Fractured Love, Page 2

  “Could you come here?” she whispers loudly, smiling conspiratorially like she has some big news.

  Mrs. Zorn sets her paperback on her desk and disappears into the hallway. When she re-emerges, there’s a tall guy on her heels. She moves aside, and my gel pen pauses mid-word.

  The boy standing beside her is the physical equivalent of a secret, and in looking at him, I just heard it whispered straight down to my soul. His face…I recognize it: the stark jawline, the high cheekbones, the thick, romantic lips, those eyes.

  Those eyes.

  They’re slate gray, topped with strong brows, and when they settle on me, they make me feel like he can speak in blinks. He blinks—confirmation!—and my stomach does a slow roll.

  “Students—this is James.”

  A wave of murmured sound rolls down the rows of desks. The boy’s mouth tightens, and I think I see his shoulders tense. They’re really wide, I notice. Almost jocky, but he’s not a jock. I can tell because his face is slightly pale, making his cinnamon hair look more brown than red. There are smudges underneath his eagle eyes, and tautness about his body that says something different than “athletic.”

  He looks like someone just threw a rock at him.

  Standing there, two heads taller than Mrs. Zorn, in a plain white T-shirt and worn jeans, he looks skeptical and annoyed. Like he’s been led into our classroom by mistake. He has the sort of self-possessed, don’t-mess-with-me vibe some teachers have, but on him, it’s coupled with that tight-shouldered, closed-fistedness that makes him seem uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Zorn touches his arm, and his thick brows tighten.

  “Over here…” She points toward the empty desk directly to my left. I watch him move to it with long, quick strides. He fits his big, tall body into it, and I feel mesmerized. He rests one arm atop his desk and blinks at Carly Moore’s blonde ponytail.

  Mrs. Zorn looks from him to me. “Evie, can you share…perhaps a sheet of paper and a pen?”

  It takes me a second to pull my eyes away from his bent head and notice that she’s talking to me. “Sure. No problem.”

  I take a piece of paper from my binder, and then decide he may need more and pull a whole stack out. I put a hunter green gel pen atop the stack and hold it out. Amazement glimmers through me as his bent head lifts. His gray gaze slides to mine.

  Zoing!

  I feel it in my belly, like I just swallowed a moving pinball.

  He takes the pen and papers. I stare at his hand, then I realize that I’m staring. My gaze rushes to his face, and then I’m blinking.

  Startled. That’s the way I feel. Like I can’t catch my breath.

  I try a smile. “Hope you like glitter pens.”

  He looks down at the paper. Takes the pen. Finally, he glances my way and says, “Thanks,” in a voice that’s low and rough.

  I smile. I don’t even have the wherewithal to speak.

  Homeroom is mostly over, so I spend the next fifteen minutes pretending to make notes in my planner while I watch him. As he puts a thick arm on his desk and curls it around his papers. As he rubs a fingertip over the top page. As he takes the top off my pen and draws something.

  I feel slightly strained. Like I’m waiting for something, except what would it be? Just when I really start to feel unnerved, the bell rings. He disappears before I even shut my planner.

  I think about him during second period, and third. About the way his eyes made me feel. About the way his…everything—his whole body, demeanor, voice—made me feel…this sense of urgency. Like I needed something, and it was about to slip through my fingers. It’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever experienced. I’ve almost managed to convince myself I’m inflating things in my memory when I sit by my best friend Makayla at our lunchroom table, and I spot him at a table out in front of me.

  She follows my gaze, and lifts her eyebrows. “Who’s he?”

  “New guy. He was in my homeroom.” I watch his hands come to his ears and realize that he’s sliding ear buds in.

  “Who? What?” Our good friend Tia sits across from us, sliding her tray across the faux wood table. Her long, straight black hair swings as she leans over to cram a slice of pizza into her mouth. “I wanna know…”

  I watch the new guy as Makayla points him out to Tia, and she turns to glance at him.

  “That wasn’t obvious.” Makayla rolls her eyes as Tia’s boyfriend, Jake, sits down beside T, and then we have to fill him in. Jake is followed by Pax, Sunny, Luc, and Savannah, the rest of our lunch crew.

