Broken

by A. E. Rought

  He looks like he can’t believe I’m really me.

  So I’ll remind him.

  “You were right about my hand,” I say, and brandish my immobilizer. “Broken in a few places, actually.”

  He blinks and whatever spell seeing my face put him under breaks. The sunlight reaches into his cowl, lighting his face and the mischievous tilt to his lips.

  “So, I suppose I’ll be on locker duty, as well as buying your breves?”

  “No one asked you to do either, y’know. Daniel always bought my coffee.” The moment I blurt it out, I want to call it back. I gasp, and cover my mouth with my hand. His eyebrows pinch closer together, the light dies in his slight smile. “Sorry,” I whisper and spin around with my face flaming.

  “Who’s Daniel?”

  The quizzical tone in his voice is enough to drive a chill over me. He put it in present tense, as if Daniel’s still alive and he should know him. I shrink deeper into the comforting fleece of my sweatshirt. A momentary ache for the cocoon of mourning I existed in before rushes through me, sloshing in the hollow of my chest. I was sad, but safe. Everyone knew. Talking to Alex opens my heart up for numerous, “Oh, I didn’t know” wounds.

  “Was,” I say. Tiny’s wide girth blocks the light from the depths inside Mugz-n-Chugz. “Tiny’s coming. You don’t have to pay for my coffee.”

  “Yes, I do.” He steps beside me, burying me in his shadow. “I offered. And…I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “He was my boyfriend.” I step behind Alex rather than let his closeness rake on my nerves and jolt my heart. “And please don’t apologize for something you had nothing to do with.” A shake of my head frees strands of blonde to drift in front of my eyes. “I hate it when people say they’re sorry.”

  “Well.” Alex draws himself up to his full at least 6’2” height and pulls his wallet from his pocket. He hoists the fabric shrouding the sides of his face higher. “Didn’t realize I was going to push that button. People say they’re sorry because they feel like they should say something to convey they feel bad.”

  “I know why people say it. It’s just a touchy subject with me.” I cast a look across the street and see Bree sitting on a bench, watching us like we’re the newest play to hit the stage.

  The window never fails to hurl shards of sunlight like a blazing weapon when Tiny opens it. His plump face sags when he sees me behind Alex like some submissive girlfriend. I step forward, plaster on a smile and say, “thanks,” when I take my cup. Before he releases it, he covers my left hand and cup with his other sweaty palm. A small shudder races my spine, darts inward and curls my stomach. And Alex doesn’t miss my reaction.

  “S-so, Em,” Tiny stammers, “You always rush off before I get a chance to ask you—”

  “Tiny,” I squeak out through my tightening throat. “Don’t do this…”

  “But I want you to go out with me this weekend,” he whines.

  Alex steps forward, slips an arm around my shoulders casual as can be, and leans toward the window. His voice has a husky, dark tone when he says, “Emma has plans this weekend.”

  The slimy grip releases from my hand, leaving me feeling weak with relief. Tiny heaves a sigh strong enough to ruffle my hair with its passing.

  “I always figured,” Tiny says, pouting like a kid who dropped their ice cream, “it would be another pretty boy…”

  Instinct is to argue. I’m not dating Alex. We hardly know each other. But if a little male posturing by Alex Franks finally stops the awkward moments with Tiny, I’ll play along. A one act, one-time performance. Alex’s muscles tense, electricity exuding from them like kinetic energy in coiled springs when I lean against his side. Then, the tension dissolves, and he settles into his fake role of suitor and slides his arm from my shoulders down to my waist.

  Alex pays for our breves, and the dejected Tiny closes his window.

  I step away from Alex’s side, tearing open a rift between us.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” I say and sip my coffee as I walk toward the street, and Bree who is visibly buzzing with questions.

  “Anytime.” He says, despite the strange hint of loss crossing his face. “Always happy to use my infamy for your…” he flashes me a grin, “I mean my benefit.”

