Burning Britely

by Deidre Huesmann

  Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

  www.evernightteen.com

  Copyright© 2018 Deidre Huesmann

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-780-1

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Melissa Hosack

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my sister, Kimberly, as we endlessly pursue our creative passions. To my niece, Alanna, who knows an amazing book when she sees one and who has expanded my reading tastes. And to my dear friend, Elijah, who understands the battle.

  BURNING BRITELY

  Deidre Huesmann

  Copyright © 2018

  Chapter One

  Jeff wanted to pull out his hair. “No,” he said, somehow managing to keep his voice even. “Stop. What do your notes say?”

  “Umm…” Brenda sat cross-legged on his bed, her tongue between her lips. Her casual appearance was at odds with their surroundings.

  Jeff’s room was neat, tidy, and labeled. His single bookshelf was stacked full of non-fiction texts and study guides. Beside it, a file cabinet held his notes, graded homework, and report cards dating five years back, all the way to sixth grade. No clothes on the floor. What few knickknacks he possessed were atop the bookshelf, with a trophy of his middle school spelling bee front and center. First place, of course. He’d placed second at state finals and hadn’t bothered keeping the ribbon.

  Comparatively, Brenda’s curls were pulled into a messy bun atop her head. Her chipped, yellow-painted nails pressed against her chin. Though her clothes were designer, she wore a loose t-shirt barely hanging on to one shoulder and leggings that were a size too small.

  In short, Jeff was beginning to regret bringing her into his sanctuary to study. He pointed at her papers. “What do your notes say?” he repeated.

  Brenda sighed and picked one up. “That reactions will be favorable thermodynamically if the products are comprised of lower Gibbs-free energy than the materials you start with.”

  “Good.” Jeff tapped her chemistry textbook with his pen. “So, that means—”

  “No.”

  He frowned and looked up. His thick glasses slipped, turning the top of her head into a blur. He pushed them back up. “No … what?”

  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Green eyes searched his face.

  Jeff tried not to frown—his best friend always told him it made him look mean. He couldn’t see how. Not when most people, even girls his own age, were at least two inches taller than him. Jeff was short, wiry, and wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes. Hardly mean at all.

  “I don’t want to study,” said Brenda.

  He resisted the urge to throw his pen at the wall. Tried not to shout. Tried to keep his tone soft. “Look. I get it’s been trying. We’ve been at this for two weeks. But you’re not grasping the material.”

  She slowly leaned forward. “But wouldn’t it be more fun to do something else?” She smiled; a weird mixture between sly and shy, like she wasn’t used to it.

  Jeff puzzled that one out. Studying wasn’t exactly a thrilling hobby, but he liked it just fine. It was comfortable, soothing, and predictable. It also helped him toward his goal of graduating senior valedictorian. Sure, he was a junior now, but what was the point if he hadn’t hit the ground running? He knew the stats—even taking the seniors into account, his GPA was fifth highest in the school.

  So he shrugged. “Like what?”

  “Like this.”

  She kissed him.

  Jeff blinked. Was it rude to have your eyes open while kissing? It wasn’t like Brenda was his first, but his last had been pre-pubescent and with a trusted friend, an unspoken contract to kiss and never tell, just so they could say they’d done it. Ergo, it wasn’t like he knew all the rules. He was pretty sure he needed to focus on her lips—but that was unpleasant. He was also pretty sure closed-mouth kisses weren’t supposed to be wet.

  Jeff sat back and wiped his mouth.

  Brenda’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped.

  He rubbed his mouth with his palm. Seriously wet. What the hell…

  “I…” Brenda stammered for a moment. “Was I that bad?”

  Jeff’s gaze shifted. To the floor, to the wall, to the posters of the Periodic Table of Elements and basic laws of physics. “Who knows,” he muttered.

  “Is it my breath?” She cupped a hand in front of her mouth and puffed into it. Jeff couldn’t stop staring at her jangling rainbow bracelets and bright yellow scrunchie. Her appearance was so sloppy. Too bright. Too cheerful. Too weird. “I brushed my teeth, I didn’t eat any onions or garlic—”

  He sighed. “Look…”

  “—and I made sure all I had after dinner was gum. Is it that? You don’t like spearmint? No, it can’t be. Everyone likes spearmint—”

  “Even if you…”

  “I have regular bubblegum!” Brenda leaped off his bed and snatched her backpack from the floor. She rummaged through, her face flushed, strands of hair clinging to her sweat-dampened forehead.

  A nervous sweater, thought Jeff. Great.

  Brenda continued babbling. “If that’s more acceptable, just give me a minute—”

  “It’s not that!”

  She froze, arm buried in the bag like a monster had her in mid-swallow. Tension threaded the air between them, weaving and tightening until he could hardly stand it. Something had to snap—but he didn’t want to be the one to do it.

  Jeff lowered his voice. “It’s not your breath. I just didn’t feel anything.” Other than slimy lips. He knew better than to say that, though, no matter how awkward the moment.

