Heart on a Chain (5 page)

“
Idiot
!” I curse myself. Luckily, I’m near a small stream that runs along the side of the road. I take a step and nearly fall again, my throbbing knees buckling, adrenaline no longer carrying me. I look down and see that my left pant leg is shredded midway. “
Great!”
I mutter. I roll my right pant leg up above the knee. No scrape but a bright red mark that means a bruise tomorrow. I lift my left pant leg and see this knee is in much the same condition, only with an angry slice just below my kneecap which oozes a small amount of blood.

I limp along the road until I find part of the bank that looks safe enough to climb down to the water’s edge. I half-slide sideways down the bank to the edge of the stream, knees screaming in protest. I sit on a flat rock and lean over to rinse my hands. I wash them as best I can, trying to dig the little rocks out, scrubbing the blood off. I splash water on my face, drowning the tears in the cool water.

A car drives by slowly above me, which wouldn’t have caught more than my passing attention except that I hear the brakes, then the car backing up to stop directly above me. I look at the stream and the bank on the other side, gauging how hard it might be to make a run for it.

“
There you are!” I freeze, stunned that
he
has found me here. “I have been looking for you
everywhere.
”

I force my legs into action, ignoring the pain from my knees as I stand. I crawl back up the bank toward the road, pretending it isn’t hurting me at all. I have to use my hands to help me up the steep slope, grinding dirt back into my newly clean hands. As I come to the top he reaches for me, but I dart to the side, hurrying away, trying not to limp, failing miserably.

“
Please, Kate, will you just stop for a minute? Wait—are you hurt?” he almost sounds genuine. I growl silently. “Kate, please, stop, I want to talk to you, to ask you—”

I round on him.

“
What!” I demand angrily. “What do you want from me?” I limp-stride back over to where he stands, mouth agape at my outburst. “You’ve been gone for so many years…why now? Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why do you have to be just like them, but worse because you were
better
!” I’m yelling now. I shove him on the solid wall of his chest with both palms, leaving muddy, bloody smears.

“
Go away!” I command, as tears begin to fall.

He’s staring at me, that odd expression in his eyes again. It makes me furious and with a yell I slam my hands flat against his chest again. He catches them and holds them there when I would have pulled back, and then suddenly his arms are around me, pulling me tight against him as I sob. Unthinkingly, I bunch his shirt front in my fists which are trapped between us as he holds me. His hands sooth down my back, chin resting lightly on the top of my head.

The feel of arms around me, in comfort rather than as restraint or in harmful intent, undoes me. I cry for all the years of mocking and teasing received at the hands of my peers, for having been born to hateful, careless parents. I cry for the fact that this one good, kind boy has joined the game. And
that
makes me think it’s hopeless to find any good in anyone, which only makes me cry harder.

Gradually I become aware of where I am and whose chest I’m buried in. Mortification floods me. Still, I stay where I am for just one second longer, for one second reveling in the feeling of being held, touched with tenderness, even if it isn’t real.

I push away, and he loosens his hold but keeps his hands on my shoulders. He ducks his head to look into my face and shame rises in my cheeks. I keep my eyes downcast, not wanting to see his expression which is likely disgust.

“
Hold on a sec,” Henry says, letting go of me, hurrying towards his car. I immediately miss the pressure and warmth of his hands, sure he’s leaving now. Suddenly, he’s thrusting a napkin at me. I take it cautiously, still unsure of his motives. I use it to wipe my face and nose with mumbled thanks.

I look, horrified, at the mess I’ve made of his shirt with my hands. I nod toward it. “Sorry about that,” I concede, sure that this story will make the rounds tomorrow.

He smiles, and my heart skids to a halt before lurching into a staccato drumming. The smile actually looks genuine.

“
It doesn’t matter,” he says, kindness in his voice, throwing me further off kilter. Then he looks down and sees the blood smears. He looks back at me, horrified. “You’re hurt,” he accuses.

I ball my hands into fists and shrug, taking a step backward in case he’s angry now that he’s seen his ruined shirt.

“
I’m okay.”

And I am, compared to some of the other injuries I’ve had in my lifetime. He steps forward, pulling my hands towards him, gently uncurling my fists, ignoring my flinch at his touch.

“
Come on,” he tells me, leading me gently back down the embankment. It’s an easier descent with him steadying me, though definitely more terrifying. I still don’t know what he wants from me.

He sits me back down on the rock I’d been sitting on before, then tears a strip of his shirt off. At my shocked gasp he grins and shrugs, causing my heart to speed up again. He dips the cloth strip into the water, and begins wiping my hands clean. Though he’s surprisingly gentle, it stings and I suck my breath in through my teeth.

“
Sorry,” he says, leaning over to blow gently on my palms. It relieves the stinging there, but causes a burning to begin in the pit of my stomach—it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. He continues the wiping and blowing with both my hands, until I feel like I’m on fire. I think I even groan because he suddenly looks up at me, eyes unreadable. I duck my head in shame. He then cleans my knee, which is still exposed by my rolled-up pants.