  Unlike the new boy, with his pale skin and serious eyes, we’re at the jock table. I’m the least jocky among us—I only play soccer—but these guys have been my friends since grade school. Like me, they’re all from families who’ve lived in Asheville for a while. Our parents know each other. A lot of the kids further down the table fall into that same bracket.

  I keep stealing glances between Tia and Jake’s heads, watching James as he bends slightly over the table. From where I’m sitting, it looks like his hands are under it, one of them maybe drumming on his knee. I think he’s moving slightly, too—maybe to some beat.

  I feel a pang as I look around his table. The kids over there are mostly outcasts, either because they’re jerks or because they seem…unusual. CeCe, a pigtailed girl a few seats down from James, was my partner last year on an English project. She’s super nice, but also painfully shy. She really only likes to talk about the works of Chaucer. Which is fine, but makes her no one’s number one pick for conversation.

  “That’s my shirt!” Pax’s shout cuts through my thoughts. He’s on the other side of Makayla, but he’s so much taller than her that I can see his angry face as he half-stands, pointing across the room. “That fucker’s got my shirt on. I can see the dye stain!”

  “What?”

  Pax is up and moving before I understand what’s going on. Around the end of our table, past two others, coming at the new guy from behind. I want to scream, but all I can think is he’s wearing headphones. James is wearing headphones.

  He doesn’t see Pax before Pax’s hand is on his shoulder. They’re too far away for me to hear what’s said, but James looks up, and even from back here, I can see his mouth tighten. Pax says something angrily, and then holds out his hand.

  “Oh my God,” Makayla says.

  More heads start to turn their way, and James stands up. Pax’s arms are out. James’s are at his sides. Then Pax shoves him in between his pecs. My stomach drops.

  Pax says something, waving his arms.

  I see James shaking his head.

  Pax grabs James’s collar, and that’s when time jumps forward. James moves so fast, I can’t even track the movement. I see him shove Pax, hard, and Pax goes sprawling backwards. He crashes into a table—someone’s plate goes flying and a girl jumps up, screaming—and then I can’t see. Everyone in the lunch room is on their feet. I peek between heads and shoulders, so I see James standing above Pax, who is crouching on the floor.

  James steps back, wide shoulders pumping, arms still partway out, and then Pax grabs him by his legs, and they’re both on the floor. Two security guards in red shirts hop into the pit and shortly after, Pax and James are led off with their arms behind their backs. My heart’s still pounding as my friends and I look, wide-eyed, at each other.

  “That was his shirt!” Tia says, her mouth agape. “I could see the dye, too. I dyed Pax’s hair blue for powder puff last year, remember? He was wearing a white undershirt, and blue got in this spot—” she motions with her own hands, “near the armpit of the shirt.”

  Ever the most logical among us, Makayla sits back down; we follow.

  “You think he could see that from back here?” Makayla asks.

  “Fucking Pax,” Jake says. “That was dumb as hell. He’ll be benched the first game or two; I know coach won’t take that shit from him again.”

  Luc, another football player, groans. “Somebody’s gotta get that brother off the ’roids.”

&
nbsp; Sunny slaps her boyfriend on the arm. “I hope you’re kidding. Y’all aren’t really taking steroids…?”

  “God, no.” He rolls his eyes. “This is high school, Sunny, not the NFL.”

  “I’m pretty sure they test for those,” Makayla says, eating a french fry.

  I’m surprised when, soon, the bell rings.

  “That went fast,” I say to Makayla as we grab our books.

  “The entertainment.” She wags her eyebrows, but her face looks unhappy. “I hope he doesn’t get suspended.”

  Pax and Makayla have this…thing together. I’m not sure what it is. Not friends with benefits; it’s more like cat fights and kisses.

  “Do you think it’s really his shirt?”

  She shrugs. “Not worth college admission over, though, or football for that matter.”

  “Preach it, sistah.”

  Stupid Pax.

