Red Heart Tattoo

by Lurlene McDaniel

A preposterous answer, but still it made her pulse quicken. “Did you come to the dance?”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “And yet you’re here.”

  “Nothing else to do tonight.” He tipped his head to one side, pulled the hood off his head. His rumpled hair made him look darkly sexy. “So what brings you outside?”

  She owed him no explanations, but she wondered as much herself. Had she somehow sensed his presence? “Fresh air. Trent went off with his friends, but he’ll be back soon.”

  Roth grinned. “Is that a warning for me to get lost?”

  “It’s a free country.” His emergence from the bleachers disconcerted her. In the moonlight, he made her feel off balance, out of kilter. She didn’t understand why he had this effect on her, especially when she was in love with Trent. And yet he did. Roth seemed edged with danger, forbidden and, therefore, compelling in her well-thought-out and ordered world.

  He touched her crystal earring, made it swing. “You look pretty.”

  She swallowed, unable to take her gaze from his face.

  “Your hair’s up. It’s pretty, but I like it better down.” He took his hand from her earring to behind her head and touched the twisted hair, sending chills up her spine. “May I?” he asked.

  Morgan could scarcely breathe. Her body felt lighter than smoke and about as substantial. And despite the trip to the salon, the hour enduring a beautician messing with her hair until her scalp hurt, plus endless squirts of hair spray, she nodded.

  It took him only minutes to pull out the hairpins, untwist the knot of her hair, fluff it all around her shoulders. He dropped the pins onto the grass. “That’s better,” he said.

  She shook her hair, untangled it with her fingers. He helped by dragging his fingers behind hers, which caused her heart to thud harder.

  Inevitably his fingers touched the ring. He caught her hand, held it up and studied the ring. He rubbed the pearl with his thumb and watched it glow. “He has good taste in all things.”

  Agitated, unnerved, feeling unsure and misplaced in this new universe of confused and clashing emotions, she whispered, “I—I love Trent.”

  He stared down at her for a long time, holding her in place with a look she couldn’t read but couldn’t break free of either. “Then why are you out here with me and he’s nowhere around? I would never have left you alone.”

  She had no answers for him. Her teeth began to chatter. “I—I’m cold.”

  “Then you’d better go back inside while you can.”

  She didn’t need another prompt. Morgan turned and hustled off the field as quickly as her troublesome heels would allow her. Like a jackrabbit chased by a wolf, she moved toward the hulking form of the gym and to the safety of feelings she could control.

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for you,” Trent said when she hurried into the gym. The heated air felt stifling after the chill of the night.

  “Went for air,” she said breathlessly.

  “Your cheeks are red.”

  “Cold outside.” She smelled beer mingled with spearmint gum on his breath.

  “And your hair’s down. Why’d you take it down?”

  “All those bobby pins were giving me a headache.” She’d never lied to him, had never had any reason to lie to him, and suddenly she felt guilty, ashamed for lying now. She slid out of his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair.

  “Aw … too bad,” Trent said, looking disappointed. He rolled a long tendril of her hair between his forefinger and thumb. “I really, really like it up, babe.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she said brightly, but what she felt was the weight of Roth’s fingers undoing her hair in the moonlight.

  “I’ve picked D-day,” Apocalypse said.

  Executioner’s stomach did a somersault. “D-day?”

  “Stop looking so stupid. Detonation day. I told you last week, everything was ready to assemble.”

  They were standing in the atrium, their backs to a wall, watching the before-school foot traffic gather at the wall.

  “Right … I just didn’t think … you know, it would be so soon.”

  “Sooner the better. Come over on Saturday. My parents will be out all day.”

  Executioner swallowed hard. “All right.” Voices echoed off the concrete walls. A high laugh from the seniors on the wall broke through the din. Both glanced over.

  “They really annoy me,” Apocalypse said.

  “Yeah, me too.” Executioner bit a chunk from a strawberry toaster pastry and crumbs scattered on the floor. “So what day have you picked?”

  “Next Wednesday morning.”

