Be the Death of Me (16 page)

Tucker

Morning, watery and pink, trickles its way in through Ford’s bedroom window, landing in gentle, ebbing pools on the floor. He lays sleeping, a skin–and–bone arm draped over his eyes, shielding them from the sunrise. Billie stands, face turned to the very window Ford shies away from, a wall of silver–white hair shining under the break of day, each strand glittering with a thousand ginger colored crystals.

I came back for her, hoping for closure, longing for some sort of resolution to the heartbreak Billie pressed upon me that night at the country club. Don’t think about it, Tucker. What’s done is done, and there’s no changing it. Billie has no idea what she’s been thrown into, just how twisted this horrible little circus of ours goes. I promised the Captain I would do whatever it took to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing myself in the process. Fool me once. Fool me twice . . . 

I did what I had to do. Billie did what she wanted, what was to be expected, and I’ve only responded by doing what needed to be done. And I know, I know before any words are spoken, before the look of hurt and anger cross her face.

She’s going to hate me.

“Billie.” She turns at the sound of my voice. “I need to speak to you.”

Her face flickers with doubt for one heartbreaking moment before, to my complete surprise, she covers the space between us in two steps and takes my face between her hands, kissing me fiercely. I barely have time to register the hope in her smile before our lips meet. And for an entire second of reckless abandon, I kiss her back with such eagerness it’s hard to restrain thoughts of simply picking her up and carrying her out the door. But sense and consciousness return with a vengeance, overpowering any momentary bliss. Placing two iron hands on either of her shoulders, I push her away.

She stares up at me as we pull apart, the expression of desire still emanating from her face. “Tuck,” she beams, radiant. “You came back. Of course you came back.” She directs the last at herself, shaking her head, her eyes hitting the floor. “I mean, I hoped you would. I mean, I need to tell you something.”

“Billie,” I start to say.

“I am so sorry, Tuck. You have no idea how sorry. No one has ever been as sorry as I am. But what you saw . . .  me and Ford . . .  it wasn’t . . it was nothing, I swear. I care about him, but not how you think. You have to believe me. I’ve thought about it a lot since you left, and I know I’ve been a complete idiot. I didn’t understand. I didn’t
see
you. But I get it now. I
see
. You were right. I want to try and be happy. With you. And I just . . .  I don’t want you to hate me.”

She stops and looks up at me again with her brilliant blues.
Stay strong
, I tell myself, unwillingly tearing my gaze from hers.

“The Captain wants to see you.”

Billie draws back, dropping her hands to her sides, shocked by my response to what was an undoubtedly painful confession. Her pale brows furrow together. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asks after a moment of listening to nothing but Ford’s heavy breathing continuing to punctuate the quiet morning. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I said I’m sorry. And I—”

“He said immediately.”

Her face registers her hurt. “Why are you being like this?” she mutters softly to the floor. “I’m sorry, okay? I made a mistake! But you have to forgive me, Tuck.” Her fingers fiddle gingerly with the end of my tie. “Please.”

I can’t bear another minute of this. “You should go. The Captain’s expecting you at HQ, and you know how he doesn’t like to be kept wait—”

“Stop it.” It’s her turn to interrupt. “Look at me.”

I don’t. I can’t.

“Go.” I tell her. “Now. Before he sends someone after you.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence as she realizes that her apology hasn’t worked. What’s strange is, I think both of us are equally surprised at my refusal to forgive, however unstable and insecure the foundation may be. She nods, grasping what I came to understand days ago, that something has changed between the two of us; something has broken, shattered in a way I doubt can ever be repaired.

“Okay,” she whispers, grasping for the words. “I’ll go. Just . . .  uh . . .  tell Ford I’ll be back soon.”

“I can’t do that.”

She stares up at me. “Just tell him, okay? He’ll be confused when he wakes up if I’m not here.”

“I can’t tell him that, Billie,” I say, my voice swelling with determination. Perhaps it’s her unwavering concern for Ford’s well–being that gives me the proper motivation to remain apathetic.

“Tell him,” she orders, refusing to phase. “He deserves to know where I am. He’s my assignment!”

“No. He’s not.”

