Because of You (8 page)

I don’t want to talk about this. It infuriates me that I don’t have more sense, more control over my reaction to him. A person can change a lot in seven years. I’ve changed. The last time he saw me I’d been a happy, altruistic, glass-half-full kind of girl.

Not anymore.

Plus, he doesn’t remember me.

His number on that piece of paper is there for one reason and one reason only. He wants to hook up. But I’m not that kind of girl.

I take the elevator up to the tenth floor. Gina follows. I cross my arms and turn away.

She doesn’t say anything until we’re in our room.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She sits on her bed, and I finally take the time to really look at her. Not too many minutes ago she was a ball of broken curled on her bed, hugging a teddy bear to death. Her eyes are still kind of wild, and she’s jittery. I’m guessing too much coffee.

“Never mind.” I pick up my biology book, a spiral notebook, and a pencil. “I’ve got biology. What about you?”

She flips on her stereo, blaring it loud, and I get the feeling she’s mad.

“Gina?” I touch her on the arm.

She jumps, like I’ve physically hurt her. I quickly tuck my hands behind my back.

She rubs her nose with a finger, sniffles. “I don’t have another class until one o’clock.” She picks up her purse and goes to the door. “I’ve got to pee. Want to meet at Perky’s for lunch?”

“Sure,” I reply, but she’s already gone.

Maddie

t’s been a week since I’ve seen Kyle, and I’m glad.

So glad.

Not! My insides ache for him.

I search for him, too. Especially in the cafeteria, and at English. He’s the TA of Ms. Spears’ class. Doesn’t that mean he’s required to be there? He isn’t around, though. I can’t help but wonder why. Is he okay? Is he avoiding me?

I’ve been keeping busy. Going to my classes, practicing piano, and doing homework. Professor Jenkins, my music teacher, loved the piece I played for him. Said I have a real future—whatever that means—and asked me to play a duet for the end of year Winter Gala. I agreed, of course. Playing will guarantee me another full ride scholarship. Next Monday I’m supposed to meet my partner so we can choose our song and begin practicing together. The Professor didn’t give me a name. He was mysterious about it or maybe he was vague because he isn’t sure who my partner will be yet.

The prospect of doing something musical calms my nerves. It means less time to spend thinking about Kyle. Less time to pine for the remnant of a guy I fell for seven years ago.

I hope.

Because it seems no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about him.

The paper he wrote his phone number on is folded small and stuffed in my back pocket. It feels like a fifty-pound weight. Every time I move, I feel it. I keep pulling it out, studying it, deliberating.

In the coffee shop.

On a bench in the Mall.

In my room after Gina is asleep.

When I get out of the shower.

I want to throw it away. Toss it, and every thought of Kyle, right in the trash. I manage to do it once. Five minutes later, I pulled it out.

“Why don’t you burn it?” Gina asks when she walks into our room and catches me staring at it again. She pulls a lighter from her pocket and flicks it on. “Go on, set the sucker on fire.”

Like a moth I move toward the flame, holding the paper out. It’s a good idea. If I torch it the unpleasant thing will be gone, and I can’t gawk anymore, even if I want to.

The heat licks my fingers and catches the edge of the paper on fire. But I can’t go through with it. I blow it out.

Smoke caresses the air, twirls it in its arms, and all I can think about is Kyle.

“Damn it,” I say, grabbing my music.

“You can run but you can’t hide,” she laughs, sniffs.

I glare. “I can try,” I say, heading to the door. Before I open it, I ask, “Are you sick?”

Her nose has been runny for days. Since the day after the party. I’m concerned.

Gina shakes her head, clears her throat. “Maybe a cold or allergies. All the freakin’ tumbleweeds are getting to my sinuses.” She grabs a tissue and blows her nose.

“What about the other day? We still haven’t talked about it. Is everything okay?”

She waves me off but I catch a glimmer of sadness cross her face. “I’m good. Better than good actually, and Friday night we party again.”

“I’m not—”

“No excuses. I’m going to give you a makeover.”

