Walk the Edge

by Katie McGarry

  Please buy my lie. “If I tell you, you’re going to tell everyone at school, then it’ll be on Bragger, and then he’ll really be mad.”

  Kyle’s eyes dart over my face. Get him to trust you, Razor had said. I read an article that said people bond quickly over two things: gossip and joint misery. If it’s true, then gossiping about how Razor’s bothering me ought to be a friendship gold mine.

  Kyle plops his arms on the table, encompassing too much space. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  I roll my eyes and I don’t have to pretend for that. “Sure.”

  “No. I mean it.” He scratches behind his ear. “Look, between me and you, Razor’s been scaring the hell out of me. There’s something not right about that guy and I don’t like the idea of you being wrapped up in him. You’re too nice of a girl for a psychopath.”

  I attempt to squash the anger flaring within me. Razor’s not the crazy one, it’s him, but Kyle needs to believe we’re bonding. I clear my throat and use the hurt from Kyle to convince him my emotions are about Razor. “What happened at Shamrock’s was a mistake.”

  A mistake that Kyle created by snapping a photo of me in a private moment.

  “You’re too good for him, Bre. I hope you can see that. I don’t want to put that picture up any more than you want it live, but if you think that picture would shatter your life, it would be nothing compared to if you did get involved with him. The guy is a nut job.”

  I hate that he uses my nickname. I hate how he thinks he knows Razor because he’s listened to rumors. “You’re right about Razor.” He’s wrong. “Working with him in AP physics has scared me and he’s mad I’m trying to switch partners.”

  Kyle swears like he cares and has the nerve to reach over like he intends to touch my hand. I withdraw it as if I didn’t notice his kind gesture and twist my fingers in my hair.

  “It’s okay,” Kyle says. “You’re in public around him. Nothing will happen.”

  “So this is what I was thinking.” I’m so ready for this charade to be over. “I want to work with you, not against you. If you say the picture won’t go up, then I believe you.”

  “Now you’re talking.” If he had given me that smile last year, I would have been happy. “Tell me what you want for writing my papers and I’ll make sure it’s yours.”

  For you to be castrated. “There is one thing you can do.”

  He stretches out his arms like he’s willing to give me a hug. “Anything.”

  “Send me a copy of the pictures. All of them.”

  His forehead furrows. “Why?”

  “I want them as a reminder,” I say. “Of how stupid I can be and how I made a wrong choice.” Like believing the rumors involving Razor.

  “You shouldn’t be hard on yourself,” he says. “He’s conned a lot of girls, not just you.”

  The empty aching at the thought of how many girls Razor has possibly been with overwhelms me. I could try to convince myself that his female companionship issues are a lie, but even I’ve seen him in action. Each time, he was getting biblical with them, but not in the godly fashion.

  “Will you send them to me?” I prod.

  I sag with relief when Kyle produces his phone and swipes here and there in order to send me the photos. My heart picks up speed as my cell pings with his message and then as I ask if he still has the email from his English teacher that describes what he needs to do with the paper. With each second he’s on the Wi-Fi, I experience a high and a panic.

  Can Kyle tell what’s happening? Will his phone beep like NORAD and he’ll realize we’ve deceived him? But none of that happens. Kyle interacts with me as if we’re friends and I let him talk, encouraging him to keep hunting for things on his phone.

  If Razor’s true to his word, this nightmare is on its way to being over.

  * * *

  There’s ice cream in my hair. Why wouldn’t there be? In the tiny employee bathroom of the Barrel of Fun Ice Cream shop, I lower my head, run water over the sticky strands, then yank so many paper towels I can hear trees in the rainforest screaming in protest.

  I squish the towels to my hair in an effort to dry it and the rumble of a motorcycle causes my stomach to fill with a million anxiety-ridden butterflies. Oh my God, I’m getting on a motorcycle with a member of the Reign of Terror. Scratch that. I’m getting on a motorcycle with Razor, voted by my school as the most feared member of the Reign of Terror.