Her eyes narrow instantly, a dog ready to bite. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s not your responsibility anymore. I spoke to the Captain, and he agrees. You’ve become too attached to this case. As a result, the Elders have ordered your immediate removal. They’re not marking it as a failure, at least not yet. You’re to report to the Captain where you’ll be given a new assignment. You will need—”

I’m not surprised when she slaps me; I almost welcome it. I shut my eyes against her hand, wincing not from the actual blow, but from the only pain we Guardians
can
feel. She vanishes without another word or glance in my direction, eyes blazing, her jaw set.

That’s when I know just how right I am. Something
has
broken. And this time it’s not just one, but two hearts, each dormant and useless inside our chests.

Ford

(Four Years Ago)

Could this be any more humiliating?

The bus, smelling of what I can only assume is sweat, beef jerky and despair, jostles over the railroad tracks, its wheels not only going round and round like the song suggests, but up and down, forward and back, and quite possibly diagonally from time to time. My butt bounces against the sticky, leather seat as the giant automobile settles all four wheels once again on the pavement. Next to me, a rather full–figured, curly–haired girl smiles and offers me a bite from whatever half eaten, mashed candy bar she’s pulled from her back pocket.

I grin feebly and mumble a half–hearted no thank you.

The ride to school lasts longer than I would have thought possible. Technically speaking, living just outside the school district, the bus shouldn’t even bother picking me up. But Gran insisted, and as soon as they were informed of my “special circumstance,” the school board voted unanimously to make a small detour from the usual route.

The ride ends, and I climb off quickly, almost before the shrieking brakes can bring the vehicle to a complete stop. My new school awaits, plain and simplistic. There are no steps or fancy walkways to the entrance, only a long, seemingly endless stretch of pavement leading to the front doors.

I make my way to my locker as inconspicuously as I can, finding the tiny, beaten cabinet resting alone in a far corner by a particularly noisy water heater. I’m not complaining. I’ll gladly take this sorry excuse for a locker rather than be forced to share with someone I don’t even know, the only other choice the administration gave a student arriving so late in the school year.

The day passes without incident or notice. No one offers a hello or asks my name. No one calls on me in class or waves hello in the hallway. I slink into oblivion, finding I prefer it that way. It’s never fun explaining the name Benedict Bartholomew to people.

The odors and sounds of basketball practice can be heard coming from inside the gymnasium as I pass the doors, two massive green blockades daring the unworthy to enter its sacred, sports–obsessed grounds. Several students are dressed in school colors, matching hallways festooned in green and gold.
Go Grizzlies! Crush the Cougars!

They’re very serious about their woodland animals around here.

Wall space not taken up by lockers is a shrine to the athletic gods that once passed through these hallowed halls. Track, football, basketball, baseball, swimming, lacrosse all have gleaming glass cases dedicated to their greatness, their championships and champions. Photographs spanning decades of Aryan–approved boys and girls judge me from behind their secure, paned cages. Half the girls look as though they’re named Greta and could one day find work as deep tissue masseurs, while every boy looks twice his age, old enough to be my dad . . . 

I groan and shake my head, dispelling the unpleasant thoughts.

Don’t think about him.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, that I would
try
to think of something else, something more enjoyable. But here, with every second spent in this preppy, active prison, I find it more and more difficult to believe I’ll ever be able to control my own thoughts.

Hours later, the final bell rings, signaling my release. The hallways flood with students, pouring toward the exits like a school of well–dressed fish. I gaze after them, wanting nothing more than to run screaming from this asylum of a school and never look back.

Dad’s old wristwatch–
don’t think about him!
–ticks quietly in a circle. I still have fifteen minutes before I’m expected anywhere. Most kids would spend the time hanging out with their friends, chatting in the parking lot before heading home in their custom Beamers and Bentleys. Not me. I have neither friends nor a fancy car to lure any.

I begin walking, heading nowhere specific, killing time with each meticulous step. I find my locker, open it, close it, open it again just to be sure nothing is left behind, and head down a different, though identical corridor. I visit the boys’ bathroom for no reason, spending several minutes washing my hands in the tiny, porcelain sink. An alarmingly tall boy in a suit and tie rushes past me on my way out, his hand over his mouth as though he’s mere seconds from losing his lunch. He hardly notices I’m there.

