Be the Death of Me

by Rebecca Harris

  “Yeah,” I call, not moving to join him. “Look out.”

  He collides with a frantic, swiftly moving body. The look on his face is priceless; confusion mixed with irritation at yet again being made to look like a fool. The boy Ford knocks to the floor scrambles to his feet faster than a rabbit on the run. He’s a human stick, all elbows and knees, with curly brown hair and deep, heavy lidded eyes. His clothes aren’t exactly name brand–I can tell because none of my clothes were ever name brand–and consist of a slightly over–sized sweatshirt and jeans that suggest they weren’t originally bought for him.

  Ford, reaches to help the boy up. “Hey,” he says, shaking hands awkwardly with the kid. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  The boy clutches his bag to his bony chest like a shield. “Sorry,” he chuckles. “I can’t seem to stop.”

  Ford laughs. “No sweat, man. My fault . . Again.” He readjusts the straps on his own bag. “I’m Benedict by the way.”

  “I know who you are,” the kid nods in an attempt at being friendly. “Benedict Ford. We have economics together.”

  “Oh, right! Now I remember. Well, you can call me Ford if you want.”

  The boy sticks out his hand. “I’m Riley.”

  “Riley. Cool. Well, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, definitely. See ya.”

  “And maybe next time I’ll just say hi like a normal person instead of trampling you to death.”

  “Sounds fair.” Riley smiles sheepishly and walks off.

  “You’d think sooner or later I’d stop running into people,” Ford mumbles to himself. “Maybe clumsiness is just a phase and I’ll grow out of it even—”

  He stops talking immediately, and by the time I whirl around to see what the problem is, he’s crouched by an overflowing garbage can, hidden from view as another boy passes by a few feet away.

  No, boy isn’t the right word. This guy is huge, way too big to be an average high school senior. The muscles in his neck are frightening, bulging like he ate a dozen eggs, or a freshman for breakfast. Stranger still, are his hands. Each finger is coated with what appears to be either a thick coat of either red paint or blood, dried and buried beneath his nails. The scarlet smear coats both hands, marking a trail up his left forearm.

  “Bent–dick!” the giant shouts, finding Ford alone. He stomps over, his footsteps echoing through the corridor like claps of thunder. “What’s up, weirdo?” He moves into what I assume will be a handshake or high five, surprising me instead by wrapping a burly arm around Ford’s undoubtedly delicate neck, and trapping him in a tight headlock.

  I’m quick on the uptake. In the time it takes for Ford to turn the palest shade of blue, his captor is flying, pushed through the air by an invisible hand. Ford hits his knees, confused but thankful for want of air, throwing his arms over his head. I visualize what I want, envisioning this massive boy simply releasing Ford, sailing through the air, and in the next instant I watch as he collides with the nearest wall, crashing against the brick. He crumples to the floor, eyes wide and darting, panting for breath as he tries his best to decipher what has just happened to him, finding no reasonable explanation.

  He scrambles to his feet, boots slipping, squeaking against the tile. “FREAK!” he shouts, making a mad dash down the hallway, unable to see my outstretched hand waiting to toss him once more through the air. But he’s going, going, gone, too frightened by the inexplicable to return to do more damage, and soon we’re once again alone.

  “What was that?” I ask as soon as Ford is back on his feet.

  He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “What are you talking about?” he asks, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

  “Don’t lie to me,” I say, watching as he dusts down the front of his too–short pants yet again. “I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  “No one sees eye to eye with you. You’re huge.”

  “I’m still your Guardian and that guy is obviously an issue. I need you to tell me the truth. Otherwise, how am I supposed to do my job?”

  “Cross your fingers and hope for the best?”

  “Try again.”

  “It’s nothing,” he grumbles, turning on his heel and walking in the opposite direction of the Hulk. “He’s a jerk.”

  “This jerk got a name?”

  “What does it matter? It won’t be long before the entire school finds out what just happened. How am I supposed to explain what you did?”

