by A. E. Rought
“Not sure about grateful, but I’ll save you a seat,” I say, then toss my wet hair over my shoulder and claim my spot behind Bree nearly at the head of the line.
“Well, well,” she simpers. “Looks like someone has a crush.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hellooo.” She scoops up a tray and turns into the alcove containing hot foods. I snag a tray and follow. “First he stops and openly stares at you, then he asks to sit with you for lunch?”
“Yeah,” I say, layering sarcasm into my voice. “I’m sure he’s talked to lots of other girls in a friendly manner, too.”
“Not that I’ve seen. He hardly talked to anyone in first hour.” She loads her tray with French toast sticks, tater tots and applesauce. I opt for tots and apple sauce—my stomach hasn’t liked me since memory caught up to ogling, and I wrenched my gaze from Alex’s back pockets. Bree pauses at the drinks cart, tosses a causal look toward the line where he clutches a tray. “Normally introverts don’t take theater and drama. Someone must’ve screwed up his schedule. And for not crushing on you, he sure looks at you enough.”
I jab her in the back with my tray, hard enough for her to gasp and stage whisper a cussword. Despite my will to stay loyal to Daniel’s memory, I find myself peeking over my shoulder. The shadows of Alex’s hood aim directly at me. I’m not sure, but I think there’s a ghost of a smile hiding in there, too.
Forcing my eyes back to my lunch, I grab a water bottle, and traipse after Bree.
The wretched brown/beige/pukey pink color scheme of the locker rooms repeats in the cafeteria and the bathrooms, basically any place at risk of getting wet has the horrible vomit-colored mini-tiles. We weave between battered faux wood tables crammed with people shoveling food, or picking at it, or sitting there drinking Diet Coke like that’s enough for them. Cliques spill in puddles from the food service doors; the In Crowd, the Sports Crowd, the Out Crowd, and the Thespians. Being Bree’s best friend, I’m an honorary theater nerd. Plus, I’ve been to every performance since we moved here in ninth grade.
“Wassup, Em?” asks Bree’s friend Jason Weller, pretty in a not-interesting way, and normally the leading male role in any Shelley High theater production. “You going to the dance this weekend? I hear Bree has some kickass costumes picked out for you guys.”
“I don’t know.” I turn it around on him. “What’s she dressing you as?”
“Oh…” His smile is perfectly practiced when he feigns interest in buffing his nails on his sleeve. “We have a theme this year. It will be ah-mazing.”
With Jason, everything good is “ah-mazing.” And for a straight guy, he has damn good taste. Well, not in girlfriends. When it comes to girls, his taste is somewhere between airhead and bitch. But I don’t judge...
“Maybe, then.”
Bree’s pink clad arm snaps across the table and she smacks Jason’s shoulder. “Leave it to you to pique her interest.”
A sarcastic grin tugs at Jason’s lips. “That’s because you don’t know how to sell it, B. She’s probably scared you were planning on Zombie Twins.”
I don’t make an effort to hide the relief in my voice. “You weren’t?”
Bree’s laugh is bright enough to light a dark room. “Not this year.” Then she sobers, and nudges me. “Look who’s coming this way.”
Alex, holding his tray in front of him like a method of defense, negotiates his way around the drinks cart, and almost clears the In Crowd’s ring of tables. Almost. Ally Rhodes, looking more perfect than I ever would after gym class, pops up from her seat and hurries over to Alex. She coos something not quite audible, then hooks her arm around his and takes his tray from him.
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair, watching him be dragged away.
He looks back over his shoulder, hood obscuring half his face when he shrugs. I lift one eyebrow and one shoulder. Doesn’t bother me that he’s falling prey to a girl placing bets on him. He wants to play Ally’s show pony, then let him. At the head table of the In Crowd, Ally motions imperiously for people to make room, then with one last glance at our table he settles in with them.
“Oo, girl,” Bree says, dragging out the -irl part. “That puppy’s going to get tired before you have a chance to play with him.”
“Who said I wanted to?” So I’m huffy. Sure, it’s my fault I let my hopes climb out of the hole Daniel isn’t buried in. Ally Rhodes booted them back in.
