The Bodies We Wear (3 page)

Beyond fear.

I can hear my friend Christian pleading from somewhere behind me. He’s begging them to let me go. To take him instead. His words are silenced by a loud smack. I can’t turn around to look. The man is still holding me. He’s breathing heavily and I can smell alcohol and sour air when he exhales.

“You want a piece of candy, little girl?” He holds the bottle out in front of me, giving it a small shake. Silver liquid spills against the thin vial. For a moment, I forget all about the dirty man or that Christian’s making wet gasping noises behind me. All I can see is the bottle and its contents. I think it’s very pretty. I wonder how the man manages to get that liquid to turn that color.

I smile, only because I don’t know any better.

If I could turn off my brain, I’d use that feature before going to sleep. Dreams are useless anyway.

In the middle of the night, I wake to the sound of crashing glass.

Outside on the street, a man is screaming.

In the other room, I hear Gazer’s drawer slide open as he grabs his gun from its hiding spot beneath his shirts. I hear him move toward the window, carefully drawing back the curtains. Gazer’s mostly being cautious; the odds are good that they will just kill the man straight out and then leave. They don’t usually go after witnesses; people in this neighborhood never rat them out. Men like them have nothing to fear. I’d get up to join Gazer but my bed is warm and I’m still half-asleep. Besides, I know he’d just shoo me off with a wave of his hand. Gazer is the protector of everything holy inside this church. I am just his disciple.

Eventually the screams stop and Gazer never fires his gun so I go back to sleep.

In the morning we train.

I wake about a minute before my alarm is set to go off. Years of early-morning practice have given my body an internal clock. I never sleep in and I never take days off. Even on Sundays, when Gazer says I should take a break, I still rise before the sun and head down into the bowels of the church to practice.

Death never takes a day off. Why should I?

I get dressed quickly, ignoring the dampness that tugs at my bones, and find my running shoes hidden under a pile of books. Pulling my hair up under a baseball cap, I head downstairs and into the kitchen. It’s not really a kitchen, just a makeshift room that has a small Coleman stove and a refrigerator that clanks and rattles and always sounds like it’s about to take its last breath.

I grab a quick drink of water and then head out the door. The rain instantly hits my face, but it’s not enough to slow me down.

I hate running. I hate the burn in my calves and the way the sweat stings my eyes. I don’t like the way my lungs feel, like they’re about to collapse after a few miles. But Gazer says I need to do it because it keeps my body in good shape, and doing something I hate builds character. He also says that running is spiritual and clears my mind, leaving me in full control of my body. Once I learn to master my body, I can truly learn to master the fighting skills I require.

Gazer believes me when I say I want to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Revenge is not a worthwhile dream,” he agrees. “The man who spends his life focused on retribution often misses his own true calling.”

That would be fine if I wanted to live a long and worthwhile life. But someone like me can’t have the wants and dreams of others. Someone like me is cursed, forced to spend her life sitting on the sidelines, only wishing she could play the game. Free will only works as well as the hand you’re dealt.

I hear the sirens before I smell the smoke. The fire truck zooms past me and I watch without slowing down. When it turns the corner, I know I should go straight and finish my run. But instead I follow it, heading down toward the water, where the older storefronts are.

The fire is raging out of control, sending thick black smoke straight up and into the gray rain clouds. The building used to be a grocery store, owned by a nice Asian man and his wife. They used to live in the back but now they’re standing on the street, their arms wrapped around their children, who are all barefoot and in their pajamas.

I wonder who they pissed off.

I approach them carefully, holding my hand up against my face to try to block some of the heat. “Did everyone get out?”

The man’s wife starts talking in Cantonese, pointless because I can’t understand her. The man tries to calm her down, but she starts pulling away from him and gestures toward the building.

Someone is coming out.

A figure emerges from the smoke and flames, a child in his arms. A hero. A few onlookers cheer and the firemen rush over and grab the child from his arms. The child is whisked away, along with his incoherent parents and other siblings. They load the child and the mother in the back of the ambulance. The father and two other children stay behind for questioning.