  “Cross your fingers and hope for the best?”

  He clamps his lips shut over whatever retort has flashed into his head. It doesn’t matter if Ford tells me the guy’s name or not. Colossus has just become a person of interest, and it won’t take much to find out what I want to know. I shrug and follow after him, taking turn after turn, deeper into the labyrinth of the school. “Suit yourself,” I sing. “Just don’t come crying to me when he kicks your butt. I’ll be too busy doing my I–told–you–so dance to care.”

  “I highly doubt you can do any sort of dance.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m actually quite spry for my height.”

  “Yeah, right. And I’m much stronger than I look.”

  If he has more to say, I never find out. Ford halts on the spot, his eyes saucers as they stare on in horror at a scene that causes my own mouth to drop in disbelief. A wall of silver, metal lockers stands in front of us, each door identical to the one beside it.

  Except Ford’s.

  The locker door is covered by glistening, red spray paint, thick streams dripping eerily down the front of the door in identical rivers. There, written across the door are three words sprayed in both haste and hatred.

  RETRIBUTION IS COMING.

  Ford turns to look at me. “Holy—”

  “—Crap,” I finish for him.

  Finally, something we can agree on.

  Billie

  “Jamie!”

  A small child, blond curls stuffed under a knit cap, dimpled cheeks pink from the cold, races past where I sit cross–legged overlooking the city park. The colors here are stunning. An orange and cream sky stretches down and kisses the high earth at my feet beneath swirls of pale–purple clouds drifting lazily overhead.

  “Jamie!” the anxious mother yells again. She’s a younger woman, pretty and blonde, though still carrying a bit of late baby weight around her hips. Only under close inspection is it possible to see the faint shadows of sleepless nights circling her eyes. “Jamie, get down from there!”

  The boy looks straight through me, searching for something that isn’t there with his baby blues. His tiny brow furrows in confusion and disappointment before he turns and toddles his way back down the grassy knoll, arms outstretched, laughing the way only a child can with joy and wild abandon. Flinging himself into his mother’s arms, the boy plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek.

  I don’t know what I’m doing here.

  I’m the worst kind of masochist. One that not only knows the pain is inevitable, but runs straight at it, like a doomed, beleaguered army charging into battle they have no hope of winning. It’s like seeing a movie, hating every minute of it, and watching it over again the next day.

  Who needs this future, anyway? What’s so great about getting married, and having kids, and growing old? So what if I’ll never get to wear a white dress and have the kind of wedding every little girl dreams of, pure and beautiful? So what if I’ll never get to be a mom? Who cares about sonograms and nurseries? Why would I want a child to hold and love and protect? He would leave me someday, even if he didn’t want to. Everyone dies. There’s no avoiding it.

  Life is nothing more than a drawn out death march, and I’m thankful to have skipped it. An eternity of being young sounds just find to me, thank you very much. Who in their right mind would want to watch themselves age and decay, reminded every time they look in a mirror of the life, the youth that slipped through their fingers? Dying in my own bed, knowing my long years are finally at an end? H
aving to watch the heartbroken faces of my friends and family cry at my bedside, hold my hand and tell me they love me . . .

  My situation couldn’t be better. I have a partner, a friend, in Tuck, and an assignment that only occasionally makes me want to tear my hair out. I have a boss that treats me with respect, and values my opinion. Why, just this afternoon, the Captain and I had a rather productive meeting; one of our best yet.

  It went something like this.

  Him: So Foster, do you have anything you would like to add to Tucker’s latest report?

  Me: Am I supposed to have something to add?

  Him: Is there anything you would like to report?

  Me: Is there something you would like me to report?

  Him: Do you have anything new to state?

  Me: Did Tuck say there was something new?

  Him: Are you and Mr. Ford getting along?

  Me: Don’t I get along with everybody, Cap?

  This continued for an additional five minutes before he eventually threw me out of his office. You can’t find that sort of employer/employee relationship just anywhere.