  Brenda kept her eyes low. Red crept up her neck and mingled with her already bright cheeks.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Jeff fought the urge to bury his hands in his hair. Brenda was a nice girl. Her reputation was fine, nothing neither sordid nor excellent about her. Her grades were B averages. Her face was symmetrical, her eyes were green, which was unusual enough to be interesting, and her hair was a perfectly plain brown. Sure, she was sloppy, but wasn’t that the point? To make things interesting? To have juxtaposition to even things out? Didn’t all the successful couples in literature operate on opposite ends of the poles?

  Yet the kiss just felt like mashing flesh together. So … pointless.

  Brenda blew out a harsh breath and stood. Papers and pens scattered to the floor. She kneeled, stuffing them into her backpack. “I have to go.”

  Jeff watched her and wondered why he didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt. Annoyance, sure, though most of it was directed at himself. But in that moment, to him, she almost looked like a brat having a tantrum. “We didn’t cover chapter seven.”

  She glared at him through wet eyes. “I didn’t need help with chemistry, Jeffrey,” she snapped. “I just wanted to get close to you.”

  “Fat lot of good that did.” The words were out of his mouth before he thought.

  Brenda let out a short growl and stomped to his door. “You’re an asshole.”

  “If I didn’t like it, I didn’t like it.” His voice sounded flat, even to him. Jeff felt oddly detached, like he was watching more than participating in the conversation. “Not my fault.”

  “Screw you!”

  The door slammed behind her.

  He shook his head and slid off the bed. Some o
f the fallen papers were his. As he gathered them up, he noticed his English essay and syllabus were missing. Great. I’ll have to find her tomorrow. He’d have just rewritten the paper if it weren’t due in the morning but wasting three days helping her with chemistry had put him right up to due date for a lot of his assignments. Two weeks’ worth of getting ahead—gone.

  All for a girl more interested in making out than actual schoolwork.

  Shuffling the papers, Jeff had to admit it wasn’t all her fault. If he’d helped instead of watching her pick everything up, he could have avoided the homework mix-up.

  Someone knocked on his door. Jeff rolled his eyes. “Go away.”

  The door opened. A whirlwind tore through, carrying a basket full of folded laundry that landed with a whump on his bed. “What did you do to that poor girl?” exclaimed the tornado.

  Jeff grimaced. “I’d hardly call her a ‘poor girl,’ Mom.” He avoided eye contact and put his homework back in order. “She made a move on me.”

  His mom blinked. Like him, her flat blue eyes looked larger behind a pair of thick glasses. Jeff had inherited his far-sightedness from her, as well as her fine blonde hair. Otherwise, they didn’t look anything alike. She was tall and round, where he took after his father with his small, wiry stature.

  “Made a move?” His mom repeated his statement slowly.

  Jeff folded his arms. He loved his mother, but she could be utterly oblivious. “She kissed me.”

  His mom’s eyes widened. She looked like a stuffed owl. “Oh—oh dear. That poor girl.”

  He frowned. “What about your poor accosted son?”

  “Did she stop when you asked her to?”

  Didn’t so much ask as do everything but tell her she was disgusting. “More or less.”

  “Then you were hardly accosted. Don’t be dramatic.” Mom fanned herself and leaned against the wall. “But that poor girl…”

  “I’m dramatic?”

  “I can only imagine what she thought.” His mom continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Here’s a boy she has a good chance with, a cute and smart guy who can take care of her, and he treats her like she’s slime.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why do you think I treated her like slime?”

  “You’re my son,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know you. Like how you look at people as equations instead of as personalities.”

  He grimaced again. “Thanks. Not creepy at all, Mom.”

  She smiled. “How’s this for creepy? You should get to bed. You don’t look well.”

  Chills wriggled up his spine. Stiffly, he said, “I feel fine.”

  With a wink, she said, “You always do. And I’m always right. Aren’t I, lil’ Jeffy?”

  He grabbed a pair of balled-up socks and tossed them at her, missing by inches. If she was offended, she didn’t show it, and that just incensed him more. Moms. Ugh. “Whatever. I have an exam tomorrow, and I haven’t had time to study.” Thanks to Brenda. Though he didn’t say it, the meaning cut through the air loud and clear.

  Maybe it wasn’t Brenda’s fault, exactly. Jeff was fully aware of teenage hormones. Just because he was smart didn’t mean he was immune. It was just that making senior valedictorian meant everything. Like scholarships. Like wider access to good schools and ideal studies. If he wanted to go to college without being a burden to his parents, who were middle class at best, he needed all the financial help he could get.

  “Just be in bed soon,” his mom said. “And put your clothes away.”

  He waved at her impatiently. To his relief, she took the hint and left, closing the door behind her.

  Unfortunately, that left him alone with his thoughts. His whirling, annoyed, confused thoughts, and the kiss left on his lips like a ghost’s touch. As he put away his clothes, the barest hint of warmth entered his cheeks.

  Was this it? The moment it finally sank in? Had the excitement come belatedly? Jeff closed his eyes, conjured up an image of Brenda. Her loose curls falling over her shoulders like corkscrews. Her eyes green as … moss. Her … plain … skin.

  He sighed. Nothing.

  He just hoped she wouldn’t cause a scene when he asked her to return the English essay.

