Mrs. Sawyer looks up from her desk as I walk by. “Excellent take on the story, Ann-Elizabeth. I wish you were willing to speak up more often. Perhaps I’ll seat Mr. Hanson next to you permanently. It seems to have had a positive effect on you.”
My cheeks are fire engine red by the time I reach the hallway. Nathan is standing against the wall outside Mrs. Sawyer’s room, one foot propped up with his knee bent. I realize he’s heard everything she said.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” he says, stepping out to walk along beside me.
“What?” I ask, pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Us sitting next to each other.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“I think it does.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, giving him a direct stare.
“Walking with you to your next class,” he says.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Ah, because you’ve never done that before?”
He shrugs. “First time for everything?”
I lean back a little, gripping the straps of my backpack with my thumbs and give him a long look. “People usually have an ulterior motive for doing things they don’t normally do.”
“Not always.”
“What’s yours?” I ask, ignoring the denial.
He laughs. “You don’t cut a guy any slack, do you?”
“What would be the point?”
“Not making it so difficult to get to know you?”
“Since when do you want to get to know me?”
“Since the second day of school when you asked Mr. Bellingham if we would ever use Geometry in real life.”
I feel my face redden at the memory of my impertinence. It had gotten me lunch detention the following day, during which I got to write five hundred sentences on respecting my teacher along with the potential after-life uses of geometry.
“One of my finer moments,” I say, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “I could see why that would make you interested in getting to know me. By the way, there weren’t any cheerleaders in detention.”
“That’s because none of them wants to buck the system.”
“Neither do I.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“No. I don’t. My goal is to get through high school with as few people noticing me as possible.”
“Mine too,” he says.
“Right.”
“It’s true.”
I give him a look of disbelief. “You’re a shining example of how to excel at everything you do. How does that help you not get noticed?”
“That doesn’t mean I’m in it for the spotlight.”
At the end of the hall, he opens the door for me, and we head through the covered archway that leads from Building One to Building Two.
A group of football players and cheerleaders stand in the middle. A dozen pairs of shocked gazes turn in our direction, as if they’ve been pulled there by a magnet.
I stiffen beneath the attention and start to walk faster. A hand on my shoulder, Nathan’s hand, slows my pace. He pulls me into the curve of his arm, and we weave through the crowd that way, me too stunned to do anything other than move like a statue being relocated from one spot to another.
He doesn’t remove his hand until we’re through the entrance to the other building. My shoes squeak against the hard marble floor, and it takes me a few seconds to find the words to say, “Let me guess. You have an ex-girlfriend out there you were trying to make jealous.”
“Partly right. Yes, to the ex. No to making her jealous.”
I put a body’s width between us. “Human beings are so predictable.”
“How’s that?”
“The motive thing. Knew you had one.”
“Actually, I didn’t plan that.”
“And you expect me to believe you?”
“Whether you do or not, it’s true.”
We’ve reached the door to my French 2 Class. “All right,” I say. “Glad I could be of service.”
I step in front of him to head through the classroom door. He stops me with a hand on my arm, his eyes, those ridiculously light blue eyes, serious now when he says, “I’m sorry.”
“Just admit it,” I say, even as I want him to deny it again.
But this time he doesn’t, his voice apologetic. “She dumped me for my best friend.”
“And you were hoping she would mind seeing you with me? You picked the wrong girl for accomplishing that.”
He drops his hand. “Have you ever looked in the mirror?”
“Every morning when I brush my teeth,” I quip.
“You’re really pretty, Ann-Elizabeth. Has no other guy ever told you that?” To say the truth would be too embarrassing. Because, actually, no other guy has.
The one minute warning bell rings. “You’re going to be late for your class, Nathan.”
“I’ll tell the teacher I was talking to a pretty girl,” he says, and then turns to sprint off down the hall.
I know it’s stupid, but for a long time after I’ve sat down at my desk, I can’t wipe the smile from my face.
*
Nathan
I HAVE NO idea why I picked today to talk to Ann-Elizabeth Casteel.
As much as I hadn’t wanted to admit it, she’s right that we don’t run in the same circles. If high school is a microcosm of society, Ann-Elizabeth and I definitely come from different neighborhoods. And the girls I normally hang out with are from my own.
But I’ve noticed her.
For a while now.
And the truth is I’ve wanted to talk to her, but it wasn’t until today that I worked up the courage.
If you asked anybody on the football team whether I have trouble talking to the opposite sex or not, they would almost for sure tell you no. And for the most part, I guess that’s true.
It’s not like that with Ann-Elizabeth though. There’s something different about her.
She’s serious about life. Like maybe she’s lived stuff beyond our age. I’ve wondered what it could be. Why she acts more mature than other girls in our class. I don’t know the answer, but I know her mom works at a convenience store outside of town and that they probably don’t have a lot of money. Not that it seems like Ann-Elizabeth cares about that kind of thing. Still, I’m aware that most of the kids I know take for granted stuff like having a car and college being paid for. Somehow, I doubt that she does.