  I watch as the woman hikes her little boy up on her hip, fitting him in the crook designed specifically for holding children. “Ready to go home?” she asks her son.

  The boy grins and buries his head into her neck, covering his face with her blonde cascade of hair. I watch them go, just as I always have, just as I always will, until I’m finally met with the day I can tell myself I’m okay, and really mean it.

  BAM!

  The kickball comes out of nowhere, ricocheting off my head and rolling to a halt by my knees. It doesn’t hurt, nothing does anymore. It’s more of an annoyance than anything else. I whirl around, ready to chuck it back the way it came when I notice the hurried, chicken scratch handwriting scribbled across it’s shiny, round surface. I palm the red, plastic ball, and read the message scrawled over the back.

  Billie,

  Shift’s over. We have a problem.

  Tuck

  Marvelous. I knew leaving the two of them to their own devices was a bad idea.

  I pick myself off the ground, vanishing even as I stand, ignoring the echo of high, heavenly laughter as it rings across the deserted playground, carried by the wind like the ghost of a long buried wish.

  Billie

  (Four Years Ago)

  “So are you coming to Gino’s after school or not?” Maya skips along at my side, a goofy, hopeful smile splashed across her russet features. She bumps me with a playful nudge of her hips, and proceeds to check her makeup in my tiny locker mirror. “Justin and bunch of guys from the team are meeting up before the game tonight. So you know what that means.”

  I watch her tuck a stray, black curl beneath her headband and say, “That every senior girl in a twenty–mile radius will also be there, and unless I want to go home smelling like sweat and cheap tomato sauce, I should avoid it at all costs?”

  She ignores the sarcasm and sets about applying a thick layer of lip gloss to her already–coated lips. Maya has always put too much effort into her appearance. I’d never say this, at least not to her face, but she’s constantly seeking validation for looks that don’t need it.

  “So are you coming, or what?” she says, smacking her lips together before deciding her makeup is officially flawless.

  I shake my head, allowing a few strands to fall free of the ponytail. “I can’t,” I tell her. “I have that make–up test with Mr. Hammond today.”

  Her top lip twists into a sneer. “Hammond?” she says through a grimace. “Yuck. I don’t care how long he’s taught here. The guy’s a total sleaze.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I have to. I missed the test Wednesday because Olivia’s stupid car wouldn’t start, and mom took mine to work.”

  “Your sister’s car is such a piece of junk. Why doesn’t she just save up for a new one?”

  I throw my English lit book in the locker and pull out a binder of notes. “She says she’d rather save up for college in case her scholarship doesn’t come through.”

  Maya rolls her enormous, doe eyes. “Why wouldn’t it go through? Your sister’s a total Einstein.”

  “Tell me about it. But that’s Olivia for you.”

  She gives up with a crumpled pout. “Well, call me later, Chica, ok? I’ll make sure to tell you all about the fun you missed out on.”

  Maya flounces away, all smiles and giggles. I groan and head in the opposite direction, imagining how much easier life would be if things like chemistry tests and broken carburetors didn’t exist.

  “Gotcha!”

  The arms appear out of thin air, wrapping around my waist and spinning me in a tight embrace. I squeal and drop my notebook, the papers soaring chaotically through the air. “Austin, put me down!” I laugh, enjoying the feel of his hands against the small of my back.

  “No way!” he teases, throwing me over his massive shoulders and continuing to spin. “I’ve got you where I want you, Bill!” He spreads his arms like an airplane, gripping his gym bag in one hand while keeping me perfectly balanced with the other. The laughter carries around the deserted hallway, bouncing off the metal lockers and trophy cases lining the walls.

  Mrs. Wen, the upperclassmen art teacher, steps out of her studio to glare at us. “Mr. Rowe,” she says calmly in spite of the twenty or so years she’s spent reprimanding teenagers on exactly the same grounds, “If it’s not too much trouble, kindly put Miss Foster down.”

  Austin takes one look at the tiny, frazzled woman splattered in paint, and immediately sets me on my feet, an adorable look of chagrin across his rosy face.

