In Stone (5 page)

I want to, I really do. But weights are pulling down on my eyelids. At least with my eyes closed I can shut out the horror that surrounds me. I think of bed, my soft, warm sheets wrapped around me.

“Final warning. Let. Her. Go.” The stranger’s words are angry and spat with a bitter contempt. Gray glares at me, his eyes narrow. If it’s even possible his fingers tighten a little more. Then without warning, a powerful gust of wind rushes past me, and I land in a heap on the floor.

For a second, I’m frozen, unable to move off the bunch of nettles that are biting my hands and an exposed slice of skin at my back. Eventually, it registers that my lungs are still dry, and I start choking back a flood of air. I wish I could cup my hands, scoop up a load and splash it at my face, like you do with water. Breathing it in is not enough. My blood starts rushing, blistering hot around my body.

“Move,” I order myself. “Get out of here.” A rush of adrenaline surges through me, and before I’ve even finished pushing myself up onto my feet, I’m sprinting. I have no desire to see what’s going on with Gray and the other guy. I’m not even sure they’re still in the Switch. With trembling legs and a shaky sense of equilibrium I run until I reach my front door.

MY KEY WON’T SLIDE
into the lock. My hand is shaking, and for the life of me I can’t steady it to line them up. Finally, after a lot of pleading, they fit together. The door clicks open, and I launch myself through it.

Without stopping to catch my breath, I bound up the stairs. Two steps, three steps at a time, all the while tripping and falling over non-existent obstacles. I make it to the safety of my room, bolt the door and stand staring at it, just waiting for someone or something to plough into it from the other side. An earthquake is running through my body. I listen intently for the sound of footsteps making their way up the stairs, but I can’t hear anything except for the sound of myself breathing.

That’s odd. I can still see myself breathing too. Small bursts of cloud shooting out from my lips.

Frosty air is lapping at the back of my neck. The inside of my room is like the arctic. I know my window is wide open, even before a breeze charges in and whips my hair into a flying frenzy. My throat goes crispy, desert dry, like if I swallow it will split open. My window wasn’t open when mom and I left the house this morning. I hold my breath because breathing is too loud in this sort of silence. Out of the corner of my eye I see something move. I close my eyes and silently pray to God that whoever is behind me drops dead. Then, I have a seizure, or an out-of-body-experience, or maybe I slip into a parallel universe, because courage floods me. And before I can really compute what’s going on, I spin, teeth bared, body poised and ready to fight.

But there’s no one here.

That “someone” that caught my eye was my curtains. They’re thrashing about in the breeze like a giant pair of purple dragon wings. Someone was here though, and they’ve totally turned the place over.

I take a slow walk to survey the damage. Empathy for the people of Plumbridge and their destroyed park stalks me. My room is upturned. Perhaps there’s nothing of any real value in here, but I’m a collector, a hoarder of comic book and film crap. Everything in here meant something to me, and now it’s all broken. I step over piles of books that have been pulled off the shelves, over DVDs and freshly stacked CDs, over mounds of clothes and underwear that are spewing out from my drawers.

I crouch down and pick up the closest thing to my feet. It’s my limited edition Yoda doll. It’s head drops off and rolls across the floor. I could cry -- angry-cry. Stamp my feet and scream until I’m sick. The space I’ve been making my own for seventeen years has been totally desecrated.

I stand up, too light and springy for how much hostility I’m harboring, but something inside me is alive with red-hot rage. This is my room, my stuff, my life. My fingers curl into fists. Someone can’t just come in here and turn it over. I swallow down an acidic lump, and then I’m in that place again, where courage abounds, and I am less like Beau Bailey and more like a warrior. I scream at the mess, at the asshole that made it. My vision blurs. A black veil covers everything and without my say so my fist leaves my side and collides with my bedroom wall.

A hot pain shoots up my wrist as my hand sinks into the plaster. That wasn’t supposed to happen. My fist was supposed to bounce back off the wall, and at worst I’d have a bruise to nurse. But apparently, our walls are made of paper, not plaster. My wrist throbs. Two small flaps of skin flop about on the side of my hand.