  “It wasn’t your reputation.” I match his smile with a puckish one. “Tiny called you pretty.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Alex makes a dramatic, horrified face and winks with his left eye, which highlights the unique quality of his two-tone hazel irises. A true smile flirts across my lips, but a rising sense of something strange keeps it from spreading. Then, a shout from the quad across the street tugs Alex’s attention away before I can figure out what bugs me about his eyes. Alex waves, then turns back to me and excuses himself, promising to see me at lunch.

  Yeah. Right. Lunch, that time when he asked me to save him a seat then sat with Ally Rhodes. I lift a shoulder, work up a half-grin, and say, “We’ll see. Forgive me if I don’t get my hopes up.”

  Shrugging off the irritated feelings I know I shouldn’t have, I aim for the school and my best friend waiting to rake me over the coals with burning hot questions like, “Do you like him? Does he like you?”

  One step into the street invites the crappy Z-28 and its driver to barrel down on me. I jump back onto the curb with a yelp and a spat curse. Josh Mason, wearing a black leather jacket, leans out his window, hoots a laugh then shouts, “I win, Em! You’re in your place on the street corner!”

  Anger boils in me hotter than my breve. Josh cackles and his car crawls away from me. Alex, halfway into the quad, spins and glares daggers at the redhead. Even at this distance, I can see his fist clench, and the top pops off his coffee cup. Froth runs over his hand like white blood. Alex ignores it.

  “And your insults are rustier than your car!” Not my best comeback. I blame the meds. I add physical insult to the verbal injury with a middle finger salute.

  Alex’s attention shifts away once the Z-28 whips around the corner toward Student Parking. Cheeks still burning, I schlep across the street to Bree. Might as well get the inquisition over with.

  She’s all in black, which has the unfortunate side-effect of highlighting her dark roots. It also makes her dramatic eyeliner more obvious. Her smile spreads, her lips curling into a catty grin. Then her gaze targets on the immobilizer encasing my right hand. Her eyes widen and all traces of humor leave her face. “OhmyGod! Emma, what happened?”

  I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “Stupid finally caught up with me.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning…” A long draught off my coffee gives me a moment to decide how much truth to tell. “My locker wouldn’t open, I got really pissed and punched it.”

  She arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow, accompanied by Bree’s patented I-know-there’s-more expression. “And how’d that work out for you?”

  “Depends…” I flick a glance at Alex, his navy hood up and blocking most of his face from my view. “I might’ve broken my writing hand. But Alex Franks held it afterward.”

  Why did I just say that? My brain/mouth filter must be on the fritz.

  “He really did?”

  “Yeah. Y’know…to see if my hand was broken. Ask the dozens of witnesses in the main hall…”

  “Already did! I just wanted you to confirm the rumors.” She slides closer like a co-conspirator in a play, the one who stirs up trouble, and then stage whispers, “What was that at the Walk-Up window? You two looked really cozy.”

  I wish I knew. Something is definitely there between me and Alex. Does he notice? Is my heart even ready for another guy? I might have let Daniel go, but I still hurt with every thought of him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be over him. Bree squeezes my shoulders, and wiggles her fingers in a friendly little wave when Alex pointedly stares at us.

  “That was Alex saving me from Tiny.”

  She waggles her eyebrows and nudges me with her elbow. “The way he keeps looking over he
re, I’d say that’s not all.”

  I suck down the rest of my coffee, then sling the cup at the garbage can to hear the empty bang and think dismally how much I echo its hollow sentiment.

  “Can you please just let it rest?” I say and turn on my heel from the storm heavy air, the eyes of Bree and Alex.

  Was that all? It felt like something more.

  Do I want it to be more? Am I even ready?

  Chapter Eight

  Invisible storm shadows cloud the main hall of Shelley High. The normal jostling and joking has a meaner edge. People ebb and flood, jostle and bump.

  The tide splashes me from the main surge at my locker. Josh Manson is thankfully not here to harass me. With a droop and twist motion, I shuck my backpack and hook it with my left hand. The traitorous bag has other ideas, and continues its path toward the floor. A long, cuff-covered hand catches it before it crashes down.

  “I’d say meeting here is getting to be a habit,” Alex says, dangling my backpack from his fingers, “But I get the feeling you’re not in the mood for joking today.”

