Wicked Hunger (Someone Wicked This Way Comes)

by DelSheree Gladden

  “No,” I say, sounding a little strangled. “I dance, though, so I’m not totally uncoordinated.”

  Noah smiles. I kick the back of my foot on accident and stumble forward. Red flushes my face. Yeah, I totally look coordinated. Noah’s smile brightens some, but he doesn’t say anything. I remind myself not to take his talkativeness at face value. He may think he saved my life, but at some point he’ll realize what really happened and bolt. I can’t let myself believe he really wants to be my friend. That kind of delusion will only end up in me getting hurt, again.

  In a moment of sudden paranoia, I wonder if Noah’s interest has anything to do with Ivy. Before I let myself get carried away on that unlikely train of thought, I remember why Noah’s last name seemed so familiar. He has an older sister that’s Zander’s age. She was friends with Lisa before…I shake my head and try not to think about that. Noah’s family has been here for years. I push away imagined connections and make a decision to end this conversation. Before I can say anything, Noah speaks again.

  “I can show you a little about martial arts sometime. I’m not really sure how to make a whole scene out of it, but we can get started at least.”

  It would almost be sweet, if I believed his motive weren’t born from saving me and now feeling responsible in some way. That will wear off soon enough. We’re right in front of Ms. Collins’ door when I stop and turn to face him.

  “Look, Noah, you don’t have to be nice to me just because of what happened in the alley. You don’t even have to work with me. I’m sure if you tell Mr. Littleton you want to do something on your own, he’ll let you. I know you’ve heard about me. Regardless of what happened the other night, I’m still the same girl everyone tries to avoid. Thank you for helping me, but you and I both know this isn’t going to work.”

  “I…what?” Noah looks rather taken aback.

  I sigh, frustrated by this whole conversation. “I just don’t want to be the subject of your curiosity, or pity, or whatever it is that’s making you talk to me.”

  “It’s not any of that stuff,” Noah argues. “I just want to talk to you, get to know you better. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Because nobody ever just wants to get to know me,” I admit. “You have to have heard the rumors about me. Everyone has.”

  Noah shrugs. “Sure, I’ve heard them, but they’re just rumors. I don’t believe everything I hear in the halls.”

  My sigh startles me with its profoundness. Just like in the alley, he’s blind to the truth. Sadness I wasn’t prepared for brings tears to my eyes. I turn away from him and say, “Well you should believe the rumors. They’re true.”

  I must have shocked him pretty good, because Noah doesn’t follow me into the room right away. He’s a good fifteen or twenty seconds behind me. There are two empty desks on the opposite side of the room. Those should be his goal, but Noah surprises me by slipping into the desk next to me. He doesn’t say anything, but he does look over at me when he sits down. A few more students file in, and class gets started. I find it completely impossible to focus with Noah looking over at me every few minutes with his crisp green eyes. Eventually, I settle for hunkering down in my chair and pretending I can’t see him.

  Normally, I’m pretty happy to get out of math class, since algebra isn’t my favorite subject, but as I watch the clock wind its way toward the bell, a nervous flutter starts growing in my stomach. What is Noah going to say…or do? His possible reactions are all I can think about as the last few seconds tick by.

  When the bell rings, I stay seated half a second longer than everyone else. It feels like I’m moving on autopilot when I finally stand and sling my bag onto my shoulder. The sound of Noah’s voice almost makes me jump.

  “What do you have next?”

  “PE,” I say, risking a look at his expression.

  He seems disappointed. “I’ve got history.”

  “Okay.” I’m not really sure what he expects me to say to that. I’m not even sure why he’s still talking to me.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  I stare at him, confused. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and heads for the door.

  It takes me a minute longer to start walking. That was so weird. I have no idea what was going on inside his head. Did he not believe me? I spend the next class thinking about him. He seems to be stuck there. Even Zander notices my preoccupation as he drives me to the dance studio after school. He tries to ask me what’s wrong, but I shrug off his concern. I’m not actually sure anything is wrong.