  As Makayla and I part ways and I walk toward my next class, I wonder how or why the new guy might have had his shirt. I’m thinking so hard about it that when I reach the door to my pre-calculus class, I groan. I’m holding my morning books—my calculus textbook not among them. I was so distracted I forgot to swing by my locker after lunchtime.

  Crap.

  I turn and take off down the hall, moving back in the direction of the cafeteria, gym, and office. I’m passing by one of the computer labs when the office door ahead opens, and someone steps into the hall. One blink and— white T-shirt! My stomach does a barrel roll, because it’s him. He just came out of the office.

  I’m so spazzed out, I almost turn and run. That’s what being near him does to me. Instead I tell myself to get a grip and slow my pace so I don’t get too close. I want to watch him. It’s creepy, but I want to watch him move. The hall is empty, everyone in class. I suck a deep breath in and glue my eyeballs to his shoulders. Still wide. Big-boned, you might say. His back seems lean, but not thin. More like sleek. Muscle and bone.

  I bite my lip, feeling like a criminal in my own mind.

  I’ve never met someone like this. Never reacted this way to anyone. I didn’t even know that it was possible.

  And so, of course I want to watch him. I just want to understand.

  Liar.

  What I really want is to possess him in some vital way. I want to grab his hands and squeeze, or even bite him. I just need to know this boy.

  He passes the athletic hallway to our left, and I follow. I see his hands ball up, his head dip down a little. He picks up the pace, and I do, too.

  The common area is vast, with lockers lining its four huge walls, the cafeteria in the middle, and the front doors punched into the southernmost wall.

  I tell myself I’ll find a partial wall to duck behind before he sees me. I pass my locker, watching as his head dips more, his strides elongate, and his arms go out. His palms smack the glass door, and he pushes into the glass-walled entryway between the outside doors and the common area.

  I stop, expecting to see him push past the next door, too, and stride into the parking lot. Instead, he sits—so fast I blink twice before I realize he’s on the floor. He’s sitting cross-legged right there in the entryway. He’s got his elbows on his knees, his palms over his face.

  My heart pounds as I watch his shoulders start to rise and fall. Once, twice, three times—fast—and then he’s up again. His fist is flung against the brick wall, and I see his face shatter in pain.

  He draws his arm up to his chest, curls his shoulders inward, and turns to face the parking lot. For a long second, I can feel how much he wants to go.

  Instead, he turns to face me.

  Two

  Landon

  I feel her gaze burning through the sweaty, cotton shirt I stole. I stare at the brick wall out in front of me, hoping she’ll go, but she doesn’t, so I look at her.

  Go the fuck away, I try to tell her with my face.

  It’s the girl from homeroom. She’s got brown-blonde hair, and these striking, clear blue eyes that always seem to follow me. I felt them on me that first half hour. Right after the fight, I spotted them again, widened with fear. Of me or for me? Not that I give a fuck.

  This whole damn day has been a pain in the ass, starting at the Crenshaws’. Rupert—yeah, his fucking name is really Rupert—Crenshaw, an entitled, 15-year-old twat, emptied my bag into the washing machine sometime late last night, so when I woke up—at four fucking thirty—all my shit was wet. He told his mothers he was just making sure my clothes were clean.

  Rupert is so scrawny, I can’t wear his shit. Since the Crenshaws are both moms, it was girl shirt or nothing, so I ended up in a T-shirt with a big, pink flower on it. I wore my jeans wet, commando, because I’d rather deal with wet denim against my dick than wear a skirt. I’m all about acceptance and whatever, but I’m not wearing a skirt.

  As soon as I got checked in at the school office, I asked to use the restroom, and then I made my way to the locker room beside the gym and nabbed this white T-shirt. It had a stain on the side, making it identifiable. But I’m a careful thief. I took the liberty of scrawling my initials on the tag. When mofo tried to jump me in the cafeteria, I played it cool instead of really waling on him. Then when we got hauled off to the office, one peek at my tag got me off the hook.

  Except here I am now—not exactly off the hook, am I?

  The girl doesn’t move, so I tighten my face.

