Beautifully Ruined (3 page)

“Yeah.” Kennie perks up, her hands launching her books to the floor as she makes herself more comfortable in the old, worn recliner. She flicks her hair back, grinning happily. “And I hear he
sits right next to
you
in your AP Euro class.” Her sources are very good. I wonder what else they say. “So what do you know about him?” she presses, blue eyes blazing eagerly as she leans closer, waiting for more information—information I don’t have.

Kennie’s getting to the point where she’ll reach down my throat for any piece of gossip I could say. I think she has an issue.

“He’s from Texas,” I answer, taken aback by her wide-eyed stare. It’s really worrying me.

She scoffs, mocking me. “That’s it?” she asks, annoyed with my lack of knowledge.

I close my book, setting it in my lap. “What does it matter, Kennie?” It’s a guy I don’t really care about or want to talk to. He could be the next big music superstar and I still wouldn’t care. What does she expect from me.

“Because I’m a nosy girl.” Well, that’s always been true. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ears and smiles sweetly, fully prepared to unload every scrap of information she’s managed to scrounge up on the boy since he walked through the front doors. “So, what I’ve heard about him is he’s a senior from Texas who got kicked out of the last five schools he attended so he’s officially banned from the district down there.” I snort, loudly disturbing those studying around me. I don’t believe any of that and I know my thoughts are clear on my face. But Kennie continues. “His mother had to move him across the country for him to even have the chance of graduating on time.” Another fabrication, I’m sure. I know there are other districts in Texas. I know there are also easier things to do than move across the country for school. Like homeschooling. “And everyone’s freaked by him.”

I snort again loudly and unlady-like. “Why?”

Kennie leans forward, her eyes switching from side to side as she searches around us. To her, the coast is clear to tell me whatever. To me, we’re surrounded by people who don’t care and would prefer our pointless chatter to stop. “They say he’s killed a teacher.”

As if on cue, I burst out laughing, catching more unwanted attention from my surrounding peers, a lot of evil looks and annoying expressions but last I checked, I was free to laugh wherever I choose. But seriously? Him? Mr.
I’ll Follow You to Class Because You Look Familiar
? That guy? I doubt he’d harm a fly if given the option and a fly swatter. “Now that’s bullshit if I ever heard it. Where does everyone come up with this crap?” These stories get more and more ridiculous every time I hear them.

Kennie starts laughing. She understands me and gets where my question comes from. “I honestly couldn’t tell you.” Pink clad shoulders bounce once in a shrug before blonde hair flies over her left shoulder from a flip of her hand. “It’d be different if any of it were true, though, right?”

With how crazy these tales are, you’d think we went to school on a drama television show. I’m not a soap opera character, neither is Milo despite his good looks, country roots, and ridiculously spectacular hair.

If anything these rumor mills spewed out were true, then I’d have be behind bars after slaughtering half the school years ago. They enjoy painting the worst thing upon the people they don’t like, the people they don’t know, or the people they think they know but never take the time to. The one thing all the stories have in common: they’re always wrong. Every little thing they say, every little web they weave, it’s always wrong and it spreads faster than wildfire.

“You still have the Quiz Team tonight, right?” Kennie asks quietly once her laughter has calmed and the awkward silence surrounds us. Poor girl, she hates the quiet.

“Yeah,” I reply, flicking the pages of the book in my lap. “You still have practice tonight?”

“Yeah.” Kennie perks up. “I’ll drive you home after,” she offers like always.

“Thank you.” I force a smile—but it’s half-genuine. She deserves that much for all she’s done for me. Actually, she
deserves more. I’m not sure how I could get through any of this without someone in my corner.

Lunch ends and I go through the rest of my day. Unusually aware of everything through schoolwork, orchestra, even the quiz team. It’s one of those days where I lose all excitement and only want to crawl back into bed. Despite my mixed feelings for school, I’ve never wanted to ditch completely before. Certain classes, yes. But never the entire day.

When I step into the hall, expecting Kennie standing against the wall like usual with her leg propped up and her ear buds in while she bounces her head along with her favorite song of the week, I run into Milo.

“It’s you,” he says happily, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

I turn to head–more like spring—in the other direction, or into oncoming traffic, whichever is more appealing in ten minutes.

“No, please stop,” he begs behind me. “I’m sorry,” he calls after me. My steps slow, my hand rubs against my forehead as I berate myself for the decision to listen to him.
Goodness, I’m a sucker for apologies
. I wait for him to catch up—because I’m a glutton for freaking punishment.
Holy crap on a cracker, I’m too damn polite
. Or an idiot. I’m leaning toward the latter right now. Milo moves around me better to see me. “I really need to apologize for practically stalking you earlier—”

“
Practically?
” I snap, interrupting him. “
Practically?
”

“—it wasn’t something I normally do.” He chuckles nervously, his hand dragging through his blonde hair as his eyes drift over my shoulder, as if someone were standing behind me. I know we’re alone. I think he’s scared to look at me. “I’m not
that
creepy, I promise.”

At this moment, I strongly doubt that
.

I cross my arms along my chest, looking at him above the rim of my glasses. He’s close enough I can see him clearly without the aid of my spectacles.

Milo stands there awkwardly, rocking slightly on his heels. “Well?” he continues. “Are you going to say anything?” he asks.

After taking a deep breath, I shake my head and answer, “I don’t want to,” with a shrug.

“Listen, earlier,” he starts—his hand reaching out. I move from his reach, not wanting his touch. “It’s just that you look really familiar. I can’t place it.” He flips his hair from his eyes. “And it’s bugging me, but how I told you—how I chased after you, I apologize.” I’m fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “I promise to be a decent human being from now on, okay?” He holds out his hand, ready for me to shake it—hoping I’ll shake it.

