Broken (13 page)

“I’m sorry about your stuff,” I say to Jordan, not really knowing what to say but figuring that’s a start.

“Don’t worry about it.” He hands me my jacket. “Doesn’t look too bad. You can probably get it out in the wash.”

“Hopefully before my dad sees it. It’s his.”

Tony is watching us and the crowd, which has diminished greatly. Escaping school for the day trumps witnessing our humiliation, I guess. “So,” he says. “I’ll call you later.”

Jordan jerks his chin. Could he be jealous? Or just protective? Do the guys I meet fall under his peer-mentoring purview?

“Right. That’ll be good.” I’m trying to sound nonchalant about a boy calling me and failing miserably. I squeeze my fingernails into my palms to get myself to shut up before I say something even more lame.

Tony nods and leaves. If I hadn’t been watching him, I never would have realized that a nod can mean both “hello” and “good-bye” in guy-talk. Kinda like Hawaiian, I guess.

“Oh my God, what happened?” No mistaking Nessa’s meaning. She’s shrieking as she pushes past the stream of students heading toward the door. “Who did this? Jordan, your stuff! Hey, it’s not funny!” She yells the last to a pair of snickering cheerleaders strolling past.

Celina is behind her—I almost missed her, the way Nessa commands all of your attention and energy and focus. She would’ve made a great Diva. Unlike me, who works so hard to deflect people’s attention.

Of course, that was before I crossed paths with Mitch Kowlaski.

Celina surprises me. She doesn’t withdraw or hide inside her hoodie. Instead, she calmly observes the damage, takes the note from me, and opens it.

FREAKS DIE FIRST.

There’s a lightning bolt piercing the words. It reminds me of the Nazi SS insignia. I can’t help a shudder.

“They’re jerks,” Celina says. “They wouldn’t dare actually hurt anyone.”

“You really think so? Shouldn’t we take it to the principal or something?” I ask.

“We’ll just escalate things if we involve the authorities. Especially with no proof,” Celina says. “But document it first.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask her.

“Her mom was a cop,” Nessa answers, taking the note from her and peering at it as if she could find DNA evidence with her gaze.

“
Is
a cop,” Celina corrects. She shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. The way her tone drops, I’m surprised she hasn’t pulled her hood up.

“Is a cop.” Nessa’s smile is uncertain, like she’s not sure which way Celina is headed and wants to steer her right.

Nessa pulls out her phone and takes pictures of the note and the damage. Celina and I run to the restroom and grab a bunch of paper towels to mop everything up with. A few minutes later, the only traces that remain are the ketchup stains on our clothing.

Then I realize Jordan’s vanished. “Where’d he go?”

“Guess he’s had enough embarrassment for the day.” Nessa’s frown is back.

Celina stares down the now-empty hallway. “I worry about him sometimes.”

“Being stuck with us isn’t easy.” Nessa sighs.

I close the now-empty locker, hugging my dad’s jacket, ketchup stain turned inside.

“I have to get home,” Celina says. “See you guys tomorrow.”

Nessa and I walk Celina to the front doors where she runs and jumps on a bus. The same bus I’d be riding if I were normal.

When we go back inside, the school feels different. Ten minutes ago, it was swarming with students, voices bouncing from every surface, bodies jostling for position. And now? Empty except for the faint sound of music coming from the auditorium. Chorus or drama. Whichever it is, the music is low, creeping along the floors like fog through a graveyard.

If this were a movie, this is when the lights would go out and the killer would spring out from the shadows.

I take the opportunity to ask Nessa about Celina’s mom. “You said Celina’s mom is dying. What happened? Was she shot or something?”

In the movies and books, cops are always getting shot and coming back to work too soon. Then post-traumatic stress hits and they get drummed off the force until they prove themselves or become hard-boiled PIs or kick-ass vigilantes fighting vampires and demons…

Nessa interrupts my steamrolling imagination. “No, she didn’t get shot. She got cancer.”

We’re passing the library and I pull up short. “Cancer?”

I’m regretting my flight of fantasy. Lacking in the basic social skills, that’s what they’d say. If we were still in kindergarten. I’m reminded again of how much I’ve missed and need to catch up on—far more than schoolwork.

“She’s in hospice care. Has been for a month. They keep saying it could be any time now and Celina keeps—well, anyway, it’s a lot of ups and downs.”

“I know how that is.” We start moving again. I’m following Nessa’s lead and realize she’s brought me to the doors beside the gym. Through the windows, I see a blur of motion outside. My brain goes ker-klunk as I finally put the pieces together.

