She’s taking the job seriously, is actually going to follow the sequential numbers and puzzle out the location of my locker. Guess she thinks I’m dumber than a box of rocks. Probably because she’s sure I don’t remember her. I choose not to. There’s a difference.
I hand over the schedule. Her fingers brush mine during the transfer and startle me. My heart doesn’t go pittypat. I don’t jizz my pants. But her hand is gentle, doesn’t jump away, and she smells fresh and slightly sweet. Like something I want to eat. I can’t quite place it, but she reminds me I’m hungry.
I don’t like it.
I pull my hand out of her reach, too fast, and she notices. I come off looking like a total jackhole. Terrific.
“This way,” she says, voice all soft and careful. I like that even less.
I fall in next to her and watch our feet, making sure my steps match the timing of hers. I appreciate her steady beat.
“I see on your schedule, you’re taking AP classes?” She’s surprised. So am I. V for Vivian is not only pulling my strings, but knotting them around my throat and making it easy for me to hang myself.
“There’s after school study groups if you’re interested?”
Not even a little bit.
Barbie nearly bursts into song when we find my locker. I expect her to douse me in pixie dust and ride off on a unicorn. Instead, she reads off my combination and when I just stand there, she dials it in, pops the lock, and swings the door open with an actual, “Ta-dah!” What in hell is happening right now?
I’ve obviously got nothing to put in the locker, except maybe her. I eye her up. She’s athletic looking, medium height, perfect set of curves. Aggravatingly pretty. I am tempted to prove she’ll fit inside the locker, slam the door on those bright blue eyes, pale blonde hair and sweet smell. My fingers twitch against my thigh. I drop ’em into my pockets to be safe. To keep both of us safe. I’m pretty sure shoving the student whoever-the-fuck in a locker would bring more trouble than I can afford.
“Homeroom?”
Unless she’s driving me there in an Aston Martin, I don’t understand the excitement. But I give her credit. She nods, even though I don’t, and keeps her kumbaya smile in place. Challenge accepted.
CHAPTER 4
Tia:
Stepping into English Lit fourth period, I catch myself hurrying. Taz is not the reason. He’s not. It’s just that … OK yes, Taz is the reason. I looked over his schedule and might have memorized it. We have this and lunch together, and I also know his locker combination. That doesn’t make me a creeper. I’m his student liaison.
Seriously. I don’t have the guts or energy to take on Gibson Tazmerek. This morning’s tour of the school was excruciating. He said NOT ONE WORD. He didn’t make a sound, not a cough, sniff, nothing. I couldn’t decide whether to smack him, hug him or run screaming. And yet, something about him calls to me. How stupid is that? I’m not Captain Barbossa. He’s not the last gold piece I need to lift the curse. But he sure is interesting.
I find Taz sitting at the back of the classroom. I’ve got my choice between the empty spot on either side of him, because my classmates are cowards. Since I’m a sucker for stray dogs, homeless kittens and angry boys who could use a friend, I snag the one on his left. I have a perfect view of the dark brown dot of a birthmark just above the corner of his mouth. It is double chocolate yummy, and his messy man bun is the cherry on top.
I’d like to deny it, but I’m fascinated by his scars. They tell a story I’m desperate to know. He’d be downright beautiful without them, but because of them, his face is fascinating.
I’m staring. I try not to, but I don’t fool either of us. His chin dips lower, his shoulders angle away and his left fist clenches into white knuckles on the empty desk. No notebook, pencil or pen in front of him, and his long legs stick out from under. It’s weird to see him so tall and rangely looking now. If he eats, it’s probably a diet of shoe leather and metal shavings.
I'm so preoccupied by him, I’m slow to hear Mr. Westin, and by the time I tune in, I’ve missed the explanation of the syllabus. He now tells us to partner up, interview each other and build a story for an eventual presentation of our own personal literary classic. Great. I know I’m getting Taz. Since no one else will risk him, I strap on my big girl pants, shove my desk against his, scoot my chair closer and pretend it’s no big he didn’t meet me halfway. And hasn’t acknowledged my presence. And looks like someone just scheduled him for a root canal.