  I peer at my reflection in the mirror to see if I’ve gone insane.

  My eyes are brighter than normal. My cheeks are flushed. In front of me is a girl I barely recognize. Texting with Razor, the occasional chat on the phone, the way we flirt when we’re together in independent study—all of that is crossing dangerous lines, but this...leaving with Razor? Being alone with him? I’ve lost my mind, and I’m loving the girl staring back at me.

  A buzz of my cell and I fumble with it in my haste. It’s not Razor announcing his arrival, but Addison: What are you doing tonight?

  My parents think I’m working until nine and my fingers hesitate over the letters. I trust Razor—but seventeen years of Reign of Terror doctrine is hard to combat. Me: I’m doing homework with Thomas Turner.

  I wince at how quickly she responds: WHAT?!!!!!

  Me: I’ll explain later, but keep this between us.

  I pocket my phone and step outside. My phone pings every few seconds. My best friend will strangle me and then demand Razor details.

  On the other side of the lot is a familiar angelic face, golden hair and a black leather cut that spells trouble. Razor leans against his motorcycle. His biceps are gorgeously flexed as he crosses his arms over his chest.

  Adrenaline pumps into my veins as I walk toward him. Razor spots me and this devilish smirk forms on his face. A thrill runs through me and so do a million questions about what exactly will happen when we are completely and utterly alone.

  Razor straightens when I reach him and then glides into my personal space so that we’re close. Super close. Almost as close as the night at Shamrock’s. I inhale to calm my beating heart and I detect his dark, spicy scent.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I swallow, as I sounded crazy raspy. “Do you have our rockets?”

  We built them this week during our independent study.

  He gestures to a black leather bag attached to his bike, then raises his fingers. Wrapped around three of them is a rubber band. “Figured you wouldn’t think of this.”

  Riding a motorcycle. My hair. Lots of wind that would create tangles. Nope, didn’t contemplate it at all. I go to accept the rubber band, but Razor pulls back his hand. I frown, then freeze. Razor gathers my hair at the nape of my neck and pleasing goose bumps tickle along my skin. I suck in a breath of air to keep my heart from exploding with his touch.

  There’s a gentle pull as he twists the band around my hair. Tingles. Beautiful tingles. When he’s done, he lets one finger trace the length of my chin. I can’t breathe.

  “A few things before we go,” he says.

  I nod, because speaking is officially impossible. He slips his cut off, then shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Put this on.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Don’t get me wrong, the idea of wearing something of Razor’s makes me want to squee with joy, but... “It’s warm today. Like high of eighty-one warm.”

  “Better you sweat than scratch the hell out of yourself if we take a spill.”

  My stomach twists. “Spill?”

  “Not planning on it, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  I accept the jacket and draw my arms into it. It’s heavy and huge and smells like him and I’d die a happy girl if I never had to give this back. Razor produces a helmet. “When we get on my bike—”

  “Wait up, Kyle.” The voice is unexpected and unwelcom
e. Near the Barrel of Fun, Kyle and two of his friends stand by the outside back bathroom entrance. Cold fear rushes into my veins.

  Razor blocks me from their view. “I’m not ready for him to see us out like this yet. So short lesson. Climb on and hold on to me. If you’re scared, pinch my thigh and I’ll stop. Got it?”

  I’m blinded when Razor places a helmet on my head. He adjusts it so I can see, then snaps the strap under my chin. It’s not one of those full helmets, just the type that covers my head.

  He straddles his bike, eases his cut back on and glances at me. After wiping my palms against my jeans, I hop on behind him. Razor reaches back, gathers my arms, and I close my eyes when my fingers touch a very hard stomach. I slowly breathe out. Oh my God, this is happening.

  He squeezes my fingers, lets me go, and within seconds the motorcycle roars and vibrates between my thighs. A fleeting moment of panic becomes a hiccup in my brain. I could pinch his thigh. I could jump off the bike. I could run.

