Drowning Instinct (7 page)

I know you‘ll find this hard to believe, Bob, but despite how nice he was, I avoided Mr. Anderson, too. Maybe my lizard brain— the part that tells you when to run and when to blend into the scenery—was sending up flares or something. Or I was keeping my head down, I don‘t know. I just wanted to get through the day with a minimum of drama.

But avoidance isn‘t the same as being oblivious. I wasn‘t. I . . . I watched him. From my spot behind glass in the library, mostly, or if the librarian wasn‘t there when I arrived in the morning, I waited outside, on the curb, out of sight. That way, I could watch as Mr.

Anderson came in from his morning run (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays) or bike ride (Tuesdays and Thursdays). The woods were west of campus, so when Mr. Anderson burst from the woods, the rising sun caught and held and turned him golden, like a Roman god. I liked watching him move, the glide of his body parting the air, the cords of his muscles as they worked. You could see how strong he was. He might have suspected I was there, but he never let on and didn‘t look my way. When I walked to my locker every morning, there was always music swelling from his classroom—jazz, classical, opera, some oldies—and I could smell him, fresh from his shower: wet and dark green and mysterious as the woods.

Yet, in class, he treated me like everyone else, so much so that our very first hour together on that first day took on the quality of a story I‘d told myself. Not a lie, but not exactly real either.

I also wasn‘t the only one to notice him. One day when he announced that he‘d be looking for a new TA, a girl beside me muttered she‘d be happy to
assist
Mr. Anderson any way he wanted. Which made all the girls snicker, even Danielle. Not me, though.

I made it to lunch maybe twice a week, whenever I could screw up the courage to wolf down a sandwich at a corner table where no one else sat. David threw the occasional meaningful look, usually when Danielle was busy gabbing with one of her minions, but my gaze always skipped away. Mr. Anderson would glance my way, maybe nod or smile but never approached in front of the other kids. I like to think he was sensitive enough to know how that would make me look more pathetic than I already felt. Since he had cafeteria duty three times a week, he knew I skipped lunch more times than not. Considering I had gym the period before, my go-to excuse—showering, changing back into school clothes—was legit. For the rest of the lunch period, I also got to know the graffiti in just about every stall in every bathroom.

Maybe two weeks after school started, though, I had a close call. The first bell had already rung, and I was stepping out of the bathroom, figuring to scoot to the library for study hall, when I looked up and saw Ms. Sherman standing there, her arms folded over her chest. She aimed a forefinger. ―You were supposed to stop by my office last week. We had an appointment right after lunch, if you remember. I know you got the slip. Why have you been avoiding me, Jenna?‖

―Uh . . .‖ Had I gotten a slip? I couldn‘t remember. ―I‘m . . .‖

―Ms. Lord?‖ Both Ms. Sherman and I turned as Mr. Anderson came up. ―Ms. Lord, what are you doing? We need to get started. . . . Oh, hey, Rosalie. I‘m sorry, did you need Ms. Lord? Can it wait?‖

―Well.‖ Ms. Sherman looked as surprised as I felt. ―I was just checking in. She missed an appointment.‖ To me: ―So you‘ve been helping Mr. Anderson during your study halls?‖

―Uh,‖ I said. ―Some?‖ Had I made that sound like a question?

―She‘s been great,‖ Mr. Anderson said. ―I keep asking her to be my TA, but she‘s playing hard-to-get.‖ He lifted his eyebrows as he looked at me. ―So? Today?‖

―Oh.‖ I tried again. ―Sure.‖

―Well then, I won‘t keep you, Jenna,‖ said Ms. Sherman. ―It sounds like you‘re adjusting and things are going fine.‖

―Yeah,‖ I said, finally. I know: very articulate. ―Things are great.‖

―Excellent. Don‘t look back,‖ Mr. Anderson said as we took the stairs. The tardy bell rang and the halls emptied except for one or two stragglers. When we got to his room, he said, ―Well, here‘s where I get off. You‘re welcome to work here during your study hall, you know that. Or—‖ His lips twitched into a grin. ―Eat the sandwich you haven‘t gotten out of your locker yet.‖

I didn‘t know if I should thank him. ―Why did you do that?‖

He shrugged. ―You looked like you could use the rescue. She was hassling you.

People like The Tank make me tired. She means well, but I can‘t think of anything worse than being constantly reminded of things you‘d rather forget. What exactly does she think you‘re going to say, anyway?‖

All the things I wouldn’t mind telling you
. That‘s what I thought, Bob. Of course, I kept quiet. We said good-bye and went our separate ways. I don‘t remember if I ate my sandwich that day.

