Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  CHAPTER 6

  TAZ:

  The cafeteria is not a good place for me. Too many people, too many sounds. I’m the fart in a crowded elevator. Everybody cringes away.

  My skin prickles, but I suck it up. Pride isn’t half as important as food. Hunger woke me up this morning. Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last, but for right now, nothing but four numbers stand between me and a meal.

  I grab a plastic tray and get in line. The floor is so sticky it transfers to the bottom of my shoes. Perfect. I’m gonna squeak on every step for the next hour, which will drive me so far beyond nuts, this squirrel will race into oncoming traffic.

  I shuffle forward and choose a red apple, carton of juice, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, hoping it’s the chunky peanut butter. I don’t overload the tray. Maybe, if I don’t ask for much, I can have it.

  A guy steps up behind me. I don’t like him there. He’s giving me space but still too close and chewing gum. He smacks in an uneven rhythm and it bites at me. A low grade buzz starts up in my brain. My fingers squeeze, holding onto the crazy as tight as I can.

  I silently practice the four numbers of my lunch code. One, nine, six, five. I try combining them into nineteen sixty-five, but it’s awkward, too many syllables. I go through the single digits again. One, nine, six, five. How hard is that? A three-year old could do it. A trained parrot could do it. I don’t think I can. The worry has me biting my tongue, already punishing it for failing me.

  “Number?” The cashier gives me all of one second before she’s rolling watery browns up to find out what’s taking so long. Either she just burped sour milk or my face is too much for her.

  I’m tempted to bail. Except I want the apple and sandwich. I REALLY want them.

  Gum Chewer moves up until his breath hits the back of my neck and huffs. If he huffs again, I will blow his fucken house down.

  “Number?” Cashier repeats, louder this time. Maybe she thinks I’m hard of hearing.

  I picture the numbers. My mouth refuses to cooperate. I can’t manage one friggin sound. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Sweat pops on my skin and rolls down my back. Shame crawls all over me, hot and ugly, as my right hand drops away from the tray and skitters down my leg. I can’t do it.

  “Name?” Cashier tries a new tactic. She’s switched to thinking I forgot my lunch code, that I’m just stupid. If I could pay for my lunch by giving up IQ points, I’d grab a brownie for dessert.

  Behind me, Gum Chewer mutters, “C’mon dude.”

  I hate people. At their best, they aggravate the piss out of me. They’re vindictive, generic, weak and suck in all ways, at all times. For example, Cashier definitely knows who I am. I’m the new kid and I don’t exactly blend. With a microscopic amount of effort, she could press the magic keys on her register and give me the gift of my first meal in days. But that ain’t happening. Even if it costs her nothing, the price is still too high.

  Screw this. I grab the apple and bounce.

  CHAPTER 7

  TAZ:

  Every fucken door in this entire fucken school is locked tight. If I step outside, I’ll set off an alarm and need to get buzzed back in. Can’t do that. V for Vivian will snip my balls. But I NEED AIR. I’m losing my shit, prowling the halls and foaming at the mouth.

  I slam a fist against a locker. Pain climbs up my arm and the apple smashes between my fingers. Shit. I just wrecked my only chance at food. I’m tempted to eat the goo off my bruised hand. I’m that hungry. But if my punkass can’t manage four friggin words, I deserve to go without. No sandwich. No apple. No nothing but the growl of my empty stomach. Nothing new there.

  My brain boils, heat floods my system and I punch again and again. I don’t know if I’m leaving smears of apple or blood on the locker. Maybe both. For me, pain is good. It’s familiar. It’s like going home and keeps me angry. Anger is as essential as breathing. It’s the only way I survive.

  I used to be wild angry. I’ve had tons of therapy and learned to be quiet angry. I’d better dig into those lessons, rein it in, or I’ll get sent back into the system, digested and only shit back out if I’m lucky. I’m never lucky.

  At least I got fed in juvie. Yeah, I got hassled, but there’s no V for Vivian or Step-douche the Super Tool. No school counselor. Just thinking about today’s counselling session twists me up until my knees buckle. I slap both hands against the cold metal locker, press my forehead against it and pant. The buzz of my brain is so loud it drowns me out. It drowns her out. I don’t hear her until she’s almost on me.