  But I do none of those things. Instead, I rest my chin on his shoulder, readjust my hold on his waist and press closer to him. When Razor turns his head to look at me, I swear he’s smiling.

  RAZOR

  BREANNA COVERS HER face with her hands. “This is impossible!”

  It’s not, but knowing any response I have will annoy her, I avoid commenting. Instead, I grab the paper she had been murdering with an eraser. She slams her hand on her notebook in an effort to capture it, but I’m too fast.

  “I can do this,” she says. “If I get a new brain maybe, but I can do this.”

  “Let me try.” I also steal the notebook and pencil.

  “Fine,” Breanna huffs, then collapses back onto the tall grass. Beside us are the remains of our three rockets. Our job now is to mathematically prove why one went higher than the other.

  “It really is pretty here,” she says, and I glance over at her. The early autumn day is warm and the brittle grass surrounding her is green and yellow. Above us are trees colored with orange and red leaves. I agree it’s a sight under the clear sky, but not for the reasons she believes. Breanna’s the one who’s pretty.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before,” she says.

  “No one comes here.” It’s why I like it. This meadow is a quarter mile from my home. I stumbled across it the summer after Mom died. I couldn’t stomach being home, especially on those days Dad brought a girl to the house. Since that summer, this place has been my refuge.

  It’s encircled by trees, and during the spring and summer, flowers of multiple types bloom. But what I found interesting as a kid was the abandoned railway trestle. I’ve walked over that bridge more times than I can count. I’ve even climbed to the top.

  Breanna’s a vision with her black hair sprawled around her. There’s not a soul around for miles, which means this place is perfect for the two of us.

  A distant rumble and the ground vibrates. Breanna rolls over to her stomach and I have to tear my gaze away from her tight ass to watch as a train flies around the bend and crosses the current railroad trestle farther down from where we’re settled. It’s because of the newer trestle that I was able to bring Breanna here. There’s an access path off the main highway. It’s dirt and it was bumpy, but Breanna rode the back of my bike like a pro—like she belonged there.

  Like she belonged with me.

  “It seems impossible, doesn’t it?” she asks.

  My heart stops. Is she also thinking about us?

  Breanna points at the paper in front of me. “The math. It’s impossible.”

  The math. Get your shit together. “If acceleration is equal to gravity, then the number would be...”

  “Negative 9.81 meters per second squared,” she rattles off. I’d give up my bike for a week to be inside her head for a minute.

  She’s quiet while I focus on the problem, which I appreciate. When I solve the equation, her face brightens. “Wow.”

  I prop my arms on my raised knees and pretend to admire the field. Yeah. Wow. If only everything in my life came as easily as it does with numbers. I wasn’t just admitted into AP in science, but in math, too. School told Dad my science score teetered on admission to the program, but it was my knowledge of numbers that pushed me over.

  “You’re the anti-me, aren’t you?” she says.

  I chuckle and it comes out bitter. I am. She’s beautiful and smart and all that’s good with the world. “Yeah.”

  Her forehead furrows as she reads my expression. “I mean with math and the hacking stuff. Your brain is built for math whereas mine isn’t. Like how you knew how to apply the kinematic equation. I know the equation, but I have a hard time applying the knowledge. I’m saying you’re smart.”

  “It’s a small town, Breanna. You’ve heard the rumors about me. Some of which are true.”

  Breanna sits up, then regards the old abandoned trestle. It’s not the first time today she’s studied it with curiosity. “Do you ever go on the trestle?”

  I nod.

  “Is it safe?”

  Evidently not for trains. I stand and extend my open palm to Breanna. She’s eager to explore and I like seeing her smile. Breanna slides her fingers into mine and our eyes meet. We stay that way, staring, our hands twined together. I’ve never held a girl’s hand before. Not in a way that means something.

  Her skin is soft. Very soft, and I begin thinking thoughts that would cause Breanna to demand a restraining order—like how the skin of her stomach might also be this soft.