He tears two fresh strips from the back of his shirt, which is still clean, and uses those to bandage my hands, tying knots like a professional. When I raise my eyebrow at the knots, he grins again and says, “Eagle Scout. First Aid merit badge is required, you know.”

I look at my hands, clean and bandaged, then back up at Henry.

“
Why are you being nice to me?” I ask, bewildered by his attention.

His puzzlement matches my own as he says, “I don’t really know.”

My heart sinks at his answer. He must see that on my face, because he holds his hands up, palms facing me.

“
That didn’t sound right.” He stands, pacing away, running his hand through his hair, causing his hair to spike up again. “When we were in Elementary, we were friends right?” He turns back, looking at me, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I can’t really explain it, but I always felt, I don’t know,
protective
of you.”

He glances at me to see what I think of that. When I only sit, watching him warily, he continues, “When we moved, I missed you.” This is said matter-of-factly, as if he’s telling me the sky is blue, but his words rock me. Someone
missed
me? Not just anyone, but
him
? “I thought about you sometimes. Wondered what you were doing, if you were still here. Then I found out we were moving back. I was hoping you’d still be here, that I’d get to see you.”

I couldn’t be more stunned if he’d said he just swam across the ocean. The only thought anyone had ever given me had been when they saw me and thought of a way to hurt or humiliate me—peers and parents alike. To have someone think about me outside of that, to
miss
me, is beyond imaginable. I study him, trying to decide if he’s just teasing me, setting me up for some elaborate prank, but honestly, he seems sincere.

“
Then I saw you that first day and you ran away, and I’ve been trying to talk to you since. You don’t seem very open to conversation,” he says somewhat wryly. He looks at me, waiting for me to say something. I sigh.

“
Things change,” I say. He cocks his head, trying to understand what I mean. “Life here isn’t the same. I’m not the same.”

He nods, accepting this. He comes and squats in front of me.

“
Yeah, you’re a lot taller,” he says gravely. I look up at him, and see his downturned mouth, then he glances up at me through his lashes and I see the gleam there. I can’t help it—I laugh. This brings a smile to his face and I quickly cover my mouth to stop the sound. His smile falls, and he reaches up to pull my hand down.

“
You shouldn’t do that. I had forgotten what a great smile you have.”

I spin away from him, tears threatening again. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” I mumble, rolling my pants back down—a gesture not without pain.

“
Yeah? Why not?” He sounds genuinely curious.

“
You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way things are at school. I’m everyone’s favorite loser. There isn’t anyone more fun to pick on than me.”

He’s silent so long, I finally turn back toward him, and see anger on his face again, jaw clenching. I’m taken aback, worried that he’s angry with me. I glance at the bank on the other side of the stream again, wondering if I can make a run for it with my knees so sore. I know I can, of course I can. I’ve had to run other times with worse pain than this.

“
Yeah, I’ve noticed. It really makes me mad.”

I choke out a strangled laugh at that.
He’s
mad about that? I shake my head.

“
I want to be your friend,” he says, and my stomach tightens.

“
You can’t be my friend. No one can be my friend. It’s social suicide.”

He reaches out and brushes his finger lightly over the bandage knotted on my hand, leaving an improbable trail of fire.

“
I can honestly say that even if that is true, I don’t care.”

I let out a frustrated groan. “Of course you care. Everyone cares. Do you want to be treated like me? Trust me when I tell you that you don’t.”

“
Trust
me
when I tell you I don’t care. I think you give both yourself and some of these people too little credit. Besides, if they’re that immature, who cares?”

“
Spoken like someone who’s never lived in my shoes.” I look off to the east, staring at the rugged mountains.

He’s silent for a minute, head down. “You’re right. I haven’t been there. I’m not asking for a sacrifice by either one of us. I’m just asking for a chance to be your friend.” He gazes back at me, compelling me to meet his eyes.

“
Why?” I ask, barely above a whisper. “You don’t even know me anymore.”

He smiles, and I feel my resolve weaken. “Yeah, but I’d like to.”

I shake my head and grimace. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“
I’m not asking for anything. I won’t expect any more than you want to give. Mostly just for you to not ignore me during photography.”

The corners of my mouth lift a little at that. “I was kind of wondering how I was going to do that when we had to partner for labs.”

He grins.

I look at him dubiously. “I don’t know about the friend thing, though…”

“
Yeah, you might be right. You might not like me too much when you get to know me,” he teases.

Fat chance.

“
Or you me,” I return, dead serious.

“
I doubt that,” he’s smiling, but his voice is solemn. “But we won’t know if we don’t give it a chance, right?”

A thousand reasons why we shouldn’t bubble up, but he squeezes my upper arm in supplication, much as you might with someone who really is a friend. The arguments die on my lips.

“
It’s your funeral,” I mutter insolently.

He laughs, and then holds out his hand to me. “Friends?”

I stare at his offered hand, before finally placing my hand in his. He gently squeezes, careful of the injury, then stands, drawing me up with him.