“Puppies as cute as that one don’t last in the window very long.”
“Awesome,” I deadpan. “At least you didn’t compare this moment to one of your stage productions.”
“No,” Jason cuts through the rising tension. “But I bet we could.”
The entire drama club leans toward center table, all pitching in play names that might match the new guy being sucked into the popular gang while secretly in love with the outcast. I tune them out, and chew each tater tot with force, trying to grind out my frustrations. My applesauce is woefully inadequate for stress chewing, though.
Uncapping my water bottle, I scoop up my tray and promise to call Bree after school.
She knows I mean I’ll call her after I leave the cemetery.
Tonight, I’ll really need the solace.
Chapter Four
Lunch was awkward. Fifth hour knocks awkward out of the park.
The classroom looks like the rest of the classes in the Sciences wing. A long black table stretches at the front of the room, with gas hook up for Bunsen burners at one end and a small sink at the other. Industrial grade gray flooring gleams beneath our feet, miniature versions of Mr. LaRue’s big lab table cluster in the back, and rows of wingtop desks march in formation between.
Our seats are not assigned in Dune Ecology. Mr. LaRue says we’re “up and running enough that assigned seating is a bother.” Which translates to a one-desk ring of empty space circling Asia Foley, who’s been coughing all day and is said to have puked between first and second hour. No one wants to get sick before the play-off game and dance on Saturday. It also means a free pass for Josh Mason to park his carrot top somewhere close, usually one seat over.
“So,” he says dropping into the vacant seat in front of mine. I suppress the urge to groan, but just barely. His gaze rakes me. “When’d you hire the guard dog?”
“Excuse me?” I arch one eyebrow despite my intentions to ignore him.
“Y’know…” He pulls his shirt collar onto the nest of his ginger curls. “Lurch. With his hood up?”
Wait. He thinks I asked Alex to run him off? My jaw clenches, I exhale an angry little puff I’m surprised doesn’t carry steam. My instinct is to deny it with enough venom to melt his exposed skin. I don’t need a guard dog, I can bite his ankles by myself. And I certainly wouldn’t hire the new guy. He…puts me on edge. Instead of denying Josh’s claim, I relax into our insult game.
“What?” I cup a hand to my ear mega-phone style. “I can’t hear you over the red in your hair.”
His brown eyes widen, eyebrows go up, too. Then a slow poison smile washes across his face. Not the response I was hoping for. Josh leans forward, his cologne assaulting my nose as I tilt in the opposite direction. His voice slips down in timbre when he whispers, “You know you like it.”
“Hardly.”
I’m tempted to tell him where he can shove his red hair, but I’ve tried that once. He grinned and offered to show me the hair already growing there. Cocky bastard won that round, and I’ve been playing catch-up ever since. At times I thought I hated him for not helping Daniel that night—maybe I just wanted to hate Josh because he didn’t fall. Either way, sniping at each other is our best way of coping with surviving Daniel’s loss.
Before I can formulate a good comeback, the door opens and Alex Franks walks in. He’s thinner than I thought, now that I see him without his leather jacket. His black hood and sleeves cover as much as possible, but still can’t camouflage the long lines of a swimmer’s build. Girls’ breaths catch classroom wide�
�Asia’s too, then she coughs a nasty wet bark of a sound. Josh snorts something less than nice, his grip white-knuckled on the edges of his desk.
Mr. LaRue’s dress shoes slap the floor as he hurries to take Alex’s transfer slip. Our new student must stand a head higher than the rail thin, balding teacher. He reaches one cuff-clad hand near the light switch to place his paperwork into the spidery waiting fingers. Above our heads the banks of fluorescent lights surge in brightness, a hum rising to a complaining pitch. The lights burn bright enough to sting my eyes, then die back to normal.
Heads tip up, faces turn toward the lighting fixtures. If possible, Alex sinks deeper into his hood. Mr. LaRue smoothes his tie, a nervous habit, and then says, “Welcome to Dune Ecology, Alex. Hopefully you’ll enjoy our many preservation projects.” He waves the papers toward the class in a vague gesture. “We have open seating.”