“Of all the stupid, idiotic...” I snarl at myself and wrap my hand in a stray shirt before I drip blood on everything at my feet. A sudden clatter from my Mom’s room makes everything stop, including the pain. Mechanically, I’m marching out of the door and heading across the landing toward the noise. This isn’t like me, this angry Beau; punching walls, striding warrior, thunder on my face. But there’s an itch under my skin, a craving for confrontation on my tongue. My mind is telling my feet to turn around, to go hide under the bed until this all blows over, but my body isn’t listening. I kick open the door. I don’t know why I gasp when I see that, just like mine, it’s completely trashed. Still no intruder. The source of the clatter is Fish, our bedraggled tortoiseshell cat. She’s on Mom’s dresser, amidst fallen ornaments, licking her nether regions with blissful ignorance.

Holding Fish as close to my chest as she can psychically be without breaking the barrier of my ribs, I make my way downstairs. I take each step like I’m walking a tightrope. With bated breath, I open the sitting room door and silently plead for it to be neat and tidy. It’s not. Downstairs, my house is open plan; the living room bleeds into the kitchen, and I can see both from where I stand. It looks like a bomb went off in a thrift store. I stand amidst the mess, just staring.

“This is unfortunate.” A voice  I recognize from the Switch speaks up.

My stomach bottoms out, and I jump so violently I almost throw the cat. Crouched by the door, casually fingering through some upturned knick-knacks, is the boy who saved me from Gray’s grip. Fish, clearly annoyed by all the sudden maneuverings, snarls and spits at me. Her claws come out, sink straight through my shirt and into my stomach as she abseils up my chest and leaps over my shoulder -- leaving me to face the intruder alone. Cowardly-ass cat.

I need a weapon. I grab the nearest thing to me; a marble rolling pin that had once belonged to some long-time-dead relative. It’s not ideal; a knife would be more effective. But the knife block is missing from where it usually stands, and I don’t have time to locate it.

If he comes close enough the rolling pin will make a great baton. If not, I’ll just throw it at his junk. In ninth grade, Faye Crawley kicked Aidan Mansfield in the balls -- put him in hospital for well over a week.

“Don’t move, or I swear I’ll use this against you,” I threaten, holding the rolling pin out in front of me like a sword. My chin dips, and through narrowed eyes I give him my best I-mean-business glare. The stranger cocks his head to one side and stares inquisitively at my marble Excalibur.

“How exactly do you intend on using it against me?” A twisted grin plays on his lips. “Well?” He takes a step forward.

“Stop, or I swear I’ll...”

“You’ll what? Rustle me up something with a short crust?” He laughs, and I am forced to quash a rogue sigh. I mean, he has a nice laugh, light and breezy, and amid the chaos of the room, it feels like a blast of fresh air. But I am not amused.

I’m not.

Lifesaver or not, he has no right to be in here. His lips pull into a slim, straight line. “You’re right, that wasn’t funny. How about you put your…” his brow furrows as he focuses on the antique rolling pin in my hand, “weapon down and we’ll have a little chat?”

He’s still walking toward me, exuding an arrogance that makes my teeth itch. A woolen hat slouches off the back of his head, and his jeans sag off his hips. One hand is casually perched in his pocket. I want to slap the boy-band pep off his face.

“Let me introduce myself, my name is...”

Ping. Something inside me snaps, and without much thought, I launch the rolling pin at his groin. It somersaults through the air, turning circles at quite an impressive speed. It’s heading straight for its intended target -- and is about to hit, I’m sure of it -- when it’s halted in its tracks by the lightning quick reflexes of…I didn’t catch his name. He grins.

“I want you to know that, although psychically I’m unscathed by your attack , mentally I will forever remain scarred,” he mocks. I look at the rolling pin with shock. It was moving so quickly it was almost stealth. How could he have caught it? He takes the remaining few steps toward me and sets the rolling pin back down on the side.