  When we roll to a stop in front of the studio, I hop out still thinking of Noah. My confusion over him sticks tight until I hit the studio door. That’s when my focus shifts completely. I can’t think about Noah and his odd behavior. Ivy will be here tonight. I spin back around to look for Zander’s truck. I have to warn him not to come in, but he’s already gone. My phone is in my hand as I hurry into the studio.

  My thumbs start tapping out a message, but I pause, not sure what to say. If I come out and say Ivy will be here, that might pique his interest and draw him in. That would put him and everyone else in danger. There would be witnesses if anything happened. Witnesses mean Zander being taken away from me. I decide against mentioning Ivy. The message I send simply says that I might be getting out of class late and he should just wait for me in the truck. That should keep everyone safe. I stuff my phone in my bag and rush to get set up for my first class, thoughts of Ivy stomping around my head.

  This will be my chance to find out what happened yesterday. Ivy is smart, and sly. It’s going to take all my focus to get her to slip up. If I’m right about Ivy, exposing her could mean everything for Zander. It could mean his sanity, his freedom, even his life.

  My first class passes quickly, a hurricane of miniature tutus bounding around the room. It always seems like they don’t actually learn anything during classes, because they’re always more interested in being silly and playing with each other than doing what I say, but they always surprise me the next class by remembering the new steps I taught them.

  A dozen hugs later, I hand the last little ballerina off to her mom and take a deep breath. I know I have a few minutes to get set up for the next class before they all start filing in, but I leave the ballet bars in the middle of the room and peek out into the lobby. Ivy was true to her word. The mere sight of her instantly revives my hunger.

  “Van,” someone calls, drawing my attention down the hall. I flinch when I see the mother of a little girl I moved out of my class last week.

  “Mrs. Earl, how nice to see you. How is Bella liking tap?”

  “She’s just loving it! Thank you for suggesting the move. I think it was the right call,” she says happily.

  “Great. I’m glad to hear that.” I make an excuse and hurry back to class, feeling a little guilty.

  I didn’t move Bella from ballet to tap because she wasn’t enjoying ballet. I moved her because my hunger couldn’t handle having her in class. Unfortunately, that happens fairly often.

  As I move the free standing bar out from the middle of the room, I glance out the door at Ivy again. She sits on a folding chair looking more than a little bit nervous. She’s not the only one. I feel like I’m going to either throw up or lose it. Just looking at her is torture. Even after my pit stop in the boxing gym earlier today, I feel like I am starving.

  The only thing I can think about besides hurting her is that she’s wearing a tight workout shirt with sleeves that go down to her elbows. She’s definitely hiding whatever Zander did to her. I desperately want to see her injury. Thank goodness class is about to start, because it’s the only thing that’s going to keep me from going for her throat.

  Rushing over to the stereo, I change playlists on my iPod to something less Nutcracker and more Shakira. The bass beat of the dance music thumps against the walls, a clear signal for the next class to come on in. Which they do. Most of them are teenagers and college students, but there’s a f
ew middle aged moms who bravely come shake it on a regular basis. They’re pretty good, actually. I greet most of them with a grin and a comment here or there. When Ivy walks in, though, all I can do is wave at her from a distance and head to the front of the class.

  “Alright, ladies. This is the last week we’re working on this routine. You’ve all learned this one really well, so we should be able to get through without stopping very often. We’ll have a new routine and music next week, so let me see you put everything you’ve got into class tonight.”

  They all smile and start bouncing back and forth in time with the music. The last few weeks of a routine are always my favorite. There’s very little stopping and demonstrating. They’ve spent two months learning this dance, and finally being able to bust it out without stopping is a great feeling. It’s going to save me with Ivy tonight. If I had to spend a lot of down time going over steps, I’m not sure I would be able to leave her alone.