That seemed to . . . start something, though. Some nights, he dropped by the library on the way to his car—to see how I was getting on, he said. He would talk about the cross-country team, which was not doing well, but he didn‘t pressure me to join. Other days, he didn‘t come in but looked toward my window on his way through the lot and raised a hand. The windows were polarized, so I don‘t know if he saw me wave back. But he knew where I was, Bob, he knew.

Then, ten days before Mom‘s book party, on a Tuesday: 6:45 P.M., and still no Mom. It would be dark in another ten minutes. The library would close in fifteen. Through the library windows, lights glowed on a soccer game on the lower field. The football team was scrimmaging on the upper field. Beyond was a dense thatch of blackness where the woods began.

When the library closed, I didn‘t know what I should do. I didn‘t have a cell yet. I couldn‘t go anywhere. Even if I could, I was afraid Mom would come, not find me, and then get pissed. She was really stressed out about the store and the book party. Times were tough at the store, and she‘d let two employees go, leaving just her and Evan, the store manager, to do everything. The last thing she needed was for me to go MIA. So, better for me to wait on the curb when the librarian shooed me out. If I got too spooked, I could always move under the lights in the breezeway.

One of the dubious perks of coming early and having to stay late all the time was I got my homework done, and I could use the library computer to write to Matt, which was safer than home because I wasn‘t allowed to lock my bedroom door either. (Honestly, Bob, it‘s amazing how much an open-door policy is just like living in a jail. There are so many things you just don‘t—can‘t—do.) Now, I found the sentence where Matt asked how things were going and started my reply again.

What‘s going on with me, the boy asks. Hah. After everything you‘ve been through? You are so brave. My life is nowhere near as exciting. School is, you know, school : But it beats the hospital. My favorite class is chemistry. I‘ve got this awesome teacher....

―Hey.‖

I was so startled I actually jumped. The librarian always retreated to her office so she could count down the seconds until I would stop being this major inconvenience and just leave already. No one else used the library this late. I‘d been so absorbed, I hadn‘t heard anyone come in. I craned my head around.

―Oh,‖ I said. ―Hi.‖

―Hi.‖ David‘s dark hair was damp, and pearls of sweat stood on his upper lip. He smelled of locker room soap and leather. A backpack hung from his right shoulder and a gym bag large enough for a cello dangled from his left. ―Want some company?‖

―Uh,‖ I said. ―What are you doing here?‖ Brilliant: like the guy had no right to be in the school library.

―Fencing practice.‖ He hunched his left shoulder with its huge bag. ―I saw you from the hall. Actually, I see you here every afternoon, but you‘re usually gone by now.‖

He‘d seen me every day? The idea that anyone who wasn‘t a teacher or guidance counselor would even think to look— or care—was a little jarring. ―Yeah, I . . . I have to wait for my mom. She‘s late.‖

―That sucks. Have you called her?‖

―I don‘t have a phone.‖

―No way. No
cell
?‖

―Well, I . . . I just never needed one. I mean—‖ I tried to be all jokey about it.

―Who‘s going to call me?‖

―If you don‘t have a phone, how will you ever know?‖ His eyebrows pulled down in a frown. ―Seriously, you should have one for emergencies at least.‖ He made a move for a front pocket of his jeans. ―You want to use mine?‖

―No, thanks. My mom probably got delayed at the store, that‘s all.‖

―Okay.‖ David studied me a moment. ―How come you don‘t have a car?‖

How long you got?
―I might get one.‖ I didn‘t have a license either, but he hadn‘t asked about that. ―Maybe this summer.‖

―Well, that sucks,‖ he repeated. ―Waiting around must be a drag.‖

―I don‘t mind too much.‖ Then, all bright and chirpy: ―I get all my homework done.‖ God, that sounded pathetic.

―I‘d hate having to depend on my folks all the time. It would drive me nuts.‖

Been there, done that
. I didn‘t know what else I could say, though, so I kept quiet.

Why was he even talking to me? Student council elections had come and gone. (Yes, Bob, he won.)

After another moment‘s silence, David thumbed off his gym bag, which settled with a dull metallic clatter to the floor. ―So,‖ he said, dropping into a chair alongside mine,

―what are you working on?‖

―Oh.‖ I made a move to minimize the screen, but he was crowding in at my right elbow, his eyes skimming the words. This close, I could see the fine film of sweat along his temples, too. He smelled . . . really nice. ―It‘s, uh, a letter. To my brother.‖

―Yeah? Where is he?‖

―Away,‖ I said, and then I did close out of the account. ―It‘s private.‖

―Oh, okay. Sure,‖ he said, and easily enough that I didn‘t think he‘d seen the word
hospital
. Or maybe he was just nice enough not to let on. No, on second thought, the word passed him by. David was a decent guy and didn‘t seem to be that good a liar. Believe me, Bob, it takes one to know one.