  “I missed you today,” he whispers. Mrs. Wen heads back inside her classroom and in our fleeting moment of solitude, Austin gently pulls the elastic band from my hair, burying his face in the blonde waves. For such a big guy, I’m often surprised at how tender he can be.

  Most never see the Austin I see. They only see the basketball player dominating the court, dunking over the other players, winning championships. But beyond that there’s a boy who’s loving and thoughtful, and can make me smile even on my worst days.

  “I missed you too,” I say, kissing his cheek. “I still can’t believe we only have one class together this year.”

  “We should protest,” he chuckles. “Let’s refuse to go to class until our schedules are the way we want them. Or until they bring back cheese–fries Fridays in the cafeteria.”

  I hit my knees and begin picking up the sheets of loose leaf paper strewn about the floor. “That’s quite the plan you’ve come up with,” I say as Austin stoops to help, “but unfortunately one of the prerequisites for graduating is attending class.”

  “Damn the man, Bill.” He flashes me a mischievous grin and hands over a stack of notes. “Let’s go rogue on ‘em.”

  A scrawny sophomore girl darts past, while a guy from my history class, staring from his locker a few feet away, rolls his eyes in disgust at the whole scene. I stand and begin cramming the papers back into their binder. “How about we go rogue after I finish my make–up test for Hammond?”

  His broad face transforms into the same grimace Maya’s wore earlier. “Hammond?” he asks, the sneer fixed in place. “The guy’s a sleazebag.”

  “That’s what they tell me. But sleazebag or not, I’ve got to make up this test or I’ll be retaking his class next year instead of heading off to college with you.”

  I emphasize the last words by tapping him on the nose. He responds by nipping the tip of my finger. A giggle escapes, and I reluctantly pull free.

  “I gotta go,” I say, trying to escape as he places a hand on either side of my waist. “He’s expecting me, and I’m already running late. I’ll see you at the game, okay?”

  “You’d better. You know I can’t play without my good luck charm.” He kisses me quickly before jogging the last few feet to the gym, turning as he reaches the wide, double doors. “I love you, Bill!” he calls to me, black curls bouncing, shouting the words unash
amedly.

  “I love you back!”

  And I mean it.

  Mr. Hammond’s classroom is empty when I arrive. The long, black countertops are wiped clean, the lab equipment washed and drying on a rack by the back sink. I groan inwardly as I do each time I’m forced by the West Rosemont High School Board of Education to step into the room.

  Evil, thy name is chemistry.

  I sit in my assigned seat, a high, three–legged stool that creates welts on the backs of my legs, and leave my binder of notes closed. I don’t know why I brought it. If I haven’t learned it by now, there’s no way I’ll be ready in the next five minutes. Maybe I’ll at least get a few points for putting my name on the paper. Mr. Hammond arrives half–a–minute later, dressed in what I can only assume is the last leisure suit left in existence.

  “Miss Foster!” he greets me, fingering the thin gold chain around his neck. “How thoughtful of you to join me.”

  “I do what I can,” I mumble. And then louder, “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to talk to my sister about something.” It’s only somewhat of a lie. I did, in fact, speak to my sister before meeting Maya at my locker. I think I threw her a casual, “Hi,” as we passed in the hallway.

  “Ah, Olivia,” Mr. Hammond says, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. “How is your sister these days?”

  Olivia took chemistry as a sophomore, two years ahead of what’s required, a fact I’m constantly reminded of by not only our mother, our teacher, and Olivia herself, but also my report card which seems to silently judge me at the end of every grading period.

  “I miss having her in my class,” he goes on, a wistful longing coloring his tone. “It’s a shame you two were never in class together. You would have made a formidable pair.” He drifts off, sucking hair between his teeth. “Anyway, I have your test right here, sweetheart,” he calls, waving a packet of papers in front of his face and resorting to his relentless habit of addressing any female student by slightly chauvinistic pet names.