“Jordan went to fight the boys who vandalized our locker.”

“Of course he did.” Nessa’s smiling as she reaches for the door handle. She enjoys having a Prince Charming fighting her battles, but I’m not so sure about the idea.

“Nessa, we have to stop them.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Someone might get hurt.”

“I guarantee it won’t be Jordan. His dad is a police sergeant, works with Celina’s mom. And his two big brothers are Marines. He knows what he’s doing.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” She turns to face me, crossing her arms over her chest and blocking the door from me. “Say we go get your mom or a security guard or someone. They’ll suspend everyone, including Jordan. Maybe even press criminal charges. All of which will go on his permanent record. Do you want that?”

“No, but—”

“Then after Jordan’s suspended or arrested or grounded or whatever, do you think Mitch and Keith Young and their friends are going to magically make us their BFFs? No. It’ll encourage them. They’ll escalate things, only now we won’t have Jordan to protect us.”

“But it was just some ketchup—”

She’s shaking her head, hard. “No. It wasn’t. You and Jordan got the PMS treatment. You didn’t hear what they did to Celina after lunch in gym class. They stole her clothes, shoved them in the toilet—an unflushed toilet. She had to wear her gym shorts and take her stuff to the home skills lab to wash them. And of course, the video is already all over school.”

We burst through the doors and find five guys in front of the tiny alley where the equipment shed sits beside the gymnasium wall. At first I’m thinking it’s a strange place for a fight, but then Jordan’s head pops into view over the shoulders of the other boys, and I realize he’s chosen this corner carefully: it puts his back to a wall and the opening is narrow enough the guys can’t gang up on him.

There’s the thud of someone hitting the ground. I cringe. Nessa cheers, so the someone couldn’t have been Jordan. She pushes her way through the boys. I follow, my pack thumping over the uneven grass, wheels catching on clods of mud, half dreading what I’ll see.

The boys watching are all wearing football practice uniforms. They jeer at us, but no one actually lays a hand on us. Nice to see they still have some civil manners. Or maybe we’re simply beneath their notice. No threat.

We get to the front and I’m surprised to see Jordan isn’t alone. Tony is with him, wrestling with his own football player, each trying to push the other’s face into the mud. Jordan’s opponent is down but not out. There’s not much maneuvering room in the cramped space, but he manages to grab Jordan’s leg and topple him to the ground.

I’ve been at the center of emergencies, but never before had to respond to one. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. There’s no sign of blood—not yet—and it seems to be more of a tussle than an actual fight, but as the crowd starts calling out encouragement, well, it’s not hard to see where things are headed. Nessa isn’t helping any, launching herself at Jordan’s opponent when he throws mud in Jordan’s eyes. Two of the other jocks pull her off, screaming.

I’m paralyzed. I have never been this close to violence in my life. My heart is thundering so it feels like a herd of horses stampeding inside my chest. My blood sings with adrenaline along with a hefty portion of fear that makes my stomach queasy and my mind slow to a drunken stumble. I stand there, clutching my pack with Phil inside. So much for carrying life-saving fashion accessories.

The crowd moves, ebbing and flowing with the combatants, pushing me along with them. It’s a frightening feeling; any one of these boys is twice my size. I fight my way to the fringe of the crowd and catch my breath. One of the boys stands alone in the back. He’s not watching the fight. He’s watching me.

Keith Young. Mitch’s buddy.

I lean on my pack’s handle, gasping in a few deep breaths, clearing my head, and slowing my heart. I remember my cell phone and grab it. It’s not as fancy as Nessa’s, no video, but it does have a camera. I start to take pictures of everyone. At first I sneak the shots, palming my phone and aiming it. A few guys notice but do nothing, so I grow bolder. I hold the phone to my face. It feels like a shield or maybe a superhero’s mask I can hide behind. Put some distance between me and the violence.

“Stop!” I shout, my voice cracking like a cheap tin whistle.

One guy tries to grab the phone, but I back away. “Don’t you touch her,” someone yells. I’m not sure if it’s Tony or Jordan. But then Nessa’s there, standing firm between me and the others. Suddenly so are Jordan and Tony, guarding my flank.

I’m out of breath even though all I did was snap a few pictures. “I think you’d better all leave now.”

“What if we don’t want to?” Keith says, finally pushing off the wall and sauntering to the front of the pack. “You show those photos to anyone and your friends here are toast.” He extends a hand, palm up. “Give me the phone and no one gets hurt. At least not today.”

