I mutter, “Stop it, Adam. She’s sparring with you, to make you think about things from another perspective and to assess if you’re strong enough to go through this. It’s her job. And it’s your job to prove to her that you deserve a new heart and that you’ve got enough strength to handle it.” I glance around, afraid I’ve made a spectacle of myself by yapping at the plant. No one pays any attention.
My mobile buzzes.
Adam, do you want your heart to stop?
I have to answer her. The truth is, I want out of this life … but I’m terrified of death. NO. I don’t. I want my heart to keep beating for another hundred years … or more.
I’ll see you at our next session and we’ll talk more about this. We might need to adjust your meds.
Ugh. I’m sick of swallowing pills. I’m not even sure they’re doing anything. Still, I don’t want to argue via texting. I already sound irrational enough with all this death talk. OK.
Text me if you need to. ~S
The initial meant she’d signed off.
As usual, she’s left me more confused than when I started. Here, in the middle of a crowded city sidewalk, I’m on my own, alone, sucked into the quicksand of my jumbled thoughts.
Shaw is always warm and open with Mum and Dad, but when we’re alone, her tone trickles with ice and the lines of her slender face sharpen. Her questions become knifelike jabs—straight to my jugular—all under the guise of therapy.
I rake my hand through my hair. Shaw works on the transplant team. She wouldn’t blunder or lead me astray and risk my depression worsening—too much is at stake.
Since my mind is spinning on hyper drive, my body trembles with the overflow. I drift toward a coffee shop, lured by the temptation of the bitter brew. As a Brit, I should be craving a nice, classic, cliché cup of Earl Gray or English Breakfast tea, but call me a traitor. I don’t care. Coffee is better.
I yank open the café’s door.
Inside, I take a sniff, savoring the aroma of earthy Arabica beans. A barista scuttles behind the counter working machines I’ve seen before but have no idea how to use. The abrasive swooshing of the cappuccino maker cuts through the echoing conversations around me.
Mum doesn’t want me drinking coffee, soda, and, yes, her beloved tea (unless it’s green or even better, white). She’s afraid the caffeine will induce tachycardia or make my heart “irritable.” It’s a word she picked up from my cardiologist.
Irritable. Like my heart has feelings.
The line isn’t too long. I could order a decaf, slurp it down, and return to the lobby before Mum and Dad. I need it to take off the chill from the day. Yes. That’s it. Besides, it’ll take them fifteen to thirty minutes to catch a ride on the lift because of the ridiculous amount of people waiting, so I have time.
I snag a ten dollar bill out of my pocket and file in line behind a guy wearing a tweed jacket. The smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with cat pee wafts off him. When we get to the counter, the guy orders a small coffee while scrounging through his pockets. He ends up forty cents short.
The cashier recounts the coins in her palm. Her frown deepens. “Sorry, sir. If you can’t afford it, you’ll have to go.”
Mr. Tweed smacks the counter. “Come on, can’t you help me out? You overcharge anyway.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” The cashier—her nametag reads Monesha—furrows her carefully crafted brow in that same sympathetic but helpless expression that Mum gives me. She can’t help it that the guy can’t pay for his drink.
Mr. Tweed groans. “I was in Vietnam, you know. I served this country. Fought for your freedom. And you can’t look past forty cents?”
Monesha cups a hand around her mouth and calls, “Thomas? I need some help here.”
A tall, skinny man cranes his long neck in her direction. He waves to indicate he’s on his way, but three other workers are surrounding him with their own mini-crises.
Monesha is on her own.
Seizing the opportunity, Mr. Tweed leans over the counter. “How about a half a cup?”
Other patrons have caught on that there’s a scene.
I step around Mr. Tweed, make eye contact with Monesha, and plop the money on the counter. “I’ll pay for his and I’ll take a medium decaf light and sweet, please.”
Monesha launches into action, clearly relieved I’ve solved her problem for her. She picks up the money. “That’ll be five dollars and thirty two cents.”
