by Patty Blount
“Ian? Any questions?”
Bob’s tap on my shoulder gets my mind out of Zac’s business. Grace is staring at me with disgust. I shake my head.
“Okay. I already unlocked the bathrooms on this floor for you. You can take an hour for lunch. That’s it. Use the door near the athletic field to get back inside the building. I’ll come check up on you about four o’clock.”
Grace snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and adjusts her shirt and opens the locker next to the one I’m cleaning. Bob stops her. “Why don’t you work on the other side?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
Bob frowns at her for a moment and finally shrugs. “Okay. Fine.” He disappears down the corridor, and I return to my work, spray the disinfectant inside the locker, and let it sit. It kind of smells like oranges. I use my master key on the next locker, spray it, then return to the first locker, and start wiping, scrubbing, rinsing.
The second locker has a glob of sticky, tarlike, mystery goo that I can only guess used to be gum. I grab a scraper from the cart, attack the goo, muttering curses the whole time. From the corner of my eye, I notice Grace move to my right about two lockers down. She sprays the interior but can’t reach the top of it. Without her biker boots, Grace is actually shorter than me. I never noticed that before. She puts one foot inside the locker, hauls herself up to reach the top, but still can’t make it.
“Here, I got it.” I reach over her to wipe up the spray from the top shelf, catch her scent. Lilacs. They’re my mom’s favorite flower. I turn back to her with a smile, but she’s three feet away, looking at me like I’m a dog foaming at the mouth. “Oh, um. Sorry. I was just trying to um, help, I guess.” I hold up my hands. What the hell is her problem? You know what? I don’t really care. I move back to my locker and leave her to her own business.
We work for what feels like hours, two lockers at a time, leap-frogging over each other as we make our way down the corridor. By 11:00 a.m., my head aches, and my throat feels scratchy from inhaling the disinfectant. I peel off my gloves, toss my cleaning supplies to the cart, and head down the corridor to the bathroom Bob left unlocked for us. Splashing some cold water on my face helps. By the time I get back, Grace is nowhere to be seen. I shrug. She’s probably in the bathroom too. I clean two lockers, then four, but she’s not back yet.
The backpack she’d put on the floor when she got here this morning is gone. If she took off, I am so reporting her. I go back to my work, and when I open up the next locker, I discover it’s still full. I curse loudly. The echo that bounces around the deserted corridor is so satisfying that I do it again. I start removing the books—textbooks on the shelf, personal stuff in the trash bin. Then I see the owner’s name written in wide bubble-shaped letters—Danielle Harrison.
Danielle’s in my math class. She’s been out all week. Hear it’s chicken pox.
Aw, hell.
I pull her stuff out of the trash bin. I’m not dumping it now that I know it’s hers. It must suck being sick during spring break—even more than cleaning out lockers. I pile all her stuff up on the corner of the cart and then spray her locker. I have to let the spray sit for a few minutes. When I move to the next locker, I bump the cart, and all of Danielle’s crap hits the floor. I don’t bother cursing. It’s not as much fun when nobody’s around to hear it. I just crouch down, start cleaning it all up.
That’s when a wave of dizziness drop-kicks me. I grab my head, fall to my knees, wait for my world to stop spinning. Shutting my eyes helps me not hurl all over the clean floors. My body is convinced it’s in high-speed motion. Shit, this is worse than being on that roller coaster at Six Flags.
“You okay?”
Slowly I open my eyes, relieved to find the school has stopped pitching. Grace is about four feet away, her eyebrows raised.
I shut my eyes again. “Headache. Dizzy.”
I hear a zipper open. “Here.”
When I open my eyes, Grace is holding out a small bottle of pain relievers. I take it gratefully, tap out two capsules, and dry-swallow them. “Thanks.”
I crawl to the lockers, put my back against one, stretch out my legs, and rub my temples. Plastic rustles.
“Here. Eat something. You look sick.” Grace is holding out half a sandwich to me.