Then the firemen turn to the hero of the morning. They try to pull him back toward the ambulance but he shakes them away.

He’s the guy from last night. The one who acted like he’d never felt his own hair before.

Chael.

When he looks up, he sees me. Lips turn up a bit in a half smile. He winks.

It’s short-lived. The firemen aren’t taking no for an answer. They grab him by the arms, talking to him about smoke inhalation and possible lung damage. They need to take him to the hospital just to make sure. They pull him past me and he winks again. There’s a smudge of soot on the bridge of his nose.

The police finally take over and start pushing the crowd back. I allow them to steer me across the street, where I can get a better view. The mother is gone now, off to the hospital. I hope the child is okay.

With a loud crack, something in the building gives way, wood splinters, and it starts to collapse in on itself. Flames shoot higher. If the firemen don’t get it under control soon enough, the entire block could go up.

It’s quite possible the shopkeeper was unable to pay for protection and this is the retaliation. The Heam gangs are strong in this neighborhood and they rule it by forcing people to use their stores as fronts, as places where dealers can sell Heam out of rooms in the back. This particular street has at least five stores that I know of that cater to the gangs. And with the way sales are booming, they are always in need of new businesses.

I scan the streets and sure enough, I see a couple of dealers halfway down the block. They’re leaning against a burned-out car, doing nothing to hide the reason they’re there. A couple of gutter rats approach them and they make a sale, fully aware that the police are watching them. That’s the way things are done down here. No one cares enough to actually try to clean up this part of town. There is too much violence and illegal activity; the police are overwhelmed, unable to do anything about it, even if they have evidence.

It’s possible that someone tried setting up business inside this store and that the owner refused. I find that hard to believe, though; he looked too timid to deny anyone. He’s got family too. Refusal to sell Heam could carry the heavy fine of the gangs’ targeting his kids. The people in this community know this. They rarely say no.

Sometimes children get involved in more ways than one. When they arrested my father, he owed the wrong people a lot of money. He got put in jail, so they came after me. Whether their intentions were to make me an addict or to kill me, either way they succeeded in getting back at my father.

The shopkeeper is still on the street, along with two of his children. I wonder what items he mourns. If it were his wife, I’d imagine she’d be visualizing the photo albums, baby shoes, and other treasured items that are now lost. Maybe even a love letter tucked away in the back of the closet, inked in fine calligraphy. But what does he regret? I look at one of his children, the daughter, and think about Beth. I wonder how she survived her first night. It’s possible her family threw her out on the street. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened.

I should have gone with her. I should have made sure she’d be okay.

So tiny.

The shopkeeper’s daughter stares at me, sucking her thumb, holding on to her dolly, perhaps the only thing she owns that’s left in this world.

What kind of heaven awaits her?

Gazer is waiting for me when I get back.

“Good run?” he asks.

“There was a fire,” I say. “I stopped to check. The grocery store down by the water. You know the one that sells the Chinese cabbage you like.”

Gazer frowns. “Shame,” he says. “Now I’m going to have to go across town to find some. Probably get charged a fortune too.”

I shrug and go over to the coffeepot and pour myself a cup.

“Was there anyone there?”

He’s referring to the gangs, of course. He knows they like to stick around to watch their own handiwork.

“A few,” I say.

“Did they see you?”

I shake my head. “They were too busy selling to a bunch of gutter rats.”

He nods. “Good.” Turning, he heads toward the stairs. “Drink that and hurry up. We’ll have to keep it short today. Don’t you have a test to take?”

“Only in biology,” I say. “That’s the easy stuff.” I gulp the last of the coffee, burning my tongue in the process. Grabbing a towel, I wipe my forehead and then head downstairs after him to get in a few punches before I have to shower and get ready for the one part of my life that isn’t so bad.

At least some of the time.