It’s just as well. The faces of the few students left in the building bleed together, molding into one, faceless teenager. Somewhere down an adjoining hallway an attractive Hispanic girl catches my eye as she skips past the front doors, mini–skirt floating dangerously above a pair of tan thighs. She latches onto the arm of a basketball player before kissing him coyly on the cheek and allowing him to chase her out the front doors.

Five minutes to go. Surely it wouldn’t matter if I’m a few minutes early. From what I’ve heard, teachers appreciate punctuality. Or at least I hope they do. I turn on my heel, finding the door I need only a few twists and turns away.

“Hello,” I say, finding the classroom nearly empty.

Several tables away, in the center of the spotless room, sits a girl. Her head is buried in an open notebook, fingers flying across several pages of text, flipping through like a speed reader.

She doesn’t answer, only grants me a lightning quick glimpse before diving back into her work, spilling outrageously blonde hair over her shoulders, hiding her face from view.

I take a few nervous steps into a room that smells strongly of formaldehyde, gripping the straps of my worn, tattered backpack for support. I’m not good at talking to people I don’t know, and being forced to speak to this girl is going to be near impossible.

“Is Mr. Hammond here?” I manage to squeak out. I try and force my voice into a lower pitch. “I have a meeting with him at three.”

“No,” she responds, not bothering to look my way. She sweeps a hand through her hair, pushing it farther over her neck.

“Oh,” I mumble, not knowing what else to say. “Well, uh, did he say when he’d be back? I’m new, and the principal said if I want to take chemistry my freshman year, I’d have to talk to Mr. Hammond. I made an appointment with him a few days ago. Is he—”

“He’s not here,” she barks, obviously irritated. I run my eyes over open books at her side and packet of papers in front of her.

Cheater
.

“You’ll have to talk to him tomorrow.”

I’m just about to open my mouth to ask her if I can leave a message with him when I suddenly think better of it.

“Oh. Ok. Never mind then. Sorry to bother you.”

“Thanks for playing,” I hear her call after me, her voice reaching me as I step into the open hallway.

I groan, knowing sarcasm when I hear it.

I realize I know a lot of things as I make my way back down the hall to the empty parking lot, eager to begin the long walk home. I know for instance, I’ll have to lie to Gran and tell her I
did
in fact meet with the chemistry teacher. I know I can kiss taking the course my freshman year goodbye. I know flaking doesn’t exactly make the best impression, and Mr. Hammond will be upset I never showed for our scheduled meeting. I know I hate this school and the people in it and am counting down the days until I can leave and never look back.

And yet as I step into the sunlight, ridiculously thankful for its warmth, somehow I know . . . 

Leaving is the best decision I’ve ever made.

Ford

Dreams suck. I can tell you that for free.

The first one I’ve had in years–
years!
–and it wakes me with a vengeance long before my alarm is set to go off, not even having the courtesy to linger long enough for me to remember most of it. There were faces, people and places I would swear I’ve seen somewhere before. But they fade into ambiguity, dying with the arrival of morning.

“Get dressed,” Tucker orders, not bothering to explain why he’s back, or where Billie is. I obey, reluctantly climbing out of the creaky, well–worn bed with a scowl. He pretends not to notice, and with the exception of a quick “good morning” from Gran before she races to her water aerobics class, the rest of the morning is spent in uncomfortable silence.

I can’t help but look over my shoulder every five seconds or so, half expecting Billie to phase back into my day, smiling bravely at the world from behind her cynicism. She’s gone, however, as I eat my cereal, as I put away my dishes, as I gather my things for school, double–checking to make sure I have supplies I don’t even need in order to linger a while longer. And even though I tell myself she’s probably just taking a break, that Tucker is merely taking his shift watching me, I can see it written on his face–something is wrong.

It’s obvious whatever transpired between Billie and Tucker during the night was not pleasant, but could it really have been so significant as to alter his feelings toward her? It seems strange to imagine an existence where Tucker isn’t in love with Billie, and yet every time I get a glimpse of his hauntingly vacant gaze, I can’t help but feel that’s exactly the sort of world I’m now forced to be a part of.