  The pressure of her delicate fingers is heavier than most weights I’ve lifted. It’s like holding on to a promise and it causes me to be nervous. Me nervous. About what? About kissing her? About touching her? I’ve done things with girls a million times over, but not with Breanna.

  I gently pull and she hops to her feet. Breanna didn’t need my help, and as I attempt to release her, she squeezes my hand and offers a shy smile. Something within me shifts.

  No, I don’t get nervous, but Breanna transports me to all sorts of new places. It’s not her physical proximity getting to me, it’s the fact that she makes me feel.

  We let go of one another, but we walk close through the tall grass. The sound of the rushing water grows as we approach the bridge. Her hand bumps into mine, and I consider reclaiming her fingers, but I have no clue if she sees me in the ways I’m beginning to see her.

  Breanna inhales, then pushes out a question. “I heard you failed fifth grade. Is that true?”

  “I was held back.” We reach the foot of the bridge and I shove my hands into my pockets.

  She toes the wood of the track and assesses the rusting iron. “You’re smart. A hell of a lot smarter than most. Definitely smarter than what—”

  She cuts herself off and I finish for her. “Than what everyone at school thinks.”

  Her frown is an admission and an apology.

  “I know the rumors. Stupid Razor. Only kid who repeated fifth grade.”

  “As I said, you’re smart,” she responds. “So why did you repeat?”

  Because of the steep incline, the river is a class-three rapid. We’ve had a steady amount of rain and the water roars and splashes against the sharp rocks about thirty feet below.

  I remember the first time I stood near the edge. The sun was setting and the sky was bleeding pinks and reds. I gauged the distance, the spiked rocks and the racing current. Back then, I had considered jumping.

  “I missed too many days of school.” Admitting this feels strange. There are too many rumors, too many lies surrounding me and my mother, so it’s been pointless to speak the truth. Somehow, Breanna’s the person to say these words to.

  A breeze cuts through the trees and Breanna’s hair soars. She raises her face to the sky and it’s like the wind dies off at her command. Breanna seems po
werful enough to control nature. She gets me to talk. That in itself is amazing.

  Multiple wheels spin in that brilliant brain and her hazel eyes flash with understanding.

  “Go ahead and ask,” I say. She’s the one person on this earth besides my father I’d allow this question, and I can guarantee that, at least with her, there won’t be shouting.

  “Was that the year your mother died?”

  I flinch and Breanna notices. “Yeah. I was too messed up to go to school at first and then Dad had a hard time getting me there. By the time the club stepped in to help, the damage had been done. Too much time missed. Too far behind in class.”

  “I’m sorry. About your mom and about how people talk about you.”

  Me, too. “I’m sorry they talk about you, too.”

  A cloud sweeps over Breanna’s face, but she forces her lips up like that will remove the sting from my words. “The gossip from the first week has blown over.”

  “I wasn’t referring to earlier this year.”

  Breanna sighs so heavily that she seems to shrink. “It’s going to get better, right?”

  There’s a dip inside me because it’s the same prayer I say at night.

  “Like when we graduate, all this stupidity will go away, because I am so tired of pretending to be something I’m not. If I act like who I really am, I’m crucified. If I hide, I feel like I’ve chained myself inside of a one-foot box and I’m dying to break free.”

  Breanna strokes her hands over her arms as if she could wrench her metaphorical chains off her body. “Everyone says it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, but you know what? It does. Yeah, I walk into school with the attitude of screw them. I’m going to answer every question. I’m going to show the world who I am, and I’m not going to apologize for it, and then...”

  She fades off. “And then people stare at you as they cover their mouth with their hand, lean over and whisper. Then people whisper back, all while staring, and they laugh. Then that rare burst of confidence—shatters.”

  A strong gust rips through the trees and I don’t like how near to the edge she is. She’s a small thing and another surge of wind could cause her to tumble to the swirling water below.