A More Deserving Blackness (17 page)

             
Logan looks up at me from the words on my screen, carefully blank.  “I won’t hurt you.”

             
But I already know that.  He doesn’t have to say it, when he tells me every day, in a thousand other ways. 

             
Silently, I reach out with two fingers, pressing them against his lips.  Something flashes in his dark eyes and my heart kicks seeing it, seeing the response to me right there in the heat of his gaze.  He kisses my fingers and I feel an achy tightness, low in my belly again.

             
Suddenly Logan’s on his feet.  “Wait here.”

             
He darts off down the hall, only to come back a minute later having pulled on a t-shirt and with two of the thicker blankets from his bed in his arms.  He grabs my hand as he passes and pulls me with him, over to a door off the kitchen where he snaps the lock open and we step out into the garage, past the edge of his car and through another door he pauses just long enough to unlock.  Then we’re standing in his backyard.  Logan lets go of my hand to spread one of the blankets over the grass.  Then he leads us to sit in the center of the blanket and lays back, pulling me with him so I’m lying on my back, my head pillowed on his arm.  His other hand, still woven with mine, rests on his belly. 

             
“Before we see them as shooting stars, meteoroids fly through the solar system at up to twenty-six miles per second.” 

             
I glance over at him, but he’s staring up at the sky.  I can just make out a smile tugging at his lips. 

             
“Yeah, I know.  But I was told I would one day use my useless knowledge about shooting stars to impress the girl of my dreams.  So pay attention.”

             
I smile and do as he asks, looking straight up at the sky.  The night is clear, and through a break in the trees the light from the moon and the stars is brighter than I would’ve thought it would be.

             
He clears his throat and continues self-importantly.  “They’re chunks of rock or dust particles, these meteoroids.  When the earth travels into the path of debris left by a passing comet, we see a glowing streak called a meteor stream.  They hit the atmosphere and they burn, over three thousand degrees Fahrenheit.  The earth’s atmosphere is impacted by millions of these a day, most of them completely vaporizing in the heat.  The rare few that actually make it to the planet’s surface, only about five hundred a year, are called meteorites.” 

             
He’s silent for a second, but then he turns his head and looks over at me expectantly.

             
“Are you impressed?”

             
For some reason my heart is beating hard in my chest and I reach for my phone, bringing it up close to my nose to see the keys as I type.  I hand it over to him, choosing to watch the sky rather than his face as he reads.

             
I’ve never been kissed before.

             
Logan puts the phone down wordlessly and rolls onto his side, propping a hand under his head and looking down at me.  His face almost blocks out the stars, hovering above me, but there’s enough light that I can see his eyes.  They’re flicking back and forth between mine, and for just that moment they look infinitely sad. 

             
Then his hand slides over my belly, and my toes curl in my shoes.

             
“Really?”

             
I nod, and Logan smiles.

             
“Well, damn.  I didn’t even need it.”

              When Logan picks me up the next morning, it’s only about an hour after I’d left him the night before.  Trish is just leaving for work, and she gives me a hug and asks me how I am, and I can honestly tell her I’m better.  I scribble it on the napkin she’d wrapped around a blueberry muffin and left for me on the table, and she grins, hugs me again, and with a quick apology, flies out the door.

             
Logan had stayed up with me all night, further astonishing me with his notable repertoire of meteoroid-centered trivia, but after a while he’d just started making things up.  He’d played with my fingers as we’d stared up at the clear sky and he’d talked about shooting stars and their significance in the Battle of Cold Harbor during the American Civil War, making me laugh.  When I’d started shivering he’d covered us with the other blanket, cuddling me into his warmth.

             
Now, when he knocks on my door, I open it, already ready. 

             
“Hey.”

             
I can’t help but smile at the sight of him.  He’s wearing the same dark, worn out jeans and boots, with a flecked blue t-shirt that fits him with distracting perfection.  His hair is still wet from his shower, a dark mess on his head, and he’s clean shaven.  My gaze pauses on his lips for a moment before lifting to his eyes.

             
Logan smiles like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and passes me one of the apples he’s carrying, weaving the fingers of his free hand into mine.

             
“Eat,” he says, and I watch his mouth as he sinks his teeth into the tight skin of his apple, taking a generous bite.

             
And I do, because I am a little hungry (I’d forgotten all about Trish’s muffin) and because Logan has a way of making even the most ordinary food look downright decadent.

Chapter 11

Can I ask you something?

             
I’m texting Logan from beneath my desk in the middle of my English Lit. class.

             
Though he’d told me before that he always left his phone on during school, for me, I’m not sure if he’s going to get the message in the middle of class.