The day flickers like screenshots from some cliché high school movie. Cut to me daydreaming my way through French and trig, pan to the drool escaping the corner of my mouth while I catch a fitful catnap in study hall, zoom in on my panic stricken face when I realize we will be learning about wrestling techniques in gym class.

“Oh, goodie,” Tucker startles me by saying as we exit the chemistry lab at the final bell of the day. “Renfield’s here.”

“Hey!” I turn as Riley catches up to me in the hallway. He offers me a low five which I slap with my own. His curls are disheveled, eyes alight and filled with a surprising energy. “Been running laps around the school?” I joke.

“Track practice,” he explains with a sheepish grin, wiping a sleeve across his sweat covered forehead, leaving strands of unruly hair stuck to his face. “Coach wants to start training me on the 100 meter dash. He thinks I have real sprinter potential.”

I grin as if I understand. “That’s great, man. So are we still on for tonight?”

He nods enthusiastically. “I’ll be there after practice. You still have to show me how to beat level seven, remember?”

“Level seven of what?” Tucker says in my ear.

I ignore him. “I’m not convinced conquering Ninja Zombie Slayer is something that can ever be taught. But I’ll meet you at the arcade around six if you’re sure you’re up to it.” I pat him once on the shoulder and head in the direction of my locker.

“Okay,” Tucker starts not two seconds after leaving Riley. He lopes along at my side, his expression still dark. “New rule. I don’t want you hanging out with anyone I don’t approve of first. You’re going to steer clear of people for a while.”

“Steer clear of people? Are you serious?” I shake my head and keep walking.

“Of course I’m serious. Now that Logan’s out of the picture, the killer could be anybody. I don’t want you hanging out with anyone until we get this thing solved. Not Riley. Not Shannon . . .”

“Shannon? Get real.”

“. . . Not even the imaginary friends you used to tell your Gran about. Got it?”

“I’m not agreeing to that.”

“Who said I was giving you a choice?”

Again I ignore him. I’ve made up my mind. He’ll get nothing from me until I get at least a word of explanation from him. There’s nothing he can do to make me talk. And I refuse to beg for information. When he feels like talking, then we’ll talk. I’m a man, and men do not grovel. This is one stone Tucker can’t squeeze blood from.

“Where is Billie?!” I shout, not realizing how loud I am until several unsuspecting heads turn my way. So much for being a stone.

Whatever mild concern tickled Tucker’s face a moment before is gone in the next. His jaw twitches with irritation at the idiot who doesn’t have the foresight to know just how far over the line he’s crossed. I don’t care. I’ll take the frightening glares and intimidation techniques any day if it means I’ll finally find out what’s going on.

“Where is she?” I repeat, slower this time, not backing down.

Instead of an answer, however, his large hand latches around my muscle–free upper arm, a metal vice I can’t shake free of. He propels me the final few feet to my locker. “Get your stuff and let’s go,” he snarls, clearly in no mood for small talk.

I shake my head, feeling a little like a stubborn six–year–old that won’t go to bed when they’re told. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers. What’s going on? Where’s Billie? Why are you back? What happened between you two? Hey, what the—?”

With a mere flick of his wrist, the locker door–complete with combination padlock–flings open and crashes against its neighbor with an alarming bang. My tattered windbreaker, hanging complacently on the back hook, floats free, whipping out into the hallway and over my shoulder. The jacket springs to life, attacking my face like a living, writhing creature. The arms wrap tightly around my neck, clawing its way up my face. The zipper buries itself in my tangle of hair, and I’m hit square in the chest with three smooth, heavy objects.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

I’m laid out, sprawled flat on my back with what feels like my chemistry, economics and history books all lying stacked on top of me, pressing my back to the floor.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” I hear Tucker growl, followed by the much louder sound of a slamming locker door. I pry the jacket away from my face and stare up at the figure looming over me. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions. No arguments. If I tell you to get your stuff, you do it quickly and silently, got it? I don’t care about your thoughts or your feelings or what you may or may not want. I’m your Guardian, and I shouldn’t have to remind you that you and I do not share the same relationship you had with Billie.”

