Broken (25 page)

I can almost see the smile on his face. It would trickle up past his cheek bones and tug at the thin surgical scar
s
. The message appears silently,
since
I never closed out of the conversation.

Your persistence is showing
. ;)
Trust me.
Y
ou’ll agree it isn’t a phone thing.

There’s no question if I trust him. Despite the niggling sense there is something wrong with Alex, I
can’t dig him out of my soul. His pain, his hollowed hurt, his tenderness have etched Alex on my heart. How can I doubt part of myself?

How can I not, when the calendar says I’ve only known him for two weeks?

Fine,
I type back,
see you after school.

I shut the phone, then turn it off. The poor thing is never going to get a full charge if I’m typing with it all night. Carpeting whispers under my feet as I
ford the moonlight and shadows
to my desk
and
put the phone back on the charger. I pull my curtains mostly to, leaving them open enough to see the nearly full moon hanging low and white outside my window.
Maybe Alex is looking up, too.

The pillow is still warm from Renfield when I settle into bed. Sleep comes quick, stealing into my head on soft wings and painting everything black.

#

The dream drags me back to the cemetery.

Broken gravestones, graves
,
and
something I never wanted to see again. T
he fraternity house where Daniel died
stands
where the mausoleum should.
White cats
sit everywhere when I walk in: on a bookcase, on the chair, two on the sofa, even one on the keg. The moment they see me, they scurry away.

I don’t want to be here. Never wanted to be here again. Then a Renfield peeks from under the chair next to me. He dashes for the sofa in the middle of the room, and pointedly stares at me.

Follow,
his eyes tell me before he disappears again.

The bookcase Renfield appears, streaks toward the stairs, and m
y heart hammers
to hurry.
Another white face snaps into being halfway up the steps.

Up
, I think,
I have to go up
.

I fo
llow
the
guides
of white fur and touch the stairs
.
B
reath dries in my throat. I climb and sob, the need to be upstairs
heaving in me like a living thing
.

Renfields
dot
the top
floor, too,
ghostly flashes of
white
leading down the hall to that hated room
.
Moonlight pours in the
rec room
.
Two familiar figures stand
bathed in white light
at the e
dge of the balcony
.
The
y
fight as I
run
through the hall
, one cat or another winking in and out in front of my feet.
One falls, and I
ram into the railing,
know
ing
I’ve missed my chance to save Daniel again.

Josh stands on the deck, beer in on
e
hand, looking at his empty other hand.

Daniel and Alex lay on the ground
beneath us
, identical wounds and the same dying light in their eyes.

“I couldn’t catch’em,”
Josh
slurs. Then, he combusts into the whirling devil
I saw on the c
atwalk the last time I saw rotted-corpse
Daniel
. He
plants his hands in my chest and shoves…

#

I wake
when my
head
makes
contact with the floor.
Dawn shines at a crazy angle through my room.
Sheets tangle around my body and Renfield’s perched on the footboard of my bed with his back arched and hair standing straight from his head to his tail.
Mom’s voice joins the cat’s hissing. “Emma Jane! You’re going to be late for school!”

“Oh, God,” I groan.

Swearing worse than anything coming out of the boys’ locker room, I fight my way from the sheets and then lunge for my closet. On instinct
,
I grab clothes, struggle into them with my brace, snag my phone from the charger and rush down the stairs.

Mom’s there, in her normal place, acting as
if life is back to normal
.
A
homemade version of
a
pancake-on-a-stick
occupies
one hand
, my backpack in the other, and
a to-go cup of coffee
sits on the counter
. She helps me into my backpack, slips my cell phone in
, then
tells me while she loads me with coffee and food that she ordered me a new battery for my phone and
they
will be home tonight
and Alex is welcome
for dinner, and on and on.
She shouts, “run a comb through your hair,” as I dash out the door.

Thinking and walking and breakfast do not successfully add up for me. I sacrifice thought for food.
My stomach opens into a snarling pit o
nce the smell of the cinnamon-spiced batter hit
s
my nose
.
The roads pass unnoticed, vehicles
and
houses, too. The last swallow of coffee swills through the lid as I reach the school.

Bree
, in denim and faux fur, sits
on the
Bree Bench
, waving her big-tooth comb at me like a teacher might have brandish
ed
a ruler at a naughty student.

“Good Lord,” she says, “did you fall out of bed and run to school?”

“Pretty much,” I say. Why lie?

“Well, walk slow and careful and I’ll comb that mess for you. I’m sure Lover Boy’s going to be here after school and I don’t want you scaring him away.”
I’m sure she’s
searching through her mental
Rolodex
for a play that might fit that moment while she rakes at my head
.
I walk as carefully as possible to
ward
the side door.