             
Only a minute passes before his response beeps through to my phone, and my teacher just pauses a second, lifting her head and squinting wearily overtop the class before choosing to ignore the interruption, refocusing on her lecture about the themes of pride and divine will in Sophocles’ Antigone. 

             
I quickly depress the volume button, switching the ringtone to silent while I read his message.

             
Yes.

             
Why were you at the party that night?

             
It takes a few minutes for the response to pop up, the backlight on my phone blinking off in the lengthening lull.

             
I knew Dylan was going to be there.  Something happened a couple days before that and I was pissed.  I wanted to find out if he had anything to do with it. 

             
Did you?

             
No.  I got distracted by a worthier cause.

             
He’d probably walked in looking for Dylan and found me, flattened beneath him against the wall, hyperventilating.  Lovely.

             
I text him furtively,
I’m sorry. 

             
I’m not.

             
So you think Dylan could’ve painted that on your house?

             
It doesn’t matter who did it.

             
What about the fire?

             
The list of suspects is as long as the adult population of this entire town, minus one or two.

             
Why didn’t you just ask him at school?

             
Once again, there’s a pause before the answer blinks onto my screen. 
Didn’t need teachers watching.              

             
My stomach sinks. 

             
Of course.  Logan hadn’t just gone to that party for answers; he’d gone itching for a fight.  Two years of his best friend reviling him, of being condemned and cast out by the last living people he could possibly call family, and he’d finally reached the breaking point. 

             
But instead of throwing down the gauntlet, he’d taken a punch to the face for defending me, turned around, and left.

             
All because of me.

             
I’m still thinking about it when the bell rings, startling me, and when Logan meets me at my locker before health. 

             
“What’s wrong?” he asks when he sees my face, but I just shake my head and grab his hand, turning toward class.

             
We manage to turn a few heads in the short walk, most of them just staring, but there’s the occasional whisper, a few shaking heads, as if our holding hands was a personal insult.  I can’t help but wonder if it makes it worse for him, drawing more attention because I’m such a well-known freak. 

             
Erik is waiting for us in the hall, just outside the door.  He straightens when he sees us, adjusting the strap of his olive green messenger bag over his shoulder, his blue eyes flicking back and forth between us like he’s not sure where to look.

             
I lift my brows at him - he’s standing between us and the door - and he glances at Logan again, unsure.

             
I don’t like the way he’s looking – or, more accurately,
not
looking – at Logan, as if at any moment Logan could snap and take a swing at Erik, unprovoked, right in the middle of the hall.  It pisses me off and I huff impatiently, tugging Logan’s hand and stepping around him toward the room.

             
“Wait, Bree.  Please.  Just – just five minutes.  Please.”

             
Something in his voice stops me, and then he surprises me by turning his attention to Logan.

             
“Can you give us just a minute?  Please?” 

             
Logan moves only his eyes, glancing over at me and lifting his brows.  I nod and he squeezes my hand and slips quietly between us into the classroom.  Erik watches him go before turning back to me.

             
“Look, I’m sorry.  But you need to know something.  It’s important.”

             
I narrow my eyes at him and shake my head.  God.  Not another warning about the unstable, dangerous creature that is Logan.  I want to kick him in the shins but I just turn away.

             
“Wait.  Just
listen
.” 

             
Crossing my arms, I irritably signal for him to finish. 

             
Erik sighs.  “Right.  I don’t know a lot.  But I’ve heard enough to know you shouldn’t go anywhere near that dance this weekend.  Especially not with him.”

             
And just that fast I’m pissed again, but Erik isn’t done.

             
“You don’t understand.  People are still angry.  Lieutenant Dawson was a good guy.  He was active in the schools, he showed up at all the football games.  People liked him.  And Brenner got off with nothing.  He didn’t even serve a day.”

             
Erik stops talking as a group of kids hurries by us, passing a phone between them and laughing raucously at whatever is on the screen.  I watch them, edgy, and turn back to Erik.

             
“Maybe it’s just stupid pricks running their mouths, but I’ve heard rumors.  And after last year . . .” he trails off, starting again.  “Just trust me.  Don’t go to Homecoming, Bree.  And keep Brenner the hell away from there.”

             
Erik slips into the room ahead of me, effectively ending the conversation.  When I follow him in, Logan watches me, but his face is cautiously blank.  Then his eyes shift, and he watches Erik cross the room and sit down.  Amazingly, Erik meets his eyes with a slight tilt of his head that might almost be a nod.

             
“What was that about?” Logan asks when I slide into the seat next to him.

             
I’d already snatched my notebook out of my bag, and I shove the note I’m scribbling across the table to him.

             
He was warning me. 

             
“About what?”

             
For you.  What happened last Homecoming?

             
Mr. Apligian is passing out study guides at the front of the class, and Logan lowers his voice.

             
“Nothing.”