  The last day of classes before Thanksgiving break. “That’s … really … soon….” Executioner’s appetite vanished.

  “I figured it’ll give the janitors a few days to clean up the mess before we start classes again.”

  “How—um—how much of a mess will there be?” Executioner was foggy on the particulars because Apocalypse had said that all bombs were not created equal. Some had more bang, held more destruction than others.

  “Enough to cause a nice explosion. Flash, noise—bomb stuff. Sort of like a hand grenade, but on a timer.”

  “So where you going to plant it?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but we may not want to meet up in the atrium. And bring an old backpack when you show up on Saturday.”

  Executioner blinked, heart accelerating. “I’ll be there.” Executioner shifted from foot to foot. “Too bad no one will know it’s us.”

  “We’ll know.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Well, shut up. No one can ever know. Got that?” Apocalypse drove a finger hard into Executioner’s chest.

  “Well, yeah, sure. I’ll never say anything. You know me. I was just wishing.”

  “Two things.” Apocalypse made a fist, ticked off points on two fingers. “Credit will never be ours. And we’re not going down with the ship like those Columbine dudes. We just walk away. Because I’m smart about this and because we can.”

  • • •

  The Wednesday before break, Morgan sat on the half wall in the atrium listening to the chatter all around her. Trent, sitting beside her, was arguing with his friends about upcoming Thanksgiving football games, potential winners and losers, and the girls, mostly cheerleaders, were gossiping. She only half heard both groups, instead mulling over her visit to Kelli’s that past weekend. Kelli wouldn’t even come to the door. Her mother, Jane, had let Morgan into the foyer and said, “Kelli’s sick.”

  “She is?”

  Jane looked pale, her expression strained. “Terrible case of the flu.”

  She had the flu last week, Morgan had thought, but she’d been too polite to say it out loud. “She’s been sick a lot,” Morgan said.

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  Morgan had seen Kelli at school the Monday after the homecoming dance. She’d looked awful: her hair needed to be cut and she looked frumpy tucked into an oversize sweatshirt and baggy pants. Morgan wanted to yell at her. She wanted answers about why Kelli had lied about coming to the dance, why she’d not bothered to mention breaking up with Mark. But Kelli’s physical appearance made her take a different tact. Morgan had pasted a smile on her face. “You want to come over after school? We haven’t hung around at my place for a long time.”

  “Can’t. Big test tomorrow.”

  Morgan didn’t believe Kelli. She reached out and took her friend’s hand. “Please tell me what’s going on. I know something’s wrong. I know about you and Mark breaking up too.”

  Big tears filled Kelli’s eyes. She squared her shoulders. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “It’s not worth you falling apart. Not worth you giving up on life.”

  “What would you know?” Kelli snapped at her like a dog backed into a corner. “Your life is perfect. You live in wonderland.”

  Morgan dropped Kelli’s hand, ripped not so much by her words but by the hot tone of her voice. “Hey, I just want to he
lp.”

  “You can’t help. No one can help. Just leave me alone!”

  And Kelli had taken off while Morgan watched, dumbfounded. So she gave herself and Kelli some more time and on Saturday had gone over to Kelli’s house only to be stonewalled by Jane. “I just want to talk to her. I know something’s wrong. We … we were friends.” She used the past tense, hoping her plea would be heard.

  “And if you go upstairs and get the flu your mother will kill me,” Jane said. “Call Kelli.”

  “She won’t take my calls.”

  Jane pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes. “Morgan, please don’t push us. Just for now, go home. I’ll talk to her on your behalf.”

  A partial admission that something was wrong, terribly wrong, with Kelli.

  Morgan said, “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong with her?”

  “Let’s get through Thanksgiving, all right? Then I’ll make sure she talks to you.”

  Morgan had left reluctantly, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Kelli. Nor could she stop thinking about Roth. Ever since the homecoming dance, she’d stayed clear of him. If she caught him looking at her, she’d break eye contact instantly. She didn’t want to be reminded of the things he’d made her feel in the moonlight. Roth had no place in her life. He was growing bolder, though, watching her as if he could see straight into her head. If Trent noticed, she knew he’d make Roth pay. Still, she found herself glancing around the atrium from time to time, searching for him and the tingle of excitement he stirred within her. This morning, he wasn’t around.