Mr. Tweed slides his hands off the counter. His rheumy eyes lock onto mine with gratitude.
I give him a nod. “Thank you for serving your country, sir.”
A thick beard obscures his chin. “You British?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Ain’t it grand how a foreigner respects me more than my own countrymen?” He snags his hand around my wrist. “Bless you.”
“No worries.”
The loud chatter and whir of machines resumes as we make our way to the pick up area. When I reach for my drink, my sleeve climbs up my forearm a couple inches.
Mr. Tweed taps the medic alert bracelet dangling from my wrist. “What’s that for?”
“My heart might stop at any moment.” I grip the coffee cup tightly, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
He chuckles and shows me the bracelet on his wrist. “Mine ain’t too good, either. Doc says I’m not supposed to get upset. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
“Aren’t you worried your heart will stop?” I sip my coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue.
He chugs his, smacks his lips, and shrugs. “I lived my life, son. Besides, not knowing if the Viet Cong’s gonna ambush your squad and slit your throat in the middle of the night kind of cures you of the fear of death, you know?”
“Sure,” I say, like I understand.
My mobile buzzes. I yank it out of my back pocket.
Crap. It’s Mum.
Where are you?!
I can picture her stomping around the lobby in her heels frantically calling my name. She’s probably running down a list of scenarios. I’ve collapsed in the bathroom. I went outside for a breath of fresh air and collapsed on the sidewalk. I collapsed in the middle of the lobby and the ambulance has already hauled me away to the closest hospital.
“Um, I have to leave.” I offer my coffee to Mr. Tweed—he accepts it with a grin—and text back: Outside. On my way.
“Take it easy, kid.” Mr. Tweed raises both coffees at me in a toast.
“Thanks.”
I rush—if you could call a slightly fast walk rushing—to the lobby.
Mum’s expression when she spots me washes me in a layer of squishy, lung-crushing guilt. She envelops me in a bear hug. “I was worried.”
I catch Dad’s scowl and lower my gaze. “I’m alright.”
“Don’t ever do that again.” She lets me go to straighten her button down shirt and tuck a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. Dad settles beside her.
“I’m sorry.”
Mum checks her watch. “Well, what an afternoon. So, are my boys hungry?”
Dad hooks his arm through hers. “I’m a bit peckish.”
We head outside, Mum and Dad ahead, me in the middle, and all the words we haven’t said following behind, shackled to my feet and slowing me down. I screwed up. Mum should’ve yelled. I’d feel better if she yelled. That would be normal.
Chapter Two
Darby
The party throbs around me, pulsing with the head-crunching beat. Arms flail, hair whirls, and bodies thrash. I ride the wave and let the collective energy take me over. I don’t know the Asian kid dancing in front of me, but I like him from the top of his spiked black hair to the tips of his neon green sneakers. The guyliner and painted black nails are the perfect icing to this sweet piece of cake.
He smiles at me. My stomach squirms, screaming with a bad case of the go-for-its. I wrap my arms around his neck and slide my fingers through his hair
.
The guy responds by grabbing my waist. Yanking me close, he kills the space between us.
I meld to his lean body, stretching my neck so our mouths are even. His spicy cologne circles me as tight as his arms. It feels like the room has warmed by at least ten degrees. I inhale another breath of him. The room, music, and lights all fade away until it’s just him and me, a fire pit ready to ignite.
I lick my lips. His hands slip to my butt as his mouth closes over mine. He tastes like beer, chaos, and good times. I rise to my tip-toes, digging my fingernails into his neck.
He slithers his tongue past my lips. Me-to-the-ow he’s got a tongue piercing!
I duel with him for the title of Most Passionate Kisser until a strong hand clamps around my shoulder to haul me backward.
I whirl. “Hey!”
It’s my twin brother, Daniel. Thinks he’s my body guard with his face all hard angles in a scowl. His dark eyes fume. “What are you doing?”
I shrug. “What? I’m having fun.”