I stop by my locker and grab a book for my next class. My phone beeps. I glance at the screen.
Making your favorite casserole for dinner. What time will you be home?
I tap a quick answer.
6:30? Thanks, Mom. U rock.
I head down the hall, thinking about the one time I saw Ann-Elizabeth’s mom at the convenience store where she works. Matt Robinson and I had ridden our bikes out to the lake near there to go fishing. We stopped to get some supplies, and it was Matt who pointed her out. I remember being surprised because even though I could see the resemblance, she had this look about her that made it clear life hadn’t been the easiest. Which made me wonder about Ann-Elizabeth and what things were like for her at home.
When we brought our stuff up to the register to pay, Ms. Casteel gave us a look and said, “You boys look like you’re about my daughter’s age. Do you know Ann-Elizabeth Casteel?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “We’re in the same classes.”
“With you,” Matt said. “You two being among the intellectuals.”
I ignored him and said, “She makes most of the rest of us look dumb.”
Ms. Casteel smiled then, and she looked a lot younger. “I’d like to say she gets it from me, but I’m convinced it’s a recessive gene as they say.”
Not sure how to respond to that, I said, “I’m sure you’re proud of her.”
“Did you know she can sing too?” she asked, ringing up our items.
“Really?” I asked, surprised by this.
She nodded. �
��In church now and then. I’ve been trying to get her to spread her wings a bit, but she’s shy about letting anyone hear her.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Nathan. Hanson.”
She gave me a long look, and then said, “Your daddy wouldn’t be Aaron Hanson, would he?”
“He is.”
“Well, I’ll be,” she said, clapping her hands together. “He’s written my favorite songs.”
“Mine too,” I said.
Surprise flitted across her face. “Well, that’s awfully nice, considering your age. Most teenagers think their parents are dumber than dirt.”
I shrugged. “He’s pretty much taught me everything I know.”
“So you write songs too?”
“I try.”
“Maybe you could get Ann-Elizabeth to sing one of them for you.”
“I’m not sure they’re all that good yet.”
“Everybody has to start somewhere.”
I handed her the money. “That’s what my dad says.”
She bagged up our items and passed them across the counter to me. “I’ll be sure and tell her you boys came in the store.”
We thanked her and headed back outside to get our bikes. “Does she really think we hang around with Ann-Elizabeth?” Matt asked, once the door had closed behind us.
“What do you mean?” I asked, giving him a narrow glance.
“She’s not exactly in our crowd,” he said, climbing on his bike and starting across the parking lot. “Except for you being in the smart classes, of course.”
His words echoed in my ears, striking a note of something defiant inside me. Admittedly, I’d never balked the unwritten rules of the group I ran with. But that day, in that moment, I wondered why I didn’t.
*
Ann-Elizabeth
AS SOON AS I get home from school, I down a glass of orange juice and grab the plastic box from under my bed where I hide Henry’s grooming essentials. I like to keep his nails clipped and brush his teeth a couple of times a week, always making sure I’m done before Lance gets home at his usual five-thirty.
I don’t dare bring Henry in the house to do it. If he sees a single hair on the floor, it’ll set him off on a two-day rampage of “we’re getting rid of that idiot mutt.”
I can’t even take him off the chain because Stupid Lance has a padlock on his collar, and he has the only key.
I spread a blanket on the hard-packed dirt next to Henry’s barrel and sit cross-legged with his paw on my thigh while I carefully clip and tell him about Nathan.
“I bet we’ll never even speak to each other again,” I say, concentrating hard not to nip the quick of his nail. “I think he felt bad using me to make his old girlfriend jealous, but he did say I was pretty. Do you think he was just saying that to make me feel better? Probably, right?”
I replay the whole scene for Henry, all the way from how I had looked up to find Nathan sitting beside me, to that last moment when he’d taken off down the hall, late for his next class.
He listens as if he understands every single word I’m saying, his tail thumping against the blanket every so often.
When I’m done with his nails, I start on his teeth. He tips his head back, knowing the routine by now. I work on the back ones first with the toothbrush I bought at Wal-mart and the special dog toothpaste I’d saved up for by skipping lunch and keeping the money Mama gives me every morning. I get it at the vet’s office and try to use it sparingly so it will last longer. I love the way it keeps his teeth white and looking as good as they did when he was a brand new puppy. It makes him look like he’s cared for, even though I can’t have him in the house with me.
I’ve just put everything back in the plastic box when I hear Lance’s truck turning into the driveway, its low, menacing engine a perfect soundtrack for his arrival.
I kiss the top of Henry’s head, gather up my stuff and hightail it to the back of the house. I push the window up, climb in and manage to shove everything under the bed just as he bangs on my door.
