Breathe for Me (8 page)

“That's awesome,” I say. “So what did you guys do?”

We make our way inside the building, Samantha talking nonstop about their date on Friday, then moves on to Saturday and Sunday. I nod and “mm-hmm” in all the right places, letting her rattle on.

“So, what did
you
do this weekend?” she asks.

“I stayed inside most of the time. But I did go to the sculpture gardens at the NOMA.” Of course, I'm not going to delve into the specifics about it with her, since she doesn't know the truth about me. The rest of yesterday evening went surprisingly well. Sitri was on his best behavior and showed me a number of metal sculptures in the gardens, talking about other artists he's met over the years and which works of theirs he loves the most. Afterward he dropped me off at the apartment and left, like a perfect gentleman.

Like a
date
.

To be honest, I'm still a little thrown off by the whole thing, unsure how I should feel, what I should think.

Samantha beams, her smile helping me shake off my unease. “I love that place! I wish I'd known—we'll have to go together next time. They have some great contemporary exhibits in the museum. Oh! There's Rick. I gotta go.” She squeezes my arm, then takes off down the hallway toward Rick, who's waving at her.

And then, I am alone. I feel the sting of her absence as I watch her leave. It's not fair for me to be upset with the situation though. After all, I'm most likely leaving for good soon. And she'll never see me again. Perhaps it's better for me to pull away and let her go off with Rick—both for her
and
for me. Just in case I can't figure out a way to convince Sitri to let me stay.

I go to Algebra II and get into my seat in the back of the room. Mr. Morris drones on about the newest chapter. I already read it, so I let my mind wander away from the subject at hand. I glance outside. Tomorrow is the first day of September. Fall is just around the corner, and then winter. What is New Orleans like in the thick of January—does the air get a little cooler?

The thought that I might not experience it pains me. I've grown to love this unusual city—it's not like England at all. At least, not the England I remember, before Sitri took me. But that place is long gone, swept into history books and paintings and movies that can't and don't come close to conveying the beauty, the war-ridden angst of my homeland.

This city, though…this city is alive. It's filled with music and laughter and amazing food. The people are unique, and someone like me can actually make a home here.

Mr. Morris's sharp voice interrupts my thoughts. “Alexis, I told you to zip it.”

She tosses her thick braid over her shoulder. “It wasn't me, Mr. Morris.” Her voice holds a sour edge.

He turns his beady eyes to me. “Isabel. Was that Alexis talking?”

I shake my head. “I didn't hear anything.” It's true—I wasn't paying any attention to him or to anyone else, so I honestly couldn't say if she was talking or not. But he didn't need to know that part.

His jaw tightens, and he stares at our part of the room for one long, hard moment. Then he shifts toward the chalkboard and scrawls across it.

Alexis turns back to look at me. She nods her head lightly, as if in thanks.

I return the gesture, oddly touched by her acknowledgement, and focus my eyes on my notebook. Better to make a more concerted effort at paying attention and not getting in trouble with Mr. Morris. He's already looking way too stressed out as it is, and I don't want to contribute to making his numbers decrease any more than they already are.

I plead out of lunch with Samantha, who's all too happy to spend her time with Rick, and head to the library. I need a break from reality right now. So I grab a book that talks about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, an artistic group formed by the poet Christina Rossetti's brother (a fact I discovered from the introduction of the poetry book), and crack it open. It's fascinating, reading about the courage of these
avant-garde
people who bucked tradition and formed their own movement. Their paintings and writing reflect their beliefs.

I can be that courageous. I can make my own way, one without Sitri, even without all the benefits of my situation. I stare at the pages blankly for a moment, my mind whirring through ideas on how to break my curse. Would he be receptive to me simply asking? I don't remember my past after the bargain, since he wipes my memory every time he transfers me to a new city, but I do know I've always been too afraid of him to dream of being so bold. But maybe it's time to try.

“You're such a good girl—even studying on your lunch break,” a whispering voice says as Sitri settles into the seat across from me.
Speak of the devil
.

I ignore my surprise at seeing him, forcing my heart rate to steady by drawing in slow breaths. I can't concentrate anymore, but I pretend to read.
Why is he here?

He leans over and plucks the book from my hand, then scans the cover. “Really?” he asks me, curiosity apparent on his face. “I never would have guessed.”

“There's a lot you don't know about me,” I say, then instantly wish I could take the words back. If Sitri feels I'm being secretive, he'll close off again, and I'll have to work harder to regain the trust he's shown me so far. I can't lose that hard-earned ground. “I mean, I've learned a lot in school.”

A smile creeps across his face, and his eyes warm to a rich, dark grey. “I look forward to hearing more about these things that interest you.” He pauses. “I hope you're behaving yourself,” he continues. His voice is low, soft, but the thread of seriousness beneath his words is undeniable. “And that you remember your time is coming to a close.”

“How can I forget?” I say, fighting to keep the edge out of my voice.
Stay calm
. “I'm reminded every day.”

“Isabel?” Dominic's voice floats into the library as he enters.

Oh, God. Oh, God
.

