by Eden Beck
“I have a few places I think we can start.” He opens to one of the bent pages. “Obviously there’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Hugo wrote to try and preserve the Notre Dame Cathedral, but that’s French architecture, not German.”
I blink up at him again a few times, my voice lodged in my throat until I blurt out, “I thought we were getting something assigned.”
Beck just gives me a look. “And here I was, thinking you might not be a complete idiot.” He flips through a few more pages, before spinning the book around and pointing to a paragraph mid-page. “Or have you not figured out that The Brotherhood comes with more privileges than just getting to mess with you in our free time?”
I gulp and glance down at the book. It’s better than looking at him.
The passage he’s pointed talks about timber framing or something in the cathedral, but that isn’t what surprises me. No. It’s his voice, filled with sudden unexpected enthusiasm.
“Paris. Man … have you been? It’s amazing.”
I glance up, expecting this to be some other kind of joke, but there’s no malice on his face. His eyes practically shine, and as he goes on, forgetting for a moment where he is—who he is—he actually smiles.
“If we have the time, we have to go. The architecture …” he trails off, his eyes dropping back down to the lines of text with a greedy intensity. “But then, everyone’s going to want to go to Paris. Maybe we should pick something different. Something more original.”
“What do you think?” he asks, glancing back up.
I look at him slack jawed. I wasn’t expecting this, not from him.
“I—I, I don’t know.” I glance down at the book he’s holding, still open to a dog-eared page. “What happened to your book? Mine still looks new.”
He glances down. “This is mine from home. I’ve already read this.”
“You have?”
“Most of the books we’re assigned this semester, actually,” he says. “You’d think they’d pick something new. This place is supposed to be an advanced academy, but they can’t even pick a book we haven’t all already read.”
I don’t tell him that I haven’t read The Hunchback … or any of the other books we’ve been assigned. And from the snippets of conversation I can catch around us, neither has anyone else.
I look tentatively back down at the pages. “What d’you think?”
“Huh?” He looks lost in thought when he looks back up at me.
“Of the book,” I say, tapping one of the worn edges.
“Are you kidding me?” he asks, and for a second, I think I’ve found the Beck I know again. Hot-headed, flashing temper … but no. He grins and flips through some other pages before shutting the book completely. The spine is cracked in several places. “Hugo is brilliant. It’s just a shame that he didn’t write more.”
His eyes narrow at me. “Wait, don’t tell me … you haven’t read it yet?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. From the confused look on my face, he correctly assumes that I haven’t. He’s not exactly wrong, just wrong about why I look the way I do. While Beck goes off on a sudden, breathless explanation of Victor Hugo’s brilliance, I just sit here convinced that my brain is short circuiting.
Am I dreaming? Where did the terrifying, angry, defensive bully go … and when was he replaced by this boy talking about classic literature so … passionately?
“So,” Beck says, leaning forward, “What do you think?”
I’m saved from the humiliation of revealing I completely tuned out the last ten minutes of him talking as the bell rings, signaling the end of class.
“It uh, it all sounds great,” I say.
He nods. “So should we work out those locations now, or you want to meet up tonight?”
A chill runs through me, and it has nothing to do with my momentary fantasy of Beck as a bookish boy.
Clearing my throat awkwardly before grabbing my map out of my backpack, I unfold it quickly and spread it out across our two desks. Better to do this now, quickly, rather than have to face Beck alone later.
Even if a tiny part of me is starting to wonder if there’s more to him than maybe I once thought.
Chapter Eleven
There’s lacrosse practice today, and I’m not going.
It’s been a few weeks since my stairs “accident”, and every time I miss practice, I get just a little giddy. My ribs are healing up nicely to the point that they barely hurt anymore, but I still have an excuse to keep the bandages.
After class, Rafael heads back to the dorm, leaving me stern instructions to chain-smoke at least four cigarettes before I head back. It doesn’t quite dampen my mood to do it this time. Maybe I’m becoming addicted to the nicotine, or maybe it’s just a nice feeling to stand out in the sunshine on my own. And, of course, I’m not going to smoke four cigarettes. I’ll just tell Rafael I did.
It isn’t long before I flick the last of the cigarette into the dirt and dig it into the ground beneath my heel. I’ve become an adept smoker, though it’s not a skill I’m particularly proud of. Certainly not one I’ll regale my family with when I eventually … hopefully … go home for break.
Apparently, everyone goes home for a couple weeks in late October, but at this point I’m just hoping they can afford a ticket home at Christmas. Even that seems like a bit of a stretch at this point. No one likes to talk about money, but the last I spoke to my mother she dropped more than one hint about how lovely it would be up here in the mountains in the fall.
I’m not in my usual spot today. There’s a little seating area outside the dining hall and I’m tucked into an alcove there, my feet dangling down from the stone bench on which I perch. From here, I can see people milling around the wrought-iron tables, but they can’t see me.
Which is how I realize that Heath is approaching.
The boys haven’t exactly slowed their bullying since I fell down the stairs. They’ve just changed it up a bit. I’m sure I can’t expect things to stay this way for long. I can already tell they’re growing restless.