  Speaking of Ivy, though…. “We’ve got a couple new people with us tonight. Just follow me or the person in front of you, and do your best to keep up. If you get lost, just keep dancing. The steps aren’t as important as staying active.”

  Ivy knows I’m talking to her, and nods. That’s really the last I think of her. I crank the music up as loud as I’m allowed to go with ballet classes down the hall, and face the mirror. I can see everyone behind me take their places as well. My knee pulses in time with the music as I listen for the beat. When I find it, I signal the group behind me and count up to eight. The next beat after I say eight, everybody’s knees pop up, a nice high stepping march that leads right into a series of low hops and arm movements. It’s a low energy start and I quickly find it hard to keep myself from losing the beat and speeding up the dance. It’s torture to lead them through the warm up phase with so much energy and hunger trapped inside of me.

  As we near the end of the first song, I say, “Alright, it’s time to pick up the pace. Keep your kicks in check, I don’t want anyone hyperextending anything, and don’t forget your arms. The more your body’s moving, the more calories you’re burning. Here we go, five, six, seven, eight!”

  The tempo jumps from a modest one-twenty up to a faster one-forty as we take the first step forward. My chest drops into a curl and rolls back up like a whip that’s been snapped. My arms swing left to right then pump back and forth as my hips swivel with the music. The music seeps into me and draws out my hunger and craving in a way nothing else can. I’m completely lost in it. I push my body, exhausting the muscles that are constantly screaming at me to use them for more than walking. Sweat is dripping down my back and chest, but I love it because it takes a little of my curse with it as it rolls away.

  When the music finally starts to drop back down, I let my body come back to normal as well. I find my voice again and start leading the class through a cool down routine. The high I’ve been riding begins to dissipate, but at this point I’m too spent to worry about it. I even risk a glance back at Ivy to see how she’s doing. Sweat is beaded across her forehead as well, and she looks exhausted, but she actually manages to keep up with the steps pretty well. We finish up with a few basic stretches and everyone claps happily at the end of the class.

  Physical exhaustion doesn’t erase my hunger, but it makes it much harder for my body to respond to its call. It’s the main reason Grandma pushes Zander and I to participate in sports year-round. Drained enough, now, that I can safely approach Ivy, I walk toward her. I stop a good five feet away just as a precaution, however.

  “So how’d you like the class?” I ask. The buzz of hunger wriggling under my skin forces me to take another step back despite my weariness.

  “It was great,” she says with a smile. “I haven’t danced in ages. It felt really good.”

  I can’t see any way to get her to pull her sleeve up, but I’m still as determined as ever to find out more about her meeting with Zander. I can’t take being around her for too long, though, so I need to come up with something fast. If I can’t see the damage, I at least want to know how bad it was. As a plan begins to form in my mind, I take a risk and move closer.

  “You never said what kind of dance you used to do.”

  Ivy blushes faintly. She seemed to avoid the topic earlier, so I suspected she was either lying or didn’t want to admit her hobbies. “I did clogging, actually. My friend got me into it.”

  Finding the opening I had hoped for, I flick my hand against Ivy’s arm—cringing away right after when my hunger spikes—and say, “Are you embarrassed?”

  She flinches, something I don’t miss. She didn’t cry out, so it can’t be too bad, but it has had a day to heal. I’m a pretty good judge of pain. Bruises, none to the deep muscle, but Zander left a bad enough mark that it’s still stinging today. If it were me, that wouldn’t have been a big deal. I mess up on that level all the time. For Mr. Master of Control, this is a huge deal.

  “Well, clogging is kind of unusual,” Ivy says.

  “It’s not that weird. I’ve known people who’ve done clogging before.” Ivy stands up with her bag, forcing me to inch a little farther away to maintain my buffer.

  “Sure, whatever.” Ivy laughs. “I liked this a lot better. I think I’ll keep coming, if that’s okay?”

