Before You

by Amber Hart

  Maybe I should tell him that he’s only hot on the outside, when he doesn’t talk.

  He stops in front of me, grinning. His eyes glint like the edge of a knife. For a moment, it feels as though they can cut right through me.

  “How was your meal last night?” he asks.

  I worried he would bring that up. Still, I can’t help the heat that colors my cheeks, as though my traitorous blood wants Diego to know that his words hit their mark.

  “It was great,” I say casually and turn before he has a chance to see me blushing.

  Diego is feeling brave today. He doesn’t trail me like yesterday. Instead, he keeps pace beside me, smiling devilishly.

  “And how’s that boyfriend of yours?” he asks.

  I stop. Shoot him a hardened glance. He’s well aware that Jason heard my comment.

  “He’s fine, Diego. Why don’t you ask what you really want to instead of beating around the bush?”

  He laughs. “You surprise me sometimes, Faith.”

  There it is again. My name. He says it differently than most people. I don’t know if it’s his accent or the way my name tastes in his mouth; either way, it catches me off guard.

  I don’t want to ask why I surprise him. I turn around and continue walking.

  “Red is a good color on you,” he comments.

  I’m not sure if he means my blouse or my face. I keep walking, wanting to be done with him for now.

  And suddenly, I realize something.

  I don’t trust myself around him.

  Not even my fake self. No, scratch that; especially my fake self. Fake Faith doesn’t stand a chance around Diego. He’s slowly unraveling the tight wire I use to secure the real me. He’s trying to free her and he doesn’t even know it.

  Or does he?

  Every time he speaks his mind, I want to do the same. And the dangerous part is that I just might. I wish I could dress how I want and date who I want. Why do some people have it so easy?

  I glance at Diego’s tattooed arms.

  Then again, maybe some people have their own version of complicated.

  On his lower bicep is an image of a girl on a motorcycle with something written in Spanish on the road beneath her. A five-inch gash on his arm makes her look as though she’s been cut in half. The line of the scar is too clean to be an accident. Nothing but a purposeful slice makes a cut like that. I wonder what it was.

  A piece of glass? A knife blade?

  More tattoos and small scars snake down his arm—two by his elbow, three on his wrist, several on his knuckles. And that’s just the left arm. Where the wounds have healed, the images appear slightly blurred, the original ink forever distorted.

  And then there’s his neck. I try not to look at it but I can’t help myself. His lightweight shirt is made of thin stretched cotton. The slight outline of his muscles is clearly visible—especially where his neck meets his strong shoulders. Above the neckline of his shirt a scar sweeps across his skin like a smile. The mark on his esophagus is red and angry.

  Raw.

  New.

  Someone did that to him.

  Why?

  Diego clears his throat. “Get a good enough look?” he asks.

  I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t have stared at him.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. I blink several times, hoping that if I close my eyes hard enough, maybe the images of Diego will escape through my lashes into the swarm of bodies around us. My eyes are thieves, stealing glimpses, storing the evidence in my mind, making me guilty by association.

  He grins. “There’s more if you’re interested.”

  I scowl. I cannot afford any more slip-ups. He has to stop provoking me. I need to get through the day. Then it’s over.

  “Go to class,” I say, and turn to walk away.

  Suddenly, Diego pulls me close. His body is pulsing, throbbing heat. I make a small whimpering noise. I don’t mean to. It’s just, God, why does he smell so good? Spicy almost.

  His eyes are one thousand points of light blinding my caution.

  He reaches around me. My chest presses against him. I’m so aware of my body, of how it’s conspiring against me. My mind is urging me to step away, to snap out of it.

  Abruptly, Diego releases me. In his fingers are stray hairs.

  “Shedding,” he says nonchalantly, letting my hair fall to the floor.

  I try to sift through my confusion. Why did I not pull away from Diego when it seemed as if he was embracing me? But he wasn’t embracing me. He was just ridding my shirt of hair.

  Mistakes, mistakes. Too many mistakes.

  “Didn’t want to mess up your picture-perfect image.”

  Diego winks, and walks toward the classroom door.

  I can’t let him get away with that. If anyone saw . . . If Jason hears . . . I’ll never live it down.

  Witnesses, witnesses. Too many witnesses.

  I part my lips to say something, anything, but embarrassment floods my mouth, chokes my words. The surge drowns any comeback I might’ve had.

  And I’m left alone, standing in a hall full of snickering students.

  12

  diego

  By the time I make it to lunch, even Javier has heard about my stunt.

  “I heard you got close to a white chick,” my cousin says.

  Yes, too close.

  “Something like that,” I say, grinning, acting as though it didn’t affect me, too.

  “Face it. You’ll never be good enough for that princesa,” Ramon says.

  You’ll never be good enough.

  I feel myself crack, a sliver of ice punched deep by the force of his words. He really should not have said that.

  Ramon is holding a tray of food. I shove him. People stop eating to look.

  “Hey, chill,” he says.

  I knock his food to the ground. Spaghetti splatters. People are whispering.

  “Let me tell you something,” I say. Might as well cut to the chase. “Nobody speaks to me like—”

  Javier steps between us. “Relax, man.”