He’s both the same and completely different from the boy I knew. I still remember he liked chunky peanut butter better than smooth, grape over strawberry and jam instead of jelly. That was a long time ago. Obviously, a lot has happened to him since then. Maybe he really doesn’t recognize me. Maybe I am THAT forgettable. But I am nothing if not optimistic, so I try a smile and a finger waggle.
He’s doing it again, fixating on the stain on my boob. I tried washing it out in the sink in the bathroom. I now have a giant wet spot surrounding a dark stain, as if my nipple exploded all over Spongebob. It’s still not making Taz happy. I’m convinced a lifetime supply of milkshakes wouldn’t make this grumpy boy happy.
I glance around and see that everyone is partnered up, chatting, scribbling notes and accomplishing something. I can’t afford to tank this class. Ten weeks ago, stockpiling college credits before graduation seemed a great way to get a head start. Ten weeks ago, I was googling campus housing instead of meatloaf recipes. Now I’m stuck taking a ton of AP classes with no time for studying or homework and destined to fail. English is one of my academic strengths, so I need to collect a decent grade.
Feeling guilty for thinking it, I wonder why Taz is in this class. He doesn’t strike me as a lover of plays and sonnets but no matter. Mr. Pouty Pants needs to grab the oars and contribute to my smooth sailing. With this in mind, I point at myself and say, “Me Tia.” Jabbing a finger into his chest, which is hard as concrete and bends my fingernail back, I say, “You Taz.” I repeat, “Taz, Tia. There. Now we’re acquainted, all friends, ready to spill our magic beans.”
His mouth ticks in at the corner. I’m not sure if we’re on the verge of a smile or a silent snarl, but holy jiminy crickets. I catch a glimpse of teeth and a front one is slightly chipped, just like my older brother. Which drives girls wild. According to Terek. Not me. I find nothing sexy about a defective tooth in an otherwise perfectly good smile. But I feel the barely there curve of his lips all the way down to my toes. Crap. His chipped tooth is effing sexy. Who knew?
“Ready to answer some questions?” I give Taz a second, reaffirm my vow to be a better person and refuse to get annoyed by his silence. Or give up. I need to attack this in a new way. I open my notebook to a blank page, slide it onto his desk and offer him a freshly sharpened pencil. “I’ll start. You write down answers. Deal?”
He finally looks at me and those eyes of his tear me apart. They’re the color of beach glass, a blue so pale it’s transparent, spectacularly framed in spiky black lashes. I am a slightly breathless and blushing idiot. His expression tells me he’s noticed and is not impressed.
I offer the pencil the same way I tempted Sam with a hot dog when I found him shivering behind the garbage cans as a puppy. It took patience, but despite nearly getting bit, I coaxed him out and earned a loyal buddie.
Not that I’m comparing Taz to the family dog. Well, yeah, I’m totally comparing him to the family dog, who hates baths and haircuts, loves belly rubs and now sleeps on the end of my bed. Not that I’m planning on giving Taz a bath, haircut or belly rub. Or having him anywhere near my bed. Although, I'd like to pet him. His hair looks super silky. I’ll stop now.
When he finally snatches the pencil from my fingers, I celebrate with a wiggle in my seat, and he physically recoils.
“First question …” I point my finger to the ceiling and consult the prepared list. “Define the parameters of your existence?”
No lie. That’s the actual question. Mr. Weston is not well lik
ed.
Taz jots one word on the paper, and I notice his handwriting is way better than mine. As he changes his mind and tries to cross out his answer, I read it aloud. “Survival.”
Seems a bit dramatic. I mean, our school and town might be small, a little backward, but it’s upstate NY. We’re not stranded on Gilligan’s Island.
Instead of handing me the pencil, he tosses it on my desk. It’s slightly rude. I give him a look but don’t comment, then write my answer beneath his. Six brothers and sisters. I expect a reaction, but he doesn’t so much as glance at what I wrote. I’m apparently forgettable and uninteresting. Are those the same?
