“Good luck with that,” Ford laughs. “What about you, Shannon?”
“Getting some paint thinner for dad,” she says, tucking her bangs behind her ear. “I really don’t know what I’m doing. Dad said to get the kind in the blue can, but all I can see are green cans. I’m totally lost.”
I nudge Ford with my elbow. “I could show you,” he says, picking up on my signal. Shannon beams at her savior and the two of them, with Riley in tow, head three aisles over. Ford gallantly shows her where the blue cans of paint thinner are hiding, only after I save him the trouble of looking like an idiot by pointing them out to him. Shannon offers him a quick, awkward hug of thanks.
“Glad I could help,” he says as they pull apart, his cheeks flushing crimson. “I’ve, uh, gotta get back though. We were just picking up some duct tape for Gran anyway.”
I shake my head in disbelief.
“We?” Riley asks, glancing over Ford’s shoulder, confused.
“Me!” Ford covers quickly. “Me. I meant I was just picking up some duct tape. For Gran.” He laughs at his own stupidity. “Well, I’d probably better get going. But we’ll see you around, okay?”
I slap him upside the head.
“I’ll see you around!”
“Ask them to come over!” I hiss in his ear. Truth is, I couldn’t care less if Ford has entertainment for the night, but I need something to take my mind off Tuck. If dinner with Ford and his friends is the way to submerge myself in distraction, then so be it.
“Hey!” Ford shouts suddenly, startling both Shannon and Riley. “Do you guys wanna . . . I don’t know . . . hang out for a while tonight? You could come over for dinner. Gran’s making spaghetti.”
Riley and Shannon turn to one another and share an uncertain smile. “Sure,” Shannon says after no time at all. “That’d be great.”
The three of them pay for their supplies and head in the direction of Ford’s house. The afternoon sun is warm and inviting. Gran is outside when we arrive, on her knees in the dirt, digging around her flower bed. Her face changes quickly from surprise to glee as she watches her grandson approach, followed by two very live, very real friends. She welcomes them before heading inside to change clothes. Ford starts a pot of water boiling and it isn’t long before the three of them are seated around a fantastic Italian meal. I watch from the sidelines, seated on the now–cluttered kitchen counter, chin resting in my hands. I laugh along with the others as Riley comically slurps a noodle into his mouth. I nod and listen as Shannon chats emphatically with Gran about what plans she has for the summer. Ford looks my way only once toward the end of the meal, as if an afterthought, as if he’s forgotten I’m even there.
They talk a long while after dinner. Gran heads to bed, graciously leaving Ford and his friends alone. The three of them huddle around the table, laughing and talking, gossiping about their fellow classmates. Three outcasts united.
Riley is the first to yawn, and it soon spreads like a contagion. Shannon follows him out the door, waiting almost expectantly on the front porch.
“This was fun,” she says, hiding a smile. “Your grandmother seems really nice.”
Ford stays in the doorway, waving as Riley trudges the driveway. “Yeah,” he agrees. “She’s great. She’d love to have you guys over again sometime.”
She beams. “Definitely! Or maybe you could come to my house next time. You know . . . if you want.”
“Sounds great. I’ll tell Riley.”
Her grin falters. “Oh. Yeah. Riley. That could be fun.”
Ford appears confused at her sudden loss of giddiness. I step forward to help the poor kid out. “She’s asking you over to her house, doofus,” I hiss. “Why would you invite Riley?”
It’s as if a light bulb goes on over his head. “Oh!” he practically shouts. “Oh. Or maybe we could just hang. You know . . . the two of us. If that’s okay?”
Her winning smile is back in a flash. “Yeah, sounds wonderful.” There’s a moment of awkward silence in which she leans forward, tilting her face slightly upward. I know what she’s after. It’s the internationally recognized sign for “kiss me you fool”.
Ford, ever observant, is not one to pick up on the hint. “Okay,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow!”