  “Taz.”

  I know that voice. It’s pure sugar, and my teeth hurt from chewing on it all day.

  “Taz?”

  She’s behind me. That’s a bad spot. It turns my skin into a million insects, racing every which way, and I might do something I can’t take back. I might put my dirty handprints all over her, just to make me feel better by making her feel worse, just to get her to quit being so goddamn nice. I clench everything so tight my jaw throbs and count to ten, expecting her to give up before I get to five. Nope. She touches me.

  I jerk around, out of my mind, and she sees it. I give her a good look at it. My jacked up face. My craziness that is nothing like hers. The violence just itching to come out and play.

  Now she can’t get away from this beast fast enough. She’s in such a friggin scramble, she trips over her own feet and lands hard on her ass. I’ve finally wiped the smile off her face. Mission accomplished. So why do I feel like a piece of shit?

  CHAPTER 8

  Tia:

  I forget the no touching rule and wrap my fingers over his shoulder. He is a furnace of heat, but it only lasts a millisecond. He freaks out, whips around with his arms flying up and I’m not expecting it. My sneakers slide through something gooey on the floor, smells like applesauce, and I land on my butt. Ouch.

  Taz looms over me, whole body vibrating, right hand jitterbugging against his leg. Calling this boy angry is like saying Voldemort is standoffish. I hold up my lunch bag and say, “I come in peace.”

  He flattens against the locker as if I’m offering radioactive waste. I decide not to take offense, and even though I’m capable of climbing off the floor all by my selfie, I extend both hands and test him. “Little help?”

  When I tried a similar trust exercise with Sam the family dog, I used a bone-shaped biscuit, which would come in handy right now. Just sayin’.

  I get the eyes again. Straight on, they are almost too much. I adjust to his intensity while he leaves me waiting. And waiting. Unfortunately for him, when it comes to determination, I’ve honed my skills against cyborgs disguised as twin ten-year-olds. I am the Terminator.

  “I think I twisted my ankle.” I pretend to struggle. I make a show of being helpless, needy, and the exact type of female I’ve instructed my sisters never to be. But desperate times and I win. He takes my hands. He would clearly rather pick a dirty diaper out of a vat of mucus, but his fingers are long and calloused, his hands warm and strong, and one is sticky.

  Taz pops me to my feet and before he jerks out of reach, says, “Outside?”

  He spoke! Yes, yes yes! I nearly dance. Sure, it’s only one word but his scratchy voice is as surprising as an A on a calculus quiz.

  Now I need to say something back. This is our first conversation, and an important step in our future friendship.

  “Follow me.” My eloquence is the stuff of legends.

  I lead him down the hall to Auto Shop, where Mr. Brown never pays attention to anyone or anything. A few guys are messing around under the hood of an old car and stop to eyeball us and flex their muscles. Taz slows to scowl back at the challenge. I gag on the testosterone. I need a leash for this boy. He can’t be allowed to maim someone right now. I’ll be an accomplice, get detention, and if I’m late picking up Baby Sis from her first day of kindergarten, she’ll end up with abandonment issues, change her name to Bambi and make a career of working the pole. Deep breath.

  We step through the bay door
s into the warm sunshine, blue skies and crisp air of a perfect fall day. Taz lopes around in a circle, breathing hard and pretending I’m not here. I lean back against the brick wall, tilt my face up and let him be. I need a moment to process. He’s a lot to take.

  Way back in grade school, Taz never raised his hand, ignored direct questions and had no friends. He was the skinny kid with dirty fingernails, greasy hair, too-small clothes and no Valentines to hand out. Every now and then, some teacher would poke at him, and he’d detonate and throw anything within reach. Textbooks, chairs, pencils, and I will never forget the sight of Marty Breitwieser sailing through the air.

  I’m guessing Taz has learned to trap his rage inside, where it doesn’t get him in trouble but probably festers and slowly poisons him. Maybe him finally speaking isn’t my achievement but his desperation. Which means, he’s ticking and I may have thrown myself on top of the bomb.