“But not open season,” Josh mutters just loud enough for Alex to hear. The pesky redhead shifts his bulk in between me and the front of the room, and then flings his legs across the aisle. His sneakers land with a bang in the seat opposite him.
I shove the back of his desk with a foot, sending the metal legs on a screeching skid far enough for Josh’s feet to drop from the seat. Alex turns his shadowed face toward us. And I’m sure I see a flicker of a grin, one that seems to radiate, “Game on” toward Josh. The air turns sharp between the two guys when Alex strides even with Josh and eyes him. Neither moves. Josh’s normal smirk shrivels, the corners of his mouth sinking when he curls his long legs back under his desk. Alex hikes his backpack and steps right to left over the seat, making a point to step through where Josh’s feet had been moments before.
He stands one aisle over, still eyeing Josh, who looks back and doesn’t respond. Satisfied, I guess, Alex walks one more desk back to the last empty seat outside of the sick zone around Asia, and directly across from me. My gaze is drawn to him, the smooth movements, and quiet confidence. As if Alex can feel me gawking, he turns his hood my way, and his calm smile falters. The earlier look of disbelief widens his eyes, then he blinks and ignores Josh. And me.
I can’t wrench my gaze away. Is his hood a human version of blinders on a horse? Or does he not want people looking in? The rumor mill pegs him as some kind of bad, even though what I’ve seen of him says different. Some part of me sings in his presence, and I don’t think I like it. Maybe his bad is my good?
Alex’s hood shifts slightly, I catch a glint of his eyes, a hint of a smile. Then he points toward our teacher like he knows I’m still staring at him.
Mr. LaRue stands behind the big lab table at the head of the room, talking about preservation projects and idly toying with a potted tuft of dune grass. The first day of class I’d run my thumb along the edge of one long green blade and cut myself to feel the sting. Anything was better than the empty ache ghosting behind me from class to class and screaming Daniel’s absence. Now, almost two months since that day, and four months after his fall, the edges of the void are numb—I’m not sure if they’ve expanded, or shrunk.
One phrase pulls me from my mulling: “joint project.”
Groans lift from the class, fluttering and wispy, then die. Eyes roll. Josh straightens in his chair, tosses a wolfy half-grin at me. Alex’s hood edges toward Josh, and his shoulders straighten.
“And I’ll be picking your partners.” Mr. LaRue says, sending a fresh volley of moans around the room. “Too many groups played on the beach last time instead of worked, and I don’t want it going on tomorrow.”
Josh’s hand stabs the air above his head. Papery whispers lift from our teacher’s desk as he rifles around. When he looks up, his eyes narrow on the fish-flesh white hand waving above Josh’s head. He has the attention of the entire class. Even Asia looks our way after she barks another seal-sounding cough. Mr. LaRue heaves a sigh and gives a minute shake of his head.
“No, Josh. No special treatment for members of sports teams…”
Red curls slide from his face as Josh turns and stares over his shoulder. The possessive glance skims my face before he arches an eyebrow and needles a glare at the side of Alex’s hood. Dread uncoils in my gut.
Please don’t put me with Josh, I pray silently. Please don’t saddle me with the egotistical, red-headed, pain in my—
“Tamara Abernathy,” calls our teacher, “and Scott Ames.”
He continues down the alphabetical list he doesn’t use for seating, making it a hit list of class partners doomed to epic failures. Two pairings in and Josh Mason realizes he won’t be harassing me, and lets out a heavy groan. He’ll be paired with Shane Lowenstein or Kinnely Minor, both major competition for his prized pitcher’s position on the baseball team and two of his least favorite people.
My mind stumbles down the attendance list, scrambling to figure out who I’ll be paired with before the teacher calls out, “Asia Foley and Alex Franks. Then, Emma Gentry and Shane Lowenstein.”
A horrid retching noise bursts from Asia, sitting in her purgatory of empty seats, like a giant cat bringing up a hairball. Then she leaps from her seat and runs as far as the trash can before puking. A wet, sour smell fills the air, and two people in the front row gag on the stink. Asia slumps to her knees, loops her thin, dark arms around the battered can and hurls again. Mr. LaRue calmly makes a notation in his list, pulls out a hall pass and hands it to her after her third upchuck.
