by Rachel Rust
“I’m fine,” I said.
“What’re you doing after school? Finally got my new car last night. We could go for a ride or something.”
“What kind of car did you get?” Nina asked.
Alex grinned. “Mustang. Fresh off the lot. Even gotta peel the plastic off the seats myself.”
It took every ounce of restraint I had not to roll my eyes right in front of him.
Alex wasn’t smug about his family’s money; he was just clueless. It was like he sincerely didn’t realize he was richer than everyone else. For the rest of us, a new car meant scouring the lots for the cheapest vehicle possible, or—as was the case with my Frankie—getting a parental hand-me-down.
Alex nudged my arm. “C’mon, let me take you for a ride. Get your mind off last night.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because I didn’t want to be alone in a car with him, that was why not. He was cute and single—and smelled faintly of the cologne counter at Macy’s. Put me alone in a car with him and things were bound to happen. My hormones said “Why not?” but my head said “Hell no.” Alex had been alone in a car with a lot of girls. And I was in no rush to be just another notch on a bed post … or a dashboard.
I closed my locker. “Sorry, I can’t tonight.”
Alex’s face grew tight. He pushed himself off the locker to his full upright height of well over six feet. His lanky basketball-playing figure walked away without another word.
“You know,” Nina said, as we walked down the hall, “if you don’t accept one of his dates soon, he’s going to stop asking.”
I let loose a single laugh. “Maybe that’s my plan.”
“What’s wrong with dating Alex?”
“I don’t know, but I also don’t want to find out the hard way.”
“He’s cute.”
I made a face. “Don’t remind me.”
We broke out into giggles as we entered our homeroom. On the far side of the room near the windows, a group of students gathered. I migrated their direction, having no idea what they’d be looking at. The only thing beyond the classroom window was the football field and a small group of metal bleachers. Beyond those … grassland. Nothing but an amber sea of South Dakota monotony.
At the back of the crowd, I went up on my tip toes, stretching my five-foot-four frame as tall as it would go in order to become the newest window-gazing lemming. Three men stood in front of the bleachers, talking with their hands moving all around. One of them was Coach Donnelly, the gym teacher and basketball coach who looked like an old, fat Bruno Mars. The other two men were cops: Sergeant Rollins and Milo or Leo—Nina’s whatshisname cousin.
Rollins pointed at something on the bleachers. They all moved forward to inspect.
“What’s going on?” My friend Taya Pearce appeared beside me, her small voice as perky as her pixie black hair and tiny boobs.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Cops are out by the bleachers.”
Taya opened her mouth to reply—always quick to spit out an opinion—but before she could make a sound, the morning bell rang out. A shrill reverberation, followed by a grainy recording of the school’s fight song.
Everyone scrambled to their seats as our homeroom teacher, Mr. B, put his hands up in a silent plea for orderliness. But the ongoing buzz from the class did not quiet down. In every direction, whispered conversations were being had. I wanted to think they were all about presence of the cops at school and whatever was happening outside by the bleachers. But the number of eyes shifting my direction told me that I—The Girl Who Nearly Died—was the topic du jour.
The unwanted attention reminded me of my first day at Thorn Creek High last year, when I had been the new girl in town. A fresh face with pasty skin and cartoon hair, worthy of gawking and mocking in the hallways.
A year later, country life was still not for me. Too much wind, too few shoe stores. I was no expert on South Dakota geography, but was pretty sure there was a road or two that led back to Minneapolis.
****
The lunch room buzzed as people moved all around, precariously carrying trays here and there—one misstep from a lifetime of mortifying memories. I sat down next to Taya, and her big brown eyes glued to me. “I’ve decided to have a barbeque at my house tomorrow night to help kick off the boys’ basketball season. Do you think you could help?”
“Sure. You want me to make something?”
She laughed.
It was smart of her to rebuff my offer of cooking. My skills were limited to “just add water.”
Across from me, Nina sat down, then made a face as she pulled a lock of her long black hair out of the pudding on her plate. She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. No joke. Her thick, silky hair and heavily-lashed eyes made me look at my thin hair and wispy lashes with nothing but disdain. The girl could clip her hair to the side with a single bobby pin and look put together. I could spend hours in front of my mirror with my dull red hair, only to result in nothing but dull red hair. And a lot of frustration.
“Taya’s having a barbeque tomorrow,” I told Nina.
“I know,” she said, using a napkin to clean her hair. “Daniel’s going to man the grill.”
“Of course he is.”
Taya and Nina laughed. Daniel Alvarez was Nina’s boyfriend of two years. If there was anything remotely manly to be done, Daniel stepped up. Tall, husky, and funny, everyone loved him. And he loved the attention.
I couldn’t understand how someone could date the same guy for two years. When it came to guys, it usually took only two seconds to find a million things that made me want to walk away: an annoying laugh, a misspelled word in a text, or the way he held a fork. Seriously, I didn’t know why it was so hard for some guys to use a fork without looking like a caveman clutching a rock.
