodies and says, “You’re on my locker.”

  No preamble, nothing polite. I think I could learn to like this guy.

  “Sorry man,” Josh raises both hands and steps back. “Just making small talk.”

  Alex tips his head slightly, then turns from the curly red-head. Josh puffs his chest, and and clenches his jaw. A vein stands out on his forehead. The building tension must be obvious to Alex, too. He slowly faces back to the redhead and asks, “What?” in that knowing, try-and-push-me tone.

  “Nothing,” Josh almost spits, then adds, “See you later Emma,” before walking away.

  Alex watches him until he disappears around the hall corner, then turns back to his locker. He exudes mystery where he stands, drawing female gazes like an electromagnet. Brown hair obscures his face while he bends over his lock.

  He opens his locker, shuffles stuff, deposits paperwork on the top shelf, and then shuts it while I still struggle to liberate my door from the steel grip of the locking mechanism.

  “Want help?” he asks,
a spark of amusement in his voice.

  “Sure.” I flick him a grateful glance, then look at my hands and rattle off my combination. Simple hope morphs to shock as he spins the numbers, pushing in with each one, then nudges the door with his hip.

  The locker pops open.

  My jaw drops.

  In the two years I’ve had the same locker, only Daniel worked that damn lock as easily as Alex.

  A tickle thrums across my skin when he swings the door open, his arm inches from mine, like he’s a Tesla coil. Then with a slight nod and slighter smile, Alex pulls his hood back up and plunges into the churning masses. He cuts a path, heading towards the Performing Arts hall. Funny, he’s getting along just fine, but since he arrived this morning I feel like I’m the one being trampled, suffocating.

  Chapter Three

  Halfway through first hour, my butt’s numb from the hard plastic seat and I’m afraid the numbness is leeching up my spine and affecting my brain. I heave a sigh, chew my pencil and try to pay attention while Mrs. Johnson writes Trig problems on the dry erase board. Between the marker squeaks stabbing my eardrums, and thoughts of Alex and how he stared at me like I’m not supposed to be real, focusing on classwork is impossible

  My cell phone vibrates in my backpack, a chaotic buzz and clatter, like bees and chicken bones. Half the class is texting or talking, taking advantage of Mrs. Johnson’s stubborn refusal to treat her hearing loss with hearing aids. I certainly wouldn’t be the first to whip it out in class.

  Casting a glance at her shoulders working like dull butcher blades under her sweater, I slide my phone free of the inner pocket, clicking a few pencils together. I stow the pink thing on my thigh, behind my desk. When someone’s at a desk, looking down with both hands in their lap, you know what they’re doing. I join the ranks of the obvious.

  Bree Ransom, the display screen reads.

  What does she want? We just parted ways about ten minutes earlier. Sighing, I slide the phone open.

  Alex’s in my 1st hour! He’s H.O.T. & single!

  Well. That answers the girlfriend question I posed earlier. It also makes him extremely eligible in Bree’s mind. A girlfriend would be a speed bump in her acquisitions pursuit, but she is one of the most determined people I know. I’m sure Bree’s wondering if he’s going to the dance this weekend, and if she can get him in a costume. I steal another peek at our hearing impaired teacher before replying to the text.

  His locker’s next to mine.

  Her response must have burned wires somewhere with its speed: LUCKY!

  I silence my phone, slide it shut and slip it back into the little pocket. At the head of the class, Mrs. Johnson waves a marker at the string of gobbledygook numbers and symbols that I’d understand if I had paid attention earlier. I try to force my brain into logic mode—it’s not happening. Ducking my head, I pray to not get called on to solve the equations. Images of Alex stab into the static noise in my head: standing next to my locker, spinning the combination like he’s done it dozens of times before.

  Luck has nothing to do with it.

  #

  Second hour passes in a classical literature fog.

  Given the season, Mr. Hansen is tormenting us with classic horror and Gothic fiction. We’ve read, discussed and acted out bits of Bram Stokers’ Dracula—my favorite book and the reason my cat’s name is Renfield. After watching the second half of the latest Hollywood attempt at capturing the novel, Mr. Hansen reaches around his paunch to hand out Further Reading lists, complete with samples of some of the more popular choices. He looks like he might be salivating with delight, and an errant thought careens through my head: Mr. Hansen dressed as an executioner, pulling a lever...

  On the Further Reading list are Hawthorne, Shelley, Poe, and many others. Our task for the week, according to our teacher, is to choose a title for class reading and use the week to read it. The first week of November, we’re to prepare a thesis and report, comparing and contrasting Dracula with the title of our choosing.

  I run my finger down the list, names blurring into an illegible smudge.

  The bell rings without me making a choice. Looks like I’ll have to visit the library after school. For once, I’ll be doing just what my mother thinks I am.

  Hair down, head down, I leave class and aim for third hour by way of the cat walk between the second floors of the main building and the sports complex. Air whistles in my hair when I open the door, then my heart clenches and throat tightens. Last fall, on a sunny cool day like today, I had met Daniel about three feet from where I stand. Sunshine had beat down, warming the hallway, dissecting the red carpet into swaths of light and shadow, like puddles of new blood bordered by old. Daniel lounged against a metal support, bathed in white light, looking better than any senior should. I was awkward and shy, and a little in awe of him.