  I have to swallow a chunk of panic blocking my airway. Keep her close, find out her secrets, expose her to Zander. I have to do it. Somehow. For now, I take a few more subtle steps back. “Sure. Glad you liked it.”

  Ivy gathers up her gym bag and shoulders it. I take the lead and start walking toward the lobby. “So, is this the only hip hop class you teach? I’d like to come more than once a week if I can. I really enjoyed it,” Ivy says.

  “No,” I say through my thinning control. My eyes are fastened on the door, begging for escape at this point. I have to find a better way to deal with her before the next class. There has to be something that will help. “I teach a class on…”

  “Van?” a voice calls out. The single word, and vaguely familiar voice, tramples on my focus and I lose my train of thought. I glance around and stop, completely dumbfounded when my eyes land on Noah holding a little girl clad in tap shoes on his hip. I know my mouth is open, but I can’t seem to close it. Noah laughs.

  “I thought that was you. What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Uh, I work here. What are you doing here?”

  He points at the little girl with the same caramel hair as his. “Picking up my little sister, Amelia. She takes tap with Miss Bethany.”

  “Did she just start?” I ask. I’m sure I would have remembered seeing Noah here before.

  “No, she’s been coming for about a year and a half, but my mom usually picks her up,” Noah explains. “She and my dad went out tonight, so she asked me to do it instead. I had no idea you worked here.”

  “I, um…”

  I can’t think of anything to say to him. Ivy elbows me, sending a bolt of hunger through my body that nearly doubles me over. I take a hurried step away from her. My body isn’t tired enough to ignore that much contact. Her jab did jumpstart my brain, however.

  “Well, it was nice seeing you, Noah…”

  Ivy walks past me, obviously trying to give us some privacy, but not before grinning and mouthing, “He’s hot!”

  I notice she doesn’t go far. The five feet she moved keeps her well within hearing range, but thankfully cuts down on my hunger. I just wonder whether Ivy is lingering out of curiosity, or hope of gathering a little more information about me. Either way, at least she’s not standing next to me anymore. I turn my back on Ivy, hopefully blocking Noah from her view.

  “So,” Noah interrupts, “we still need to get together sometime and figure out what we’re going to do for our English project.”

  I look down, honestly confused by him. Does he really want to be around me? The hope that he is being honest is too much to bear. Knowing I may be making a big mistake, but suddenly lacking the will to walk away, I say, “Uh, I guess.”


  “Cool. Maybe we could get together this weekend.”

  I watch Noah carefully for some sign of deceit. Could he really mean what he says?

  If he really intends to complete this project with me, we’ll have to work on it eventually. His interest seems honestly genuine, and it does help that he really is hot. Guilt for such a thought pokes at me as Ketchup’s image forms in my mind. I push them both away quickly.

  “This weekend?” I say to Noah. “I guess that would be okay.”

  I can always back out later if I need to.

  “We should exchange numbers,” Noah says. When I wrinkle my nose at him, he backtracks. “I mean, I know I’ll see you in class tomorrow, but just in case something comes up, I could call you.”

  “Already planning to cancel on me?” I ask, my suspicion growing.

  Noah doesn’t get flustered. He just smiles back. “Not at all, just trying to make sure I have a way to get a hold of you in case you try to back out.”

  That actually makes me laugh. He’s quicker than I gave him credit for. I don’t understand his willingness to work with me, but I find myself willing to give him a chance. “Give me your phone.”

  He hands it over willingly. I put my number in his phone and hand it back to him.

  “Now yours,” he says, holding his hand out for my phone.

  I shake my head and give it to him. When he sets it back in my hand, he takes the extra step to close my fingers around it. I can’t seem to feel my hand at all. In fact, when Noah takes his hand away from mine, my fingers refuse to hold onto my phone. It starts to slip, but Noah catches both the phone and my hand.

  “Thanks,” I say, embarrassed.

  Noah looks like he’s about to say something, but his little sister speaks first. “Noah, I’m hungry. Can we get pizza on the way home?”