  I blink, and give him my best innocent expression. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Basically the feeling ya wanna bite my head off.”

  “Yeah… About that.” I toe the front of my locker rather than look into his disconcerting gaze. “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.” His voice is softer, his mood more gracious than mine. Then he compounds my guilt by continuing the Nice Guy thing and says, “Want me to open your locker?”

  My shoulders sag in defeat, cue enough for him to hook my backpack over his arm and take up position between me and my frustrating lock. He spins the dial through the numbers, pushing each one in, then nudges it with his hip again. The exact sequence used by Daniel day after day last year to open my locker for me. A chill slides down my spine. And the locker pops open.

  “No offense, but I hate having you do this.” Why is the ugly pouring from me? Alex’s dad may have hurt me, but Alex has been almost too kind.

  “None taken.” He holds my bag out. The surprised expression has disappeared, replaced by a soft smile that reaches his eyes, tugging down a pale, thin scar outside the corner of his left eye. “I’d be frustrated too. Have you talked to the school about it?”

  “Numerous times,” I huff. Taking my backpack, I turn my focus to getting things ready for class. “The janitor greases stuff, fiddles with other stuff, and it works better for a couple of days.”

  “Sounds like you need a new locker door.”

  I jerk my right thumb, the only mobile part of my hand, in the direction of the office. “Tell it to them.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  His long fingers make nimble work of opening his locker, and display the scar on his wrist. I can’t help but wonder, again, if he was responsible for the scars or if they’re surgery-related. Fine, white lines usually are the result of a surgical procedure. Alex notices my stare, clears his throat, and tugs his sleeves down further. His shadowed expression becomes closed, eyes turned to chips of hazel gemstone, lips a hard straight line, and he shifts his body at an angle, hiding himself in his locker.

  Sorry, I think.

  The battle for my books is short, lots of metallic bangs and cuss words. When I emerge, flustered and pink cheeked, Alex stands watching me like I’m the puzzle he can’t figure out instead of it being the other way around.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder. The weight pulls the nylon strap toward the edge of my shoulder. Much to my shock, and detriment to my pulse, Alex steps close and eases the strap back into place. His face hovers inches from mine. Then he draws even closer, the scent of his leather jacket filling my nose as he wordlessly helps me thread my right hand through the other strap.

  “See you at lunch?” he asks, his words brushing my cheeks.

  “Sure.”

  What else can I say? My brain is on short circuit with him severing the rest of the world from existence. It’s just me and Alex and his hazel eyes, my emotional scars and the visible scars on his wrists. The wretched weight of Shelley High crashes in when he blinks and steps back, and with a wave, disappears into the flow sluicing through the halls.

  #

  The next two hours fly by at a high level of awkward. School work is a huge pain with my writing hand handicapped. Mrs. Johnson has a rare moment of auditory clarity and promises to get me work sheets for the next few weeks. And I learned to turn the pages of my Gothic fiction reading assignment by licking my fingertips and pinching the pages between them.

  Third hour Group and Individual Sports promises to be its own brand of hell. Sure I have a broken hand, but asthma didn’t stop our gym Drill Sarge from making Kat VanderVelde run until she passed out last year. Might be part of the No Student Left Behind law, might not. Either way, it’s definitely a part of Most Students Pissed Off thing. If we can walk, we have to participate—thankfully Mom notified the school that I’m injured, so I can at least avoid basketball.

  On the way across the covered catwalk between the buildings’ second stories, guilt rises up, fills my legs with lead. Why did I say yes to Alex’s invitation to sit together at lunch? Here, where I met Daniel, the glimmer of hope I shelter feels traitorous and wrong.

  I lean against a metal support beam and soak in the heat of the contained sunlight. I’ve nearly convinced myself there’s nothing wrong with making new friends when the old memories hit. Daniel and I met just across the crimson carpeting, my shadow now long across the textile, pointing like an accusation at the spot.

  His damaged echo demands my attention, skull split open and leaking, red streaking down his face. Chills sweep my spine when Ghost Daniel walks toward me, solid in the shadows, gone in the sun. Feet away the smell of cinder and death waft from him.