More. Awkward. Silence. I glanced at the librarian, who was studying us through her office window. God knows what she thought was going to happen. She caught my eye then did the whole checking-her-watch routine. Like I always had guys drop in at the last second just to piss her off.

I turned back to David. ―So how was practice?‖

―Not so great.‖ Wrinkling his nose, David tipped his chair back and then gave this long and very languid stretch so his shirt rode up and I could see bare skin. ―My focus is crap. I‘m making a lot of dumb mistakes.‖

―Oh?‖ His stomach was staring me in the face, so I couldn‘t help but look. David was a couple cans shy of a six-pack, but his belly was still muscular and trim—and crisscrossed with bruises. Some were fresh, angry, purple wheals; others, a mottled yellow-green, were healing. He looked as if he‘d been whipped. ―What happened?‖

―Hunh?‖ Startled, he followed my gaze and then rolled up the edge of his shirt and studied his skin as if seeing it for the first time. ―Oh. Those are saber cuts. You get used to it.‖

―But don‘t they hurt?‖

―Oh yeah, but saber‘s not like foil or épée. You can score with the whole blade, not just the tip, and everything from the waist up is target area. So it‘s really fast, and there‘s a lot of cut and slash.‖ He gave a lopsided grin. ―It‘s why I like it, I guess. But this year the coach thinks I‘m more interested in just beating the hell out of people.‖

―How come?‖ My eyes zeroed in on the tail of very pink scar tissue, as thick as my little finger, snaking down along his left side, just below his ribs. Take it from a pro, Bob: that slice had been deep and bad.

―Pissed off, I guess.‖ His laugh was humorless, more like a bark. ―You know . . .

just stuff.‖

Just
stuff
. Well, that was an invitation for a follow-up if ever there was one. Because the truth, Bob, is that I‘d kind of forgotten how to talk to normal people. You know: the give and take, the little lies you let stand, the black holes you avoid because all friends know what shouldn‘t be said? The sucky thing about a psych ward is that you have to watch what you say. Therapists love hidden meanings, especially when their patients morph into these mini-me‘s. It‘s like the more people who agree with you, the truer whatever you think becomes. Complete psychopaths really get into it because they‘re total suck-ups, the best liars around, and when the therapist‘s watching, they‘ll hammer until you either get angry or break down and agree that, yes, yes, what you said isn‘t what you meant. Silence is not an option, either. Silence is
resistance
and, as we all know, resistance is futile.

David wanted to talk. That was clear. Why else would he bother with someone like me? So the normal response would be:
like what kind of stuff?

Instead, I pointed. ―What‘s that from?‖

An arrow of surprise shot across his face. ―Where? Oh.‖ He pulled up his shirt even further, and now I could see how the cut had unzipped his skin all the way to his armpit.

―It‘s from last year. The other guy‘s blade broke in the middle of a bout and got in under my jacket. It happens way more than you think.‖

―Really? Why?‖

―Because a saber blade is really whippy and light, so you can go fast. Blades break all the time. The doctors said I was lucky this one went up instead of in, though. There was blood everywhere. Totally freaked out the coaches and the ref. Me, too.‖

―Wow,‖ I said, and then my hand was floating into the space between us before I could call it back. Or, maybe, I really didn‘t want to, Bob. I don‘t know. But it was like watching myself in a dream, the way my fingers homed in.

His skin jumped at the contact. No way to hide that flinch. I heard the tiniest suck of air as he pulled in a gasp, but he didn‘t say anything. Didn‘t tell me to stop. Looking back on it, Bob, I don‘t think he wanted me to. Or maybe he was just too stunned.

The scar was very smooth. Warm. The feel changed, too, as my hand followed the trail of tissue over the hard shelves of his ribs. David still didn‘t move or speak; I think he was as astonished—as hypnotized—as I. The scar finally petered off over his left pec. His heart was knocking so hard I felt the flutter against my fingertips.