Which is why it’d be better if Heath didn’t see me just now.
I curse under my breath and try to slip off my perch without him noticing me, but I’m too slow to duck around the corner. I hear him shout my name across the little patio.
“Fuck,” I mumble. I’m not fast enough to run away.
“Alex!” he yells again.
Since I have no other choice, I turn to face him. God, he’s handsome here in the sunlight. I can’t help thinking about it anytime I get caught off guard by him or the others. He’s wearing gym shorts and a tank top, and I can see the muscles in his biceps ripple as he walks toward me, swinging a pair of cleats by their laces in one hand.
But being shoved by a pretty boy doesn’t hurt any less. I would know. And if it weren’t for this injury, I’d know a whole lot better.
“Not coming to practice again today, pussy?” he calls after me, loud enough to make sure we’re overheard by the entire courtyard.
I look around. Everyone is watching as he walks by them. Their eyes snap from him to me. A few boys pull out their phones to record videos.
I really don’t want to get beaten to a pulp.
“I can’t,” I tell him in the hoarse croak my voice has taken on these past weeks.
He sneers as he comes to a stop directly in front of me. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” I bluster. “I’m injured, remember?”
He grabs me by the arm and I wince, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. He grins. He can tell the difference.
“You little shit,” he says through clenched teeth, yanking my arm toward him so that I stumble forward, almost into his chest. “You and this stupid injury. It’s just an excuse.”
“It isn’t,” I lie, trying not to stammer. “I would totally play if Ms. Weber clears me, but—” I stop myself abruptly as his eyes widen and he takes on a wicked grin.
“Oh, you would, huh?” he asks. “Then why do
n’t we go see her?”
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.
“She won’t—”
“That’s for her to decide, isn’t it?” He says, cutting me off. With a manic grin to rival Beck’s, Heath fixes his hand even tighter around my forearm and starts dragging me into the school building.
My brain whirs. I know I’m recovered enough to go to practice, maybe even play a little, but I really don’t want to. I don’t even know anything about lacrosse—which, honestly, is the least of my worries.
It’s a painful trip to the infirmary. Heath practically throws me into the room through the double doors. I teeter awkwardly on the spot as Ms. Weber looks up from her desk.
“Alex?” she asks, confusion on her face.
I laugh a little nervously and wring my hands. Heath comes in to stand next to me.
“Ms. Weber,” he says warmly. “How are you today?”
“Doing fine,” she replies with a small smile.
“We’re here because we’re wondering if Alex here,” he slaps my back, hard, and I try not to wince, “is fit to come to lacrosse practice. We’re awfully inefficient without him.” Heath adds the last bit with an evil glance at me.
Ms. Weber looks from me to him. She lets no sign slip that she knows my deepest, darkest secret.
“Well, I did just examine you yesterday,” she tells me. On my back, Heath begins digging his knuckles between my shoulder blades. “As long as you’re careful, I think you can attend practice—do your ribs hurt much anymore?”
Heath digs his knuckles into my skin further. I do my best not to show how much it hurts, but I’m reading his message loud and clear—come to lacrosse practice, or he’s going to make me regret it.
“No,” I say to Ms. Weber. I wish I could signal something to her with my eyes, but I’m too focused on not crying out from the pain in my back.
“As long as you’re careful, then, I think you’ll be okay. Keep your chest bandages, though,” she adds as an afterthought.
It’s a small thing. One that I’m grateful for.
I nod.
“And be gentle,” she continues. “Start slow. Make sure you have all the proper padding.”
“Oh, we’ll be gentle,” Heath says, grinning down at me. “We’ll take it nice and easy. Wouldn’t want to break a pussy on the first day.”
I’ve never heard such a bogus lie.
In the locker room, Heath roughly helps me into some ill-fitting padding and shoves a stick in my hands. When I trot out in my borrowed cleats and oversized helmet, all the boys on the field turn to watch.
As do some people in the bleachers.
Ah, crap.
Olive and her cohorts are here. She waves jovially at me from her seat on the bleachers, and I give a half-hearted wave in return. On the field, Jasper glares at me from behind his full-faced helmet.
Of course she had to be here. She has to keep making things so much more complicated.
“Look who just got cleared by the nurse!” Heath crows as I follow him to the field.
An adult man who I assume is the coach walks out to meet us.
“You Alex?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply uncomfortably. We’re standing right on the edge of the field, so I can see Jasper and Beck staring at me from behind the coach. Beside me, Heath bounces happily on the balls of his feet.
“You know anything about lacrosse, Alex?”
“Uh … no, sir,” I admit.
He shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to get some experienced players to look after you. Show you the ropes.”
“Jasper, Beck, and I would love to do that,” Heath pipes up.
The coach nods. “Fine. We’re about to do a couple skirmishes. Nothing better than a trial by fire—right boys?” he adds, shouting across the field.
I hear chuckles from my “teammates”.
Of course, I get put on the team opposing The Brotherhood. The captain of my team, a six-foot-tall almost-man called Vic, sneers disgustedly at me and points me toward the goal at our end of the field.
“Just be the goalie and stay out of the way,” he snaps.