I go to Sebastian Clover High School. It’s one of the top schools in the district and very private and expensive. They didn’t want me, of course. At least, not in the beginning. It took a lot of persuasion and a few recommendations from both my old school and an appointed government caseworker who follows my life from a distance. They pushed the “pity this poor child who is really a victim and not at all a drug abuser” spiel.

So in the end, they changed their minds. They wanted me. Everyone wants a sinner.

They even gave me a scholarship, and as long as I maintain my grades I can continue to attend school. As long as I don’t resort to my old druggie ways.

I am a blank slate.

I don’t have problems with school. It’s easy. All I have to do is listen. All I have to do is write down what they expect me to write. I sit in the back and silently take notes. I very rarely raise my hand, preferring to keep to myself. But I like school. There’s only one right answer and I find comfort in that. I wish life were that easy. My grades are very good, although most of the teachers still seem wary of me.

In school I wear a uniform. A pleated dark-blue skirt and white blouse. Knee-high socks or tights and black Mary Jane sneakers. My face is scrubbed clean until it shines and I pull my long dark hair back in a ponytail. Makeup is not allowed. No dangly earrings. I look normal. Like everyone else. Well, almost.

No one ever waits for me at my locker. I don’t have friends. That’s just the way I like it too. Friends complicate things. They want to do things with you after school and on weekends. They expect you to go with them to movies and hang at the coffee shops, pretending to study. They want to know your feelings and share gossip and whatever else girls do when they’re together. I don’t belong to that world. It confuses me. I don’t understand why such mundane things can be so interesting. How can something as simple as a brand-new outfit or sky-blue eye shadow work girls into such a frenzy?

Some of the girls pretend to be friendly but I try not to encourage them. Besides, they’d probably end up asking questions that I’m not prepared to answer. This is something I’ve been explicitly told to avoid.

There were rules when I joined this school. Rules that were created specifically for me and I have to follow them.

Rule one: I am never, under any circumstances, to reveal to the other students that I have overdosed on Heam. I’m not to mention that I ever tried Heam nor can I ever mention the drug’s name, even in a lesson.

Rule two: Under no circumstances am I ever to remove my clothing in the presence of other students. They must never see my scars and I must never mention them. Because of this, I have been given special permission to skip gym class. A lie was created stating I have terrible asthma and because of this I am excused. Instead, I am to spend the period in the library studying. Even while off the school grounds I should take precautions with my clothing by wearing shirts that cover my chest completely. Not that I’ve ever had to worry. The kids at Sebastian would never dare to step inside my world.

Rule three: There are to be no relationships with students of the opposite gender. Although it was never stated, I believe it has a lot to do with rule number two. I’m also advised to keep my friendships formal at best. Keep my socializing down to a science.

Rule four: I am never to talk about my parents. If prompted, I am to say that both parents died in an accident—even though the administration knows my mother is still alive. Although I’d never say it to the school’s face, to say Dad died accidently is closer to the truth than anything else.

Rule five: Maintain good grades and never criticize the school. I am to constantly remember that I am a guest here. And even the nicest visitors sometimes overstay their welcome.

There are consequences to my actions and if I break these rules, I’m gone. They won’t give me a second chance and I doubt there’s a single school in the district that will take me if I mess up. Most schools have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to Heam usage. There are no second chances. There are some groups that try to fight the stigma associated with Heaven’s Dream—Heam’s official name—but they’re fighting a losing war. Hardcore users will always be ostracized.

But even with all these rules, I like school. It’s a chance for me to be normal, well, at least pretend to be normal. I get to wear the school uniform and walk down the halls. It’s amazing I ever made it this far.

As I sit in the back of the classroom, the teacher drones on about the importance of algebra but I’m not listening. I’m thinking about Chael. Is it a coincidence that I’ve met him twice in less than twenty-four hours? Is he following me? It’s possible that I screwed up somehow, let down my invisibility guard, and now they’re aware I exist. There’s even a chance they might recognize me although I’ve gone to great lengths to disguise all traces of the child I once was. With the exception of the soapbox preacher, I’ve never gone out of my way to let anyone see my scars. Could someone have seen me in the crowd last night and tattled on me?

