A Blue So Dark (11 page)

Jeremy puts the board down against the curb. When he turns to me, his eyes glitter.

"So what?" I say, shoving my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie. "We came out here so I can watch you turn some sort of fancy skating tricks?"

He flashes a half grin and shakes his head.

"Oh, no," I say, staring at the ditch. "That thing must drop off-what-five feet?"

"That's nothing," Jeremy says with a shrug.

"People have broken their necks doing less."

But Jeremy's got my shoulder, and he's pushing me, and my feet are suddenly on top of the board. And he's telling me, "Just let the tip dip forward-easy-like flying."

"No-no," I say, still protesting, because this really doesn't make any sense. "I don't know how-I'll fall," I insist, but he's pushing me, the wheels roll, dip, and I'm gliding, not down, but deep. Not against the wind, but into it. And there's nothing, in this tiny moment-nothing bad, anyway-just the explosion of air in my ears, and the cool pelt of wind that dries the tears from my face. Laughter bubbles out from underneath the concrete blocks of now. The whole world just feels so good, so light, so Jesus. Normal.

I start to lose my balance as the board rides the curve at the bottom of the ditch; my laughter turns to a scream as I wobble. I don't know what it is skaters do to keep their boards flying over the top edges of half-pipes, anyway, so I jump off, let the board rock itself to a stop.

Jeremy calls, "How do you feel now?"

I throw my head back to look up at him, hands in his pockets, smiling at me, so proud of himself.

"Human," I say.

He squats, holds his hand down for me to grab. I tuck his board beneath my arm just before he hoists me back onto the curb. His skin is delicious-I keep clutching his fingers as I let the wheels clatter to the ground. For a minute, as we're standing there staring at each other, I think maybe he's even going to try to kiss me. My heart starts to race, hoping, hoping ...

Instead, he pops the skateboard and catches one of the front wheels so that it hangs from his hand crooked, the way a little girl might hold her dolly by one arm. "Now you understand," he says. But before he explains himself, he's already turning away, heading toward the distant throngs in the Crestview parking lot that are all starting to flow back into school.

"Understand what?" I yell. Who the hell does he think he is with all this cryptic shit, some Zen master?

"My board, Aura," he calls over his shoulder. "I want my damn board back. Paint my board, already." The mere word-paint-makes me feel a little woozy.

As I watch him walk away, desire is like the tides I fought in Florida-like a giant's fist that grabs my body and forces me so far down beneath the surface, I almost doubt I'll ever breathe air again.

By the time I jog back into school, the crackly voice on the intercom is sending us all to our fourth period classes, which, for me, is English. I head into 01' Lady Kolaite's room like a zombie, my skin on fire because the sweet fix I got from Jeremy's board was fleeting, and the bitter-asan-unripe-lime taste of my whole stupid life has already exploded in my mouth.

Kolaite kicks the class into gear; in the seat beside me, Katie Pretti tugs her sweater sleeves over her wrists and halfway down her hands, hiding her thumbs. She sighs and leans back, with that look, you know? That look of being tied up, like it's not really her sweater sleeves she's tugged on, but handcuffs. Like she's not the one who put the cuffs on-no, it was some unseen sadistic s.o.b. who kidnapped her out behind the QuikTrip yesterday afternoon when she stopped in for a cherry Icee. Because everybody knows that's what high school really feels like. It's being handcuffed. It's being held against your every last will.

As soon as she sighs, George's hand reaches for her back. He sits one seat behind her, like he does in every class they have together. George, blue-eyed, blond-haired. Georgy Porgy. Beautiful and untroubled and smart and light and sweet and easy as a boy in a cheesy '80s TV show-Kirk Cameron or Scott Baio. Don't worry, man, it'll all work out soon. I mean, it's already 7:49. George Conyers only kissed one girl, lucky Katie, and never made her cry. And the minute he starts to scratch her back, her whole face changes. She's not in jail anymore.

Asinine class couple. Why the hell did I even bother with school today?

I'm just so sick of being around so many people with nothing wrong, nothing-they have no clue what it's like to really lose sleep over anything-that suddenly I'm writing again, even though I swore I wouldn't, I wouldn't ...

"Aura? Aura, dear?" It's Mrs. Kolaite, looking at me with this false, put-on worry. I swear, she's applied it to her face like mascara.

"Yes," I say, scooting up in my chair-where'd they get school chairs, anyway? Things might as well be made out of bricks. "I'm following along fine," I blubber, flipping the shiny pages of my textbook back and forth.

Because the thing is, when they're not treating us like gypsy scum, the teachers are all looking at us in this condescending way. I mean, they think we're capable of hacking into the computers to change our grades, and they practically nail their purses to their chests because they think we're crafty enough to sell their identities over the Internet, but they don't think we could ever grasp something as simple as a freaking metaphor?