Needing to breath in air not contaminated by Ivy, I make up an excuse about forgetting something in my locker and bail on the rest of the lunch hour. Once in the hall, I lean against a row of lockers and take a deep breath. The plunk of Ketchup’s body hitting the locker next to me opens my eyes. Fear that he has indeed mistaken my behavior lately makes me pull back. His hand reaches out and grabs my arm before I can escape. He doesn’t try anything more than that, and I feel the tension in my body slipping away.
“Van, what’s going on?” he asks. “You’ve been acting kinda weird the last couple days. Is something going on at home?”
I sigh, knowing I can’t refuse him. “No. Well, not exactly. I don’t know.”
Ketchup chuckles, “Thanks. That was illuminating.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, but eventually bumps his shoulder against mine and asks again if I’m okay.
“It’s…complicated, Ketchup. I think something might be wrong, but I’m not sure. More than one something, actually.”
“And you can’t tell me about either one.” It’s not a question. He’s too familiar with these types of conversations to ask.
“I’m sorry. You know I would explain if I could.”
Ketchup nods, but I get the feeling he isn’t done with his questions yet. The important ones are still burning in his eyes. I wait. When he speaks, I wish I hadn’t waited.
“You’ve been acting different…with me. Has anything changed?”
My fingers start twitching. They want Ketchup. I want him. Slowly forcing my hands into my pockets, I say, “Nothing’s changed.”
“Then why…?”
“Ketchup, I’m sorry.” My head drops in shame. “I wasn’t trying to tease you. It’s just…I need you to be there for me.” I shake my head. That’s not fair. I can’t ask that of him. “Never mind. Forget I said anything, okay? I’ll deal with this. I won’t ask…”
Ketchup’s fingers close around mine. “Whatever you need,” he says quietly. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t say anything else before letting my hand fall from his and walking away. It takes me a long time to start breathing again. Wiping away my tears takes even longer. I don’t deserve him. He gives me everything, and all I do is turn him away. I am the one holding him back. It was my choice. He says he’ll always be here, but I know one day he’ll get tired of waiting and walk away for real. That is every bit as terrifying to me as the thought of losing Zander.
As the herd of students begins spilling out of the cafeteria, I pull myself together. Ketchup’s touch and promise linger in my heart, but I have to focus on Zander and Ivy right now. I drag my feet down the hall to the Home Ec lab and make my way to my table. When Ivy wanders in, the battle to control my hunger renews. It is an hour of torture. I don’t have to take any extraordinary measures, like mangling a piece of cast iron cookware to avoid breaking Ivy’s bones, but I manage to hold my hunger in check by sheer force of will and lots of spices to cloud the air and distract myself.
I’m still glad Home Ec is the only class we have together, though, because my will is only so strong. By the time the bell rings, I am dying to get away from her. As soon as Ivy’s pink striped head disappears around the corner, I make a mad dash to the empty boxing gym and lock the door behind me. The strong history of boxing in our area spawned the boxing gym, but it’s really only used after school when the team practices. I’m the only one who ever slips in here during the day. It’s one of the few places on campus I can be alone to deal with my hunger.
My bag gets ditched against the wall and I take up position in front of the heavy punching bag, knowing that if Grandma ever finds out about this, I will be dead. Guilt for that, and for willfully satiating my hunger plagues me. If I were stronger like Zander, I wouldn’t need this. My weakness screams at me, but I have to do something. The first hit thwacks into the leather and makes the bag lurch.
Just looking at me, most people wouldn’t think my five-foot-four height and slender build would be able to move this bag more than a few inches. They would be wrong. The frustration at not being able to hurt Ivy puddles in my fists. Frustration at Zander for not answering my question earlier sends another fist into the bag. The day’s torture bursts out of me in a rush. Bare-knuckled, my hands slam into the bag over and over again. It swings wildly, the chains groaning under the abuse. The leather cracks with each hit, and blood smears across the bag, but I don’t stop. The pain burns up my arms and into my chest, but I can’t escape the animalistic thrill of destruction. It hurts like hell, and I love it. It’s sick, but I love it.