No. That’s impossible. Even if someone did recognize me, I’m still nothing but a single girl in the crowd. A hardcore Heam abuser who managed to go straight.

Not a threat.

Not yet.

I’m so involved in my thoughts I don’t hear the teacher call my name.

Not the first time.

Not the third time either.

What I do hear finally are the giggles. When I look up from the doodle on my notebook, they are all looking at me. Several pairs of eyes. Lots of smirks.

“Um. Yes?”

“The answer would be appreciated, Faye.”

I look at the board. There are scribbles of
x
’s and
y
’s and a bunch of numbers. I have no idea. The silence grows and all I can hear are the sounds as people fidget in their chairs to get a better look.

“Forty-three?” I finally say. Of course it’s wrong; there’s no way I can possibly be correct. A huge breakout of giggles confirms it.

“Silence,” Mr. Haines snaps.

No one listens.

“Can I be excused?” I ask. When Mr. Haines raises his eyebrows, I give him the best pity face I can muster. “I’m not feeling well today. Sorry.”

He waves a hand at me and I pick up my binder and pencil case. There’s only five more minutes left of class so it’s safe to assume he doesn’t expect me back. I hear the murmurs from behind my back as I walk down the aisle and toward the door.

In the bathroom, I go into the stall and lock it behind me. I sit down on the toilet and rub my temples with my fingers. I wasn’t lying when I asked to be excused; I’m really not feeling great. My head is suddenly pounding and I wonder if I inhaled too much smoke earlier.

The bell rings and instantly I hear the muffled noises as the kids gather in the halls to rush to their next class. The door opens and a girl comes in, stopping in front of the mirror. A few seconds later I hear a thud as someone else enters, kicking at the door.

“Get out of here,” the girl hisses. “This is the ladies’ room, idiot.”

A low throaty chuckle. “Give me the money you owe me and then I’ll leave.”

Inside the stall, I perk up my ears and hear the girl as she steps back against the wall. “I told you, I don’t have it. You need to talk to Jesse.”

“Maybe I’d rather talk to you.”

“Leave me alone.”

It only takes me a second to decide that today, I’m going to break some rules. Unlocking the door, I step out into the middle of the action. The girl is Paige LeBlanc, one of the more popular girls, and she’s backed up beside the hand dryers and staring at a guy I’ve never seen before. He’s not a student; the leather pants he wears are not part of the school-issued uniform. He’s greasy too—hair, face, probably even underneath his jacket. His clothes are expensive but dirty; he screams “dealer” from miles away. He definitely doesn’t seem the type that Paige would hang out with, even if she was being daring and trying to shock her rich parents.

I walk over to the sinks and carefully put my binder and pencil case down on the porcelain counter.

“The girl asked you to leave her alone,” I say. “I suggest you listen to her.”

The guy looks me over and I can see the delight in his eyes. He’s finding this hilarious. Two pretty Sebastian Clover girls. He’s going to enjoy tormenting us.

I smile back, nice and proper.

“Get out of here, girlie,” he says to me. “Go take an exam or something. I’ve got business here.”

I step between them. Technically I’m not breaking the rules. I’ve been told not to interact with the other students. Since he obviously doesn’t go to school here, I’ve got a solid defense for my actions. “Make me.”

The guy laughs like he’s just discovered a pile of gold under his mattress.

“She asked you to leave,” I say again. “Now, I suggest you listen to her or I’ll have to force you.”

“You?” The guy can’t stop smiling. I’m looking forward to watching that grin disappear from his greasy face. Paige continues to cower behind me, but I can tell she’s completely shocked. I doubt we’ve ever said a single word to each other. She probably doesn’t even know my name.