I blink up at her, wondering what the catch is.
She shifts her weight to one leg and cocks her head. “For God’s sake, it doesn’t have cooties.”
A laugh bursts out of me against my will. Grace has a seriously hot voice. It’s not high-pitched and whiny like pretty much every girl I’ve ever met. It’s…well, it’s soft but direct. Hell, all I know is I want to keep her talking so I can listen to that voice. “Cooties? Did you make this sandwich back in second grade or something?” I take the half from her hand, sink my teeth into it, and oh, God! I expected chick food—grilled vegetables or alfalfa sprouts or something—but it’s roast beef and cheddar smothered in mayo, and I moan because it tastes amazing. “This is really good.” I swipe an arm across my mouth.
“Really good for something made back in second grade or just really good in general?”
I could be seeing things, but for half a second there’s a tiny bit of a smile twitching Grace Collier’s lips. “It’s really good, period. Thanks.” I take another bite.
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “No problem.” After a minute she drops to the floor across from me, takes a bite out of the other half, and starts collecting all of Danielle’s stuff that I had dropped.
“So what’d you do to get stuck on locker-cleaning detail?” I ask.
“Kicked one. Put a dent in it. It was either this or surrender the camera I borrowed.”
“For what?”
“Um, an internship application.”
“Who with?”
“CityScape Magazine.”
I nod. My mom gets that magazine. It’s a big monthly with glossy pictures and ballsy articles. I can totally see Grace on their staff. “Writing or taking pictures?”
She shrugs. “Whatever I can get.” She takes another bite of her half of the sandwich.
“So, um, you’re not mute then.” I gobble up what’s left of my half.
She snorts. “There’re a lot of people who wish I were.” She picks up the whole pile, puts it in the trash bin.
My grin fades. Jesus, what is wrong with me? Sitting here, sharing a sandwich with the girl who almost ruined my friend’s life. I crumple up the plastic wrap, toss it in the trash, and start wiping up the disinfectant from Danielle’s locker. Grace stands, brushes the dirt and dust off her truly amazing ass, and moves to a locker four or five spaces away from Danielle’s. I pry my eyes off her anatomical assets and reach into the bin to retrieve what Grace tossed.
“I thought we were supposed to throw out what we find?”
“We are. But this is Danielle Harrison’s locker. You know her?’
She shakes her head.
“She’s been out sick with chicken pox. That’s why her locker’s not empty. So I’m not tossing her stuff.”
Grace gives me this weird look and then sprays another locker. We don’t talk for the rest of the day.
Chapter 7
Grace
Ian freaking Russell. I should have asked. I should have asked who I’d have to work with.
When I woke up this morning, my mom was already out for her run. The car’s still stuck at the school parking lot, so I figured I’d have to walk to school. I grabbed clothes—a pair of sweats and a ratty T-shirt—tied my hair back in a ponytail, and headed to the kitchen to pack food. It was nice this morning, already warm by 7:30. The walk to school was uneventful until a car zipped by me and my throat closed up. Panic attack. I called my mom, and she met me on Main Street at the bus stop, where I had my head between my legs, trying to breathe through the block of ice lodged in my lungs.
“Oh, baby, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re not alone.”
When it finally s
topped, we walked the rest of the way to Laurel Point High. In the parking lot we stared at the words carved into the passenger side of the car. Mom put her hands on her hips and sighed. I opened the door, found the key where Dad said he’d leave it. The car started right up.
“Do you need me to come in with you?” she asked, but I shook my head.
“No. I think I’m good now.”
“Good. Grace?”
She looked ready to cry. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry. I haven’t really been there for you since all this started, have I?”
I sighed and looked away. Not just since all this started. Since Dad took off. But I shrug it off. “I’m okay, Mom. Really.”
“Except for the panic attacks, you mean?” she said and smiled sadly. “What time will you be done?”
“Um, about four, I think. Not sure.”
“I’m taking the car.” She smiled, and I laughed. She waved and drove out of the lot.