             
I shoot him a look and he sighs.

             
“It was right after the acquittal.  I was still a ward of the state, living in a temporary home, but I came back.  I tried telling Dylan the truth.  His dad threw me out of the house.  I tripped on the stairs, left muddy with a cut on my hand from the gravel.  The story was greatly exaggerated as it got passed around.  Don’t look so worried.”

             
I don’t want anything to happen to you.
  But I don’t write it down.  I sit, my stomach churning as I digest this newest hint at a threat against the single most important person in my life, and try to unearth a smile for him. 

             
He searches for my hand underneath the table and holds it quietly in his lap, clearly untroubled, as the girl with the bouffant bangs at the table in front of us uses passing back the study guide as an excuse to gawk brazenly.  I don’t know how much she heard, but Logan accepts the papers without expression, like she’s not even there.  She snatches her hand back like if she touches him she might catch cholera and I can’t resist the urge to kick the back of her chair.  Hard.

             
She jumps and swivels in her seat, glaring at me.  I stare back at her, deadpan, while Logan shifts in his chair to cover up his laughter.

             
“Love, it’s okay,” he smiles softly, squeezing my hand, but I can’t wait to get out of there.

             
Apligian painfully walks us through every single question on the study guide.  Since I’d missed most of the class that day, a lot of the information on CPR sounds new to me, but I barely listen.  Logan just rubs his thumb over the back of my hand but it doesn’t ease my anxiety.  And when class ends, Erik pauses before leaving the room, looking at us like he wants to say more before following the crowd out into the hall.

             
Logan drives us home after school, and this time he insists we spend time at Trish’s house, claiming that he wants to see my room.  I lead him back there, feeling oddly exposed, and he walks around, touching the few things I’d taken with me from home.  All functional items, nothing frivolous or fanciful.  For a second, Logan ponders the single framed photograph of my family and me that sits on a no-frills white shelf, something Trish had installed before I’d even gotten here.  He doesn’t say anything though, he just soaks it all in, and I wonder what he’s learning about me from this barren, borrowed space.

             
A few minutes later we’re sitting side by side at the kitchen table so he can eat some leftover general tso’s chicken from the fridge while we both work on our homework.  He sits close enough that his leg touches mine just above our knees, and every now and then he drops a hand to my thigh, squeezing and rubbing absently.  The memory of his tongue licking into my mouth flashes in my mind, and I adjust, restless, in my seat.  From the corner of my eye I can see a smile touching his lips.

             
I jump when the phone rings suddenly.

             
Logan swings around in the chair and pushes to his feet, snatching the phone from the wall like it’s the most natural thing.

             
“McCaffrey residence, Logan speaking.”  His eyes flick to mine as he listens. “Yes, I am.”  His eyes darken slightly, but he doesn’t look angry as he holds my gaze; he looks possessive.  “Yes, ma’am.” 

             
I raise my brows at him but he says, “I intend to.  Sure.  Okay.  Just a second.”  And then he hands the phone to me.

             
I have no choice but to take it.

             
I already know it’s my mother, and I tap the phone with my finger to let her know I’m on the line.

             
“Bree, Honey?  Are you there?”  An awkward pause in which I know she’s hoping to hear my voice again for the first time in over two years, and once again I have to disappoint her.  “All right.  I want to talk to you about this Logan who just answered the phone, but you need to turn on the news, Sweetheart.  I’m sorry.”

             
No.  Not again.

             
“They caught this man yesterday . . .” my mom continues, warily like she knows what it’s doing to me.  “He’s a suspect in over ten cases across three different states.  Just – just take a look, okay?  We need to know if it’s him.”

             
And just like that, I feel all the blood drain from my face.  Logan is across the room and by my side in a second.  Searching my eyes, he places his hands on my arms, whether to reassure me or to steady me I’m not sure.  It doesn’t matter though and I lean into him, taking what he offers.  My mom is still talking, persuading me, and I wait until she sounds like she’s done before I woodenly hand the phone back to Logan.

             
With one hand he reaches behind him to hang it back up, never taking his eyes from me.

             
“What happened?”

             
My hands are shaking as I grip the edge of the table and push to my feet, and Logan hovers near me, like he doesn’t trust me to stand without smashing down onto my face.

             
“What’s wrong?”

             
I can’t meet his eyes.  I force myself into the living room with Logan following closely behind, force myself to grab the remote from the coffee table and flick on the TV.  My arm is shaking.  The screen starts and seizes, jerking through channels as I push the button.  Soap operas.  Infomercials.  Cartoons.  I pause at two different news channels, tensing and holding my breath for the sight of his face, before, on the third, I finally find the story my mom wanted me to see.  There’s a picture on the screen of a balding, heavy-set white man with both ears pierced.