  “Babe, you want to do that with us?”

  Trent’s voice jerked Morgan into the present. “Do what?”

  He looked exasperated. “Flag football in the park, noon on Friday, day after Thanksgiving.”

  She looked around. Kids were looking back at her expectantly. “Um … sure. That’ll be fun.”

  “Welcome back to earth!” Trent laughed and gave her a bear hug. She snuggled against his warm body. The atrium was so blasted cold that not even his letter jacket and the sweater she wore beneath could keep the chill out. She was looking over his shoulder, at the stairwell under the cantilevered cement stairs, when she saw the blue-and-black backpack half hidden by the plastic plants. Who’d lost a backpack? And how did they lose it in such an out-of-the-way place?

  She stared. “Why’s that backpack in the plants?” she asked.

  Trent glanced over his shoulder.

  Suddenly, with no warning, a white light erupted from the dusty foliage, a light so bright, so intense that Morgan had no time to blink. A roaring sound followed, a sound like thunder, that rumbled and shook the concrete wall. She had the sensation of falling and heard noises.

  And the world went dark.

  Roth was running to school from where he’d had to park, swearing under his breath with every step. He wasn’t going to beat the bell. And he’d been doing so well with following school rules lately. He was trying, really trying, to keep his record clean in order to graduate. To do so meant making a supreme effort to keep up his grades and stay out of trouble for the next seven months.

  The reason he was late didn’t matter to the front office. And it was their fault anyway. The admin people had locked the student parking-lot gate before first bell rang. The second bell meant you’re tardy. Today he’d had to hunt for a place for his truck and had ended up blocks away in a residential area already packed with homeowners’ cars.

  He had almost reached the brick steps of the main entrance when a blast knocked him backward. He staggered, crouched and covered his head as glass showered down from the atrium skylight high above. Chunks of concrete shot through the doorway. Screams erupted. The front door flew open and kids began to pour outside in a stampede, almost running him over. Some were cut and bleeding. Most were crying, shrieking. From inside the building, a low rumble shook the air. An ominous roar all but blotted out the cries and screams. Roth grabbed one kid, yelled, “What happened?”

  The boy’s eyes were wide and he looked shocked. “I don’t know! Let me go!” He wrestled out of Roth’s grip and continued running.

  Roth swayed, looked up at the building, seeing not only the school but also his parents’ house from when he’d been seven. Except this time he wasn’t locked in a car. A cloud of concrete dust blew out of the open doors and the hole in the skylight. Roth heard kids sobbing and begging for help from inside. He elbowed his way forward, avoiding collisions with runners, hurtled up the steps and into the maelstrom.

  “Holy crap!” Executioner said.

  “Awesome, huh?” Apocalypse said, looking smug and satisfied. They stood, in a crowd of students across the street, watching the front of the school and the continuing stream of fleeing students. “Like rats leaving a sinking ship.”

  They’d stood together across the street since early morning in the cold, eyeing the school, pacing nervously, anticipating the event. “I want a bird’s-eye view,” Apocalypse had said. “I want to watch the lid blow off.”

  Executioner had agreed. No need to be any closer. What if the bomb was more powerful than they’d planned? No sense being in harm’s way.

  The explosion had been a spectacular sight and sound—a flash of white light followed by a boom, like a jet breaking the sound barrier. Glass had spewed from the skylight, volcanolike, and rained in glittering chunks onto the steps and sidewalk below. There had been smoke and dust and debris, but no spreading fire. The percussion explosives were more for the sake of blast damage. Apocalypse had chosen them well.

  All around them groups had gathered. Many kids were cut and bleeding. Some cried hysterically. Girls clung to each other, tears streaking cement-dusted faces. Across the street, concrete dust continued to rain from the doorways and through the hole in the roof. Apocalypse turned a deaf ear to the wailing and sobbing. Executioner felt the students’ pain more keenly but refused to give in to regret.

