A More Deserving Blackness (28 page)

             
Broken and bleeding and wrecked to hell, all I want is Logan.             

Chapter 16

“So, is it true?”

              I look up, startled that the girl – Andrea, I dredge up from the dusty reaches of my memory - would be talking to me after so long pretending that I don’t exist.  Though, I shouldn’t be surprised.  I’m news again.  Plus, I’d taken off the offending jacket and, for the second day in a row, replaced it with my gray hooded sweatshirt, so I guess that means I’ll no longer be shunned on principle.

             
Erik looks up as well, his jaws pausing over a hefty bite of hot dog barely large enough to hold the massive moat of mustard he’d squirted on top of it. 

             
He’d found me on my bench earlier - the bench that I’d claimed in one of the halls branching off the cafeteria after it had gotten too cold for me to wait it out outside.  He’d just walked right up to me, standing there until I was forced to lift my gaze up his substantial height.

             
“You should try solid food sometime, I hear it’s a real scream,” he’d said with a crooked smile.

             
When I hadn’t answered, hadn’t returned the smile, he’d just motioned with his head.  “Come on.”

             
I hadn’t argued.  He’d grabbed my bag for me off the floor and led me to that same table I used to sit at with his friends, pulling the chair out for me.  As I sat I’d noticed a loud but indecipherable look pass between him and his girlfriend, and I wondered about all the words prior to him coming to get me, all the things I hadn’t been privy to hear.

             
But then Andrea had spoken up, black hair pulled back into that same thin, sleek ponytail; the same girl that had remarked so tactfully weeks ago that even though Logan was hot, she didn’t “do” psycho.

             
I blink at her now, unsure what to say.  Is what true?

             
“Did Logan Brenner really get his ass kicked last weekend?”

             
She’s not asking eagerly, but still.  I stiffen, irritated by her distinct use of his first and last name, like she’s using the scientific genus and species of some lesser biologic organism.

             
I tug at my sleeve, relishing the slide of the fabric over the cuts on my left forearm.  I hadn’t bandaged them on purpose; somehow the shocking, ugly sight of them had felt . . . right.  Better.

             
“Andrea!” hisses her pixie-haired friend disapprovingly, but Andrea only shrugs.

             
“What?  I’m just asking.  I mean, it’s all over school.  She doesn’t have to answer if she doesn’t want to, but you know, she’s talking now, so . . .”

             
“Yes,” I surprise myself in saying, and I feel Erik turn to look at me, black brows lifted over that hot dog he still hadn’t taken another bite of.  “Yes, he was attacked.  And no, he didn’t start it.”

             
“Whoa, you can talk,” some boy I don’t know blurts out needlessly.

             
At the same time, Andrea leans toward me over the table.  “Were you there?” she asks, her black-lined eyes ready to pop out of her head and roll across the table at me.

             
“Yes.”

             
“Did he – how bad was it?”

             
Bad. 

             
“Well, they didn’t quite manage to kill him, so I guess not bad enough.”

             
She misses the unreserved agony in my words but Erik doesn’t.  His tongue darts out to swipe up a dollop of mustard that hadn’t quite made it in and he shifts toward me infinitesimally. Not touching, but enough.

             
“What did they do?  Did they hurt you?” she asks, with something almost like real concern in her voice, that is if it wasn’t spiked like it is with shameless excitement. 

             
“Andrea, geez, lay off,” Erik chides, but I’m already shoving back in my chair.

             
“No,” I answer her as I grab blindly for my bag. 

             
No, they hadn’t hurt me.  I had.

             
“Bree.”

             
Erik calls after me, catching up as I turn the corner, fleeing the cafeteria with a wake of a dozen rapacious stares.

             
“Hey, wait.”

             
I stop but I don’t turn around, so Erik slowly walks around me.

             
“I’m sorry.  I didn’t know Andrea was going to . . .”  He shakes his head.

             
I don’t say anything.  I don’t have anything to say.

             
“I’m sorry.  For what it’s worth, I don’t – I don’t believe everything people say about him.  About Logan.”

             
It might’ve mattered.  As little as a week ago it would’ve mattered; that someone could see something other than the murderous savage in Logan, and especially that it was Erik, someone I’d almost been ready to consider a friend.

             
But now I just nod, wishing he’d stop talking about Logan.  Everything hurts.

             
“I’ll see you later,” he says regretfully, and jogs back to the cafeteria.

             
The next time I see him I’m headed to my seat at the back of health, ignoring all the heads that turn to follow me.  I’d just passed the same guy from the hall yesterday, the one who’d smiled while he’d held Logan that night.  Though he hadn’t said anything to me this time, he’d watched me as I’d walked by, leering suggestively from the doorway of a classroom, the glint in his eyes making my skin crawl.  I’d just glared back at him and he’d ducked inside the room, unperturbed, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

             
I’m still unsettled when I enter health, and Erik looks up from his desk, his brows wrinkling, blue eyes heavy with concern before he flashes that dimpled smile.  It’s sweet, his warm smile so different than the other faces that turn my way.  I try to smile back at him, I really do, but I don’t know if I hit the mark and I’m too exhausted to care.  Erik watches me all the way to my seat.