  I take a deep breath.

  Exhale.

  Yeah, I have anger issues. But for good reason.

  Ramon bends to pick up his food. Without a word, he walks away. Javier’s eyes narrow.

  “Do you have to be such a jerk?” he asks.

  “Me, the jerk?” I say, exasperated.

  Javier doesn’t say anything else. I make my way to the food line; I’m about to grab a tray when someone knocks into me.

  Jason Magg.

  He doesn’t apologize. But that’s probably because it’s no accident. Jason is flanked by two of his football buddies.

  My teeth clench. My muscles coil. Now is not the time to mess with me.

  “You know what they call people like you who hit on another dude’s girlfriend?” Jason asks, and then answers. “Dead meat.”

  I laugh. Because honestly, it’s funny. The guy has no idea that his girlfriend likes it when I hit on her. I found that out today, when she didn’t back away from me in the hall. Why not have a little fun with the pastor’s daughter? And that little whimpering noise she made? Ay. I almost crumbled.

  “You think it’s funny to hit on girls who have boyfriends?” Jason asks.

  “No. Just yours,” I say, like the smart-ass I am.

  His chest puffs out and falls, a balloon being blown up and deflated.

  I smile.

  “Stay away from Faith,” he hisses.

  “All right,” I say. “But you should probably tell her that, because like you already know, it’s Faith who comes on to me. Not the other way around.”

  Jason’s fists tighten. His buddies move in.

  “She’s a peer helper,” he says.

  “Okay. Sure.” I nod. “I wonder, though, when she’s no longer my peer helper, and she’s still coming ’round, what you’ll say then? ’Cause let’s face it, she won’t be able to stay away.”

  I casually lean against the wall, like I have
no worries when it comes to him. And I don’t. I can easily take Jason and his friends. I can tell by the way they’re fumbling around, looking nervous but trying not to, that they’re inexperienced fighters.

  Rule number one: Never show weakness.

  Sure, a three-to-one ratio isn’t ideal, but I’ll manage. I might walk away with another black eye. But make no mistake: I will be the one walking away.

  “My girlfriend is not interested in you,” Jason practically growls.

  “Oh yeah?” I say. “Then why did she agree to go out with me on Friday night?”

  It’s a lie, meant to anger him.

  Mission accomplished.

  Jason swings. I catch his fist before it hits my face.

  Rookie.

  Rule number two: Don’t act in haste.

  My knee connects with his gut while my fist hits his nose. I don’t have time to deliver another blow before I’m yanked away by two teachers. They pin my arms behind my back like paper to a corkboard. I let them. Jason got my message loud and clear.

  Rule number three: Don’t mess with me.

  Two more teachers place themselves in front of Jason and his friends, a shield of sorts. Faith’s boyfriend pulls himself off the floor, no doubt humiliated. He wipes a hand across his nose. Bloody. One of his buddies walks away, returns with a hand towel. Jason puts the cloth to his nose, tries to stop the bleeding.

  I didn’t break his nose. I could have. But I didn’t. I purposely held back. I have broken enough bones to know what it feels like when they crack, and his are still intact.

  Mostly, I wanted to scare him. I want him to know—whether I was out of line or not—that I am not someone to be taken lightly.

  I am not your punching bag.

  I will not ever be pushed around by some guy in a letterman jacket.

  Just then, a wide-eyed Faith runs up to Jason. “What happened?”

  One of Jason’s buddies points to me.

  Faith follows his direction. Her eyes land on me. Her face hardens, something like rose granite. Someone gets her attention. She looks away.

  “What are you thinking?” a lady with big hair asks me. According to her name badge, she is Mrs. Slyder, science teacher.

  I don’t answer.

  “There is no fighting on school property. You just earned two days’ suspension. Are you aware of this school’s policy about suspension for fighting?”

  Is she aware that she just told me?

  “Your suspension will start immediately.”

  Like I care.

  “Who threw the first punch?” she asks.

  I wonder if Jason is man enough to admit that he did. Probably not.

  “I’ll take your silence as guilt,” she says.

  Of course she will. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? More like guilty for the rest of my life, simply because of who I am.

  “Are you new here?” she huffs. “Why don’t I recognize you?”

  Because I don’t like to be seen.

  “What’s your name?”

  I still don’t answer, mostly because no matter what I say, I know they’ll believe a pretty boy over a troubled Latino.

  “Now would be the time to explain.”

  Silence.

  “Are you listening to me?” Mrs. Big Hair asks.

  Unfortunately.

  “To the office,” says one of the teachers holding my arms.

  I’m bigger than the puny teachers trying to haul me away. I push all my weight down, making it difficult for them to move me, a boulder of stubbornness. I will go with them when I’m ready. I want to make sure Jason sees me before I’m escorted out.

  There. He looks at me. And in that moment, I plaster my face with the biggest smile I can muster and mouth the word, “look.” A silent whisper meant only for him. I eye Faith. She is throwing the bloody towel away.

  Jason looks at her.

  I look at her.

  Whatever punishment they decide to give me will be worth it.