“Then that makes Alex Franks and Emma Gentry.” Josh lets out a hiss of air. Alex inhales, then his profile softens in a smile. He turns his head enough for Josh and I to see into his hood and his grin turns to an “aw, poor you” expression aimed at Josh. When our teacher calls the next pairing, I can’t help but giggle. Vicious and short, but it happens. “Shane Lowenstein and Josh Mason.”
After that lethal partnership is announced, our teacher ushers Asia out of the room with a hand near her back. Expectancy hovers heavy and foglike in the room. He returns to his list, and announces partners while nudging the garbage can full of vomit into the hall. A pairing, and a screech of metal on linoleum. Splashing sounds and stench. A pairing, and a screech…
By the time the door closes on the offensive can, I’m half sick from the smell and noise. Partners peek at each other from their desks, except for Josh and Shane, who are intensely, seethingly ignoring each other, and me and Alex. Part of me wants to look at him, brush back his hood and see what he’s hiding.
The edges of my hollowed heart quiver.
My gaze plummets to my hands, folded over my notebook, a pale heart still marring the summer tan across the back of my hand. I’d worn a broken-heart rub-on tattoo mourning Daniel all summer, and the sun had burned a negative of the image into my skin.
Thankfully, our teacher wheels a TV stand to the front of the room, presses play on the DVD player and turns off the lights. An educational video rolls on the screen, the stark beauty of Lake Michigan’s dunes, the fragile ecosystem, the erosion destroying them. I recognize the gritty wind, the cutting grasses, and the sunlit sky. I have an abrasive heartache, and biting guilt now, because some part of me thrilled to the new partnership with Alex like a forgotten instrument singing under a touch.
I shift my eyes to the dune grass sitting in its pot on the black expanse of tabletop. My thumb aches to feel its bite again.
#
After last hour, the halls fill with the surge and press of bodies. Sounds mix in a cacophony of locker doors banging, and voices trying to heard over every other. Perfumes have softened, colognes are weaker.
Well, they were until Josh strolls up to my locker reeking of a fresh layer of some dark-bottled knockoff cologne. He leans against Alex’s locker. Damned if I don’t appreciate the annoyance he represents. At least my heart doesn’t want to feel when Josh is around. “Your guard dog have some kinda magick? Never saw a more timely spew in my life.”
“Really? All eighteen years of it?” I ram my shoulder into my stubborn locker. “Let me get your walker with the tennis balls on the front. Yo
u’re just stooped over with experience.”
“Right after I get you protective gear for when your dog turns against you.”
“So says he who’s jealous.” I glare at my lock, spit a swear word under my breath and spin the combination again.
“Resulting to Yoda Speak, Emma?” He crosses his arms, duffle bag at his feet.
“He might’ve been a shriveled up green dude…” My knuckles scream after I punch my locker. “But Yoda was a brilliant Jedi master.”
“You are such a geek.” Fingers stroke over my hair after Josh scoops up his bag and walks behind me. “See ya tomorrow, Gentry.”
“Can’t seem to get away from you if I tried.” I turn and spin the locker combination into my lock. Still nothing. My books drop to the floor, security deposits be damned. I flex my fingers and grab the lock again. Another failed attempt.
Tingles brush across my skin, a whisper of electricity. The weight of a glance presses on my neck a moment before, “Here, let me,” comes over my shoulder in a soft tenor voice.
Alex Franks. Dune Eco partner and locker neighbor.
My shoulders slump in defeat. I lift my hand from my lock, catching a glimpse of the white broken heart near my wrist when I do. My gaze lifts to the face hidden in the shadows of Alex’s hood as if pulled there by a magnetic force. Bemused expression. Full lips under a slightly crooked nose, hazel eyes. Mismatched hazel, even, one darker than the other with a deeper green ring around the iris and…
Alex blinks, and turns to look at my lock. An odd sensation of reeling myself back from some ledge fills me. He taps the dial, spins the numbers from memory and pushes each in, then bumps the door with his hip. The locker eases open like I didn’t just punch a dent into its door because it staunchly refused to work for me.
“Thanks,” I say. “This is getting to be a habit.”