Broken (21 page)

“He is, Mom.”
Might be g
ra
bbing at straws with her, but I’
ll take what I can get.

“Don’t
get
too
comfortable
,” she says, but the
angry edge has left her. “Jury’
s still out on Alex Franks.”

Tell me about it.

Does he like me? Is he just a rebound? Where did the sense of history come from I feel whenever he’s near?

Despite the questions I can’t wipe the image of his face from my mind. In that moment by the door, he looked like he had kissed me a thousand times, and yet never. He looked like he wanted to, and wanted to prolong the wait.

He looked like he already knew I was his.

Chapter Seventeen

Mom’s crabby mood filters through the house after dinner, washing up the stairs, cresting at the second floor. Renfield and I seek escape in my room, where moonlight and shadow dance on my
carpet
.
Faeries flit like dark fey across my quilt when I plug my cell phone into the
power cord
. It’s becoming a habit to forget to charge it.

Chill drafts eddy and swirl around my toes where I stand by the window and stare down Seventh Street. Mr. and Mrs. Jones are outside, with a ladder
,
a flash light
,
and I
’m sure
,
plenty of cussing. He’
s
on
the ladder
propped
against the tree, she has the flash light pointed at him, rather than the witch-in-a-tree
he
seems to be trying to liberate from it
s
oak-bound position.
Mrs. Wendle, further down, is stuffing the rotting jack-o’-lanterns into her garbage can.
No
more
leering pumpkins seeing their echo in me.

Autumn is over
.
November
s are
fickle, but the constant chill in the air tells me the dying is done. Now comes the frigid death of a Michigan winter,
bitter winds, suffocating snow.

My cell phone display screen lights up like the Fourth of July when the battery finally gets enough juice to take calls.
The notification tones set the pink bit of electronics staggering like a mugging victim across my desk. One look confirms my suspicions:

Bree Ransom
.

Bree Ransom
.

Bree Ransom
.

And then one I secretly hope for:

Alex Franks
.

I click through the
texts
from
Bree
:
Hey. Call me
.
Next is
,
Hellooo
?
Did you forget to charge your phone again
?
?
And then finally,
Word on the street is Alex Franks walked you home. You two going out yet?
I know there isn’t sugar in Diet Coke, but there is caffeine. I wonder just how many cans she had between text one and text three? I hit Reply and type:
He did walk me home. Stayed for dinner too. Mom hates him, of course. No, we aren’t going out.
Then, I click Send.

Next, I click on Alex’s text:
Why can’t I get you out of my head? You’re my dream, Emma, and I don’t ever want to wake up.

How on earth do I respond to that? I can’t tell him he has the starring role in the worst nightmares I’ve ever had.
Do I tell him he isn’t a dream for me, but a memory I’ve almost forgotten?
E
motions tumble around loose inside me, rattling against my bones, bruising my heart.
There’s definitely a wrong way to respond, but is there a right?

I press Reply, then type:
I’ve wondered the same thing. I’ll hold back the dawn as long as I can.
Thinking maybe I shouldn’t,
I click Send.

Like the last time I made some silly, poetic promise, I agonize over what I just did. Will he roll his eyes and think I’m just some lovestruck girl? God help me, I feel like one.

My cell’s standard notification tone chirps in my hand.

Alex Franks
.

I click through to the message.

I’ll hold you to that. I don’t want to do this alone.

Do what? Regardless, my fingers act on their own agenda, and type:
You are not alone. See you after school tomorrow?

The wait is short.

I’ll be waiting.

A dreamless sleep leads me to weak gray dawn bleeding through my curtains. After my nightmares, blank sleep is a blessing. However,
I w
a
ke to Alex’s face behind my eyes, and his voice whispering in my mind. “It doesn’t beat for me,” he’d said. Then last night he’d texted,
You’re my dream, Emma, and I don’t ever want to wake up.

School
is my new nightmare
,
the ra
b
ble and push
devoid of Alex
.
I
sleepwalk
through
the day
to get to the afternoon and sweeter dreams.

G
lanc
ing
at the pristine inside of my new locker,
I wonder for a minute
if I should etch something on the inside in honor of Alex.
The metal stretches
unspoiled
from top to bottom, the locking mechanism in perfect working order.
I think I like the image the blank slate gives—limitless potential.

Bree
, well-
aware I won’t be at her house for homework,
waves
and makes rude kissy faces at me
from the Performing Arts hall
.
Alex is going to h
elp me. He’s out there waiting, and the
knowledge fills me with an aching kind of longing. I can
’t
get out of the building fast enough.