  His friend was all in red, from his hair to his shirt to his shoes, reminding me of fire. The guy listened to headphones, music loud, howling along and flailing around.

  Playing the damsel is distress is way passé, but I was a legitimate victim of a dance-by whacking from his oblivious friend and his swinging arms. Daniel whipped off the t-shirt he wore over his thermal undershirt and packed my gushing nose in it. On the way to the office, when the stairs swirled at my face, Daniel saved me from falling. Then, he’d carried me the rest of the way.

  Today I walk in the opposite direction, heart aching, knowing Daniel is forever gone, as I aim for the torture chamber the staff of Shelley High likes to call the Gymnasium.

  Group and Individual Sports takes up my third hour. Normally I hate it, but hope bubbles up, thinking it’s a chance to get physical and forget about Shelley High’s latest addition to the student body. The locker room flooring mini-tiles are shades of brown, beige, and pukey pink, the lockers are beige, the rest is white. An ugly room. Usually filled with gossip, and this morning’s no different.

  Alex, Alex, Alex.

  Alex Franks, his height, his leather jacket and the way his jeans hang on his butt are the main topics of conversation in the Ugly Room. Josie Cummings has him in her second hour. “He wears his hood up all the time,” and she thinks “it’s sexy, even if he is a killer.” Faith Lewis ran into him in the hall, “accidentally,” she swears with a giggle, and her “cell phone hasn’t worked right since.” Ally Rhodes places bets with a few of her friends as to how soon she can get him to date her.

  Rolling my eyes, I pull on my gym clothes. I wish I could be like them, excited about a boy, whispering about his looks, gossiping over whether he has a girlfriend. Daniel was that guy for me. His hazel eyes were so easy to get lost in. He held me and the world disappeared . Daniel was the one to carry me home when I tripped over that hydrant and broke my ankle. He was mine and losing him the way I did ripped a hole in me.

  No new guy was ever going to fill the void he left.

  My cell phone comes alive in my locker, a swarm in a metal can. I ignore Bree this time, and whip my hair into a ponytail. Our gym Drill Sarge is neither understanding nor accepting of phones, iPods, or any other portable electronic device in his class.

  There is no mercy in Mr. Ashford’s eyes or his shiny whistle when we walk in. A mesh bag of basketballs rests at his feet in the middle of the gym. His buzz cut bounces back the overhead lights as he struts back and forth barking orders. A full class hour of running and shooting baskets—my most dreaded activity. Running, dribbling a ball I lose as much as keep, and missing the baskets I shoot at anyway. Dear God, I think, just kill me now.

  Slicked in saltwater, ponytail slid halfway down the back of my head, I stagger through the showers after running so much I thought I’d puke. Lather, rinse, repeatedly curse the Drill Sarge.

  #

  Somehow, the student body seems to double during the lunch hour, collecting in one hall and one big room. Voices echo in the side hallway, dismembered and blurry with volume. Laughter punches through the cacophony, an occasional squeal slashes above the din. The sound batters my
ears, and I quash the urge to skip lunch to avoid the throng.

  The lunch line is ridiculously long, as always. The queue snakes out the door and down the hall. Tired and wringing shower water from my hair, I take last position.

  “Emma!” Bree pokes her face out of the doorway. Her fake blond hair swings out like a flag. “Didn’t you get my text? I’m saving you a spot.”

  That was what the text was about? She always saves me a spot in line, I just forgot. Good thing Bree’s parents put her on an unlimited plan for her phone. I look up, blink and try to focus—when tired and a tad flustered, I run on auto-pilot, which includes standing in lines.

  “Hey,” whines a zit-faced, greasy-haired freshman, “no saving spots.”

  “When you’re an upperclassman,” comes a smooth tenor voice behind him, “you’ll use the same unwritten privileges.”

  Heads swivel toward the source. Mine, too.

  Tall, hood up, long sleeves pulled down over his wrists and thumbs shoved through the cuffs. Sadly, I look to see how well Alex Franks’s jeans look on his butt. The girls in the Ugly Room didn’t lie. He wears them well, fills them in all the right spots. No sooner does the admiration of Alex’s behind form, than a twinge of guilt pinches my heart. A ghost of Daniel’s memory glides behind my eyes. I don’t need to look at another guy, especially Alex Franks, when I have perfect memories.

  Shaking my head, I schlep along the queue of shocked faces, then pause by his shoes.

  Alex wears a bemused smile in the shadows of his hood.

  “Thanks.”

  He nods. “No worries.”

  The strange tunneling sensation strikes again when his eyes meet mine. Under the garish bright lights, it’s easy to see their color, a rich hazel. Then he blinks, ducks deeper into the fabric surrounding his face and adds, “If you’re really grateful, you can save me a seat.”

  Shock leashes my tongue. It’s not strong enough to muzzle some of the harpies with their sights obviously set on Alex, though. Hisses of in-drawn breaths remind me of vipers in movie scenes of Egyptian tombs. A couple of unkind things are muttered. Lots of heavily painted eyes glare daggers at me. I’m tempted to give them all the middle finger.