I stand. A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I wish Dominic would go away. Or better yet, Sitri. But that's not going to happen, because Sitri is studying my face with a keen eye and drinking in Dominic's presence, no doubt wondering who he is to me.

He misses nothing.

“I'm in the middle of something right now,” I say to Dominic. “I'll see you later in class.” I mentally plead for him to leave, even as my heart aches for having to push him away.

Sitri stands. “No, no, I'll leave you two alone.” His eyes suddenly glow like hot black coals, and he smiles again. But this time, there's nothing close to warmth in his face. It chills my blood. “I'll see
you
later, Isabel.” With that, he moves by Dominic, brushing oh-so slightly against his arm, and leaves the room.

I exhale sharply, not realizing I'd been holding my breath. My head spins from dizziness and fear. This is a mess. I can't do this. I can't let Dominic get in the middle of something he can't ever possibly understand. Sitri would tear him up in ways even
I
can't imagine.

“Who was that?” Dominic asks. His face is unreadable, his voice a little tighter than usual.

I shake my head, unable to speak. If I do, I know I will cry. And I'm barely holding on to myself right now as it is. I move around the table and start walking toward the door.

“You promised not to run.”

His words freeze me in my spot. “He's…my ex.” I say. I pause, swallow. “I don't like him anymore.”

He nods. “I can tell.”

“I'm not trying to run away, but I really need to go to the restroom now. I'll see you in class, okay?”

With that, I leave.

Mr. Morris moves up and down the aisles of our math class the next day, thrusting papers into our hands. It's our quizzes from last week, and mine has a large red D on the top. I sigh and close my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my nerves. This is bad.

A small, sarcastic voice in my brain tells me I shouldn't get this worked up, as I'm going to be leaving soon anyway. I force that dark thought back down. While I'm here in New Orleans, I'm doing the best work I can. That's been my motto from the start. Because I
will
find a way to make this work out so I can stay. I have to.

“I'm disappointed in some of these grades,” Mr. Morris says as he makes his way back up to the front of the class. “Many of you need to do a better job studying, especially since this is just the beginning of the school year. This isn't going to cut it.”

I force myself to focus on his words for the rest of the period. When the bell rings, I gather my stuff and head toward the door.

“Isabel, I need to speak to you,” Mr. Morris says.

I turn around and go to his desk, forcing my eyes to stare at the massive piles of paper spilling all over. It makes me uncomfortable to look at his face because all I can see are the numbers hovering above his head, their unsteady descent getting faster and faster as the days go on.

“This was not your best work,” he tells me, his tone thick with disapproval. “I'm not pleased.”

I dare a glance at him. Mr. Morris shakes his head at me. His lips are pinched. He swallows.

“I'm sorry.” I hope my words will appease him. “I'll do better next time.”

“You'd—” He stops and coughs lightly, pressing a hand to his chest. “You'd better. Because it's all too easy to drop grades in here.” His brows furrow, and he draws in a shaky breath.

“Are you okay?”

He nods his head. “Fine. Anyway…” He pauses, and an intense flash of pain etches across his face. He grips his chest and groans for several long seconds, slumping back in his chair. His eyes flutter shut.

“Oh, my God!” I cry out, reaching for him and shaking his shoulder. “Mr. Morris, wake up!”

He doesn't respond. His chest appears to not be moving up and down, and the numbers above his head have rapidly increased their race toward zero.

My heart is pounding hard, and I grip my hands together. What do I do? I can't give him mouth-to-mouth because it'll instantly kill him. I can't even lean close or try to hear if he's breathing, in case I accidentally brush up against him and burn his skin. There's nothing I can do to save him myself.

“I'll be right back!” I yell, hoping he can hear me, then dart out of the room. The hallway is empty by now, so I run to the class on the right of ours and fling its door open.

The teacher, a middle-aged woman in a dark blue pantsuit, jerks when the door whips wide open, shocked at the intrusion. She glares at me, her wrinkled brow even more lined from her aggravation. “
What
is going—”

“I think Mr. Morris is having a heart attack,” I spill out, “and I'm not sure if he's breathing or not.”

The teacher runs toward the door and follows me into Mr. Morris's classroom, the rest of the class hot on her heels. She gasps when she sees him, presses her ear against his mouth for a few moments. “He's not breathing.” She rips the tie off his neck and proceeds to give him mouth-to-mouth.

Another teacher enters the room, shoving the students out and shushing them. He grabs his cell out of his pocket and dials, his voice steady as he relays information to the 911 operator. I turn my attention back to Mr. Morris, whose face is eerily pale and still as the teacher tries to force air into his unresponsive lungs.

“You need to leave,” the male teacher tells all of us. “We'll handle this.”

“But I just want to make sure he's okay,” I say. Even if I can't help him, I need to make sure he's going to live.

“We'll handle it. Students, go to your next class, please.” He waves toward the door.

With a heavy heart, I shuffle my way out of the room. The image of Mr. Morris's lifeless face is burned into my mind. I press my gloved hand to my mouth, my stomach suddenly heaving. I have to leave this place, now. On shaky feet, I run toward the front door and head into the hot sunlight, leaving the school behind.