  “We did that?” Executioner said, staring at the ruined front of the school.

  Apocalypse grabbed the other’s arm, dragged Executioner to the fringe of the milling crowd. “Keep your mouth shut! What if someone overhears you?”

  “Ow! You’re hurting me.”

  “If you don’t keep a lid on it, I’ll do worse than hurt you—I’ll kill you!”

  • • •

  Inside the atrium Roth saw hunks of concrete strewn around the floor. He also saw bodies, heard moans. His stomach went queasy. He cupped his hand over his mouth because the gray dust and smoke were making it difficult to breathe and to see clearly. Remembering that Carla had forced a muffler into his jacket pocket that morning, Roth pulled it out and quickly wrapped it around his head, covering his nose and mouth. He stooped and kept close to the ground. His foot hit a body. He bent, grabbed the boy under his arms and dragged him into the safety of the nearest hallway, away from the worst of the carnage. He had no idea if the kid was dead or alive.

  He went back into the rubble and dragged out a girl, positioning her beside the boy. The atrium grew cold from the wide-open doorways, but sweat swam on Roth’s forehead, down his back and underarms. He pulled several more kids into the hall, felt his muscles twitch and strain with overexertion. Can’t stop now, he told himself.

  Still crouching, he made his way around a large hunk of concrete, stepped on something soft, recoiled. Under his feet lay Mr. Adams, a history teacher. The man’s body was doughy, and blood oozed from his half-crushed head. Roth thought he might throw up, and swallowed down bile. In the distance, sirens wailed. Roth pleaded for them to hurry. He felt as if he’d been here an hour, alone with dead and dying people.

  The most damage seemed to be near the staircase, so that was where Roth went. He waved his hand through the chalky air, trying to clear his line of vision, climbed over the remnants of the half wall and lowered himself onto another mound of rubble. This area was eerier, silent. He heard an ominous creak above him, looked up to see what remained of the staircase hanging by twisted cables and thr
eads of destroyed concrete. It was going to fall.

  Roth eased backward in retreat, looked down. That was when he saw a spill of reddish hair under nearby rubble. The hair was thick with dust, almost unrecognizable, but he knew whose it was. Morgan! Throwing away all caution, Roth leaped forward. Frantically he began to dig through the mass of bricks, tossing them behind him in heaps. Of course she would have been sitting on the wall. She always sat on the atrium wall with her group of friends before school. Today would have been no different.

  His hands were cut and bleeding, but he hardly noticed. What remained of the staircase groaned under its weight. He gritted his teeth through the pain, freed Morgan’s arms and pulled with all his strength. He felt her body give toward him. Something was pinning her, so he tried again. “Come on, baby,” he said. “Just a little farther.”

  She was unresponsive. Maybe dead. He couldn’t tell. He only knew he had to get her out. If she was alive and her spine was damaged, he could be sentencing her to life as a paraplegic by moving her, yet somehow that seemed better than her being crushed beneath the remains of the staircase.

  Behind him, he heard voices, men and women arriving on the scene: rescuers, EMTs, police. “Over here!” he yelled. “She’s trapped!”

  Feet clambered over piles of brick and concrete. Roth put his arms around Morgan’s chest. He gave one final tug, made one more superhuman effort, grunting with the strain, and felt her slide free. As he hauled her out of the way, what was left of the stairs gave a great shudder and fell with a roar, spraying clouds of dust and destruction in every direction. Roth threw himself over Morgan, shielding her from pelting hunks of stone and debris that hit his back and shoulders in a hailstorm of choking ruin.

  “Kid! Buddy … you can let go now. You okay?”

  Roth heard voices above him, felt hands gently pulling him away from Morgan. His muffler was gone, lost as he’d worked Morgan’s body free, and concrete dust filled his mouth and nose. He coughed violently. An EMT eased him backward. Roth managed to gasp out, “Okay. I’m okay.”

  “Let’s get you outside.”