Shannon turns on her heel and follows after Riley.
“You idiot,” I say after she’s gone.
He turns as if surprised to see me. “What?”
“Could you be any more dense? She was practically begging you to kiss her!”
“No she wasn’t!” he shouts back, only to have a look of horror spread across his face. “Was she?”
I nod and glare.
“Oh, crap,” he moans, turning back inside the house. “How was I supposed to know?!”
“She was giving you every signal in the book! How could you not have known?”
He collapses once again at the kitchen table. I take a seat next to him. “Why do girls have to be so complicated? If she wanted me to kiss her, why didn’t she just say so?”
I shrug. “That’s not how we roll.”
“This coming from the queen of mixed signals.”
“Hey, watch it. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve let my personal life take a bit of a back seat to keeping you alive. And not to toot my own horn, but uh, beep beep. I mean, no one’s tried to kill you like at all this week.”
He eases into a laugh. “You’re right,” he says after a moment. “And if nothing else, whenever I do finally kick the bucket, at least I’ll know someone when I get there. Do you think you could maybe get me a job as a Guardian fifty or so years from now?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. They don’t even really like me being a Guardian, so you may not want to list me as a reference. Truth be told, I think I might have pushed away the one person who truly believed in me, and I don’t think he’s coming back. So it just goes to show you . . .”
“I believe in you.”
I stare up into eager, expressive eyes. “I know you do, Ford. But . . .”
“But you wish I was Tucker, don’t you?”
I offer him a small nod, admitting the words I’ve been afraid to say with a quick dip of my head. “I don’t get it! I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe . . maybe Tucker was who I was supposed to be with all along. Except that would be crazy, right? I never would have met him if I hadn’t died. And who in their right mind thinks dying at seventeen is what was supposed to happen to them?” I bring a sudden halt to my tirade, unsure of whether or not to speak what I know will eventually bubble over. “I don’t know,” I begin, stalling the instant it breaks free of my mouth. Because it isn’t true. I do know. I take a deep breath and continue. “I . . . may . . . love him.”
Ford says nothing, places an arm around my shoulders in what can only be a gesture of pity for the heartbroken dead girl.
“Don’t judge me,” I groan, resting my head in the crook of his neck.
He chuckles and pats me gently on the head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
I laugh and place a quick, grateful peck of friendship on his cheek. The soft tingle of a five o’clock shadow against my lips makes me want to cry from the sheer intimacy of contact. I allow them to linger an instant longer than they should.
The reluctant though understanding smile I have planned as I pull away fades instantly. Something flickers into view just over the dip in Ford’s left shoulder. A light. No, the dimming of a light, its faint source fading into nothingness along with a face so twisted with disappointment it’s almost unrecognizable.
Almost.
Tuck.
Tucker
Morning, watery and pink, trickles its way in through Ford’s bedroom window, landing in gentle, ebbing pools on the floor. He lays sleeping, a skin–and–bone arm draped over his eyes, shielding them from the sunrise. Billie stands, face turned to the very window Ford shies away from, a wall of silver–white hair shining under the break of day, each strand glittering wit
h a thousand ginger colored crystals.
I came back for her, hoping for closure, longing for some sort of resolution to the heartbreak Billie pressed upon me that night at the country club. Don’t think about it, Tucker. What’s done is done, and there’s no changing it. Billie has no idea what she’s been thrown into, just how twisted this horrible little circus of ours goes. I promised the Captain I would do whatever it took to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing myself in the process. Fool me once. Fool me twice . . .
I did what I had to do. Billie did what she wanted, what was to be expected, and I’ve only responded by doing what needed to be done. And I know, I know before any words are spoken, before the look of hurt and anger cross her face.
She’s going to hate me.
“Billie.” She turns at the sound of my voice. “I need to speak to you.”