  He finally comes to a standstill, eyes closed and giving me a chance to study him. His fingers remain in motion against his leg, looking as if he’s playing an invisible piano. His body is a collection of hard planes, lean ropes of muscle and sharp points of his shoulders and hip bones. Doused in the golden glow of the sun, his face is almost sweet under his scars. They are a map of roads travelled, the rivers, mountains and jungles of a survivor, and I want his story.

  “I don’t really have a twisted ankle. I was just trying to make friends.”

  His spiky lashes spring open. I’m ready for it, but his eyes still take me hostage. He looks aggravated. What a shock. So I dig out the leftover half of my pickle sandwich and hold it out, which is me being an especially selfless person, because I was really looking forward to it. “Truce?”

  He looks from my hand to my face and back again. I watch a whole dialogue happen behind his eyes and see the exact moment when hunger wins the argument. He takes the sandwich the same way he did the pencil. Quick, as if expecting a trap.

  I’m reminded of a quote from Seabiscuit. He needs to learn to be a horse again. He needs to remember what he was like before life damaged him. I’m worried he’s never been a horse.

  I take a risk and crowd closer. This seems to be one of those big moments, and I don’t want to miss my chance. I’m encouraged when he doesn’t step away. I’m tempted to snatch him into a ferocious hug, because he needs it and so do I, and everybody should be hugged at least once a day, but I can’t rush this. If we are going to be friends, it will be slow going.

  But then I do something so stupid we might never recover. My drought of a social life, too much time parenting younger siblings or maybe because I expect him to reek of cigarettes and misery, I lean in and ... Nooooo. Abort! Abort! I just sniffed him. And he noticed. So I blurt, “You smell …”

  Surprising? Fresh? Clean? I can’t think of what to say that won’t dump me into boiling-his-bunny territory.

  To recap, I said, “You smell,” and left it there. Now it’s been too long to add on. This just escalated from a careless sniff into the gold medal of insults.

  Taz takes a second to glare at me, his eyes scraping me raw, before he stalks off with my sandwich. I wonder if he’s capable of any other expression. I have never seen Gibson Tazmerek smile. Ever. But I will. With the winning attitude of a girl who battles six siblings for bathroom time, I make a silent vow to someday make him laugh.

  CHAPTER 9

  TAZ:

  When the bell rings, I’m straight out the door, dragging every hour of the day behind me.

  The school year is 181 days long. Each school day is seven hours. That’s just over seventy six thousand minutes. I’ll never make it. Each minute of my life is a prison sentence, and I’m wearing my failed escape attempt all over my face.

  I dig out my phone and dial Mutt. I tell him about the bike, where I’m at, and he’s on his way. Halfway across the parking lot, I spot Princess Barbie leaning against the world’s ugliest minivan, standing between me and my bike. She perks up when she spots me and waves with her whole arm. Her smile is more permanent than a tattoo, and she is so enthusiastic, somebody must be filming this for an after-school special. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve her, but I promise never to do it again.

  My fingers twitch.

  I inch my way around to the opposite side of the bike, but she follows and stands so close, her feet bump into mine. She brings her sweet smell and I inhale nothing but her. I should return the favor, douse her in my stink. Oh wait, I already did that. She came right out and told me I reek, while looking up at me with baby blues that honest-to-fucken-god sparkle. She is a level of hell I have never encountered before.

  “I thought you might need help with your bike. Or a ride somewhere? I gotta pick up my baby sister and the twins from school, can’t be late, so you might have to ride with, but I’m happy to deliver you wherever you need to go, after that, so long as you don’t mind listening to three little kids ask a bazillion questions and tell endless stories about their first day of school.”

  So many words spill out of her mouth at once, it’s like drowning in a vat of alphabet soup. I use the stain on her tit as an excuse to stare at her. She looks at the bike like she expects it to do tricks. I found it on the side of the road, and the former owner gave it to me for nothing because it didn’t run and he got a look at my face. Fine with me. Feel sorry for me and give me what I want.