Another hit to the seam, and the bag ruptures. Sand spills out of the gash, rushing out to meet the floor. My chest is still heaving with wild adrenaline when my hands fall still. Satisfaction fills me at the sight of inflamed and bloody knuckles, of bruises and torn flesh, but I stare at the ruined bag in a panic. I try to focus on how to fix it, but my hunger is still lapping up the traces of pain, keeping my mind captive. Standing still, I give my body and mind a few minutes to calm back down as I watch my hands change.
As twisted as it is to hurt myself in order to keep my hunger in check, watching my hands incites a strange sense of amazement. The ruptured skin fuses back together slowly. Bruises and burst vessels fade, all the way back to pink right before my eyes. Deeper down, a crack in one of my fingers stiches itself back to one solid piece, and the last hint of scars vanish. I stare at my healthy hands, disappointed in myself, scared that my control will never be as tight as I claim it is.
I look at the bag with no idea of how to put it back together. I stare at it for several long seconds before admitting to myself that there is nothing I can do but wipe off the blood and slip away, hoping no one saw me come in here. Eyes downcast, I step back into the now empty hallway with shaking hands.
Despite what I just did, I’m not invincible. Far from it, actually. Given time to rest, I can heal some pretty serious wounds, but it costs me something. I stumble a little going around the corner. The strength to heal myself comes from inside of me. It uses up my stored energy and saps my strength. The bigger the injury, the more it wipes me out. And there are some things I can’t recover from, like losing a limb, my heart stopping, or my mind breaking like a cracker. By far, my mind is the most fragile part of me. Oscar is a perfect example of that.
By the time I get to class, my teacher is already a good ten minutes into his spiel about Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing. I pretend I don’t care as he flicks an annoyed little mark next to my name, and sit down behind Wyatt and Holly who are glaring at each other like they’re the ones with the hunger problem instead of me. That makes me smile.
Mr. Littleton made the monumental mistake of pairing them up for the midterm drama project. They were given the topic of romantic tragedy and expected to write a ten minute scene to perform for the entire class. That’s a problem because Wyatt thinks the greatest thing he could ever do in life is become a championship rodeo rider, while Holly has her road to the White House planned out down to the exact date and time. Wyatt claims to be allergic to any kind of chick flick, and Holly has made it perfectly clear that romance is the absolute last item on her To Do list. Their scene is going to be a spectacular disaster. It’s a little over three months before they have to perform for the class, but I’m counting down the days. I think the whole class is.
As for me, I’m just glad we have an odd number of kids in this class. It left me without a partner for the midterm fiasco. I get to demonstrate a monologue. Not terribly exciting, but it’s safer for everybody that way. Clearly, Mr. Littleton knows what he’s doing. I had feared for a brief time that he would pair me up with Cody Hansen or Estella Cordova, both of which draw out my hunger, but like I said, Mr. Littleton knows what he’s doing. Deciding I probably ought to pay attention to what he’s saying up at the front of the class, I settle into my chair.
Mr. Littleton is discussing the different speech patterns of the various characters, Beatrice’s constant
stream of insults, or Don John’s sullen and bitter phrases, and how their words and tones make them who they are. He takes a side trip into how we should be aware of this so we can use the same devices when writing out midterm scenes. He starts to head down another rabbit trail of thought when the door swings open. Mr. Littleton pauses mid-sentence and looks at the stranger in the doorway expectantly. So does everyone else, including me.
As soon as I see him, my whole body goes rigid. A little taller than average, caramel colored hair with lighter highlights that are definitely fake, eyes the color of early spring grass, and an uncertain expression that makes him look gorgeous and fragile all at the same time are immediately recognizable to me. He’s the guy from the alley!
Immediately, I slink down in my chair and hope he won’t notice me. Fear that he will expose me dips my head.
“Do you need something?” Mr. Littleton asks the guy at the door.
