Anathema (18 page)

My usual desk is still empty besides Amanda. She’s looking down at her cell phone rather than at me, even though any minute now, Mrs. Carney will spot it and take it from her.

I debate a moment, then force myself to sit in the chair next to her. Every one of my muscles feels like a spring wound too tightly.

But as the last precarious minute ticks down before the bell rings, Amanda still says nothing. Not about Russell, not about me. It’s like Friday never happened. It’s like she knows nothing, and only the tight tendons of her neck betray any tension at all.

But Friday did happen. And I know Russell must have told her that patron thing. She saw us just now: she saw me hit him, she saw his excuse. She knows. She has to choose who to believe. There has to be one person she’s siding with here. I need to know who.

I can’t stand it anymore. “So?” I blurt out. “Come on, Amanda. The silence is going to kill me.”

Amanda glances at me, her face very neutral. She tucks a chestnut lock behind her ear. “Well, to be perfectly honest, you should have consulted me before making such a drastic change to your hair, but I think you’re pulling it off.”

“I wasn’t asking about my hair. You know I’m not.”

Her face shutters.

“Amanda…”

The bell rings. Mrs. Carney’s voice fills the room. “Amanda Sykes, give me that cell phone.”

I am forgotten. Amanda gives a loud, put-upon sigh and surrenders her phone, dangling it between two fingers until the teacher snatches it. She and I are close enough to the front that we can’t talk during class. Amanda doesn’t look at me all. I keep hoping she will. I just want some indication about whether I still have her or not.

*
       
*
         
*

At lunch, I get an answer.

Maybe Amanda doesn’t intend it as an answer, but it’s enough of one for me. I walk into the cafeteria to find Russell at the table with her, arm tucked possessively around her, large body curled half over hers. Across from them, Conrad is hunched over his lunch, Siobhan beaming and stroking his shoulder.

I go cold.

Fine.

I mechanically set about getting lunch. Pasta. Loads of carbs. Heaping with cheese. And bread. It will make me feel better. I feel like eyes are prickling on the back of my bare neck, exposed by my short hair. Like I’m being watched.

Then I turn—and for the first time in years head to a table other than Amanda’s.

“How’s it going?” I say to the startled Heidi, where she’s sitting with Edgar and other newspaper people. Now that I’m off features, I don’t see them much, but they’re friends. I still feel stiff and unnatural, smiling casually at them like it means nothing, sitting with them instead of Amanda.

“Kathryn. Hi! Join us,” Heidi says uncertainly, even though I already have.

A slight awkwardness hangs over the table. I’m still one of the two school anathemas, after all, but until now I’ve managed to socially survive it, so I haven’t been relegated to outcast status. Conversation resumes uneasily, with a lot of glances darted my way, and a lot of polite questions.

“What did you think of the last issue? We’ve missed you!”

“Great. I liked…” I rack my brain. “I loved the article you did about community activism.” Even as I speak, I’m aware of being watched. I peek across the room, and see Amanda sitting stock still at her table, staring my way. Wondering what I’m doing.

What does she think? Did she think I’d sit at the table with Russell after he attacked me? I look away, heat in my cheeks. Things can’t just go back to normal because she’s in denial. Things will never be normal again.

For her part, Heidi is eagerly talking activism. “… can see how the internet has already changed everything. Like hunting. Look at the new school guild and the way it’s already got so many members. If you’d started a school guild just five years ago…” She trails off when I look at her.

The silence at the table is suddenly more awkward than ever, as she remembers I’m an anathema now.

“Um, uh…”

I fold my arms. “I know about the school guild. It’s hard to miss.”

Heidi colors fiercely. “Oh, Kat, it’s not for you. It’s aimed at real anathemas.”

“What are real anathemas?” I ask her calmly.

“You know. Dangerous ones. Whoever it was who killed all the Hollywood people.”

“Yeah, it must have been anathemas,” Edgar puts in. “Everyone says so.”

I give it a moment of thought, then just tell her, “Heidi, I did that.”

She blinks. “What?”

“The
Showdown
people. I killed them all. It was me.”

For a moment, Edgar and Heidi just stare at me. Then they start laughing.

“I’m being totally, completely serious here,” I say.

They keep laughing. Edgar mimes stabbing someone. “Oh yeah, you’re scary, Kat.”

Heidi makes a big show of dragging her tray back like she’s protecting it from me, still giggling. I sip my drink, letting them laugh it off.

And then someone sweeps in next to us. I look up, startled, as Amanda makes a show of stumbling on Heidi’s backpack—and spilling her drink on her.

“What’s the matter with you?” Amanda erupts, as Heidi rears up to gape down at her stained sweater. “People walk here. You can’t just leave your stuff out to trip people.”

“Sorry,” Heidi gasps. She reaches down to grab a wad of napkins, soda still dripping down her blouse. “Did it spill on you at all? I’m sorry…” She reaches out to dab at Amanda – impeccably dry – and Amanda shoves her hand away.