I don’t.

“Are you really going to make this hard?” Milo asks, annoyance clear in his voice.

“I don’t know you,” I reply, adding a roll to my eyes, telling him what he knows. There isn’t a real need for me to shake his hand. This isn’t resolution—this is bothering me. “I don’t
want
to know you,” I tell him honestly.

Milo laughs. “Too late.” He shrugs. “I can see we’re going to be the
best
of
friends
.” Even with that bit of sarcasm tacked onto his sentence, he pulls his hand back, dropping it to his side and shoving it into the front pocket of his jeans.

I roll my arms and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t
need
any new friends,” I tell him.

“I don’t buy that,” Milo replies, leaning forward. “Everyone needs friends.”

I shake my head. “Not me.” I don’t have the time for friends. I don’t even have the time for the friends I have.

His eyes narrow in confusion. I can almost hear him saying
curiouser and curiouser
as he stares at me.

“At least tell me your name,” he offers. ”Maybe I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“Have you been to Washington before?”

“No.”

“Then you haven’t seen me before.” I try to move around him, ignoring the little fact I visit Texas at least two times every year. Milo doesn’t need to know that. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have places to go. You have people to annoy, so—”

He grabs my arm lightly, keeping me in place before I can flee down the hall. I tense up, wishing his hand from my arm. My heart speeds up, my breathing quickens, and I glare at his hand pressed against my arm. My hands get clammy as I press them into tight fists, sweat breaks out against my forehead, and I can’t breathe.

Every bit of progress I made with Zephyr when it came to touching and contact evaporated the moment I broke up with him. I didn’t see the point in my being comfortable when I no longer had my source of comfort. Now, when people touch me, even just to tap me on the shoulder if I didn’t hear them call my name in the hall, I tense up and I near a panic attack.

You could look at me wrong and I would freak out.

Most of the time, it’s a direct hit.

Milo can see it. He can see how uncomfortable I am, how uncomfortable he’s making me, and releases my arm, backing away from me. “I’m sorry. I really am,” he tells me quickly.

“You
need
to stop apologizing,” I bark at him, releasing a bit of built up anger.

It doesn’t help.

So I bolt down the hall, putting distance between us before he can say anything else, searching for Kennie so I can go home.





Lying in bed after a long day, I stare at the blank space on my wall—the one formally occupied a painting. It’s discolored—not matching the rest of the wall, it’s lighter, brighter, and a reminder of what isn’t here anymore. My blinds are closed but my lamp is on, so I can see the spot, I can practically feel the damned spot when I close my eyes.

It freaking mocks me.

His painting, the one he hates that I love so much, is in the back of the closet by the front door in a protective plastic cover because, no matter how I feel right now, I never want anything to damage it. It’s important and I care about it too much.

But it’s not the only thing of his lying around here.

His old football sweatshirt is draped along the back of my desk chair, five pictures of us have been shoved into the top drawer of my dresser along with two of his shirts. His Five Finger Death Punch CD is hidden in the back of my bookshelf. The two posters he gave me are rolled up and sitting on the top shelf of my closet. And the stuffed animals he’s given to me and won for me throughout the years are thrown in my closet to chill with the others from my childhood. The rest of his stuff I don’t know what to do with sits in a pile in the center of my room, right on top of the rug. It’s been there for the past two weeks, I just navigate around it when I’m on the move. Only once have I tripped over something.

I can’t handle it anymore. Just knowing it’s all there, knowing it’s all surrounding me as if waiting for something—I can’t take it. I jump out of bed prepared to do something, anything to change this. So I head to the garage, padding through the house. Walking down the stairs, I turn on every light and make sure every door and window is locked as I pass. My aunt’s working tonight so it’s just me alone in the house. There’s nothing unusual about that.

In the garage, I grab the biggest box I can find and empty it shoving the contents into various other boxes, ready to fill it again with everything that screams his name in my room.

And everything of his goes into it. All the CDs, all the books, all the photos, every little thing that reminds me of Zephyr. With everything I touch, a memory comes to me. The tiny purple stuffed seal missing a leg reminds me of the day at the Puyallup Fair when he tricked me into going down the big slide on nothing but a slim piece of burlap. He held my hand all the way down because I wouldn’t stop screaming. Or the time we went to the beach and collected shells. I kept every shell in a mason jar on my windowsill. It’s now in the box. The tickets stubs remind me of my first concert. We saw Static-X and he held onto me to protect me from all the moshing—even protecting my glasses from destruction.

These are all good memories I cherish and I’m sad to pack them away.

All the places we’ve been throughout the years, all the experiences we’ve shared—these are very important to me—every last item. But everything weighs me down. It’s too much, all of this, just being here.

Zephyr fills this room.

He’s everywhere.

Dropping the last stuffed duck into the box, I lift it up—somehow, but it’s a struggle. I have the upper body strength of a sick kitten—and carry it down the stairs, not entirely sure what I’m going to do with it.

So it goes in the back of the hall closet with the painting.

Stepping into my room, my Zephyr-free room, I force a smile and I force the happiness I require, I force every good emotion I should be feeling by holding my head high, but it doesn’t work. Stepping further into the room, I collapse on the rug. I thought a cleanse would be a good thing, I thought freeing my room of everything that reminded me of him would be good, but it feels bare, it feels empty—I can’t feel him anymore. I just want to feel him, around me, with me. I
need
to feel him again.