Gladly, I think, but I don’t say anything as I scurry out to the goal. The usual goalie gives me a dirty look.
That’s exactly what I need. More enemies.
The game starts with a tussle over the ball in the center of the field, and then everyone starts running back and forth. I stand rooted in the center of the goal. Our team scores a point, I think. It’s sort of like soccer played with sticks.
Heath comes hurtling down the field with the ball. The guys in front of my goal start heading toward him, but there’s been some guys from the opposing team over here the whole time, and they start battling it out.
Heath is really good at lacrosse, or, at least, it looks like it. He runs down the field and jerks the stick in his hands. The ball flies out from it, toward me, and I position my stick to try to whack it away—but it plunges into the goal behind me.
I wasn’t even close.
The coach blows a whistle.
Vic comes running up to me with his teeth bared. “Okay, out on the field,” he snaps at me. “Maybe you’ll at least be a decent defender.”
“It was just one goal,” I snap. “I’m learning.”
“Well, learn something else. Adrian!” he yells. “Take goal!”
The other goalie returns with a sneer in my direction. Vic takes me by the upper arm—gently, nowhere near as hard as Heath or Beck or Jasper would’ve—and guides me to where Adrian was just standing. He talks very quickly and points out some line on the field I’m not allowed to cross.
The coach blows the whistle. Vic runs off. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Don’t cross the line, is all I know, and I repeat it in my head like a mantra.
I try to follow what the other non-line-crossers do. If they run one way, I do, too. If they fall back, so do I. If they rush forward, I try to follow.
But not so hard that I ever actually get close to the ball. It’s just a charade. I just have to look like I’m playing. Even that isn’t easy, though.
I haven’t done this much physical activity in ages. I’m so out of breath.
It isn’t long before Heath gets the ball again and comes rushing down the field, and this time, he’s headed straight for me. I don’t know what to do. I consider diving out of the way, but which way?
Fortunately, one of our guys smacks into him, jostling the ball out of his stick and shoving Heath out of my direct path.
But then the ball sails overhead, and without thinking, I poke my stick up into the air and to everyone’s astonishment—including my own—I catch the damn thing.
And I just stand stock still.
“Over here!” yells one of my teammates. I realize I have no clue how to get the ball from my stick’s pocket and into his. They really shouldn’t have put me in this game.
I rear my stick back …
And am blinded by absolute pain as Heath barrels into me, slamming me off my feet and into the ground hard enough to knock the wind straight out of my lungs. I gasp desperately as I try to crawl away from his crushing weight.
“Oops,” he says with a grin. “Sorry.”
I wheeze, unable to reply. The coach is blowing a whistle, but I don’t know what for. By the time I get my breath back, we’re playing again.
My body feels like it’s breaking a second time. The bruises, once healing, I know will be dark purple again—and joined by new ones. But I can’t complain. I remember what the nurse told me.
I have to fight back.
And here, right now, fighting back means fitting in.
Chapter Twelve
For two weeks I endure it.
I come away from thrice-weekly lacrosse practice with more bruises and scrapes than I can count. I’m able to keep my bandages in the locker room as I change, so no one sees the little lumps of fat that are just identifiable as breasts jiggling on my chest.
No ma
tter how much I try to play fair, the practice always ends in a skirmish. I’m always opposing The Brotherhood. And, without fail, Heath always smacks into me.
If he keeps this up, I’ll get to keep wearing these bandages for the rest of my time here at Bleakwood … not just the rest of the year.
That’s my only consolation. And, for now, it’s enough.
All three of the boys are good at the game. It’s evident that they’re our star players, even better than the upperclassmen. But Heath is the only one who seems to take it seriously.
Jasper and Beck shoulder-check me from time to time, but Heath hunts me down on the field no matter what position they try to smash me into. I can’t get away from him. I don’t know if I’m ever going to fully heal because of him.
It only gets worse every time Olive comes to watch, sitting in the stands among her posse.
And today, she’s back.
She waves at me again from the bleachers, but this time I pretend not to see her.
Heath smacks into me several times. Normally he limits himself to two or three tackles, but today he’s going all out. I fall to the ground once, twice, three times, four times. I lose count at six.
I’m hurt. I’m gasping. I’m barely able to stand on the field with my stupid stick clutched in my hands. And I don’t even have the damn ball—but here comes Heath, barreling toward me with a wicked grin behind his faceguard, and slams into me so hard I’m actually knocked clear off my feet and am suspended in the air for a fraction of a second.
The coach’s whistle blows as I hit the ground. The wind gets knocked out of my lungs for what feels like the millionth time today, and I roll onto my side, coughing and sputtering. I hear the coach saying something to Heath, but I can’t make out the words.
I sit up, still coughing and this time the coach offers me his hand. As I use it to help myself to my feet, a sharp pain shoots up my ribs.
I freeze, not daring to move another muscle as my head spins dangerously.
“You good, Alex?” the coach asks flatly.
I grit my teeth and look up at him. I’m bent almost double, clutching my ribs. He’s staring at me impassively. At his elbow, Heath grins manically at me.