The jocks rear up, hoping I’ll call his bluff. It feels like the air is being sucked into a vortex as we wait. Time stretches to the breaking point.

I have no idea what to do—give up the phone and make all of us fair game for them tomorrow? Or stand my ground and risk getting hurt today? I remember Celina, the way she refused to back down.

I tighten my fingers around the phone. “No.”

My voice still isn’t back to normal, but it’s less shrill.

Keith’s pack of wildcats leans forward, ready to pounce, waiting for his command. Jordan and Tony tense on either side of me. Nessa reaches for my hand, her grip sweaty.

“What’s going on here?” My mom is standing in the doorway. “You kids, go on now. You know you shouldn’t be here.”

Unlike my amped-up squeak of a voice, Mom’s is just like the voice of the nurses in the hospital when they’re calming down an angry patient or parent. When I see them like that, I always think of that scene in
To
Kill
a
Mockingbird
when Atticus takes on the rabid dog, all calm and in control, and I wonder how grownups learn to do that. Or Celina—it was exactly the way she’d defused things earlier. Damn, she needs to teach me how she does it.

“Just go now.” Mom uses that same, level,
don’t be stupid
tone.

Keith Young nods, looking from me to Mom then back to me, his gaze lingering and making me feel like I need a shower.

He purses his lips as if whistling some invisible note only football players can hear. Whatever he’s communicating, they listen. They pull back their shoulders, not to throw a punch but to salvage their pride, and pivot, heading off toward the playing fields like they’re one organism with a bunch of hands and feet. And one brain: Keith’s. They’re even congratulating themselves, clapping each other on the back.

But a few look back over their shoulders to glare at me, still holding the phone containing the evidence that could damn them, and I know it’s not over.

In fact, I’m pretty sure Nessa’s right. By interfering, I’ve made things worse.

“I’d like an explanation,” Mom says.

We look at each other. Jordan speaks up. “It was just a misunderstanding, Mrs. Killian.”

She glares at each of us in turn. Then she narrows her eyes at me. “Scarlet, I expected more from you. Nessa, I’ll give you a ride home. Time to go.” She doesn’t wait for us but turns and leaves.

“We’ll be right there,” Nessa calls, waving a hand cheerily as the door closes behind Mom. I gaze at her in admiration, envious of her acting skills.

Mom didn’t even bother to check my vitals. I’m glad, since she’d probably overreact to my racing heart and call an ambulance or something. But still, it’s puzzling. And how did she even know we were here?

The others slowly relax. Not me. Me, I’m like a jack-in-the-box wound so tight I’m ready to launch into orbit. My hands shake so hard I drop the handle to my pack, letting it fall to the dirt. Would’ve dropped the phone as well, but Nessa takes it from me and slides it back into its pocket alongside Phil.

“What were you thinking?” Jordan says, whirling on me. His voice isn’t loud but it feels loud. I recoil as if taking a blow.

“I was thinking it might be nice not to watch two of my friends get beaten up by a bunch of Neanderthals,” I answer.

Nessa takes his side. “Nothing was going to happen. Those guys are all show. They’d never risk getting kicked off the team or missing the game Friday. Jordan had to stand up to them or things would only get worse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you,” Jordan says, “don’t know half of what went on—”

“Nessa told me about Celina.”

“You think what you did today is going to help Celina? Think you can waltz in, your first week here, and just fix everything? You have no idea.” He spins on his heel and stalks off.

“Jordan, wait!” Nessa calls after him, but he just flicks his hand in our direction and keeps on going.

I watch him leave but have no idea what to say. Other than that he was right. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Had no clue.

Tony stands beside me, his weight bouncing from one foot to the other as if he wants to run. He’s plastered in mud and grass but doesn’t seem to notice. “Guess I should get going,” he finally says. “See you tomorrow?”

He leaves before I can answer. Nessa hauls my pack through the door, giving me the silent treatment. But she does hold the door open for me, even if she isn’t meeting my eyes. Somehow I feel ashamed, like this is all my fault and I’ve done something horribly wrong, betrayed my friends, especially Celina.

My stomach is hollowed out with fear. My first week in school and I might have already lost the only friends I have.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Nessa.

She looks over her shoulder to the door behind us then she gives me a hard look, like she’s deciding something. Finally she turns her back on the door and shrugs. “C’mon, I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”

That’s when I realize that the other door, the one she turned to stare at, is the door leading into the gymnasium. Where her sister died.