“Try it,” I say. “It’s okay. You can hit a girl. I know you can. I give you permission.”

The guy steps forward to brush me aside, but I move to the left, grabbing his arm, bringing my leg right in front of his. It’s a simple maneuver; he’s still smiling stupidly as he trips, crashing against the sink, and falling hard on his knees.

“Bitch!”

Now I’ve got his attention. He gets up on his feet, looking at me with surprise, still pretty sure I’m not something he needs to worry about. The idea that a girl could kick his ass is completely beyond his comprehension. He swings at me with his right. I block it, and give him a sharp jab back, straight in the nose. His head snaps back, hitting the hand dryer, sending Paige scrambling to the other side of the bathroom stalls.

Now he’s concerned, but it’s too late. I punch again, another jab to the nose. Something breaks. He screeches, grabbing his injury with his hand, shocked to find blood pouring down his face. When he lunges at me, I step back and to the side, grabbing his arm and using the force of his body to propel him forward. He’s moving too fast and he can’t stop from crashing against the wall.

“Open the door, please,” I say politely to Paige. She complies.

I pick the greasy guy up and toss him out the door like he’s nothing but a rag doll. Walking back over to the sink, I wash my hands carefully. Who knows when that guy showered last?

I pick my binder and pencil case up off the sink and head out the door, which is still being held open by Paige.

Thirty seconds later she catches up to me. The shock has worn off.

“That was amazing,” she says. “How did you do that?”

I shrug and keep walking. Continuing this conversation can get me in real trouble. I glance around, but there isn’t a teacher in sight to witness my naughtiness.

“I mean, really incredible,” she says. “I’m sorry about all that. Trevor is a real jerk. He shouldn’t even be here. And I don’t owe him money. I can only imagine what you’re thinking. I’m not that kind of person.”

“What kind of person is that?” I ask.

She pauses. “Not the kind to hang out with gutter rats like that.”

“He’s not a gutter rat,” I say. “He’s a dealer.”

“Yeah, whatever, they’re one and the same, aren’t they?”

“No.”

“I didn’t realize you were such an expert.”

I stop walking and turn toward her. She’s looking at me curiously, trying to figure out what my story is.

“Dealers are scum,” I say. “They destroy lives. They want to become dealers. They’re greedy bastards. They earn money off of death. Gutter rats are victims. They have pain. Problems. Issues. They may choose Heam, but they don’t always pick their path. Sometimes it’s forced on them. Sometimes they just don’t know any better.”

She studies me, finally deciding that her disagreement isn’t worth the fight. “I suppose,” she says. “I never thought about it that way.”

I turn and walk off. I’ve got English next period and I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.

“Hey!” Paige just won’t leave me alone.

I keep walking.

“Hey, hold up.” She runs up and falls into step with me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I really didn’t mean to offend you. You’re Faye, right?”

I nod, surprised she knows my name.

“Thanks, really,” she continues. “I’m having a party Friday night. Would you like to come? I can introduce you around to a few people. It’ll be fun.”

“I’m busy,” I say. Parties? The school would have a fit. Technically there is no rule about who I hang out with in my free time, but I’m sure that would change if I ever started. Besides, what on earth would I do? I may have the body of a teenager, but my mind is old. How would I talk to any of them? I’ve already proven, in the past five minutes, that I can’t even hold a conversation without becoming hostile. Could I really sit for an evening talking about boys and clothing?

Not a chance.

“Okay, well, think about it,” Paige says. She writes something down on her notebook as we walk, impressive considering she can barely keep up with me. Tearing the sheet loose, she shoves it into my hands. An address and phone number.

She’s not going to take no for an answer. I can see the problem already forming.

She stops at her classroom. Mine is just a few doors down. The bell rings and I start running.

“See you,” she calls back.

I should throw the address out. I have no business keeping it. But I find myself slipping it into the pocket of my skirt for safekeeping.

It might be nice. Being normal.