“Ugh, do not smear your old food residue on me. My shirt is fine.”

“Good. I’m so glad it’s not stained.”

“Unlike yours.” Amanda bats her eyes prettily, her tone mock sympathetic. “Gosh, I hope Kmart is still selling them.”

I know what this is. “Stop it, Amanda.”

Her gaze swings down to me sharp and furious. “This isn’t your business, Kat.”

“Yes, it is,” I say, rearing to my feet. “You’re upset about something else entirely and you’re directing it at Heidi. This is about you and me.”

She huffs and whirls away.

I follow her swiftly. “Don’t run away. Talk to me.”

She turns on me, her eyes flashing. “Way to have my back there, Kat.”

“I won’t back you up when you’re attacking someone who’s done nothing to you.”

“Your simpering little friend tripped me.”

“She did not. You were starting something on purpose. And you’re one to talk about having people’s backs. You obviously don’t have
mine.
You know I’m telling the truth. You know it!”

Her fists clench. “Russell says you begged him—”

“To be my patron? Yeah, he bragged to me about fooling you with that. You can’t actually believe him. Would I
ever
do that?”

“Russell’s incredibly rich. You knew he could hire a bodyguard for you.”

“I would never ask for a patron! And if I did, the last person I’d ask would be my best friend’s boyfriend! Ugh, the last person I’d ask would be
Russell.
”

“Siobhan says she heard you do it.”

I laugh harshly. “Of course she did. Do you expect anything else of Siobhan?”

“I don’t know what to believe!” Amanda shouts. “One of you is lying! So what, I have to pick between my best friend and my boyfriend?”

“Yes. You do.”

Amanda looks around, her expression growing tight and cagey. So do I. I realize now that the whole cafeteria has descended into silence. Everyone is watching with interest. Except for Russell, who glides over to put his arm around Amanda.

“Everything okay, babe?’

“Don’t touch me,” Amanda hisses, throwing his arm off. She shoots a venomous glare around at the onlookers and then stalks out of the cafeteria.

There’s one person I never see in the school cafeteria. I have a theory about where he goes. After the drama in front of the whole school, I’d rather not stick around for the rest of lunch.

I repress a shudder as I walk down the empty hallway of the service corridor, remembering the ugliness of my last visit here. Then I knock on the door of that locked room. “Alexander? It’s Kat.”

The door swings open. Alexander raises his eyebrows in silent question. I hold up a plate.

“Want a sandwich? It’s turkey. I swiped it from the cafeteria.”

Bemused, he lets me in. I step past him. He settles on the cot and begins eating the sandwich.

There’s something reassuring about his presence. Someone who won’t stumble over words when they talk about the school hunting guild around me. Someone who won’t flinch from the worst of me.

I plant my hands on my hips and tell him, “I punched Russell today.”

Alexander rises to his feet, something sinister on his face. “Is he harassing you again?”

“He’s still mad about the fight. I did it just like you showed me. Thumb out.” I wiggle my thumb. “See? Not broken.”

A ghost of a smile teased his lips. “How’d it go?”

“He wasn’t knocked unconscious and my hand kind of hurt. But I think it hurt him more.” Grim pride colors my words.

“Well done, Kathryn.”

“Can you…” My stomach flutters uneasily. “Can you maybe teach me some other stuff?”

He considers me a moment, then finishes the last third of the sandwich in a bite. “Fine.” He rises fluidly to his feet and strips off his usual long, black coat.

It’s the first time I’ve seen the inner lining of the coat, and my jaw drops. There are holsters with knives of different lengths, all carefully concealed so they can rest against his skin. Other parts of the coat have what look like metal plates sewn in over strategic places, like his heart, his stomach, and probably his groin.

“That’s why you wear this all the time,” I murmur.

“You get a high enough bounty, it becomes a necessity.”

“Where’d you get all the weapons?”

“From hunters.”

The implication hangs heavily in the air. My eyes rove over the weapons. That’s a lot of hunters. “Is that how your bounty got so high?”

“Most hunters and their families know what they’re getting into. They rarely spend huge sums of money adding to anathema bounties.” He’s silent a moment, then, “All it takes are a few rich enemies.”

I find myself remembering Liam at the Waste. Uneasiness flutters through me. “Is it… Well, is one of them the person who gives orders to all those anathemas at the Waste?”

Alexander sends me a long, measuring glance. His expression is suddenly carefully veiled, cautious. “Yes.”

“Do you know who their boss is?”

“Do you want to learn something or waste more time asking questions?” he answers flatly.

I close my mouth. Alexander reaches out and takes me by the shoulders, then spins me around so my back faces his, my hair just skimming his broad chest. He’s so close, I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“In my experience, the vast majority of hunters are male. That means most of them will have a physical strength advantage over you. That’s what you need to learn to defend against. And you can.”

“How?”

“Every martial art focuses on using your opponent’s strength against him. His momentum, his weight. When your attacker guards one weak point, you go for another. First thing you need to learn is how to break a headlock.”