Guyliner hooks a thumb through his studded belt. “Hey, dude, we were dancing.” His voice is gravelly and rough, like his kiss.
Daniel squares off with him. “More like groping.”
Guyliner frowns. “What’s your problem?”
“You’re molesting my sister, that’s my problem.” He shoves Guyliner.
Guyliner stumbles back a step, cocking a fist. “Hands off.”
Daniel matches him. “I should say the same to you.”
I wedge between them, plant a palm in each of their chests, and pry them apart a few inches. “Guys, guys. Stop it.” I throw eye-daggers at Daniel. “I wanted to dance with him.”
“He’s a scumbag. Treated Mads like crap.”
Mads. Madeline. Daniel’s secret crush. Ugh. Yuck. Disgusting. If they ever hooked up, I’d have to disown him. She’s way too cheerlead-y bubbly pop-tarty sweet for me. Her bedroom is probably decorated with lace, glitter, sparkly crowns, and pink teddy bears. “So? We’re just dancing.”
“You were sucking on his tongue like it was a lollipop.”
I purse my mouth. “I can handle myself.”
He sighs. It’s the first crack in his resolve. Oh yeah, he’ll go down in a ball of flames by the time this is done. He just doesn’t know it yet. “He was all over you.”
“And I was all over him.” I arch an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, she was.” Guyliner wheezes a laugh. His hand finds my rear end again. His other arm winds around my waist like he owns me.
Uh, I don’t think so buddy. I pry myself away from him. “I’m so over this.” I storm away from them both, wading through the sweaty crowd toward the door.
“Bitch,” Guyliner calls out.
I show him how long my middle finger is.
Outside, crisp air smacks me in the face. It’s such a contrast from the sweltering heat inside. I suck in a dry breath. The layer of sweat coating my skin combined with the steady breeze makes me shiver. Jack Frost has moved in early this year.
I prop my back against the brick wall and jam my hands in my jeans pockets. Good old Daniel, always ruining everything. I just wanted to dance. And play tongue war.
The door flies open, hinges screeching in protest. Daniel bursts through and zeroes in on me immediately. The light from the neon sign above the door stains his face a pale red.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Strands of his dark hair fall into his eyes. He shoves them away with his hand, topping off his frustration with a heavy sigh.
“Excuse me?” I cross my arms and watch a rusted out sedan a la 1980 crawl past.
He blocks my line of sight to get my attention. “You don’t want to be seen with that guy. People talk, Darbs.”
I start walking down the block. “I don’t care what people think. Besides, we were only kissing.”
“I’m looking out for you.”
“Why?”
Daniel matches my pace. “Because you’re my sister and I care about you.”
“You don’t want my reputation to make you look bad.” Poor, perfect Daniel. Basketball star, debate team captain, and straight A student with a smile every dentist would envy, Daniel lives in a world of popularity I’ll never hope to visit. Must be so hard for him to have a slacker, loser sister like me. I get it. Really, I do. He’s afraid people will call me a slut for making out with a stranger on the dance floor. I’m the pimple on his otherwise flawless face.
He exhales as if I’ve slugged him in the gut. “That’s what you think?”
I snort.
He nudges me with his shoulder. “Come on, drop the tough guy act, okay?”
At the corner, I pause, not because he’s gotten to me but because I’ve realized I should’ve turned left rather than right. The car is parked two blocks in the opposite direction.
I can’t deny everybody likes Daniel better and it’s because he’s a genuine person. A good guy. Responsible. We’re two different people. A fact that gets forgotten because we shared Mom’s uterus at the same time. “I can take care of myself.”
“You say that, but who picks up the pieces when you come home, crying and wailing because the latest Mr. Guyliner has broken up with you?”
“Did the phrase Guyliner actually fall out of your mouth?”
“Isn’t that what you call it?”
“Yeah, but it’s funny coming from you.” I smirk, trying to suppress a giggle. “I never asked you to ‘pick up the pieces.’”
“No, but I always do.” He drags a hand through his hair. “The car is the other way, you know.”