I hold out the pencil, forcing him to accept it from me again, even when he doesn’t feel the need to hurry.
“Next question,” I plow ahead, maintaining a pleasant expression while I’d rather twist him by the ear. “What single event most impacted your life?”
His scowl hardens, tightens, rips at my seams and pulls out my stuffing. He writes, “No,” and presses so hard, he tears through the paper.
I get it. I do. These questions are not fun for a boy who’s obviously had a bumpy ride. I start to offer an encouraging pat, when he flings the pencil at me. Throws it at me, and it’s pointy, dangerously sharpened and you know what? His pissy attitude is not going to keep my sinking GPA afloat. If that’s how he’s going to be, maybe I’ll make up answers for him, and I might not be nice about it.
I’ve been nothing but the ideal student liaison, and I cannot tolerate another anchor dragging me down. I am the Titanic, carrying way too many people, not nearly enough life rafts, and the iceberg is inevitable and right up ahead.
I breathe in. Breathe out. Positive thinking leads down the path of success. Kindness knows no obstacles. I resisted killing the twins when they handed out my bras to neighborhood kids for water balloon slingshots. I took the chipmunk in the kitchen in stride. I can handle Taz.
I write, My dad’s car accident, and offer the pencil back. When he tries to grab it quick, I momentarily forget the rules of being a better person. I hang onto the pencil and tug, just a little, and those eyes zap me again. Ouch. My whole body tingles like a cracked funny bone. I make myself smile, and we both know I’m messing with him.
He shuts right down. That’s the end of progress with Taz. No more passing the pencil. No more answers. He’s done.
CHAPTER 5
Tia:
“I sit next to him in keyboarding,” says Trish and away we go.
“Y’all know I have allergies, right?” Trish is a setter on the volleyball team, a lovely brunette who should always wear a crown. She’s a bit of a drama queen. “I swear, there’s more dust than air in that classroom. So I sniffed. A little bitty sniff, just a couple of times, and he literally snapped a pencil in half. IN HALF, and it was a borrowed pencil. I was so terrified, I asked for a hall pass and never went back.”
We’re at lunch, and my friends are involved in solid Taz talk. I keep tossing fresh topics into the mix, but they’re treated like moldy turds. No one will pick them up. My girls are testing the positive attitude of the new and improved me.
Trish, Renee, Lana and Frannie are good people. That’s why I keep them around. Or maybe that’s why they keep me around, even though I never hung out once all summer and quit the volleyball team. They’re not hunting Taz with pitchforks and torches, so I’m not sure why their conversation bothers me. But it does.
Renee fiddles with the straw in her juicebox. She’s our shy one, an only child who is adorably awkward and only reveals her inner animal on the court. She now peeks at us through her bangs and confesses, “We made eye contact between third and fourth period, and I peed myself a little bit.”
I turn to Frannie, “Remember when you sneezed so hard you peed yourself?”
“Thanks for sharing. Remember when you ran over Taz with your minivan?”
“Nuh-uh!” Renee squeaks. “That’s actually true?”
“It was an accident,” I mumble. “How do you know about that?”
“Are you kidding? Everybody knows.”
“I followed him down the hall on the way to third period,” Lana tells us. When it comes to cute boys, she is a heat-seeking missile. “I ended up late because I was chasing the view.”
“The man bun is a treat,” says Trish.
“The ass,” says Lana.
“The sandals,” adds Frannie.
“Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens.” For that, I get exaggerated eye rolls. Like I’m the weirdo. They’re the ones rattling off favorite things like this is a casting call for The Sound of Music.
I dig into my brown bag. I am ridiculously excited about unwrapping my cheese and pickle sandwich. I don’t even mind running short of bread this morning and getting stuck with the crusts. The cafeteria is my five star resort. Yes, it’s amusement-park-loud, hospital-bright and sticky on every surface, but the press of responsibility lifts off my shoulders.
I’m sitting with friends who don’t need me to cook anything, clean up after them, set a good example or sing hakuna matata. I can be plain, selfish, boob-stained, seventeen-year-old me. And I want to chat about lots of boys, not just one, videos of pandas on slides, Peaky Blinders and Cillian Murphy. If you don’t know who Cillian Murphy is, google him, and you’re welcome.