“Sorry, to interrupt, but I guess I’m in your class now,” he says. He offers Mr. Littleton a slip of paper and continues. “I got put in a junior level English class by mistake and it’s taken the office forever to get it straightened out. They had to rearrange a bunch of my classes.”
Apparently, the note checks out, because Mr. Littleton nods and hands it back. “Alright, Mr. Harbach, go ahead and take a seat.”
Harbach. That names sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. I risk a furtive glance at the guy, but still have no idea where I might know him from, other than the alley. He starts to look in my direction, forcing me to scrunch down even more and pray for spontaneous invisibility.
“I’ve already assigned partners for the midterm project,” Mr. Littleton says, “but if I remember right, I had an odd number of students this year.”
Mr. Littleton walks over to his desk, and my entire body freezes. As he shuffles through his notebooks, I stare at my desk like it might hold the secrets to the universe. He cannot pair me with this guy. The second he meets me, he’ll recognize me, realize what a freak I am, and tell everyone about what happened—if he hasn’t already. I really don’t need any more bad press right now.
Mr. Littleton finds the right notebook, and I swear I can hear his smile stretching his tanned skin. “Ah, that’s right. Vanessa Roth doesn’t have a partner. Looks like she does now. That worked out nicely, but I suppose I’ll have to change her topic from monologue to…hmm, I think I’ll go with a battle scene.”
My head pops up to spear Mr. Littleton with my glare. If it bothers him, he doesn’t let it show. His smile only gets bigger. I can’t believe he’s doing this. He knows as well as most of the students about my reputation. It wasn’t a big mystery why he didn’t give me a partner the first time around. Now he’s changing his mind? What is he thinking? Sure, I don’t get hungry when I look at Mr. No First Name Harbach, thankfully, but if I get riled up there’s no guarantee I won’t hurt him. And with Cody and Estella in class to fuel my hunger, things could go bad very fast! My glare goes from fiery to a laser aimed straight at his head.
“Van, why don’t you raise your hand so Noah knows who you are?”
I don’t move a muscle. Mr. Littleton refuses to back down. He keeps his eyes fastened on me until I am forced to give in. I raise my trembling hand just high enough to make the motion noticeable without taking my eyes off my traitorous teacher.
“Oh look, Noah, there’s even a space next to her,” he says cheerfully. “Why don’t you go sit down so I can get on with my lecture?”
Noah nods reluctantly and starts heading toward me. Reflex drops my gaze back to my desk, but I catch sight of his expression before I can look away completely. Wary. He looks nervous. Yeah, he definitely recognizes me. He’s probably afraid to even sit by me. On top of the stories I’m sure he’s heard, he’s had the added misfortune of seeing me firsthand. My head sinks all the way down to my desk with a thud, trying to disappear.
If I just refuse to do my midterm, will I fail the class? Or can I make it up with my other grades? Even if I do fail, it’s just one class. It won’t really matter that much, surely. I’ll still get into college.
I don’t listen to another word my annoying teacher says. I’m too absorbed in being irritated and being terrified that Noah will freak out and tell everyone. Zander is constantly telling me that I’ll end up alone. When I really press him about it, he admits that my little circle of friends works for now, but he’s adamant that it won’t always be that way. It scares me to think of my birthday coming up and my hunger getting even worse. I’m afraid I’ll realize he’s right and I’ll have to give up my odd assortment of friends in order to protect them. That doesn’t mean I still don’t pretend I’ll have a normal life.
If I were a normal girl, I’d be ecstatic about being paired with the handsome new guy. I’d go all gooey at the thought of him accidentally brushing up against me or asking me to get together to work on our project. I’m not normal, and I know I’m about to face another round of recrimination. This project is going to be a miserable experience of him wanting to keep as far away from me as possible, and me wasting time wishing things could be different. I hate Mr. Littleton.
The bell blasting through the school jerks my head up from my desk. I just want to get out of here, and maybe kick Mr. Littleton in the shins on my way out. Everything on my desk gets swept into my bag and I zip it up with my eyes on the door. I’m about to stand up and bolt when someone taps my shoulder. I spin around in surprise, and Noah takes his hand off my shoulder quickly.
