Cameron slowly lifts his gaze, and when his eyes meet mine, it’s like an electric shock to my system. My heart begins to race at the intimacy of it. He’s looking at me, but more than that, I feel like he sees me.
“Thanks,” Cameron says, and glances away quickly. I’m left a little breathless as he grabs his book out of his pack.
I hear a giggle from across the room, and turn to find Retha making an obscene gesture with her hand, maybe something to do with a Blow Pop.
“Retha?” Mr. Jimenez calls. “Not really appropriate.”
She apologizes, and I cover my mouth as I laugh. Busted. I glance back at Travis, but he’s passed out. Damn. No one to enjoy the moment with me.
I take out my pencil and begin scanning the math page. The questions are easy. Brooks Academy isn’t college prep; it’s barely remedial.
“How was the rest of your night, Sutton?”
I turn to Cameron. He’s filling in math problems, talking toward his book.
“Good. Yours?”
“Good.”
I blink, waiting to see if he’ll go on, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t look at me again either. Suddenly lonely, I exhale, trying to pull my shit together and settle back against my chair to finish my classwork.
* * *
Evan’s bus is late. I wait on the porch, looking up and down the street. Dread begins to fill my chest. This isn’t good. It is never good when his bus is late.
I see the bus turn onto my street, and I jump up, relieved. But when it pulls to a stop in front of me, I know something is wrong.
The driver opens the door, and she hurries down the stairs to meet me outside. “I’m sorry, Savannah,” she says quickly. “I couldn’t get him to calm down.”
My face grows hot, and I move past her to climb the steps. I go to where he was sitting the day before but find his seat empty. I can hear him. I hear his harsh breaths and whimpers as I move down the aisle. I find him curled up on the filthy floor under a seat.
The bus driver is next to me. “We were just down the street, and I’m supposed to call the school, but . . . I knew he just wanted you. I thought—”
“Thank you,” I say, squatting down to reach out and brush Evan’s hair.
I hear the boots of the bus driver as she walks away. I’m sure she’s probably worried about getting fired—there are protocols she has to follow. But I’m glad she didn’t follow them. Evan needs me. I need to be here for him.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper. He’s shaking, and I have to swallow down my fear. “What happened?”
He sniffles. “They took it.”
“Took what?”
“Your present. The boys took it.”
I look to see if the driver has any idea what he is talking about. Because if someone fucked with my brother, I will go ballistic. The driver gives her head a shake, letting me know it wasn’t like that. Evan . . . he gets upset sometimes. I don’t blame him—kids can be dicks. But one small comment could equal disaster.
The bus driver nods toward the road, and I can see she’s growing anxious. She has to get the other kids home. If I don’t get my brother off the bus, she’s going to have to call it in.
“Evan,” I tell my brother seriously. “Get up now.” I try to grab him by the arm.
“No,” he screams, ripping away from me and banging my wrist into the metal bar below the seat. Vibration races up my bone, and I growl out my pain.
“Fuck,” I curse, pulling back. Damn it. If I don’t get him in the house, not only will the driver call the school, the school will then call my dad. They might even call my aunt. I can’t give them another reason to take him from me.
“Evan,” I repeat, keeping my voice low and controlled. A red mark with a blue center has already started to appear on my wrist bone. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to.”
He’s not going to budge—at least, not in the next thirty seconds. With tears pricking my eyes, I reach in and take him by the pant leg. I knot the loose-fitting denim and drag him out from under the seat, wincing as he kicks hard at my shin, but I don’t let go.
“Leave me alone!” he screeches. The kids around us will probably be traumatized. Tell their moms about this terrible girl on the bus. The thought makes me sick. I hate making Evan this upset. I hate that I have to.
When I get my brother out into the aisle, I scoop his little body off the floor and lock his arms around him like a straitjacket, holding him close to me. Evan’s screams fade into heavy sobs as the violence passes, and I back him toward the exit.