The name sounds like a torment falling from his lips.

I steady myself with a deep breath, filling my ribcage to its full capacity. “Where is she?” I ask once more. I’m
frightened. The simple fact Tucker can take his anger out on me without even lifting a finger is in no way good news for my health. His scowl deepens, as if he can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to antagonize him at a moment like this. But instead of beating me within an inch of my life, which is what I fully expect him to do, he sighs and shakes his tawny head. “She’s gone,” he says, turning his back on me.

I scramble to my feet, listening to my heart pummel my ribcage. “Gone where?”

“Just gone, okay?”

“Taken?”

I grab my things off the hall floor. Tucker seems to have aged a hundred years in the last minute and a half. His shoulders sag forward, his face lined with angst and resentment. “No. Not taken.”

It’s then I know.

“What did you do?” The empty hallways echo with my question, bouncing back against the only ears that can hear the true weight of the words.

As usual, he doesn’t answer. Tucker jams his hands into his pockets and begins walking, marching in the direction of the front door. I have to jog a few feet to catch up to his beanstalk legs. “Listen, man. I’m sure whatever you did or said, you can take it back. Because even though I don’t really understand
why
, I know Billie loves you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She does! What you
think
you saw? It was nothing, okay? It was stupid, and if you want to hit me for it, here’s your chance. I’m giving you a free shot.”

“I don’t want to fight you, Ford.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d kill you.”

“In that case, thank you for abstaining. Now, just call Billie back so you two can be together, and you and I can get back to pretending to like one another.”

“Billie’s not coming back.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I tell him, the words tumbling awkwardly off my tongue. “Of course she’s coming back. She’s my Guardian.”

“No, she’s not.” He finally turns to look at me, his speckled hazels meeting my gaze. “You’re no longer her responsibility. She’s been reassigned.”

“WHY?” I shout. A lingering sophomore stares on in horrified fascination. “What did you do?”

“
I
didn’t do anything!” Tucker is suddenly much closer than I care for, using his height to his full advantage. He towers over me, his face a mask of unreleased rage. “If you really want to blame someone for what’s happened, maybe you should blame yourself.”

“Is that what you have to tell yourself to feel better?”

“Don’t mess with me, Ford. I’m not sure I can keep my promise about not killing you.”

It’s amazing how long I’ve managed to last under his withering stare. Maybe Billie was right. Maybe standing up for myself really isn’t as difficult as I imagined. “Killing me won’t make you feel any better.”

“It might.”

“You’re the type of guy who justifies his actions by telling himself that what he’s doing is the right thing when in reality you know getting rid of Billie was a mistake.”

“Drop it, Ford.”

“Because the truth is, you’re just like me. You’ve probably been rejected and beaten down so many times you’d rather throw in the towel than actually fight for what you want. You’re willing to just let her go rather than stay and hear the truth. Isn’t that right?”

I want nothing more than to be away from here, from everything, but the thought of never seeing Billie again crashes over me like a tidal wave. I want everything back the way it was, in its rightful place, Tucker hating me, me hating Tucker, Billie trapped between the two of us. Now the only thing separating us is the person we’re destined to despise, a vision staring back at us in a grotesque, fun house mirror image.

How much of myself do I see in Tucker? What part of himself is reflected back every time he looks at me? Does he see the insecurity? The paralyzing self–doubt? Perhaps that’s where the hatred stems from, the recognition of himself in me. Maybe if I were different. If he didn’t have to face it head on, maybe then he could believe that someone like Billie could actually love someone like him.

Someone like us.

“Benedict!”

I don’t waste time being surprised. Shannon skips up behind me, her naturally rosy cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Hey, Shannon,” I wave half–heartedly. She’s wearing a pale green sweater today, her usual burlap school bag slung lazily over her shoulder.