His arms lock around me from behind, and suddenly I’m breathless. I’m painfully aware of the entire long, lean expanse of him, pressed up against me. The scent of his sweat and his shampoo and the sheer maleness of him.

Then the bell rings, and Alexander says, “But not today.”

It’s only the beginning. Alexander took Taekwondo for years before becoming an anathema. The hobby became a critical survival skill once he lost citizenship. In the days that follow, I go down every day at lunchtime.

There’s only so much I can learn in a short time, but I did spend most of my life dancing and doing gymnastics. I may not be in my best shape ever now, but I’m primed for movement. My muscles welcome the burn as he takes me through the basics. It helps that I have a very real reason to need these lessons. He teaches me to stomp on his instep. To throw him forward when he grabs me from behind. And every time, I worry about hurting him.

“Get that out of your head,” he orders me.

“What?”

“You have to ignore that instinct to hold back. It will get you killed. You have to accept the necessity of hurting someone else.”

“It doesn’t come easily, okay?”

I grew up with a safe, loving family, and people who protected me. I’ve never taken a fighting class or even done a contact sport. I didn’t grow up like Alexander, with a messed up father abusing his sister, and then immediately become an anathema. Physical aggression is entirely outside my comfort zone.

Alexander seems to be thinking of something similar. “Maybe you’re just not capable of this.” He considers me a moment, then shrugs. “Or maybe you’re just not strong enough.”

That stings my pride. I hit him harder next time, and he staggers back with an oomph. I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified. He looks up at me and flashes me that rare smile of his. “Good job.”

“Good job? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He rubs his side. “You’re stronger than you know.”

I try to hide my flush by laughing. “I guess eleven years of dancing and three years of cheerleading was good for something.”

He straightens with a wince. “Boxers take ballet.”

“They do?”

“Keeps them quick on their feet. Agile.” He takes an aggressive, swift step towards me and I hop back. “See? You’re quick.”

We go up to comp sci afterwards, seated side by side, my muscles aching and his skin littered with bruises. I work on our project, and he plays the indifferent, lazy partner— until I’m making a mistake. Then he steps in. I watch his hands move the mouse, his long, graceful fingers typing. I’m becoming good at JavaScript, because I have to do the work, but I know there’s a safety net. Just like self-defense. For some reason, it’s so interesting to me, seeing him lost in something. Watching a line press between his brows in abstracted thought when he studies the screen. It’s then that I drink in the sight of him, his chiseled features like a marble statue, the graceful line of his profile, the black lashes and brows cutting across his smooth skin, the hair slanting darkly across his forehead.

We pass each other in the hallway, the two anathemas, and our eyes meet with the knowledge we’re going to spar again tomorrow. The shared secrets floating between us are almost enough to distract me from the 1-800 numbers plastered in the hallways, asking for tips about the Shelter Valley Massacre. I forget the reporters outside the school, the new hunting guild members eagerly gravitating together in the lobby, the gymnasium, the cafeteria.

Alexander even gives me one of his own weapons, just for extreme cases of self-defense. He presses a finger to his lips. “We’re not supposed to have these at school. Teachers mostly understand when it comes to us. They’ll look the other way, but you’ll have some who buy into the stereotypes.”

“Ms. Dodd.” I found out she’s also the faculty sponsor for the new school hunting guild.

“Case in point.”

I take it from him, nervous about cutting myself with it. Alexander slides a sheath over it with great care. “You need to carry a bigger bag. Something that will fit this. Unless you opt for the massive coat approach.”

I laugh. “I know I’ve got some awful hair going on right now, but I still sort of care about my appearance.”

He reaches up briefly, touches a strand of my newly short hair. “I like it.”

I find myself holding my breath. He touches me when we spar, but otherwise he’s the most withdrawn person I’ve ever met. My scalp tickles, and too soon, he seems to realize what he’s doing. His hand drops.

“It suits you,” he says.

Everything that comes from him is given sparingly like he’s shut off some warm, human part of himself to conserve it. He’s not a person of ready touches, words or smiles. For some reason, though, that just makes each touch, each syllable more important somehow. It all means something. I focus on my brand new short sword thing, trying to think of that and not the heat rising in my cheeks.

“So am I supposed to have epic sword duels with this?”

“Machete, not sword,” he corrects. “And no. Hopefully, the sight of it in your hand will stop you from dueling at all. That’s the point. Best way to avoid getting killed is to avoid fighting in the first place.”

“So my machete will do that… Despite being an HI-1?”

“You could change that hazard index.” His voice sounds strange. “You just won’t like what you’d have to do to raise it.”

I swallow and shake my head. I know what he’s implying. I’d need more blood on my hands. Shed publicly. Publicly enough that a few people notify central hunting databases that there are inherent risks to claiming my bounty.

I already see the bodies from the massacre when I close my eyes.

There are things I simply can’t do.

Not unless I have to.