The Brokenhearted

by Amelia Kahaney

  He pulls the Seraph up to the curb in front of Cathedral, and I gather my books, tugging at my collar as I exit the car. As I walk up the ancient stone steps of the school, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I suddenly have the distinct impression Serge knows more than he’s letting on.

  I arrive at school eight minutes after the morning bells. I keep my head down and walk as quickly as I can to take my seat in homeroom with Mr. Brick, a former soldier turned social studies teacher. The room smells soothingly of camphor, from the cream he applies to his knee between classes.

  When I slide into my desk in the front row, the class erupts in loud chatter. I hear my name over and over and immediately flush bright red.

  I stare helplessly at Mr. Brick.

  “Quiet down, people!” he barks. The class does as it’s told, but they only stare at me harder.

  I shift my eyes down to the desk. My fist clenches the tangle of rubies in my pocket.

  “We thought you were dead, Miss Fleet,” Mr. Brick says in a stage whisper, his eyes widening ominously. “I was writing a speech.”

  I understand that speech is code for eulogy, and a shiver passes through me. Then I think of Zahra, and my stomach twists with guilt. She must have been terrified—and now she’s probably livid that she can’t reach me. My cell is somewhere in my backpack; I haven’t turned it back on since sending Z the text last night.

  “I’m fine,” I squeak out. My heart does its new electronic revving, so loud I’m sure Ginger McGeorge next to me can hear it, as I recite Lyndie Nye’s fabricated story word for word. I shoot a look at Ginger and see curiosity and concern in her eyes, nothing more. I try to focus on her soft brown ringlets, still damp from a shower, as I finish my little speech.

  “Anyway,” I continue, hoping I sound traumatized instead of coached, “it was really dumb of me, and I was lucky to make it out okay. I’d rather not talk about it too much right now, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, Miss Fleet. We respect your privacy and your bravery, and I speak for the entire school when I say we’re glad you’re back, safe and sound,” Mr. Brick allows. I slump down in my seat during roll call and whisper Here at my name, still feeling all eyes focused on me.

  After a few minutes, I can’t stand the scrutiny. I grab the bathroom pass hanging on the wall and race from the room.

  Zahra’s homeroom is four classrooms away from mine. I skid to a stop outside the closed door and peer through its narrow glass window, hoping to get her attention. But true to form, Zahra has taken her time getting to school. Her desk is empty.

  I clench my fists in frustration and take off again, hurtling down the drafty, locker-lined hallway, which is blessedly free of straggling students. I have all the space in the world to run, and I can’t seem to help running fast. My legs stretch as I lengthen my stride, my arms pumping furiously. I’m moving so quickly that as I turn the corner, I collide with someone and fall to the floor, hard.

  “Ow,” I grunt, rubbing my tailbone and patting my hip to make sure the necklace is still safe in my skirt pocket.

  “You’re back.”

  Will. I hurry to gather the books that have fallen out of my bag and get to my feet.

  “Looks that way,” I say cautiously, focusing my eyes on his blond curls, the perfect creases in his khakis. Anywhere but his eyes.

  “Have fun out there with your boyfriend?” His mouth curls into a sneer.

  “Let’s not do this.” Not today, not when Gavin is tied up and half-dead in a dark room somewhere. Not on what could be my last day at Cathedral. It’s not lost on me that what I’m doing tonight is risky enough to get me killed.

  “Do you have any idea what people have been saying about you?” Will takes a step closer to me, so close I can feel the heat of his breath in my hair. “I heard you ran away with your drug dealer, that you’re addicted to droopies—”

  “I don’t care what they’ve been saying,” I whisper. “You’re the one who’s always cared about that kind of thing.”

  “Really, though, where have you been? I know you haven’t been lost in the woods.” Underneath his controlled tone, I hear the trace of something cruel. “Slutting around in dangerous places with your poverty case?”

  Everything around me fades to white, until all I can see is Will’s smug mouth. His sky-blue eyes that almost hide the ugliness inside him. Almost, but not quite. I see my foot curving through the air, the toe of my leather oxford smashing into his lower lip and chin, slamming his head backward, nearly knocking it off his neck. He staggers back and looks at me with his mouth hanging open, his face a cartoon portrait of shock. Teeth smeared with blood. A long, thin string of red drool dangles for a second from his lips before falling in slow motion to the floor.