“What are you doing in there, girl?” his voice booms through the cheap panel, and I jump straight up from the floor, forcing my expression into boredom as I open the door and say, “Homework. Why?”
Lance is still dressed in the oily coveralls he wears to work. Mama tries to get him to let her wash them every night, but he says he prefers to leave them grimy because when the boss walks through, he looks as if he’s been working hard whether he actually has or not. His hair is equally oily today, pulled back in his customary man-bun, which for some unknown reason, he thinks makes him look cool.
“Where’s your mama?” he asks, his glance skipping past me to my narrow bed and the stuffed animals piled against the pillows.
“I guess she’s still at work,” I say, barely suppressing the desire to add, “Where do you think she is, you jerk?”
His cloudy eyes drop from my face to the neckline of my t-shirt. I have to make myself not yank it upwards. That would be a sign of weakness to Lance and all the motivation he needs to try to intimidate me further. I stand, silent, waiting for him to have his fill, refusing to back down.
He glances at the watch on his left wrist. “Since it looks like your mama’s not going to be home for a while, I could help you with your homework.”
“I don’t need any help,” I say.
“Not your regular school stuff,” he says, his eyes narrowed now with an intent that makes my stomach drop. “The real life kind of learning. You know, things you’ll want to know about boys.”
He places the tips of his fingers against my chest and shoves me backward into the room. I stumble a little and then right myself quickly, saying in the hardest voice I can manage, “Get out, Lance. I mean it. Get out.”
“Now why do you wanna be like that?” he says, slamming the door shut behind him with his booted foot. “After all I do around here to take care of you and your mama and that low-life dog of yours?”
I feel instantly sick, sure that I am going to vomit right here in front of him. The orange juice I drank earlier rises up, the acid burning the back of my throat.
Outside my window, Henry barks, sharp outraged barks that tell me he somehow knows I’m in danger.
Lance walks right up against me and bullies me to the side of my bed where he uses one hand to push me backwards so that I fall flat onto the mattress.
I can’t hide my fear now as much as I hate myself for it. “If you don’t get out, I’m going to scream.”
He laughs. “Oh? And who’s going to hear you? Idiot out there? Or Crazy Sadie? Which one do you think will come and save you?”
He’s just started unbuttoning his shirt when both of us hear the front door open and Mama’s voice calling out for me.
Relief rains over me in a torrential downpour. Rage floods his face, and I see him struggle to rein it in.
“Go on now,” Lance says. “See what your mama wants. You keep her in the kitchen, and I’ll slip out in a minute. We wouldn’t want to give her any reason to be jealous, would we?”
Fury propels me off the bed, and I swear it’s a good thing I don’t have a knife in my hand. Even so, I let myself imagine plunging one into his midsection as I shove past him.
Tears well in my eyes as he calls out in a soft voice, “Later, baby.”
***
MAMA HAS GROCERIES in the car, so I go out and help her bring them in. I ask how her day was without looking at her directly.
“It was good,” she says. “Where’s Lance?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. I’ve been doing homework,” I say, hating myself for the lie.
We’re putting the food away in the kitchen when he walks in, freshly showered. He steps up behind Mama and kisses her on the neck. The smile that lights up her face makes me newly nauseated. I slam the box of cereal into the cupboard, leaving the door open and heading for my room, locking the door behind me. Even though I hear it
click, I unlock it and then lock it again just for good measure.
*
Ann-Elizabeth
I STAND UNDER my own shower for at least half an hour. I can’t seem to get the feeling of ick off me. I scrub with soap and a washcloth until my skin starts to feel raw.
Spent, I lean against the tile wall, closing my eyes and finally letting the tears come. I cry with an anger that has absolutely no place to go other than to merge with the water sluicing across my body and falling into the drain.
I think about Nathan, the fact that he had called me pretty today. And suddenly, all of that just seems disgusting. If this is what being pretty means, that you attract monsters like Lance, I don’t want to be pretty.
I grab the razor at the corner of the tub and break its plastic enclosure in half. The blade slips out and cuts my finger. Blood spurts from the wound, the shower water instantly thinning it to a pale pink.
I am aware of how easily the sharp edge could make me anything but pretty for the rest of my life.
I press it to my face, feel the metal dent the skin and then pierce. Should I make an X? A permanent physical warning. Do not touch. Tainted.
I begin sliding it down my cheek, but pain begs me to stop.
I throw it to the floor and then sink down, hunched forward with my elbows on my knees, crying for my own cowardice and the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do.
I don’t know how long I sit there with the water raining down on me, but I do know that I feel utterly sorry for myself. Why is it that men like Lance get away with being so mean and hateful and controlling???!!!???
The question screams through my mind, and I hate my own sense of helplessness. I hate that I have to accept living here under these conditions just because Mama thinks she loves him.
I draw in a long breath and blow it out again. I might have to live with it for now, but not forever.
And I won’t.
I won’t.
***
The Heart That Breaks Page 3