“I figured that out. That’s why I stopped.” I grin at him.
He chuckles. “You’re an idiot when you get mad.”
“Thanks.” I punch his bicep. My hand bounces off, ineffective. He’s a wall of muscle. “Seriously, though, you could have a lot more fun if you stopped worrying about me all the time.”
He tips his head to the sky to stare at the stars. “Hmmm, I’d have so much free time I could pick up another hobby.”
“Ha-ha.”
We walk toward the car, argument left behind at the corner.
* * *
Mondays suck. Well, pretty much every morning does, but Mondays are the worst. They’re the start of the week, the five day marathon filled by a gauntlet of challenges, each one harder than the last. A pop quiz in math, then an essay in history, followed by a science lab—I’m paired with a kid who smells worse than a dumpster in summer—and a finale of reading aloud in English lit. Nothing strikes fear in my heart more than staring at a page of wobbly letters scrambled across a page … unless you ask me to make sense of them all while standing in front of a class of my peers.
I hit the snooze button so many times that I don’t have time to shower. After yanking on a pair of paint-stained jeans with holes in the knees and a black cable knit sweater two sizes too big (also with paint stains), I pull my black and blue striped hair in a ponytail, brush my teeth, slap on some mascara and lip gloss, and fly out the door.
Daniel’s waiting in his car—a cherry red 1967 Mustang Coupe Dad and he had restored. Dad spends extra time with Daniel on projects like this one. He doesn’t do the same with me, but really, how awkward would it be sharing paintbrushes and palettes with Dad?
The answer is very. Extremely. Beyond the ability to imagine awkward.
I heave open the door and slide into the black leather seat, suppressing a shudder at the thought of painting with Dad.
“Thanks for waiting,” I mumble, pulling the door shut with a solid thud.
“I was about to leave.” He turns over the engine. The metal beast grumbles to life.
I click on the seat belt, chipping my neon yellow nail polish on the buckle. “You could’ve avoided this by waking me up.” I have to shout over the horrid sound grumbling from under the car’s hood.
He shifts into reverse, laughing. “I thought you could take care of yourself.�
��
I roll my eyes.
“I have double practice after school today, so you might want to take the bus. Unless you occupy yourself with something else.” He grabs the travel mug from between his legs and takes a long drink.
“And miss a ride in this pile of bolts? No way.” I snatch the mug out of his hand and suck down two gulps before the super sweet taste hits me. I grimace. “Ick, can you say diabeetus?”
“Don’t hate on the Mustang. She’s a classic.” He swirls the mug. “And light and sweet is the only way to go.”
“Black is better. It’s simple.”
“It’s bitter.”
We banter for the rest of the drive, then part ways at the school’s main entrance. Our schedules couldn’t be more different—I’m in some regular classes with extra breakout sessions with smaller groups during the day because of my special ed-ness—and I’m okay with that. Daniel’s pity-stare is hard enough to deal with as it is. Plus, I don’t need exhibit A sitting next to me when the teachers compare me to him. I get enough of all that at home. Things like, “Daniel doesn’t struggle with this. Why can’t you do your homework like Daniel? Why don’t you ask for Daniel to help you?”
I stop at my locker to grab my books and notebooks. Six paintbrushes fall out onto the floor as soon as I pull the door open. Of course.
History is my first class and it’s with the “regular” kids. Thanks to Daniel, I’m not facing a tardy.
I slip into my seat, mentally preparing to become a vegetable for the next forty-five minutes.
Mr. Watkins sits at his desk in front of the room. He’s already scribbled all over the whiteboard. The mess of letters blur together into nonsense. It’s too much for my dyslexic brain to unscramble. No matter how much money my parents spend on tutors and gimmick programs, I can’t seem to figure out what everyone else sees so easily.
Instead of copying the factoids, I continue the doodle I’d started yesterday in my notebook. My new series is Fire and Ice and want to capture jagged fracture lines in a random, but meaningful way. That’s where things get interesting—in the contrast.
Under My Skin Page 2