  God, her eyes are blue. Why won’t she fucking go?

  She bites her lip, and I’m annoyed to feel my dick stir in my damp jeans.

  Go. I clench my jaw.

  Obviously, she’s not getting my ESP, because instead, she comes toward me, moving hesitantly at first, then with purpose. Her soft lips press into a line as she comes through one of the glass doors, stopping a few feet from me.

  Up close, I can see some freckles on her nose. Her lips are pink and smooth, her blonde hair silky. Her blue eyes are wide and nervous, and her crisp clothes look brand new. “What do you want?” This girl doesn’t belong in my arms’ reach.

  “Nothing.” She bites down on her lower lip again. “I— we had homeroom together.”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw you out here. I just wanted to stop and…say hi.”

  Her manner annoys me instantly. As if I would believe she happened upon me randomly, up here by the school’s front doors, and decided to say “hi.” What is this, a fucking country club social? I give her a slight glare. “Don’t you have a class to go to?”

  “Don’t you?” Her eyes widen.

  “What do you care?”

  She shrugs, and I can see her swallow. “You seemed upset, so I thought maybe…”

  “Maybe?”

  “I wanted to check on you,” she says at last. She squares her shoulders and looks up at me, her blue eyes sparkling in the light that’s streaming through the glass doors.

  “I’m fine.” I turn away from her, because I hate that fucking look on her face. As if she’s trying to decode me. I’ve seen this look before from doctors and social workers, and the pity mixed in with it makes me ill.

  “Well if you’re fine, you should come to class.”

  I turn back to her, simmering with renewed irritation. “Are you my teacher now?”

  “No. I’m just trying to help. It’s your first day, and it seems like it hasn’t gone all that well.”

  “You think?” I actually laugh, the sound dry and completely humorless.

  Her eyes fall to my right hand, the one I just used to punch the wall. “Is it okay?”

  I look down, noticing the blood on my knuckles for the first time. Now that she’s mentioned it, it starts to throb. “It’s fine. Now go away.”

  “Do you need a Band-Aid?”

  “Do you know how to take a hint?”

  Her jaw tightens. Then she blows her breath out. “It doesn’t matter if you’re mean to me. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “No?”

  “No.” She folds her a
rms in front of herself, pulling on her purple shirt, so I can see the outline of her bra under the thin cotton. “I’m not super sensitive or anything, and it’s clear you’re only being rude because I’m making you uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, so we’ve got a psychologist in the house.” I offer some light applause, despite my throbbing hand.

  The girl’s mouth curves slightly. She looks befuddled, and also a little bit amused. “You’re right, I’m not a psychologist. I’ve never even been to see one. But I am a fellow person, and I know you must be having a bad day.”

  She doesn’t know the half of it.

  “A fellow person?” Even to my own ears, I sound like a dick.

  “A potential friend.”

  “Is that what we’re calling this? Your stalking me? Potential friendship?”

  Now she laughs—but doesn’t take my bait. “You never know. I could be the best friend you’ve ever had.” She spreads her hands, smiling patiently, and my heart beats off-rhythm.

  “Aren’t you late for class or something?” I try.

  “Yes. And like I said already, so are you.”

  “If I come inside, will you go away?”

  She nods, giving me a small smile, and opens the door for me. “So tell me,” she says as we walk back into the lobby, “is it really yours?”

  “The shirt?”

  She nods.

  “Why would I steal a fucking undershirt?”

  “Maybe you needed one.” Her side-eye is annoyingly omniscient.

  I arch one eyebrow. “Maybe I didn’t.”

  “Pax shouldn’t have done that. He’s hot-headed. I think you are too.”

  “Is that what your psych training tells you?” I ask.

  “That’s what your bleeding hand tells me.”

  Touché. This girl is something else. “Any other brilliant observations?” I stop at my locker, and she waits. I pull some books out, and she steps a little closer.

  “Is that a Richard Feynman book?”

  I blink down at the paperback I’ve got atop my textbooks. Then, reluctantly, I meet her angel eyes. “Does it look like one?”