I watched her until I couldn’t see her car anymore. I wanted to chase after her, throw myself into her arms and sob, “I’m not okay, and I really don’t think I ever will be.” How do I tell her I’m scared of everything, every waking minute? How do I tell her I hate her and hate my dad for using what happened to me as another weapon in their favorite game, You Suck and Here’s Why?
The ice ball bounced against my chest again, and I stared up the street. But Mom’s car was gone, and I couldn’t stop silently screaming for her to turn around and take me home.
Across the lot the sound of a whistle blowing jolts me from my pity party, and my head whips to the ball field. The lacrosse team is practicing. I’m at school during a weeklong vacation—just me and the lacrosse team. Just me, the boy who raped me, and a few dozen of his closest friends.
There.
I said it.
The R word.
Part of me fears I’ll break into a million pieces every time I have to say that word. I back away from the grunts and shouts and sticks clashing and climb the steps, slip into the school before any of the players see me. I am supposed to meet the janitor in the second-floor west corridor at 8:00 and—Oh, crap, I’m late. I’m freaking late. I jog up the stairs and turn west and skid to a halt.
No. No, no, no!
Please let this be a mistake.
Mr. Jordan said he’d assigned locker cleanup to somebody besides me.
Oh my God, I’m cursed.
They both turn when they hear me. I look for it—the expression on their faces that matches the expression on every other face when I walk by. The expression that says, Here comes the lying whore!
“You Grace?” the janitor asks, and I nod. “You’re late. I’ll have to report that to Mr. Jordan.”
Knock yourself out, pal. Principals don’t scare me.
Students do.
I pay only the slightest attention to the instructions the janitor provides. I’m watching Ian Russell out of the corner of my eye. Tall and lean. Great mouth, dark hair, and dark eyes that have their own gravitational pull, Ian’s easy on the eyes, but that’s not all. There’s something about him, something that’s always been there every time I’ve looked at him.
I’ve looked at him a lot.
He’s got this restlessness, this energy that practically sizzles, and I don’t understand it, even though I always wanted to.
He’s on the lacrosse team. Why isn’t he on the field with the rest of the team? What did he do to get stuck with this job?
But none of those are the real questions I’m asking. I don’t want to think about the real questions. But how can I not? How much did Ian see? How much does Ian believe? Why did he help me that night?
The janitor gives me the master key and instructions on what to put where and then points to the lockers across from Ian.
Hell no.
He’s deluded if he thinks I’ll turn my back on any friend of Zac McMahon’s.
The janitor leaves, and I grab a pair of rubber gloves, anxious to get started. I keep Ian in my visual field, ready to defend myself if he so much as raises a hand to me, but all that dark hair hides his face. I spray a locker and can’t reach the top. And suddenly Ian’s right there, and my arms are too busy holding me up to fight.
“Here, I got it.”
Shit. I jump so hard I hit my elbow. He mumbles some apology, but I can’t hear him over the rush of panic. He backs off and returns to his own locker, and for a long moment I think about climbing inside one of the lockers—who cares if it’s clean—and just hiding inside until the shift is over. Six days. How the hell am I going to get through six days of this? I take some more deep breaths and scrub the hell out of the next locker.
Ian leaves me alone, and I’m grateful. We work in tandem and in silence, moving down the corridor. It’s not until Ian disappears down the hall that I look up and discover hours have passed. I grab my bag and duck out, make my way to the athletic field, where the big-shot lacrosse team is playing. Sticking to the tree line, I move fast until I’m in range of the goal.
Where Zac is.
I swallow hard and take the digital camera out of my bag. I power it on, aim, zoom in, and start clicking. The angle’s wrong. The light is wrong too, but it’s the best I can do. I have to get this shot.
I have to.