Her face flickers with doubt for one heartbreaking moment before, to my complete surprise, she covers the space between us in two steps and takes my face between her hands, kissing me fiercely. I barely have time to register the hope in her smile before our lips meet. And for an entire second of reckless abandon, I kiss her back with such eagerness it’s hard to restrain thoughts of simply picking her up and carrying her out the door. But sense and consciousness return with a vengeance, overpowering any momentary bliss. Placing two iron hands on either of her shoulders, I push her away.
She stares up at me as we pull apart, the expression of desire still emanating from her face. “Tuck,” she beams, radiant. “You came back. Of course you came back.” She directs the last at herself, shaking her head, her eyes hitting the floor. “I mean, I hoped you would. I mean, I need to tell you something.”
“Billie,” I start to say.
“I am so sorry, Tuck. You have no idea how sorry. No one has ever been as sorry as I am. But what you saw . . . me and Ford . . . it wasn’t . . it was nothing, I swear. I care about him, but not how you think. You have to believe me. I’ve thought about it a lot since you left, and I know I’ve been a complete idiot. I didn’t understand. I didn’t see you. But I get it now. I see. You were right. I want to try and be happy. With you. And I just . . . I don’t want you to hate me.”
She stops and looks up at me again with her brilliant blues. Stay strong, I tell myself, unwillingly tearing my gaze from hers.
“The Captain wants to see you.”
Billie draws back, dropping her hands to her sides, shocked by my response to what was an undoubtedly painful confession. Her pale brows furrow together. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asks after a moment of listening to nothing but Ford’s heavy breathing continuing to punctuate the quiet morning. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I said I’m sorry. And I—”
“He said immediately.”
Her face registers her hurt. “Why are you being like this?” she mutters softly to the floor. “I’m sorry, okay? I made a mistake! But you have to forgive me, Tuck.” Her fingers fiddle gingerly with the end of my tie. “Please.”
I can’t bear another minute of this. “You should go. The Captain’s expecting you at HQ, and you know how he doesn’t like to be kept wait—”
“Stop it.” It’s her turn to interrupt. “Look at me.”
I don’t. I can’t.
“Go.” I tell her. “Now. Before he sends someone after you.”
There’s a moment of absolute silence as she realizes that her apology hasn’t worked. What’s strange is, I think both of us are equally surprised at my refusal to forgive, however unstable and insecure the foundation may be. She nods, grasping what I came to understand days ago, that something has changed between the two of us; something has broken, shattered in a way I doubt can ever be repaired.
“Okay,” she whispers, grasping for the words. “I’ll go. Just . . . uh . . . tell Ford I’ll be back soon.”
“I can’t do that.”
She stares up at me. “Just tell him, okay? He’ll be confused when he wakes up if I’m not here.”
“I can’t tell him that, Billie,” I say, my voice swelling with determination. Perhaps it’s her unwavering concern for Ford’s well–being that gives me the proper motivation to remain apathetic.
“Tell him,” she orders, refusing to phase. “He deserves to know where I am. He’s my assignment!”
“No. He’s not.”
Her eyes narrow instantly, a dog ready to bite. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s not your responsibility anymore. I spoke to the Captain, and he agrees. You’ve become too attached to this case. As a result, the Elders have ordered your immediate removal. They’re not marking it as a failure, at least not yet. You’re to report to the Captain where you’ll be given a new assignment. You will need—”
I’m not surprised when she slaps me; I almost welcome it. I shut my eyes against her hand, wincing not from the actual blow, but from the only pain we Guardians can feel. She vanishes without another word or glance in my direction, eyes blazing, her jaw set.
That’s when I know just how right I am. Something has broken. And this time it’s not just one, but two hearts, each dormant and useless inside our chests.
Ford
(Four Years Ago)
Could this be any more humiliating?
The bus, smelling of what I can only assume is sweat, beef jerky and despair, jostles over the railroad tracks, its wheels not only going round and round like the song suggests, but up and down, forward and back, and quite possibly diagonally from time to time. My butt bounces against the sticky, leather seat as the giant automobile settles all four wheels once again on the pavement. Next to me, a rather full–figured, curly–haired girl smiles and offers me a bite from whatever half eaten, mashed candy bar she’s pulled from her back pocket.