“What are you still doing here?” She follows me across the parking lot to my car. The afternoon sun lands lightly across her chestnut hair, making each strand shine auburn beneath the dying light. “I’m only here because of a stupid student council meeting. I keep telling them to move the meetings to the end of the week, but they never listen to me. Anyway, we’re trying to decide on this year’s prom theme. What do you think? I voted for an under the sea theme, but some people want—”

I lean back against the hood of my Chevette, letting her voice drift in and out. With any luck, she’ll still be talking by the time I’m finally out of my head. If I watch her, not listening, not hearing, just . . .  watching the motion of her mouth becomes almost pleasant. The way her lips form and move against the words, the fluidity with which she speaks reminds me of two pink tulip petals, bending and releasing with a breeze.

She tilts her head to one side, her doe eyes growing wide with expectation. “Benedict?” she murmurs, bringing me back into reality.

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you wanted to go.”

“Go where?”

Behind her, Tucker slaps a hand to his forehead. Shannon bites her bottom lip nervously, white teeth scraping roughly over silken petals. “To the prom.”

Oh.

Oh!

So this is what being asked out feels like. It’s nice, I suppose. I’d be lying if I said I’ve put a lot of thought into prom. Funny thing about someone trying to kill you. It tends to take up a lot of your free time. I’d given up the dream of a normal adolescence long ago, one where proms and dates still existed. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind, I recall the brightly–colored fliers decorating the hallways, advertising ticket sales in the upcoming months. I never actually assumed I would go, much less that anyone would want to go
with
me.

The seconds tick by, her expression growing from nervous to outright fear of being rejected.
Man up, you pansy!
I hear Billie’s voice echo through my brain. I smile, already knowing my answer. “Yeah,” I say finally, watching her face split into a dazzling smile. “Yeah, I’d love to go with you.”

She bounces on the spot, hugging her books to her chest. “Really?”

“I just can’t believe you asked me.”

“Why not?” she jokes, looping her arm through mine. The soft fabric of her sweater rustles lightly against my arm. “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather go with.”

Tucker scowls at me, his advice of “steering clear” evidently falling upon deaf ears.

“Do you want a ride home?” I ask before I have the chance to change my mind.

“Sure,” she says, pleasantly surprised. “Do you know where Ansel Boulevard is?”

I nod and unlock the passenger door. “After you,” I gesture grandly, holding it open. She giggles and slips inside. “Sorry about the mess,” I call after her, watching her small feet maneuver around the empty soda cans and loose change covering the floorboards, wishing I’d bothered to clean my car before deciding to play taxi. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tucker’s face is an empty mask of regret, hard and unforgiving as he stares out the window.

I can’t bring myself to mock him.

The ride home is effortless. I drive, perhaps a bit faster than I should, trying to impress. “I think I’ll go with a blue dress,” Shannon says, having no problem keeping the conversation alive. “My country club dress is blue. Remember? What do you think? Or maybe I should go with purple. Mom says I look really good in purple, even though I don’t really own a lot of purple stuff. I have that one sweater. You’ve seen it. The lilac one? Maybe I should go with that. Do you know what kind of tux you’re going to get? Maybe I should wait and see so we can match . . .”

Main Street draws near, and just past it, Ansel Boulevard. Ahead of us the light changes to yellow, then red. I tap the brakes, happy for an excuse to prolong the parting.

Nothing happens.

The car refuses to slow, the pedal useless. I press harder, laying on it, trying my best to be discreet so as not to frighten my passenger. The intersection approaches rapidly, busy with afternoon shoppers and cars heading home from either school or work. I pound the brake in futility.

“Benedict, slow down.” Shannon brushes my arm with her fingertips.

“I . . .  I can’t.” I give up on not scaring her. The pedal pumps lifelessly under my foot. Tucker shifts forward. “The brakes. They aren’t working.” I turn ever so slightly to face him, a cry for help.

My Chevette hurtles toward the light. I do the only thing I can and lay on the horn, listening to its wail echo through the streets. A few pedestrians stop to gape at the out–of–control vehicle. A few more scatter out of the way, watching as it plunges through the intersection.

Everything happens at once. Out the corner of my eye I see a flash of shiny, fire–engine red, a pickup truck soon to be united with the driver’s side of my runaway car. I hear Tucker swear loudly, and in the instant before we collide, I know what he’s going to do.