Another little boy grabs Evan’s backpack and brings it to the driver. My brother is able to walk down the bus stairs on his own, clinging to my side. The driver follows us out and sets the worn backpack on the sidewalk in front of us.
“Thank you,” I whisper, barely able to look at her. When I do, her expression tells me that this is the last time she’ll do this for me.
My eyes itch with tears, and I turn away quickly to walk Evan into the house. I slam the front door behind us and lock it, and then lead him to the couch.
Evan climbs across the sofa and curls into a ball at one end, whimpering softly to himself. He’s hurt and angry—confused, probably. I shouldn’t have pulled him from under the seat. I should have just waited for him to calm down.
I sit on the arm of the couch and let myself breathe for a moment. My muscles are knotted up, and my wrist hurts. My leg aches where Evan kicked me. It will bruise. It always bruises.
I turn to Evan and see that he’s finally stopped crying. “So are you going to tell me what happened on the bus?” I ask him. “Why are you so upset?”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “It wasn’t on the bus,” he snaps as if I’m purposely getting it wrong. I’m frustrated, impatient. Sore. But I try not to let him see that.
“Okay,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “Then where?”
“At school,” he says, sniffling hard. “I was waiting for the bus just like I’m supposed to. But the big kids came and took the present I made you.”
My fists clench fiercely and I lower them to my sides. “What big kids? Where was your teacher?”
Evan shakes his head. “I don’t know, Savvy,” he whines. “I don’t know where Miss Malloy was. But the boys called me stupid, and they took my backpack.” His voice pitches up, starting to shake. “They dumped my stuff on the ground and they took your present.” He starts to cry again. “It didn’t belong to them. They shouldn’t have took it.”
“It’s okay, Evan,” I soothe, sliding down onto the couch cushion next to him. “Big boys are idiots most of the time. Besides, I don’t need a present.” My brother makes me gifts at least once a week. Anything from pictures to macaroni necklaces to bottle tops he glued to a frame. I’m running out of places around the house to put them.
Evan sniffles and looks up at me. “But I made it for you,” he says. “You should get presents.”
His blue eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. I lean my face close to his and kiss his nose. “Hey,” I whisper. “I told you I don’t give a shit about presents. You’re my present.”
The corners of his mouth twitch before they pull into a smile. I brush his too-long blond hair. “I’m a good present,” he says.
“The best. Now, are you hungry?”
Evan nods that he is and wipes his face with the back of his shirtsleeve.
“Do you want to help or do you want to wait here?” I ask him.
“Wait here.”
“Okay.” I ruffle his hair and get up. I turn on the TV and adjust the antennae until the picture is mostly clear. I find a station with cartoons and smile at him. He smiles back.
I walk into the dingy kitchen and run the sink water until it gets hot and fill a pan to put on the stove. I turn it on to boil mac ’n’ cheese.
And when that’s done, I stand at the sink full of dirty dishes, cover my face, and cry.
CHAPTER FOUR
The night goes by too fast, a
nd in the morning, I look across the classroom and find Retha leaning halfway over her desk, trying to get my attention. Her hair is tied into a high knot, her eye makeup heavier than usual.
I nod my chin, asking her what’s up.
“Cut,” she whispers loud enough for me to hear.
I snort a laugh, and next to me, Cameron grins at his notebook. Retha isn’t exactly subtle. I check on Mr. Jimenez and see he’s still writing line after line on the whiteboard. We’re supposed to take down his notes, but some of us are making plans to cut class, apparently.
“I can’t,” I mouth to Retha.
“After lunch.”
“No.”
“Then get a ride home,” she says out loud, obviously annoyed with me.
I widen my eyes at her. “You know I can’t,” I whisper harshly. “No money.”
“Savannah?” Mr. Jimenez calls, startling me.
I turn to him, apologetic, and he gives me one of those teacher glares that says, “I’m really disappointed.” Like I give a shit. “Sorry,” I tell him anyway.