I nod and push my lips into a smile. “Sounds fun.” It doesn’t sound fun. I’m worried about her idea of a makeover. But I get the feeling she needs something to look forward to.

I close the door and walk to the elevators. Several others students enter as well.

When the doors are closed a girl with straight black hair asks, “What’s burning?”

She’s searching the elevator for the culprit. I’m guessing she smells the burnt edges of the paper tucked away in my pocket. I keep my eyes down, staring at all the shoes. Converse equals easygoing. Docs are the equivalent of rebel. High, strappy heels? She’s trying way too hard.

I look up. Her effort seems to be working. The guys take turns ogling her. I’m a phantom, a ghost loitering in the back. No biggie. I prefer it that way. Really, I do.

A phone vibrates, and one of the guys pulls his cell out of his pocket. His fingers click across the screen. He’s texting.

That’s another thing. I don’t have a cell. My aunt and uncle don’t believe in them, and I can’t afford one on my own. Gina already told me I could use hers to call Kyle, but I turned her down. I could also use the phone in the commons area. Neither option sounds appealing, and I’m glad.

Really.

I’m truly happy about my choices.

I don’t want to talk to Kyle. I won’t call him. Why should I be the one to instigate a conversation when he doesn’t even remember who I am?

If he wants to talk, he can make the effort.

Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me.

Please find me.

Kyle

“You’re an idiot. How are you my son?”

He backhands me across the face. Shoves me into the counter. Pain explodes behind my eyes making them water. And I see light like fireworks go off inside my head.

It feels like my jaw has been broken, but it probably isn’t. Broken bones would mean a trip to the hospital and dad wouldn’t want that.

I don’t say anything. There’s no point when he gets like this.

“Are you deaf?” He punches me between the shoulder blades, and my cheek slams into the cupboard.

More painful fireworks behind my watering eyes. Pain pulses like an extra heartbeat in the center of my back, but I stay quiet.

“You have one job. One damn job.” He picks up the pot of burnt spaghetti and throws it at me. “Can’t even cook spaghetti. Pathetic. Your mother is probably rolling over in her grave. Embarrassed she gave birth to someone so dumb.”

The hot pan strikes my back, and a searing agony makes me yell out against my will. Red sauce is everywhere. I turn around, watch him pour himself a shot—his fourth, or eighth, or twelfth—and gulp it down. “Make me something I can eat.” He takes the vodka bottle and the shot glass and leaves the kitchen.

It takes me more than an hour to get all the red sauce, water, and noodles wiped up. My back feels like it’s on fire. I do my best to ignore it. When I’m finished, I make my dad a ham and cheese
sandwich and set it on the table. If things have gone the way they normally do, he’ll be passed out on the couch.

Sure enough, he’s asleep, the bottle drooping in one hand, empty. I cover him with a blanket and go to my room.

I carefully take off my shirt. I turn toward the mirror over my dresser, trying to see the damage on my back. It’s angry red. Red sauce is in my hair, on my back and jeans, but I don’t care. Now that I’m alone I let the tears fall. Exhausted, I fall face first onto my bed and am almost asleep when there’s a light tapping on my window, and it slides open.

Maddie crawls through and flips on the lamp next to my bed. I hear her gasp.

“Is he passed out?” she asks. No need to specify. We both know who she’s referring to.

I nod, sniffle, and turn so I can see her face.

She strokes my forehead where I’m sure there’s a bruise from its collision course with the cupboard. “Be right back.”

I don’t say anything. Just let the tears fall. When she comes back through my window she’s carrying her first aid kit. If I weren’t in so much pain I’d tease her about it.

“How long ago did this happen?” She sits on the bed next to me.

I shrug. Look at the clock. “Maybe a couple hours.”

She sighs. “In that case, I’m going to apply some aloe ointment.”

She unscrews the lid on a tube and squeezes clear stuff onto her fingers.

“It doesn’t look like it’s blistered. Only a little red. But this still might hurt. I’m sorry.” With fingers light as feathers, she spreads the cooling liquid over the burn. It does hurt, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.