  Now Will’s nasty smirk is gone. His eyes widen at me in horror, a gurgling, shocked howl coming out of his bloody mouth, his hands covering the mess of his face as he backs away from me.

  My senses start to return to normal, though my heart keeps pounding hard and fast. I look down in amazement at my right foot.

  “You’re a psycho! A freak,” Will slurs, a slick of blood falling from his mouth and down his chin. I stand frozen in place, my eyes glued to the mess, not fully believing I’m the one who made it.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” he snarls. Then he turns and runs, lurching down the hallway and out of sight before I can think of what to say, leaving me alone, shaking a little as I contemplate what I’ve just done. And what else I’m capable of doing.

  I’m sitting on the front steps of school twenty minutes later, running my fingers along the octagonal cuts of the jewels in my pocket, when Zahra finally shows up, striding up the sidewalk in a pair of high-heeled boots that are a total uniform violation. In her familiar embrace, breathing in the smell of her hair pomade and her coconut-scented lip gloss, I realize I’m trembling. Zahra just strokes my hair until I’ve calmed down, wiping a few tears from my face.

  “So . . . are you ready to tell me?” she finally whispers. “I got your text, but what the hell happened to you? I’ve been a wreck.”

  “It’s Gavin,” I whisper, taking her arm in mine and pulling her through the deserted courtyard toward the chapel. “We spent the night together at his place, and—”

  “You spent the night on the South Side?” Z stops walking, her mouth hanging open until she clamps her hand over it.

  “I . . . yeah.” I haven’t even gotten to the point of the story, and Zahra already looks pale with worry. “That’s where Gavin’s place is, so.”

  “Sorry, go on,” she says. “I just. . . can’t believe you did that. You must really like this guy.”

  I swallow and nod. “Anyway, there was a break-in.” I struggle to keep my voice level, to show her I’m okay. “Gavin was kidnapped.”

  Z’s violet eyes widen with fear as I go on. Looking at her as she absorbs the story of the kidnappers, their masks, their guns, and the knife against Gavin’s throat, I know I can’t tell her about my heart or what I’m going to do tonight. I end the story with the terms of the ransom.

  “Oh my god,” Z breathes, grabbing my hand in both of hers. “I have no words. You poor thing. Are your parents giving them the money?”

  I shake my head sadly. “No.”

  “Oh my god,” Z repeats, panic creeping into her voice. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  I look past her to the guard booth, where a young guard stands at attention, within hearing distance.

  “I don’t know,” I murmur, wishing I could tell her about the necklace in my pocket. But she’s always been fiercely protective of me. If I tell her, she’ll feel like she has to help me, or to find someone who will. Maybe she’d even go to the cops.

  She grabs me in a hug and a few tears escape my eyes.

  I’ll tell her everything as soon as Gavin is safe, I decide. Better not to burden her with the whole truth. Better to have her think I’m still fully human, still ordinary Anthem. The sensible friend sh
e’s always known. The friend who doesn’t jump off cliffs, and certainly doesn’t confront a group of armed thugs in the dead of night.

  When she lets go, I pull my blouse down in the back, paranoid that my collar will somehow slip down low enough to reveal the line of black stitches snaking down my chest.

  We walk across the courtyard to the empty chapel and take a seat in the last pew. I think back to the last time I was here, when I broke up with Will. Then I picture my heel colliding with his jaw, his blood splattering Cathedral’s white tile floor. I shake my head and shut my eyes, scared of my own strength and of what I might do next time, if I lose control. When I open them again, I find Zahra looking at me wonderingly.

  “You dyed your hair,” she murmurs, twirling a lock of it around her fingers. “It’s a little darker, right?”

  “Henna shampoo,” I lie. “My mom thought it would cheer me up. As if that’s possible.” My head wants desperately to tell Z the truth about tonight, about falling in the river, everything. But my heart thrums out a warning that feels strangely like the beating of wings against a cage.