Alex lounges on the Bree Bench, reminding me of how he seems to shun and attract attention.
H
ands stuffed in his pockets,
normal thin hood
ie traded for a heavier weight, ivory knit one.
Face framed in th
e pale ivory, shadowed beneath b
y
the rich cocoa color of his leather jacket make
s
his
hazel
s
really pop—like that color combo always did for Daniel.

The familiar feeling swells
and ripple
s
through me, like going home after a
long,
stressful trip.
My heart flutters in a way I’ve never felt,
and I’m not sure
I
will again.
The same look of wonder crosses his face, then his scarred visage softens into that tender expression.
His shadow drapes me
when he stands.

“Hey.”

Questions crowd my mind and force my mouth into automatic response mode.

“Hi.”

He hold
s out his hand, empty
with his
palm up, offering not asking. I lift mine to his, h
overing it there, feeling the muted tickle of electricity dancing
in the air between our skin
. His smile grows, tu
gging at his scars, and I think,
Alex knows what I feel
. He’s trying to tell me something, show me, without saying anything.

Warmth builds, energy pulses when
I settle my hand on his, palm to palm
. How can he steal my breath just by knitting our fingers together and turning our hands?

“Aw. How cute!” comes
nasty and hateful from t
he street, issuing from the approaching crappy, rust-bucket Camaro Z-28.
Crimson glows from the traffic light a
t the intersection, trapping Josh.
Stationary, he’s a still life painting of the losing guy in a fight: a
black eye discoloring his face, and white, white tap
e
o
ver his lumpy nose. “Asshole!” h
e shouts and shakes a fist out the window.

Sometimes, the best responses are silent
.
Alex
pulls me close and then gives Josh a middle finger salute
—a
move I loosely translate as, “She’s mine
,
so screw you!”

Livid, ugly red flushes w
hat isn’t black-and-blue on Josh’s face
.
The light above him turns green, and
sour blats peal from the
car
horn behind him
. A stream of cussing lo
uder than the exhaust system pours from the windows when the car backfires and the
n
lurches sluggishly ahead.

Then it hits me. Josh looks like someone beat the crap out of him. I shift my gaze to Alex’s face, coursing the planes of his cheeks, the curve of his lips, the structure of his eyes. Nothing but the surgical scars. No black eye. No scab on his bottom lip. It’s as if he never got into that fight
at the dance
.

My long stare becomes obvious. Alex’s
expression hardens slightly, he fidgets and nearly lets go of my hand. I tighten my fingers around his.

“What?” he asks,
eyebrows and lips tilted down
.

I can’t ply him with questions here. Instead, I
lift a shoulder in a half-
shrug, and try for nonchalant.

“I thought I wouldn’t see Josh
this week
,
”
I huff.

“Suspensions are supposed to work that way,” Alex intones with a heavy note of sarcasm.
“Not allowed on school property, or
within
a hundred feet of it, or something like that.”

“Look how well that works for you.” I squeeze his hand.

“I’m a ghost,” he says, and
rubs his thumb along my finger i
n reply.
“No one sees me.”

“Oh
,
yes
,
they do.”
Oh
,
yes
,
I do
.

He
’s there every time I close my eyes,
haunt
ing
my thoughts. And from his text last night, I must frequent his
,
too.

People retreating from November’s chill fill Mugz-n-Chugz
, the Ins,
the Outs, t
he Sports, he
c
k, even the Thespian Millers
. Normal chatter stutters, then dies. All eyes are on our clasped hands.
This
, I think,
is how the rumors
really
start.
And they do.
Words whisk
up
,
breezing from
cluster
to cluster, division between the Crowds momentarily forgotten
.

“Heartless.”

“Tramp.”

“I knew she was easy.”

Vicious, nasty words, taking lives of their own.

Let them gossip. The gentle pressure of Alex’s hand, and the hum coming through his touch are worth it.

“Hiya.” Lydia’s behind the counter and mercifully doesn’t br
ing Tiny’s attention our way. “B
reve with caramel for Emma…”

“Make that two, please.” Then he looks at me. “Biscotti? Cookies?”

“Just the coffee
s, Lydia.”

“Coming right up.” Her long black brain swings like a whip when she turns to fill our order.

“You’re going to spoil me, y’know.”

He smiles, manipulating our hands till he pins m
y
arm behind me, and my curves to his hard lines. Tingles race up and down my body.
The smell of Alex and leather coat my throat.
Alex’s
words are
warm on my lips when he locks eyes with me and says, “That’s not the worst thing I can do…”

A b
lush ravages my face. His
slow smile radiates a palpable heat
. “Your freckles are so cute when you blush.”

“Ahem.” Lydia clears her throat.