Anyway, despite my high standards, I had managed to tolerate annoying boy habits in the past. My first boyfriend was Tyler. He was pretty cool. We met in cooking class when we were fifteen. We’d burned a cake together. He was also the first boy to ever touch my boobs, which I didn’t find nearly as thrilling as women in movies did, with their sighing and gasping for air. But, it didn’t matter in the end because he’d moved to Wyoming. I never heard or felt from him again.
The only other boyfriend I had ever had was Shane. He was from Shadville, a small town thirty minutes north of Thorn Creek. We went out for half my sophomore year. He was fun and a popular baseball player. And super cute. I had liked him. A lot.
I’d lost my virginity to him, that was how much I liked him. It had happened on Christmas Eve.
Worst. Christmas. Gift. Ever.
The next day—Christmas!—he had dumped me for a girl named Kayla, a Shadville cheerleader. I had still been sore when he’d walked away. I had to celebrate the holiday feigning joy while my insides crumbled; I’d held back tears as my unsuspecting parents had heaped piles of presents onto me.
I stabbed my fork into a piece of ravioli and pressed down until its innards slipped between the prongs.
“Have you seen him yet?” Taya asked Nina. The sound of her chipper voice snapped me out of my self-pity.
“I saw him this morning,” Nina said. “He was walking into school with Daniel.”
“I can’t believe he actually moved back.”
My eyes twitched back and forth between them. “Who are you guys talking about?”
There was a pause. “No one,” they said in unison.
Before I could object to being left clueless, a form slid into the chair next to me. “Hi, Lance,” I said.
Lance Two Bulls combed a hand through his shoulder-length black hair and plopped his phone down in front of him. He hit the red Record button of its voice recorder. As the main reporter for the school newspaper, Lance never went anywhere without it. “Any thoughts on the football bleachers?” he asked.
“What happened to them?”
“You didn’t hear? They were tagged. Tons of stuff spray painted all
around ’em, including a few choice phrases about Principal Jackson being in need of … um, a certain male body part.”
Nina and I laughed.
“Penis,” Taya said. “It’s okay, Lance, you can say it. And it’s true, she does need to get laid.”
Lance’s tan cheeks turned the same shade of red as the record button on his phone. “Any—anyway,” he stuttered, “any thoughts?”
“It’s probably some idiots from Shadville,” Nina said. “Upset because our basketball team is going to kick their butts this weekend.”
Lance’s face dropped. “That’s too boring.”
“Too boring for what?”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “The state’s High School Journalism Association gives out awards in the spring. This school vandalism thing has me thinking that maybe I’ll have a story interesting enough to submit. So I hope it’s more exciting than just a school rivalry situation, because an award from the HSJA would be awesome for college applications.”
“Okay … maybe it’s mafia-related,” Nina said with a laugh.
“Or maybe aliens did it,” Taya added.
Lance rolled his eyes, turning to me. “How about you, Lydia? What are your thoughts on the spray paint?”
“I don’t know,” I said, grateful he wasn’t asking me about the shooting. “It could’ve been anyone, maybe not even a student.”
“An adult?”
“Sure, people do stupid things into adulthood. Some guy who got kicked out of school years ago, still holding a grudge. Or some drunk college guy from Pierre being dared by his friends.”
Taya raised her hand. “I vote drunk college guy.”
Lance laughed. An hour from Thorn Creek was Pierre, the state capital and home to Central Dakota University. The campus was known for churning out an occasional drunken frat boy who would wander into town, piss on fences, and pass out in the park.
I couldn’t wait to get to college.
“What do you think’s going on?” Taya asked Lance.
Lance half-smiled, ending the recording on his phone before answering. “I think it’s an awful lot of coincidence.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The gas station getting shot up wasn’t the only interesting thing that happened last night.”
“What else happened?”
Lance glanced at Nina and Taya, then looked back at me. “The past returned.”
Chapter Four
And He’s Back
School had never been my thing. Academics I could handle, but it was the hallway gossip and school spirit bullshit that made me wanna set fire to the entire structure. The high school I’d gone to down in Denver had over three thousand students. For an entire year, I had been a random face in the crowd. I liked life like that.
But at Thorn Creek High, even after a year of desertion, everyone knew my face. And I knew the faces around me. People didn’t move in and out of small towns very often. The students I had gladly left behind one year ago were still here at the school. Some faces had changed, matured from baby fat to chiseled. Some people had gotten taller. Some of the skinny girls had finally grown tits.
My friends—the couple I had—were still my friends, even after a year apart. But the rest of the student body I ignored, shoved away into my peripheral vision as I walked down the hallways, avoiding eye contact and avoiding conversation.
Throughout my first day back, people scattered around me, voices hushed—faculty included. Every bit of silence was a reminder. But I didn’t need a reminder of my reputation. And I certainly didn’t need a reminder of how everyone felt about me. People didn’t like having their cars messed with, their buildings vandalized … or their bank blown up.
Yeah. The bank.
I shoved that damn bricked building out of my mind as quickly as it had appeared.
I couldn’t really blame the town for its hatred of me, but I was still hoping for a new start. I wasn’t going for likeability—that door had been slammed in my face long ago—just the hope that if I ignored the town, it would return the favor and ignore me as well. But so far, the nonstop glares—and my fists’ urge to punch back at them—told me that might not be a realistic plan.