  CHAPTER 15

  Dimitri’s on the Water is a sagging, half-demolished restaurant on the South Side riverfront. Its burnt-out neon sign is shaped like an enormous lobster, with menacing antennae and suspicious, forlorn eyes. During better times in Bedlam, people must have come here for special occasions and fancy dinners. Now the windows are boarded up, and the stucco peels from the outside walls.

  I’m pressed against the trunk of a diseased oak tree on the perimeter of the parking lot. It’s deserted but for two cars parked close to the restaurant, a white van with SYNDK8 spray-painted on the side in fat, spiked letters and a garish yellow dune buggy with rust spots on the bumper and a swirly, snakelike S painted in green and black on the roof.

  I check my watch. 11:42. After waiting to hear my mother’s heavy, Dreamadine-induced snores and my father’s even sleeping breaths, I snuck out and ran all the way here, covering the three miles in under ten minutes. I press my fingers to my temples and rub them, attempting to stay calm. I just ran a three-minute mile. And the weirdest part of it is that I know I could have run it a lot faster. I begin the walk across the parking lot toward the swinging wooden doors of Dimitri’s and grimace as I pat my chest, checking that the ruby necklace is still stowed in the inside pocket of my jacket, just beside my stitches. As I reach the doors, my hands shaking at the thought of what I’m about to do, of just how much depends on it, I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I whirl around.

  Serge towers over me, his jaw set.

  “You followed me.” I look past him and spot the front bumper of Serge’s car—not the Seraph he drives for us, but his personal vehicle, a black Motoko sedan—sticking out from the side of the building.

  “You’re not going in there. They’re Syndicate,” he whispers through gritted teeth, motioning toward the van and the yellow jeep. His French-African accent is more noticeable than usual, maybe because he’s angry. “You could be killed.”

  I shake my head, desperate to make him understand. “I have to bring them something. If I don’t try, they’ll kill him.” I search his face, half expecting him to pick me up and drag me into his car.

  Instead, he nods. “I understand. But you should have enlisted my help.”

  My mouth falls open. Serge is here to help me?

  “I will deliver your offer. You will wait in the car. I cannot allow you to risk your safety.”

  I nod dumbly, my mind struggling to catch up with the change of plans. He escorts me to the car and opens the back door, pulling a tan leather briefcase from the backseat and opening it on the roof of the car.

  “How much have you brought?”

  With shaking hands, I pull the necklace out of the inner pocket of my jacket. He looks at me wordlessly, eyebrows raised. In the silence, his disappointment comes through loud and clear.

  “His life is worth more than this,” I mumble, feeling simultaneously pathetic and guilty. “But they wouldn’t help me.”

  Serge nods and carefully places it into the briefcase. Then he snaps it shut and motions for me to get into the backseat. I have a feeling this isn’t the first time he’s negotiated with criminals. He quit working for dictatorships many years ago, but his steeliness and his ability to intimidate hasn’t left him.

  “Is it going to work?” I ask, grabbing the sleeve of his suit.

  “I’ll do everything I can,” he says, his voice even. “This type of element usually prefers to get something rather than nothing.”

  When the car door slams shut behind me, I watch him straighten his tie and button his black suit jacket as if preparing to walk into a boardroom. Another wave of guilt knifes into my abdomen when Serge turns the corner, briefcase in hand. He’s risking his life, all because of me.

  The lines in my palms fill with sweat as I sit and wait, staring out the car window at the parking lot. The asphalt glitters with broken glass; discarded plastic bags blow past like tumbleweed. I stare down at my watch. 11:56. Four minutes to go.

  Before I can think through what I’m doing, my hand is opening the car door. I need to at least see that Gavin is alive. Or if he’s not.

  I sprint from the car to the rear of the restaurant, looking for someplace to peer in. Two Dumpsters sit close to the wall, and I shimmy on top of them, easily pulling myself up, and climb a rusted drainpipe up to the roof.

  I creep along the unstable red shingles until I’ve come to a hole about three feet wide and one foot high, large enough to give me a clear view of the vast, decrepit dining room. I crawl cautiously toward the opening, praying my movements aren’t audible from inside.

  The room was once painted in fishing-themed murals, but now graffiti is scrawled over the sea full of happy, frolicking crabs, lobsters, and fish. There are a few tables turned over here and there on top of the rotting anchor-patterned carpeting.