I slide my notebook in front of me and grab my pencil to actually start working. There’s a chuckle from next to me, but I don’t look. Being called out is embarrassing. I could kill Retha.
* * *
Travis and Retha bail after lunch, leaving me behind. I can’t go with them—can’t use up my absences. There’d been an incident at Evan’s school earlier in the year where they needed me to come in. I’m allowed only ten absences at Brooks or they can fail me for attendance violation. And since repeating my senior year isn’t an option, I stay.
When the bell rings at the end of the day, I get up and grab my things, anxiety rising up because I know I’ll have to walk home. And I don’t live close. Not even remotely close. Luckily, Evan has speech therapy after school, so I’ll have an extra hour. I’ll just walk fast.
“Hey, Sutton,” Cameron says. I turn, surprised, and look at him.
“What?”
“You need a ride?” He’s gathering his books, not watching me. Good thing because I gulp.
“No. I’m fine,” I tell him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He smiles and looks over, meeting my eyes. “I’m going that way,” he offers.
“No, you’re not,” I say. “You don’t even know where I live.”
“Then how do you know I’m not going that way?”
He’s finally looking at me, not flirting, just talking. But his dark brown eyes are unbelievably charming.
“Good luck, man,” Gris calls to Cameron from across the room. “That one’s got a violent temper.” He laughs, brave now that Travis isn’t here. I glare after him as he walks out the door. When he’s gone, I turn back to Cameron.
“I’m good,” I tell him. “But thanks anyway.” I keep my head down because Gris made me feel stupid. Sure, I do have a violent temper—so says the court—but fuck Gris. He doesn’t know me. He’s about to get another black eye.
My hands shake and I press my books to my chest, not even waiting to put them in my backpack, as I start out the door.
What sucks is that I do need a ride. But I’m not just going to fall all over Cameron because he finally made eye contact. I have some self-respect.
I walk down the hall and push open the doors to the parking lot. The second I do, a wet breeze rushes in, smelling like earth and worms. It’s absolutely pouring down rain outside. You have got to be kidding.
I set my backpack on the ground and shove my books inside. I don’t have bus fare. I don’t have anyone to call for a ride. So I zip up my pack and hold it over my head in a pathetic attempt to stay dry, and walk into the parking lot.
Immediately, fat splatters of rain soak my shirt and bleed into my sneakers. And it’s cold. I get about halfway across the parking lot when a black BMW pulls next to me, keeping up. The passenger window rolls down.
“You sure you’re sure?” Cameron calls. I glance over, and when I meet his eyes, both of us start laughing. I can only imagine how ridiculous I look right now. Still, I hesitate—even though I know it will take me half the afternoon to get home. There really is no other choice.
“Fine,” I say, lowering my backpack and grabbing the shiny handle of his passenger door. I climb inside and stash my bag at my feet, rain dripping from my hair and clothes.
I look sideways at Cameron. “I’m ruining your interior,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s just water.” He lifts the corner of his mouth in a smile and flicks on the heater, sending a rush of warm air over my face.
He is so freaking smooth. And it’s not normal. Normal guys don’t just swoop in and offer me rides. Not without expecting something in return. I narrow my eyes at him, wanting to figure him out. Wanting to know his deal.
“Why do you talk to me all the time?”
“Do you not want me to?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
“You can or whatever. I’m just wondering why you talk to me and not someone else.” His dark eyes are soul searching, kind. I pause in my bitchiness.
“Who else do you think I should talk to?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I respond. “Talk to whoever you want. I just didn’t know why it was me.”
He turns away to look out the windshield. “Well, you do sit next to me. . . .”
Oh, great. He’s going to be logical about it. “That’s it?”
“Well, to be honest, you’re not the type of girl I expected to find at the esteemed Brooks Academy.”
“And what type is that?” I ask, unclear if he’s complimenting or insulting me.
“Not really sure,” he says. “Just not you.”
He doesn’t go on, and I feel slighted. “Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with me?”