  It’s all worth it because in the end, when her boyfriend is bleeding down his face and ten other people are trying to get her attention and the lunchroom is in a shambles because of the fight, Faith notices none of it. She’s not looking at any of them.

  Because she’s too busy staring at me.

  And Jason knows it.

  13

  faith

  My legs burn as though they’ve caught fire. One, two, three, four hundred steps on the school track before dance practice. My breaths come deep and quick. Sweat glides down my back.

  When the whistle blows, I rest my hands on my knees until my heart slows its gallop.

  Coach tells us to gather together. When she was younger, she also danced for our school team. I’ve seen pictures: long auburn hair, muscular build, dark Persian skin. She looks the same, just a few added wrinkles.

  Melissa stands beside me, nudging my arm.

  “Good run,” she says.

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  It’s all about endurance. The more you have, the better dancer you are.

  The music begins. The new routine, the one we’ll perform at our next competition, unfolds with only a few hiccups. Being on the varsity team means many of us have practiced together for years. It doesn’t take long to learn the new moves. The problem is perfecting them, making them ours. A twist at the end, a flip in the middle, attitude written all over our faces. It’s the little things that add the most character.

  “I don’t like it,” Tracy says, trying to veto my newest suggestion.

  Coach huffs. “When do you ever?”

  I bite back a smile. Our one-sided feud is long-standing. And everyone knows it.

  Tracy glares at me.

  “Do you have another suggestion?” Coach asks, trying to be fair.

  It’s a good thing Tracy is an incredible dancer, or we’d all have asked her to leave the squad by now.

  “Of course,” Tracy responds.

  I watch as she demonstrates what she thinks is better. Truth: it’s not bad.

  Coach eyes me. I shrug, not wanting to start a fight.

  “Okay,” Coach replies. “Anyone object?”

  Half the team raises their hands, which leaves the decision to the captain.

  Me.

  Everyone waits for my response. I look at Tracy. Her eyes dare me to object.

  “Tracy’s idea is fine,” I say, backing down.

  I don’t offer any suggestions for the rest of practice. Guilt gnaws at me, hungry and relentless.

  I should’ve stood up for my teammates who raised their hands. I should’ve stood up for myself. But I didn’t.

  I’m not sure I even know how.

  After practice, I sort through pile upon pile of books.

  The back half of the library is littered with spare books, crammed together like people in an overpopulated city. My school is preparing for the annual book fair, and I’m on the organizing committee. Whenever big things happen—homecoming, book fairs, science fairs, plays, etc.—the committee organizes everything. I love it. Well, actually, I guess it’s not so much the sorting through a million books that I enjoy, but the end result. I love knowing that I make a difference.

  “Hey, sweets.” Melissa plops down beside me. She’s wearing a pink spaghetti-strap tank top with white shorts and flip-flops. A string of ginger jewels hangs from her neck, dressing up her outfit like tinsel on a tree.

  “Hey.” I smile.

  Melissa is on the committee. So are three others. We don’t actually have a president but most people come to me for final decisions.

  “Bad news,” Melissa says. “Sally has the pox.”

  “What?” I ask. “Small or chicken?”

  “Chicken. It’s serious, too,” Melissa informs me. “She’s being quarantined for three weeks. So is her sister, since they live in the same house. Molly hasn’t caught it yet, but everyone thinks she will.”

  I groan. “Well, that stinks. For them and for us.”
r />   Sally and Molly, two members of our committee of five, will not be able to help us get ready for the book fair.

  Another empty gap.

  Another role to fill.

  “You think we can get some of the dance team to step up?” I ask.

  “Doubtful,” Melissa says. “Remember what happened freshman year when we asked for their assistance? Total disaster. We’re better off without them.”

  Right, as usual.

  “Great,” I mumble. “We’ll have to stay later now.”

  “That just means more time with me,” Melissa says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She’s forever finding the bright side of things, like flowers that bend and reach for sunlight no matter their environment. I smile.

  “You’re right. Let’s do this, then.”

  Melissa begins sorting through books. We need to alphabetize and price them. Then set up tables and posters and flyers. We have four or five weeks’ worth of work. The fair is in twenty days.

  “Hey—” Melissa nudges me with her elbow as I try to rip open another box.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “What happened in the lunchroom?”

  Freeze.

  “Come on. You’ve heard,” I say.

  “Of course.” Melissa nods. “I want your version. You know how stories get twisted around here.”

  “Weren’t you there?” I ask.

  It’s hard to remember much about lunch today. My mind is distorted. I was handed parts of the story from different people, each contributing his or her piece of the puzzle. Trouble is, none of it makes a complete picture.

  “I was late,” Melissa answers. “My third-period teacher decided to give me a lecture about how important it is to be prompt. Which I find pretty ironic, considering that her lecture made me late for lunch.”

  Melissa reaches to the table beside us and grabs scissors. “Move,” she instructs.

  I scoot aside.

  She cuts open the box that I’ve been struggling with.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “So,” Melissa continues. “What’s your version?”

  I sigh. “I honestly don’t know what happened. I was talking to Rachel and all of a sudden, I hear people chanting, ‘Fight!’ ”