“You should be more careful with that. You could put someone’s eye out. It’s Jack by the way, my name.” He offers me a hand. I snarl at it. I want to slam a stapler down on top of it. I don’t want to know him. I don’t want to partake in a gesture that would signal our acquaintance.

“Look, I understand why you’re angry, confused, obviously upset.” He retracts his unshaken palm and tucks it neatly back into his pocket. His cocky grin softens to a sympathetic smile, which feels more patronizing than anything else.

“I’m not upset or confused, just angry.” I’ve never had a fight in my life. To me, boxing is a sport for fearless, burley dudes who don’t worry about things like a full set of front teeth. So why -- why, oh why -- do I hold up my fists? My fingers are curled up tightly. My nails are cutting into my palms. The snag I received from thumping my bedroom wall nips as the thin layer of dried blood cracks. I have no idea what I’m doing. This guy is much bigger and broader than me. There are lumps and bumps under his sweater that tell me he’s no stranger to the gym, but still I say, “If you touch me, I won’t hesitate.”

To my surprise, and without a hint of humor he replies, “Good. I wouldn’t expect anything less when a strange person stands in your living room surrounded by your upturned belongings.” He nods approval. “However, in this case, it’s really not necessary.” He pushes my hands down. I think, what the fuck. I think it so many times the words all meld into one and become some crazy alien dialect. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but a commendation for my assault and tips on how to self-defend definitely weren’t it.

“What -- wait -- what?” My fingers push against my temple, trying to quiet the buzz that’s rattling around at the back of my eyeballs. A whole host of different reactions circulate: anger, irritation, uncertainty, a slight sprinkling of amusement.

“I’m attempting to establish some rapport. Is it not working?” he asks.

“What?” My face crumples. I’m beyond ready for him to leave, for this to be someone else’s problem. “Screw this. I’m calling the cops,” I announce boldly as I head toward the side table. Damn it. The phone is no longer on the stand. I crouch and begin searching through a nearby pile of debris. Jack joins me, not in the search. He just moves further into the room and stands over me, watching. I refuse to look up and acknowledge him, until I realize that I’ve made myself vulnerable. As quickly as I started searching, I stop. The bruise from Gray’s thumb throbs under my chin.

“Look, if you’re here to kill me...”

“Kill you?” He scoffs as if my suggestion is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Well you know, it wouldn’t be the first time today that someone’s tried to turn me into worm food.”

“And yet you’re surprisingly calm. That’s good. It will help.”

“Stop!” I say, holding out my palm and trying to shake his words from my head.

“Stop? Stop what?”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That encouraging thing that you keep doing. It’s confusing, and it’s making me uncomfortable.” I pull my hands back through my hair. My palms brush against my ears, and for a few seconds I’m lost in the muffled sounds of the sea. I look up at the boy, Jack. His eyes are squeezed almost shut. He’s looking at me like I just sprouted extra arms and legs.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Well gee, Holmes, I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Maybe I should explain.”

“How about I let you explain it to the police?” I reply.

He crouches at my side and starts collecting the broken pieces of a blue and white vase. It’s a hideous vase, trying to be some fanciful, 1950s piece of Asian art. In truth, it’s a two-dollar pot from a junk store. I’m not sorry it’s broken, but I’m resentful of the fact that he’s trying to help.

“I want you out of my house,” I say, scrambling for blue and white pieces before he can get to them.

“You remember that I just saved your life, right?” he says, playing the game and trying to snatch the pieces quicker. “Look, I’m sorry that Gray did this…”

“Gray?”

He nods. “He was here, searching for the knife.”

“No. Gray was in class all day. I know this because I was in the same classes.” As I finish, a cruel memory of Gray’s absence at lunchtime comes back to bite me in the butt. It was Leah that pointed it out. She was scanning the cafeteria for a spare seat. Then with a casual sigh, she’d said, “huh! I wonder where the new guy’s eating lunch.” The memory creases up my face and makes me groan. I wish I hadn’t. Jack raises an eyebrow and makes his lips smack. It’s an I-told-you-so type of sound that makes my blood boil.