“So…” she says. Rake. Rake. “Tell me all about him.”

I don’t even bother play
ing
the “him who?” game. “He’s sweet, and funny, and
caring
. Listened to me cry about Daniel, even.”

“You went there?” Rake and snag. Comb, comb
.
“You actually brought up your old boyfriend?”

“
Yeah. It just kinda came up while we were in the cemetery.”

“Wait.”
She stops and t
he raking stops, too. “Lover Boy is as freaky as you?”

“
At least as far as cemeteries goes
…”

Her brown eyes widen. She blows out a low whistle. “You two are perfect for each other.”

I don’t argue.

“It feels like forever since we talked,” she
chides
, working a loose braid into my hair.

“We talk every day.”

“More than at school.” She twists a rubber band at the end of my braid. “Just make sure Lover Boy knows he’s supposed to share.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him. Not that we’re dating or anything…”

She shakes her head, giving me a visual check.
“You deny too much.”

“Well, it’s true…”

We part ways at the corner of the main and Creative Arts halls. School becomes the hurdle I have to leap to make it to the afternoon. I text
Alex at lunch while the actor
members of the Drama Club discuss their upcoming performance and the Winter Formal. Alex responds to my pestering with promising I’ll know soon enough. The afternoon is both a pain and a blur. I can’t focus on anything,
and I don’t want to. I stare
at clocks, willing the hands to move faster.

The bone white note stuffed into my locker vents like a blade between ribs stops me in my tracks. Did he decide not to come
after all
?
Rather than let my mind flounder in the quagmire of what-ifs,
I snatch the note down, and open it.

Em,

Waiting at your house.

Yours,

Alex

Mine?
He signed it. Is it his way of saying it without actually speaking?

Mine.
I like the sound of that.

One word
erases
all the
possible ways
I could’ve pouted from Alex’s note. Instead, I almost skip out the doors. The empty Bree Bench doesn’t bother me, or waiting for the traffic to clear. A shiny black SUV, a couple rattletrap boxes on wheels, but no Josh Mason. Even November chill can’t taint the sweet anticipation climbing higher in me.

The sight of Alex slouching like a male model against my porch pillar slaughters every sad thought and bad dream of the past couple days.
His scruffy casual clothes
are
way too high-end to be anything but designer. Black jeans and knit hoodie, brown leather jacket and sneakers.
The o
nly time he might have looked ho
tter is the night of the Halloween dance, all in black, with a bruise under one eye and a trickle of blood on his lip.

“Hey,” he say
s
, voice all husky and making it sound personal.

“Hi.” Fluttery and light, probably matches the beat of my heart.

“You going to invite me in?” he asks, eyes bright
despite
the dark puddles beneath them.

“I don’t know.” I waggle a braced hand at him. “You gonna
say
what you came to
say
?”

“Nope.
” He pretends to sh
iver
. “
Not outside in the cold.
Invite me in…
”

“Fine,” I huff and throw up my hands in mock defeat.

I tromp across the porch to the front door,
and
grab the
door
kno
b
. There, with the
knob turning under my hand,
I spin and face Alex.
Unsuspecting, he bumps into m
e
, denim on denim in close to inappropriate places. Color flushes his face, heat floods mine, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, Alex loops an arm around my back and adjusts my angle to better fit against him.
His eyes say a thousand things when he leans close.

“Tell me,” I
whisper
.

“No
.
”
His
lips
are
close enough to brush mine
.
And I want them to.

T
hen
, Alex
turns the knob and our weight against the door do
es
the rest.
I stumble backwards and away from him
.
Recovering my footing is less than graceful, colored with a choice swear word, too. Flinging back my braid, I
sling a pouty glance at him. He stands rooted to the lintel so whe
n my mom’s head pops fr
om the kitchen we’re both pink
-
cheeked
,
but not in a position he’d be kicked out for.

“
Getting c
old out there,” she
grumps.
“Shut the door.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Gentry.”

“Have homework?”
Mom
asks. Before I can answer, Alex says, “We’ll get right to it.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

Where’s the rabbit hole, I wonder, because I’m sure I’ve fallen down it now.

“Thanks, Alex?” I mouth while h
e deftly strips me of my backpack, and pulls out a chair for me. Pushing out an exasperated
sigh
, I
sit on the seat, not the least bit surprised when he pushes it in for me.
He follows suit. The wail of a power tool cutting through wood fills the room. Using the cover of sound, I beg Alex, “Tell me.”