He glances over, seeming surprised by my reaction. “No. Nothing. It’s just . . . you’ve got this whole angry-girl-next-door thing going on. It’s interesting.”
What does that mean? How does he know I’m angry?
“Plus I dig red hair,” he adds casually.
I stare at him.
“What?” he asks.
Of course. “Did you really think I was this easy?” I ask. “Are you some unbalanced asshole who tries to hit on vulnerable girls? I hate to tell you, Cameron. I’m not easily picked up. And I’m certainly not vulnerable.”
“Who says I want to . . .” He pauses to laugh. “Unbalanced asshole? Really?”
“Oh, please. You ‘dig red hair’? In my world that’s a line. And a bad one, even.”
“Yes, I said I like red hair. Not you, Sutton. Relax over there.”
“Whatever.” But his reaction seems genuinely puzzled. I may be projecting a bit—at least that’s what the court-appointed therapist would have said.
Cameron puts his palm over his mouth and stares out the windshield as the rain comes down a little harder. I want him to start driving because this is really strange—the whole me sitting with him in a Beamer.
“Are you really going to take me home?” I ask finally. He smiles.
“I don’t know. This is pretty fun. First time I’ve been called an asshole in weeks.”
I laugh. “I find that hard to believe.”
“But yeah,” he says. “I’ll take you home. Unless you want to go somewhere else first?”
“No. Home is good.” But I wonder where he’d take me if I said yes. In fact, I’m surprised he’d be seen with me at all. He really isn’t in the crowd I run with these days. He doesn’t look like an ex-junkie or a fighter. He just looks . . . good.
Cameron switches on the windshield wipers. He waits a minute and I don’t know if it’s because he expects me to talk more. For someone who barely speaks, he sure likes to do it with me a lot.
“Sutton?” he asks. I look sideways at him, my heart speeding up.
“Yeah?”
“I sort of need to know where you live.”
Right. I didn’t think to tell him that. “Twenty-sixth and Division.”<
br />
His mouth opens but he closes it quickly. I’m sure he doesn’t spend much time in my part of town. He shifts his car into gear and begins to drive.
We’re quiet for a while and he doesn’t turn on his radio, which is really uncomfortable. I wonder what sort of music he listens to. I glance at his face.
Okay, seriously. Why is he taking me home? There’s no way he finds me that interesting.
He notices me staring. “What now?” He smiles a little.
“Why are you taking me home?” I ask.
“Because it’s raining. You were walking. I’d be a complete tool if I just drove by, right?”
“I’m used to tools.”
He lets my words hang in the air, and I realize they make me sound bitter and scorned. Great. Of all the lines he leaves out there, it couldn’t be one that makes me seem even halfway normal?
Cameron pulls onto Division and glances around the street. I’m glad it’s raining. When it rains, people stay inside. He won’t have to see my neighbors.
“Have you always lived out here?” he asks.
“Not really any of your business.”
“Just making conversation.”
“Yeah. I’ve always lived here.” Although when my mother was around, the dishes were done and we ate more than mac ’n’ cheese.
“Oh.” He stares out the windshield, driving down my street, and each moment brings me more humiliation.
I motion to the houses. “You can stop here.”
He slows down. “Which house is yours?”
“This is fine.”
“Sutton, which house?” he insists, shaking his head.
Normally I wouldn’t let a stranger know where I live, but I don’t really have any fear of Cameron coming back. In fact, after this he might not waste his words on me anymore.
“The white one with the porch,” I say, pointing across the street. I feel humiliated. I don’t know where Cameron lives, but I’m sure it’s nicer than here. He pulls to the curb and cuts the engine.
I’m surprised he turned off his car. “You can’t come in,” I say defensively. My dad would flip.
He smiles, staring at his steering wheel. “I didn’t ask to.”
I look out the window at my house, not wanting to get out, but knowing that I can’t stay here. “What are you doing then?” I ask quietly.
All in Pieces Page 3