At the end of the school day, my blue Nike duffel bag stared back at me from the bottom of my locker. I had played basketball since before I could remember. People said I was good, but I didn’t like compliments. I just liked to play. When I was on the court, the rest of the world disappeared.
A firm hand slapped my back, rocking me forward a few inches.
“C’mon, man,” my friend Daniel said. “Coach Donnelly’s got little patience this year for people being late.”
Daniel had already changed into his basketball practice attire, including the standard white-and-blue practice jersey of the Thorn Creek High Mustangs. His mop of black hair hung across his eyes. He had worn his hair like that since kindergarten, and I had given him shit over it just as long.
“Seriously,” I said. “Either cut your damn hair or grow it all the way out.”
“The ladies love it like this,” Daniel said as he ran blackened fingers over his head. He had a busted-ass Suburban that barely ran. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw him not stained with black grease.
Nina White Eagle approached Daniel from behind and threw her arms around his stomach—a stomach that preferred food over athletics. “What other ladies?” she asked, sticking out her bottom lip in a fake pout.
“The old ladies.”
Nina laughed, then turned to me. “Glad to have you back.”
“Thanks.” I had heard a similar phrase from some teachers throughout the day but hadn’t believed any of them.
I grabbed my duffel bag and headed for the gym. Daniel followed.
Some guys were already warming up on the court, and Daniel joined them. I continued to the locker rooms, walking right past Coach Donnelly without a word. I chose a locker at the end of the furthest row, as far away from the other players as possible. I pulled my Nike t-shirt off and threw it onto the top shelf of the locker.
“Stone!” a low voice called out, reverberating off the concrete walls.
Alex DeMarco walked my way. I had hoped his stupid blond mohawk would’ve been buzzed down with clippers at some point during the past year. But it was still there, sitting on Alex’s head like a razor of idiocy.
“You talk to Donnelly about whether you’re gonna play this weekend?” Alex asked.
“Not yet.”
“He’ll play ya.”
“Don’t count on it.” I threw on my jersey. Number thirty-three. The same as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I had worn thirty-three for everything: basketball, baseball, and even during my one year of lacrosse when I was eight. Maybe I should’ve be grateful for Coach Donnelly letting me have my old number back, but Donnelly didn’t give a damn about my number. It was by sheer luck that no one else had claimed it while I was gone.
Screw Donnelly.
“You had a twenty-two-point average down in Denver last year,” Alex said. “How could Donnelly not put you in?”
“You and I both know why.”
“Yeah, well, that’s water under the bridge, right?” Alex asked.
What bridge? A year away hadn’t magically built any bridge over the raging waters I had churned up between myself and Coach Donnelly. I was just glad he had allowed me back on the team at all.
“DeMarco! Let’s go!” Donnelly called out from the locker room door.
Alex immediately pivoted and jogged out of the room, always quick to abide by coach’s commands.
How I was friends with such a rule-follower, I had no idea. But I had been friends with both Alex and Daniel since the first day of kindergarten; the day Daniel had pushed me off the swings and I’d retaliated by shoving him into a trash can—and then Alex had snitched on us to the teacher. Eleven years later, the three of us were still giving each other shit. But if not for them, I’d have no one. Besides my aunt and uncle, Alex and
Daniel were the only people who had kept in contact with me while I had been in Colorado. For everyone else, it was like I had ceased to exist—and they were okay with that.
I stared at the open locker, listening to the lingering murmur of conversation from a group of guys in the next aisle of lockers. Their voices were lowered, but the narrative was loud and clear: There was a returning player, and despite his skills on the court, he was not welcomed back.
One of the voices belonged to Brandon Merdoch whose mom worked at the bank. Brandon hadn’t spoken to me in over two years, not since the day the north corner of the bank came crumbling down into a pile of bricks and dust.
I closed my eyes and shoved the image from my head. That stupid fucking bank. My hand slammed the locker door shut and I turned on my heel. I shoved open the back door of the locker room which led to the side of the school. The cool October air hit my bare arms, chilling me head to toe.
The side of the school was twenty feet from the side of the post office next door. There were no windows on either building facing that space, and the grass between the two was littered with cigarette butts and a few chewing gum wrappers thanks to truant students and disgruntled postal employees chain smoking on their breaks.
Back and forth, my feet paced along the littered grass, hands on hips. I breathed deeply, then held my breath for a few seconds on each exhale. It was a breathing technique a school counselor had taught me back in sixth grade. I still used it on a regular basis to calm myself down, though I never admitted that to anyone.
When the pacing became too monotonous, I slumped down against the school’s brick façade, closing my eyes, exploring my options. Go home. Go back to the gym. Drive out of town and never return. My head relaxed back, thumping against the side of the school with more force than expected. “Fuck it.”
The gym door had no exterior handle, so I walked around to the front of the building, forcing my feet to keep moving toward the school’s front doors, even though I knew damn well nothing good awaited.
Chapter Five
She’s Struck