             
Dropping into my chair, my head hanging, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I feel jittery and drained, my right hand easily finds the still fresh slashes on my left arm through my sleeve, gripping, rubbing over them.  I soak in the welcome pain.

             
The sound of familiar, heavy footfalls is like gunfire in my ears, and my whole world goes rigid.  My eyes fly open and I’m staring at the table in front of me, at my arms hanging in my lap.  Out of the corner of my eye I see his black boots first, as always.  Well-worn, dust coated in the creases on the toes, one of the laces frayed and broken off short.

             
I’m unprepared for the sharp slam of pain that hits me, just at the sight of those boots.  As he slides carefully into his seat across the aisle I’m not even breathing, just staring down at my lap, afraid to look.  But then I do, and it’s infinitely worse.

             
Over the last two days his face had bloomed into a mess of bruises like stained glass, divided only by the deep, stitched gash over his cheek.  He hadn’t shaved since I’d seen him last, and a shadow of stubble darkens the lower half of his face.  He’s wearing his usual faded jeans and t-shirt, covered now with the black leather jacket I’d seen so many times, hanging just inside his front door.  The one that looked like the one he’d given me.

             
He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm resting atop the table in front of him, his posture almost casual but for the fact that he’s sitting perfectly still.  Not moving, not blinking, possibly not even breathing. 

             
And firmly, coldly, not looking at me.

             
When Apligian breezes in he still doesn’t move, dark eyes fixed stonily on the front of the room, and even though he’s resolutely ignoring me, I can’t help staring at him. 

             
I miss him ferociously.

             
As if he can sense it, Logan turns his head to me in slow motion, appraising me silently with blank, red, sleep-deprived eyes.  As if he doesn’t even know me.  No anger, no hatred, there’s only apathy and then he’s turning away again, his deadened expression unchanging.

             
My chest hurts.  Having him this close but so cold and unfeeling; it’s impossible.

             
I throw my hand in the air and Mr. Apligian drops off mid-sentence, blinking at me and adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses, obviously stunned.

             
“. . . Bree?” he prompts, unsure at this unexpected development.

             
Eighteen heads turn back to me, and I purposely don’t look at Erik.  Only Logan remains rigidly staring straight ahead.

             
“I need to use the bathroom.”

             
Apligian gapes at me in a way that is distinctly unprofessional before recovering and waving a hand at the door, conspicuously relieved.  “Yes.  Go ahead.” 

             
Scooping up my bag, my face flaming, I stumble getting out of my chair and then all but run for the door, my breath already hitching in my chest.  I can feel everyone’s eyes on my back as I slip into the hall, trembling and gulping for air.

             
Everyone’s but Logan’s.

             
I spend the rest of the class period hiding shamefully in the girls’ restroom.  I don’t care.  It doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters but not feeling like this anymore.

             
God, I’m so sick of this pain, sick of dragging myself around with huge chunks of me missing. 

             
The clutch of my shaking fingers over my mangled arm shoots fire like electrified wires through my body, but it barely helps.  Nothing helps.

             
By the time the bell rings signaling the end of the period I’ve reopened one of the cuts and it’s bleeding freely.  I snatch a handful of paper towels, ignoring the outright staring from the girl scrubbing her hands in the sink next to me as I slap it over the blood and press down hard.  It takes a few minutes for it to stop but it doesn’t matter.  None of my teachers care if I’m late, if I blatantly ignore them in class, probably wouldn’t care if I threw my clothes off and started grinding against their desk in the front of the room.  They’d all been warned of my “special circumstances.”  The broken little girl they were so afraid of setting unhinged.

             
I slip into my next class without even a sideways glance from my teacher, and when the bell rings I shuffle off to pre-calc, numbly going through the motions.  I can’t help but scan the halls for another glimpse of Logan, but he’s not there.  I’m not even sure if I want to see him again, the cool disregard in those familiar almost-black eyes, but even that, just the sight of him, even when he’s not mine to look at, is better than nothing.

             
I don’t expect to see Dylan in pre-calc, just sitting at his desk leaning over with his arm slung over the plastic back.  He’s joking with one of his friends like nothing has changed, like he hadn’t three days before beat a man almost to death with his own chain-wrapped fist. 

             
I don’t expect it, but I should.

             
The sight of him makes my stomach pitch sickeningly and I whip around, pushing through the crowded halls, desperate to get away.

             
I can’t see him now.  Not after everything.  Not after Logan.

             
I duck into the girls’ restroom again, gripping the sink and staring at myself at the mirror.  Coward.  Braided hair, minimal makeup, pallid face, bloodshot eyes.  I hadn’t slept last night, I’d been too busy hacking at myself, and it hadn’t even helped.  I’m still this terrified, shaking little thing. 

             
Repulsive.

             
By the time I emerge from the bathroom, shamed and sickened, the school has all but emptied out.  I glance at the face of my phone and realize I’d lost track of time - the day had ended thirty minutes ago, the bell had sounded and I hadn’t even heard it.

             
I just stand there in the hall, looking around uselessly, before turning and heading for the parking lot.  Maybe Erik had waited for me. 

             
I don’t even stop by my locker for books.  I wouldn’t know which ones I needed even if I did.