Renee lowers her voice to a whisper. “Does anybody know what happened to his face?”
We all look to Frannie. Her mom works in the main office, which makes her our Zazu.
“I overheard my mom say he spent a couple of years in a juvenile detention center, and from there, he went to foster care. That’s all I know.”
We get interrupted when the boy himself shows up. Every meerkat at the watering hole raises their head to register the threat. Taz just grabs his tray and gets in line. The poor guy looks miserable. His clothes hang off him, and I’m thinking they’re secondhand and wondering if I could get away with stealing some of my older brothers shirts and pants.
“Are we all playing fantasy grabass right now?” Lana asks.
“I’m too terrified to even let him into my imagination,” Renee confesses.
“I think stale potato chips should have less calories,” I try. No one cares. My friends are busy watching the exceptional ass of the scary boy as he chooses a sandwich and an apple.
I wonder where he plans to sit and my chest aches. The thought of him standing there, unwelcome at every table, nearly drives me to my feet. It’s not like he's Simba to my Nala, but I’m convinced good deeds are pennies in the piggy bank, and I’m saving up for something big.
“If you guys are so hot for him, why not talk to him? Go ahead Lana,” I urge. She’s the middle blocker on the volleyball team, five foot eleven, part Amazon, and the bravest of my friends. “Ask him to sit with us.”
“Are you crazy?” She snorts. “I’d actually like to survive the first day of school.”
I open my mouth, just as Frannie blurts, “Stop.”
“What? I just …”
She shakes her head at me. “He’s big and mean and dangerous.”
“I’m not …”
“Tia, you volunteered to be his student liaison.” The whole table gasps in horror.
“No one else would do it!”
“Right,” Frannie says. “There’s a reason for that. It’s called the natural survival instinct. You need to remember, he’s a very bad boy. Don’t make him your pet.”
“You mean pet project.”
“No, I mean just what I said. He’s not one of your strays. No feeding him, no petting him, and definitely no bringing him home with you.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I know you. It’s exactly like that. You are everyone’s mommy, everybody’s last chance, and the girl most likely to own a zoo. If you’ve got extra time, do something fun for a change.”
“Maybe hang out some weekend,” Lana insists. “I texted you about Brandon’s party, and you totally blew me off.”
“I texted back.”
“Searching for a missing grape is not a valid excuse.”
“I spent over an hour searching the kitchen for that grape. I don’t know what happened to it, but I’m calling it the Great Grape Mystery.”
“Fascinating.”
I don’t tell them about running my brothers to hockey practice, Mora to cheerleading, Tully to ballet lessons, fighting with Mora over curfew, and how Theo and I failed to get the riding mower started. Terek never came home and my attempt at meatloaf gave everyone, including the dog, the shits. Who needs a party? My life is a non stop circus.
“Speaking of Brandon,” Trish brings us back. “He got some info on Taz from his dad.”
Brandon’s dad is a cop, so I’m guessing this info will not earn the dangerous boy a spot at our table. Brandon is also my former, kind of, sort of, almost boyfriend. As in, we went on a couple of dates, and he was cute and fun but not spectacular, and way too dedicated to getting into my pants. Especially since my favorite thing about him is that he’s my only suitor willing to risk the wrath of my big brother.
“Apparently Taz got arrested for shoplifting, like a couple of months ago. They figured out he was living on the street, under some bridge or something. That’s how he got sent back here.”
“So where’s he living now?” Renee wants to know. I don’t want to know. I can’t hear anymore. My heart is already crying in a dark corner.
“I have no idea,” Frannie admits, then glances at me and says, “Wipe that look off your face If you’re determined to be self-destructive, stick with wearing your brother’s nasty T-shirts and eating pickle sandwiches.”
There is a reason I don’t watch sad movies and sob hysterically during WALL-E, Toy Story and basically every Pixar movie. I can only take so much awful, and I take it personally. We’re only halfway through the first day of school and Taz is crushing me.
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 2