  * * * *

  The moment Jeff woke up, dread swirled with intense heat in his face. Last night’s warning warmth hadn’t been excitement. Mom had been right—as always.

  He stumbled to the hallway bathroom, still groggy, cursing, and fumbled through the medicine cabinet until he found a thermometer. In the mirror, his flushed cheeks and damp skin blazed back at him. Even before the thermometer beeped, he knew what to expect: a running fever of 102.7.

  I don’t have time for this. Exhaling harshly, he shook a double dose of acetaminophen into his hand and popped them into his mouth, followed by a good couple gulps of water straight from the faucet.

  After a quick shower that did little to make him feel better, he got dressed—jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and his favorite hiking boots—and grabbed his backpack. As an afterthought, he stashed some extra medicine in his front pocket. “I’m leaving,” he shouted into the kitchen.

  “Come eat breakfast, first,” his mom called.

  So she can see she was right about me being sick? Hell, no. The thought of food churned his stomach. Jeff cleared his throat. “I’m already late. Thanks anyway, see you!”

  He bolted out the door before she could protest. Looking at the fat, overcast gray clouds, he wished he’d grabbed a coat. It was too late for that now. Not if he wanted to keep his dignity and stave off another, I told you so.

  On the bright side, the weather was cool. The remnants of fever the medicine hadn’t scrubbed out went down. Though his skin tingled unpleasantly, it was nothing he couldn’t deal with. Jeff reached his stop, boarded the school bus, and found an empty seat. He rested his forehead against the window, grateful for its additional chill.

  Today wasn’t different from any other day. All he had to do was keep his fever down with the additional acetaminophen secreted away in his pocket, pass his chemistry test, and survive the rest of the day. No big deal.

  Others boarded the bus at the next dozen stops. Teenagers like him, between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. One twelve-year-old, who’d skipped a grade. A couple nineteen-year-olds kept behind. All chatting, laughing, yawning. Almost all red-blooded, like the military’s presence on the adjacent Naval Base had ensured there was no blue to be found. Some violet, perhaps. But never true blue.

  Even so, the bus was the one place cliques didn’t matter quite so much. Jocks sat beside musicians and goths shared seats with gamers. None looked at him. Even the guy who ended up sharing his seat was preoccupied with the music blaring from his earbuds.

  On the popularity spectrum, Jeff was average. Not exactly liked, but not disliked. He preferred it that way. It meant fewer interactions, fewer questions, and fewer complications.

  Fewer opportunities to get hurt. Fewer opportunities for someone to find out his secret and see that his blood tinged a little more blue than violet.

  When he stepped off the bus at school, he noticed the pressing weight of his backpack, which seemed heavier by the minute. The painkillers had abated his fever, but not the weakness in his muscles.

  He also noticed that without the rowdiness of other teenagers squawking in his ears, he was picking up on an entirely new brand of squawking sound off to the left, where a crowd had gathered.

  It’s none of my business. Even as he thought it, his feet took on a mind of their own and headed toward the commotion. Simple, human curiosity overrode the desire to make it to class on time. No teachers were around—yet. That meant he had a chance to get a glimpse of the incident without an adult’s filter.

  The mass of students was thick, but Jeff’s smaller build allowed him to squeeze through where others couldn’t. He emerged inside of a broad semi-circle. On the other side was a fraction of the Morris County lake. Ducks floated in serenity in the middle, occasionally diving for food. A
chain-link fence encased the lake. Zip-tied to it was a large, white sign with bold red letters reading, Please don’t feed the ducks fowl animals. Between the fence and the students, a goose honked and bit their track star.

  Jeff’s brain shuffled the facts like a quick-handed card dealer.

  Geese: fat but fearsome. Surprisingly, had teeth. Or rather, tomia, as geese couldn’t produce enamel. Currently clamped around the track star’s left middle and forefinger.

  Track star: six-foot-one. Trying to shake off an enemy that sprayed angry feathers. Dark brown hair, elegantly curled in piles atop his head. Seventeen years old. Braeden Britely.

  Crowd of students: useless against aggressive fowl.

  Jeff hoisted the bag off his shoulder. He walked toward the fight while unzipping it. To Braeden’s credit, he was trying not to harm the bird. Pity the goose doesn’t feel the same way about him.

  Someone had to act. His peers were useless, and Braeden was so gentle with the bird that he was ineffective. Jeff didn’t know how to fight geese. His meager knowledge on fowl-related warfare was that you didn’t touch their babies, and all geese were vicious. Even if he’d had the means to make a grab at the oversized duck, tremors of weakness rattled his bones. The fever was taking its toll. All these factors left him with one option … and only one chance to execute it perfectly.

  Jeff withdrew his biggest book—AP Chemistry—waited for Braeden to shake the bird loose for a second and slammed the book spine-down on the goose’s head.

  The bird went down with a meaty thump.

  Stunned silence swarmed the air. Jeff looked to Braeden. Can’t handle yourself against a goose? was what he wanted to say. But he made the mistake of looking up, directly into Braeden’s eyes, and something in his stomach gave way.