  And I can’t stand it.

  Windows spin around me as I turn and rush the last few yards. My heart hammers at the base of my throat, threatening to strangle me. Once inside the Sports Complex building with the door slammed shut, I let my muscles relax, and focus on drawing in air. My hand aches, and I cast a look at the ugly immobilizer. The past doesn’t want to release me, but I’m not so sure the present is all that safe. Alex may be kind, but his father has the warmth of a grave, and lacks compassion where I, or at the very least, my hand bones are concerned.

  Thoughts twist and buzz as I press open the door and step into the humid funk of the Ugly Room. Cackling girl voices pierce the air, and Alex Franks is still the topic of conversation. Only now, my name sharpens their tones and sours the subject.

  “Can you believe Alex was talking to her?”

  “What does he see in Emo Emma anyway?”

  “She’s nothing but a speed bump. He’ll be mine.”

  The last voice is Ally Rhodes. The snide tone gives her away—not that she’d want to hide. She’d staked claim on Alex when she dragged him to the In Crowd’s table. A short, hot flash of anger rips through me, and an image of Ally as a speedbump under the wheels of Alex’s hybrid floods my mind. I’m wearing a dark smile when I walk around the corner and toward the peach, brown, pukey-salmon tiled Ugly Room of lockers and nasty attitudes.

  The vicious words slither from my approach, silence spreading in a wake of downcast eyes in front of me. Doesn’t matter. I know what I heard.

  My gym locker is more accommodating than my regular locker. It opens with a few spins of my left hand. Getting out of regular clothes and into gym clothes is worth points on a callisthenic workout. By the time I’m done, there’s only a minute left before I’m tardy. Outside the locker room, the line of students stretches across the gym, girls to the right, guys to the left. According to our strutting Drill Sarge and his shiny whistle, today is going to be a free gym day. Chests sink in a collective, gym-wide sigh of relief.

  I stand with my immobilizer in front of me, my hair loose because I can’t whip it into a ponytail.

  “Gentry,” Mr. Ashford grunts, “I see you’re injured.”

&nb
sp; Pretty obvious, I think with a thick layer of snark. Plus Mom called the office…

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Walking the track is easy,” he suggests.

  I nod, and set off at a leisurely pace. Sadly, two laps in, a horde of harpies jogs behind me, their breaths puffing in between their gossip. Ally Rhodes and Josie Cummings discuss the Halloween Dance between their plodding steps, Josie oo-ing like a mindless groupie with every suggestion Ally huffs out.

  “We can go as Barbie and Ken,” Ally says.

  “Cuuute!”

  “Or we could go as Zombie Honeymooners.”

  “Love it!”

  “Or Hansel and Gretel.”

  Then Josie surprises me. “I can’t picture Alex in lederhosen.”

  One, lederhosen is a really big word for Josie. Two, Ally’s “we” supposedly includes Alex Franks. Why does that idea set my teeth on edge? We have nothing between us but coffee and a pain in my butt locker. He does look at me like I’m more than new to him, and his touch sends tingles through me, but who is he to me? The guy who unsettles me with eerie similarities to Daniel. The guy with a scary father.

  I slow and let the harpy squad jog past, out of hearing range.

  The Alex Franks topic continues in the lunch line, Bree included. I roll my eyes and groan. I’m tired of him and I’ve hardly seen him today. Chewing on my frustrations, I stalk past the entire lunchline without a sideways glance. My best friend accuses me of being grumpy and I can’t argue.

  “Food. Juice. Pain meds. Then I’ll be more social.”

  “Make it quick,” Jason Weller says from the Thespian table and holds out his can of soda.

  “So self-sacrificing of you, Jason.”

  He smiles, and strikes a ridiculous pose, one hand held aloft in the air. “Leading men know the meaning of self-sacrifice.”

  I’m too busy negotiating flavorless macaroni and cheese onto my spork to fuss with a retort. The crawl over my skin announces someone watching me. Hopefully my handicapped eating amuses them. My pain meds follow a couple spoons of macaroni, then I take up Jason’s offer and chase the pills with lemon-lime pop.