  Most of the lights in the cheap chandeliers are burned out, but a few still work, casting a dim light. Serge stands in the doorway, briefcase in hand. He faces the shattered room with a calm, steely expression.

  I suck in my breath when the platinum blond and her three thugs step into view, this time wearing lightweight plastic animal masks designed for children. Miss Roach is a wide-eyed deer. The biggest of them—the fat bald one who held a knife against Gavin’s neck—wears a bunny mask. The tall, thin one is a smiling skunk, and the shorter, dark-haired one is a squirrel. But then I notice three more people off to one side. One is a tall, thin woman with a boyish frame and long purple hair streaming down her back behind her pig mask. The other two—both wearing sheep masks—still have the bodies of young boys, not men. They couldn’t be older than fourteen. They puff up their chests and walk close to Serge, though, and if they’re intimidated by him they definitely hide it well. The silver barrel of a hunting rifle flashes in the skunk’s gloved hands.

  “Where is the boy?” Serge’s voice fills the room, his tone clipped, no-nonsense.

  The woodland creatures murmur among themselves. They seem disorganized, unsure of how to proceed. The smiling skunk lifts his rifle slightly, training it on Serge, then lowers it again as Miss Roach whispers something in his ear.

  My heart cartwheels in my chest. This is the moment. The moment they bring out Gavin. The moment I know he’s all right.

  “Where’s the money?” the fat one finally grunts from behind his bunny mask.

  “We are prepared to offer a piece of jewelry valued at fifty thousand dollars.” Serge’s silky, deep voice floats up to me.

  Please, I think. Let him go. I lift my head from the hole in the ceiling and gaze out at the Bridge of Hope, its pointed arches illuminated above the stinking snake of the Crime Line like a constellation of stars.

  “Is this a joke?” Miss Roach’s scratchy voice rasps, prickling my skin. I press my face back into the hole, a cold sweat trickling down my spine.

  She keeps her distance from Serge, standing fifteen feet away
from him. My eyes are stuck to her, frozen with the memory of her bubblegum-and-cigarette breath, the feel of her gun in my ribs. She puts her hands on her hips.

  “This is our only offer.” Serge’s clipped voice is louder now. “Not a penny more. Your window of opportunity will be closed after tonight.”

  And so will Gavin’s. Silent tears slip from my eyes.

  “Maybe your boss just needs some more incentive,” she chirps behind her deer mask. “Smitty, care to start?” Light bounces off her white-blond hair as she nods to the gun-toting skunk. My breath in my throat, I watch helplessly as he rushes toward Serge from behind, holding the rifle like a baseball bat. Serge reacts quickly and reaches into his suit jacket, but before he can defend himself, the skunk smashes him over the head with the gun barrel. I gasp as Serge collapses to the floor.

  “Do we kill him, or just cut off his hand?” Smitty asks Miss Roach.

  An animal scream rises up in me as I smash a foot through the hole in the ceiling to widen it, jumping through it feetfirst and landing lightly. All I hear is the insane ricocheting of my wild heart.

  For a moment, all seven of them are too shocked to shoot. They weren’t prepared for this, and I’m not about to wait for them to regroup.

  I gather speed as I run toward them, my foot flying through the air until it collides with Smitty and sends his hunting rifle flying. He gets up fast, but I’m still faster, kicking my leg up as hard as I can, making contact with his crotch. With Smitty doubled over in pain, I have a second to look around at the others. I move toward the fat, greasy bunny and kick the shotgun out of his hand. It slides along the moldy rug under a pile of broken chairs.

  Then a popping sound comes from the direction of the pig and her two sheep, and I twist my head as something whizzes a millimeter to my right, barely missing my ear. I am all adrenaline as I run to Serge’s unconscious body, and without thinking, I reach both arms around his midsection and grab him by the waist. Picking up Serge should be physically impossible, and yet I hoist him up like he’s a feather pillow. I stagger forward in what seems like slow motion, another bullet, two, barely missing my feet. Serge hangs over my shoulder, still unconscious. His arm flops against my back. I hurl myself toward the door, taking care to keep Serge from tumbling out of my arms. A half second later, I’m slamming through the swinging doors and into the parking lot, my feet barely touching the floor. The necklace is all we leave behind.