I grin feebly and mumble a half–hearted no thank you.
The ride to school lasts longer than I would have thought possible. Technically speaking, living just outside the school district, the bus shouldn’t even bother picking me up. But Gran insisted, and as soon as they were informed of my “special circumstance,” the school board voted unanimously to make a small detour from the usual route.
The ride ends, and I climb off quickly, almost before the shrieking brakes can bring the vehicle to a complete stop. My new school awaits, plain and simplistic. There are no steps or fancy walkways to the entrance, only a long, seemingly endless stretch of pavement leading to the front doors.
I make my way to my locker as inconspicuously as I can, finding the tiny, beaten cabinet resting alone in a far corner by a particularly noisy water heater. I’m not complaining. I’ll gladly take this sorry excuse for a locker rather than be forced to share with someone I don’t even know, the only other choice the administration gave a student arriving so late in the school year.
The day passes without incident or notice. No one offers a hello or asks my name. No one calls on me in class or waves hello in the hallway. I slink into oblivion, finding I prefer it that way. It’s never fun explaining the name Benedict Bartholomew to people.
The odors and sounds of basketball practice can be heard coming from inside the gymnasium as I pass the doors, two massive green blockades daring the unworthy to enter its sacred, sports–obsessed grounds. Several students are dressed in school colors, matching hallways festooned in green and gold. Go Grizzlies! Crush the Cougars!
They’re very serious about their woodland animals around here.
Wall space not taken up by lockers is a shrine to the athletic gods that once passed through these hallowed halls. Track, football, basketball, baseball, swimming, lacrosse all have gleaming glass cases dedicated to their greatness, their championships and champions. Photographs spanning decades of Aryan–approved boys and girls judge me from behind their secure, paned cages. Half the girls look as though they’re named Greta and could one day find work as deep tissue masseurs, while every boy looks twice his age, old enough to be my dad . . .
I groan and shake my head, dispelling the un
pleasant thoughts.
Don’t think about him.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, that I would try to think of something else, something more enjoyable. But here, with every second spent in this preppy, active prison, I find it more and more difficult to believe I’ll ever be able to control my own thoughts.
Hours later, the final bell rings, signaling my release. The hallways flood with students, pouring toward the exits like a school of well–dressed fish. I gaze after them, wanting nothing more than to run screaming from this asylum of a school and never look back.
Dad’s old wristwatch–don’t think about him!–ticks quietly in a circle. I still have fifteen minutes before I’m expected anywhere. Most kids would spend the time hanging out with their friends, chatting in the parking lot before heading home in their custom Beamers and Bentleys. Not me. I have neither friends nor a fancy car to lure any.
I begin walking, heading nowhere specific, killing time with each meticulous step. I find my locker, open it, close it, open it again just to be sure nothing is left behind, and head down a different, though identical corridor. I visit the boys’ bathroom for no reason, spending several minutes washing my hands in the tiny, porcelain sink. An alarmingly tall boy in a suit and tie rushes past me on my way out, his hand over his mouth as though he’s mere seconds from losing his lunch. He hardly notices I’m there.
It’s just as well. The faces of the few students left in the building bleed together, molding into one, faceless teenager. Somewhere down an adjoining hallway an attractive Hispanic girl catches my eye as she skips past the front doors, mini–skirt floating dangerously above a pair of tan thighs. She latches onto the arm of a basketball player before kissing him coyly on the cheek and allowing him to chase her out the front doors.
Five minutes to go. Surely it wouldn’t matter if I’m a few minutes early. From what I’ve heard, teachers appreciate punctuality. Or at least I hope they do. I turn on my heel, finding the door I need only a few twists and turns away.
Be the Death of Me Page 17