“Hey, Vanessa.”
“It’s Van,” I interrupt out of habit.
“Sorry,” he says. “Are you okay?”
I stare at him, completely dumbfounded.
“I mean, after the other night.” He stares at me, his eyes flitting over my body, and suddenly looks confused. “I thought…”
Not daring to utter a single word, I grip my backpack strap tighter and look for an escape route.
Noah shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s just when I saw you the other night you were pretty hurt. I was really worried when you ran off without waiting for the police. But you look fine, now. Even that cut on your leg.”
He pauses, his eyes dropping to my bare thigh where one of the chollos in the alley did actually cut me pretty badly.
“Your leg’s perfectly fine. Weird.” He looks back up. “It must not have been as bad as it looked.”
“Yeah,” I finally mutter.
“You’re okay, though?” he asks again.
The genuine concern in his eyes is just plain weird, but hard to ignore. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Noah smiles, looking slightly embarrassed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, surprising myself. I’m positive it’s going to be about the injuries, or what I was doing trying to kill three grown men. I can’t answer any of those questions, but for some reason I don’t want Noah to walk away just yet.
“Why didn’t you stay and talk to the police? I mean, I don’t know what made them attack you—you don’t have to explain that, or anything—but what if they come after you again? Didn’t you want to press charges?”
My brain has a complete meltdown at that point. I almost start laughing. He thinks those guys were attacking me? He was trying to save me from them? I am at a total loss for words at the idea that someone else, someone who doesn’t owe me anything, who barely even knows me, was actually trying to rescue me. He has no idea that he was actually saving me from myself, from killing those men, but that’s hardly the point. I am so shocked and amazed I can barely even form words to answer him.
“It’s, um, complicated. Reprisal, you know? They might come after my family if I tried to press charges.” It sounds like a really stupid explanation, but I can’t think of anything better.
“Sure, I guess,” Noah says.
I’m relieved when he doesn’t ask any other questions, but when he turns to the project, I’m still wary of this whole situation.
“So, can you exp
lain this project? I have no idea what he was talking about.”
Knowing that Noah’s concern can only last so long before his logic catches back up, I decided to put an end to this for both our sakes. “Look, he’s probably got a handout or something. I’ve got to get to algebra.”
“One or two?”
“Two,” I say as I head for the door.
“With Ms. Collins?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“That’s who I’ve got next, too. Mind if I walk with you? I’m not sure where it’s at,” Noah says, “and you can tell me about the project on the way.”
Great. “Come on.”
I don’t really make much of an effort to wait for him, though. Unfortunately, Ms. Collins’ class is clear on the other end of the building, so Noah has plenty of time to catch up with me. His long legs do most of the work. I swear he takes one step for every two of mine.
“So, what project are we supposed to do together?” Noah asks.
“Write an original scene five to ten minutes long and perform it for the class before Christmas break,” I say. “I was supposed to do a monologue, but now I guess we have to do some kind of battle scene.”
“Battle. I can do that. There isn’t much speaking in battles, but that’s fine with me. I don’t like talking in front of a crowd.”
I look over at him and slow down. I can’t help it. “But you don’t mind fighting in front of a crowd?”
“Do it all the time,” Noah says.
“Huh?”
“Jeet Kune Do. I compete. You ever tried martial arts?”
I have to lick my lips to keep a handle on the way my mouth suddenly starts watering. My grandma encourages us to find outlets for our hunger, but any kind of combat training is strictly off the table. It’s a little too good of an outlet. People get hurt. Zander had to fight her to let him play football, thanks to the violent nature of the sport.
It took him forever to convince her that he could absorb the other players’ pain without putting himself at risk. He claimed the continuous small burst of pain actually helped him keep control. Eventually, he won her over, but she’d kill me if she ever found out about my boxing forays because she knows I don’t have the same level of control that Zander does. I know it, too. The idea of actual combat-based exercise sends a chill right through me.
Wicked Hunger (Someone Wicked This Way Comes) Page 5