  Maybe Barbie feels sorry for me. I don’t like that. I step away. She moves right in again. I swear razor wire wouldn’t slow this chick down. And yet, I’ll be the one who ends up ripped to shreds.

  Sergeant West, her dad, is the size of a garbage truck and likes nothing better than picking up the trash, AKA guys like me. For a while there, I couldn’t shake the dude. Until he just disappeared. Maybe that’s got something to do with what Barbie wrote in English Lit, the car accident, but it doesn’t matter. Not to me. So what if he said he’d look out for me? It just goes to show, my inner stupid regenerates and needs to be amputated on a regular basis.

  “So,” says Barbie, tilting her head closer. “How did you like the sandwich?”

  Is she talking about the soggy pickles and stale bread throwing a rager in my gut? Since I’m on the verge of shitting myself, I don’t really care if my snarl causes her smile a setback. A minor setback.

  “Are you mad at everyone and everything?” She actually pokes me in the ribs, sending me into whole-body disruption. “Or just me in particular?”

  Yes. To all of it.

  “Do you want to know what I think?”

  Not even a little bit.

  “I think we could be friends.”

  She’s going to be a problem for me. In more ways than I first thought.

  I see the exact moment when three, large dudes dressed in identical jerseys catch sight of Barbie crowding me. They turn on a dime, veer our way with the biggest dude eating up the pavement. He’s in a major hurry to get between this. He’s my height but lugging around an extra thirty pounds of muscle, dark blonde wavy hair, square jaw, blinding white sneakers and cocksucker written all over him. The guys on either side are shorter, more stocky. A prick and his balls.

  The Prick comes up from behind, slings an arm around Barbie and drags her in. He slides his nose down her cheek, startling her, and she’s not exactly tickled.

  “Hey Brandon,” she says, ducking under and away from his hold. “Kyle, Marty. You guys remember Taz?”

  The one Ball shifts backward, and I sort of remember throwing some kid named Marty around for laughing at my shoes in grade school.

  Prick juts out his obnoxious chin and snorts, “That your bike?” The Balls find this downright hilarious. Barbie scowls at them. I’m bored.

  An electronic chirping starts up. It drills into the base of my skull and my right hand flies into a frenzy against my thigh. Barbie looks from my fingers to my face, checks Prick and each of the Balls before muttering, “Is that … what … am I ringing?” She then unzips and paws through at least eight pockets of her backpack, finally
digging out and fumbling her cell phone, all while bouncing on her toes and repeating, “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

  This chick gets more bizarre by the second.

  She listens, nods with her fingers rubbing her forehead and sags. “I understand,” she mumbles and her smile goes MIA. “Yeah. I can do that. I need to pick up my sister first and then … OK … I’ll be right there.” Her eyes come straight to mine. “I gotta go. So ... ”

  So?

  Prick says, “Wait,” and grabs her hand. “When can I see you?”

  He’s literally looking right at her. Dumbass.

  “You’re literally looking right at me,” says Barbie. Smartass.

  “You know what I mean,” Prick whines, catches himself and puffs back up. He tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, taking any chance to touch her. “We should hang out.”

  “Um, sure? Definitely. Sometime.” Barbie burns him so bad his ears smoke. I click my tongue, letting him know I get it. He’s her bitch. His face floods red and his Balls swell.

  Barbie gives me one last look, her eyes full of apologies, and I wonder what she’s sorry for. Crushing my dirt bike? The shitty sandwich? Leaving me with Prick and Balls?

  She hustles away, doing her weird little wave. As she climbs into her giant metal pachyderm, me, Prick and the two Balls take a moment of silence to appreciate her ass. It takes her two tries to get the door latched shut and four attempts to start the engine. Smoke shits out the exhaust pipe. Barbie is heavy on the pedal and takes the turn so wide, she nearly clips Left Ball. He’s forced to spring out of her path, almost face plants, and it’s the best part of my whole day.

  Now Prick turns to me, definitely blaming me for Barbie rushing off, global warming and the miniscule size of his dick. He stabs a meaty finger my way and wears the hard face. He’s as scary as a nursery rhyme. I’ve faced genuine badasses, and while he ain’t it, I’m hoping he’ll put on a decent show.