The coach blows his whistle and action halts. The players all head to the side of the field, and my heart stops. I’m trapped here. They’ll see me. Zac will see me. I shove the camera back into my bag and hide behind the trees, panic snapping at my heels. I fold myself into a ball, hoping nobody notices me, nobody asks why I’m here. I crouch there for five minutes, then ten, and the coach’s whistle blares. I peek around the tree. The players are in position again. I wait another minute, and then I run for it, blend in with the relatives and fans milling around the bleachers, and finally make my way back inside the school.
As soon as I’m inside, I fall against a wall and put a hand to my chest. My heart’s hammering against my ribs and my throat’s closing up like the aperture in my camera. I hurry up the stairs and down the corridor, duck into the girls’ bathroom, and hide in a stall. Jesus! I can’t do this again. I don’t think I’ll survive it. I get myself together again, splash water on my face, and head back to my row of lockers.
Ian’s on the floor, sheet white, holding his head, surrounded by a pile of books, and I don’t think twice. I run to him, almost drop my bag. He’s breathing. He’s okay. There’s a pang in my chest, and I figure it’s my heart telling me, Enough already! I approach him slowly. Quietly.
“You okay?”
He doesn’t move. “Headache. Dizzy.”
Relief rises up in me, but so does concern. Seeing Ian without his sizzle scares me, so I rummage through my bag, find a bottle of pain reliever. “Here.”
He murmurs his thanks and then crawls to the lockers, puts his back up against them with a loud sigh. His color is still way too pale against his dark hair. I dive back into my bag, pull out the sandwich I made this morning, and unwrap it. “Here. Eat something. You look sick.”
I offer him half, and instead of taking it, he stares at it—at me—and then it hits me. He doesn’t want to catch my taint—the girl who cried rape. “For God’s sake, it doesn’t have cooties.”
He laughs. Oh my God, Ian Russell actually laughs. And then he’s talking to me and eating the sandwich I gave him, and I have to be dreaming because nobody’s smiled at me without hurling insults in more than a month. I can’t believe it. Words come out of my mouth. I don’t even plan them. He talks, and somehow I reply. Somehow I don’t shut up. I tell him about kicking a locker, and then I make up this whole lie about applying to a magazine’s internship program because I don’t want him to know why I really carry the school’s camera. And it’s amazing because I’m happy, I think. It’s been so long since I felt happy. I’m not entirely sure, but I think that’s what I am. Until Ian says something about me not being mute, and I try to be all confident and
funny and self-deprecating all at the same time and say, “There’re a lot of people who wish I were.”
And when the light goes out of his eyes, I think, There it is! There’s the look I was waiting for, the look that never lets me forget what I am.
Loser.
Liar.
Slut.
I want to tell him I’m not any of those things. I want the ground to swallow me alive. I want to run and hide. I want this day to end. I start throwing out the mess of locker guts Ian spilled all over the floor, but he stops me, saying something about chicken pox. When he carefully piles all the stuff back into the clean locker, I pretend I’m not watching him, not picturing him as the knight who rescued me with a white Toyota Camry. I gulp back the scream that’s building up in my chest, this hideous powder keg of insistence that he—the guy who’s so carefully replacing some sick student’s One Direction notebook back in her locker—knows I’m not what everyone says I am, knows and isn’t talking.
He ignores me the rest of the day.
Chapter 8
Ian
I head outside to hang by the door for my dad. Grace is nowhere to be seen. That’s good. Real good. Don’t want to see her. Shouldn’t have talked to her. And she knew it. She ran out like the hounds of hell were on her heels.
Guess that’s my fault. I forgot. Damn concussion. Sitting there, talking to her, looking into those bright eyes, it was so easy to forget what she did. What she said Zac did. But I remember now. I got grounded that night. The team was partying in the woods by the railroad station. I was supposed to be there at 7:30, but my dad got ticked off because there was no gas in his car and wouldn’t let me out of the house. I didn’t even use his car, but he didn’t want to hear it. We had a big fight, and I got into more trouble for mouthing off. An hour and a half later Claudia confessed that she’d taken the car and didn’t fill the tank.