My head went a little airy. I could see the sudden throb of his pulse in his neck. His lips parted, and something spirited over his face, very fast. He blinked and said, roughly, ―It doesn‘t hurt anymore.‖

That broke the spell. ―Oh,‖ I said, and exhaled a shaky little laugh. I took my hand back. ―Sorry.‖

―That‘s okay,‖ he said, tugging his shirt back down around his waist. Scarlet dashed over his cheeks. ―I . . . uh . . . I still carry that broken saber around. Want to see it?‖

―Sure,‖ I said, but he was already turning away and reaching down to unzip the large blue gym bag. I heard that metallic chatter again as he rummaged. I spotted at least five different swords. ―How come you have so many?‖

―Because some weapons are for bouts and others for practice,‖ he said and then tugged out the broken saber. ―Here.‖

The bell guard was broad and bright silver and curved, like you see in a movie, but the blade itself was a little disappointing: just under a foot long and dull gray. No real heft, either, or weight. Maybe he read my disappointment because he said, ―It‘s really light, but the tip, where it‘s broken? Here.‖ He proffered the ruined weapon. ―You don‘t want to be on the business end of
that
.‖

He was right. The saber‘s jagged metal was very sharp. I thought about how easy it would be to draw blood. Mind you, I wasn‘t tempted. Just . . . interested. Handing it back was easier than I thought it would be. ―Why do you keep it?‖

He hunched a shoulder. ―I don‘t know.‖ He turned the broken weapon over in his hands. ―I think, maybe . . . to remind myself, you know, I could‘ve died. Guys do, every once in a while.‖

―So why keep fencing?‖

―Because the danger‘s half the fun.‖ His eyes flicked up from the broken blade to touch on mine. ―You could come watch practice sometime, if you want. Maybe you‘d like it enough to want to try it out yourself.‖

I thought of Mr. Anderson then, how he‘d pressed about the cross-country team.

―You recruiting me?‖ God, had that come out sounding like a line? Had I meant it that way? Was I flirting? Maybe.

―Well.‖ That scarlet splash on his cheeks deepened. ―You‘ll never know if you‘re any good unless you try. It might be fun. Do you do sports?‖

―I used to run.‖ I paused. ―Cross-country. Like Danielle.‖

―Oh.‖ He gave me a careful look. ―So how come you‘re not on the team?‖

Oh, because your girlfriend might cleat me just for the hell of it?
That was part of it, Bob, really. But there was also something about showing myself in front of Mr. Anderson that . . . that made my throat kind of fluttery. If you know what I mean. It wasn‘t about my scars or grafts; my tank and shorts gave just enough cover. So he‘d never see
them
.

But I thought that I might want him to watch
me
; to stand there, stopwatch in hand, and be completely focused on
only
me. Which was completely weird, considering how much I avoided him.

―Just not into it this year,‖ I said.

―Oh,‖ David said again. There was a moment‘s silence which he filled by glancing at his watch. ―Look, uh, the library‘s going to close. You want to get a coffee or something? We could call your mom. I could take you to her store, if you want.‖

It was so unexpected—so nice—I almost glanced over my shoulder to make sure there wasn‘t some other person standing there. I wanted to say
yes
, but then I remembered Danielle‘s face from that first day and what she‘d said:
The more broken they are ...

And that made me wonder, again, just why the hell David was bothering. Hadn‘t he just said he was having a crappy year fencing? That he was mad?
Stuff
going on, was how he‘d put it, and
stuff
had to equal Danielle. So this wasn‘t, like, a date or anything. Even someone like David must need someone to talk to. So, maybe we could be friends. That wasn‘t a bad thing.

But something evil clicked in my brain then, all the little gears meshing and mashing and grinding out hidden agendas. Blame the psych ward for this one, Bob, and all those times therapists tell you that what you say is not what you mean.

―That‘s really nice of you,‖ I said, ―but I should probably stay put. My mom might be on her way now, and if I‘m not around, she‘ll freak out.‖ This all had the benefit of being true. If David had stopped right there, things would‘ve been fine.

But he didn‘t. ―You shouldn‘t be alone,‖ David pressed. ―You want me to wait with you?‖

Yes. No. Why don’t you do the thinking for both of us?
But I wasn‘t Ilsa Lund; he was way better-looking than Humphrey Bogart; and this wasn‘t Casablanca: it was Wisconsin. ―That‘s okay.‖

He was quiet a second. ―Is it because of Danielle?‖

Bingo
. ―Kind of. Did you guys, like, have a fight or something?‖

―What does that matter?‖ A silly, half grin played over his lips, but his eyes were suddenly wary. ―It‘s just coffee. It‘s not like a date or anything.‖

Oh yes, it was. ―What if someone sees us together? Won‘t she be pissed off?‖
Isn’t
that what you want?

―Is that what you think? This is, like, getting back at her?‖