Damage (3 page)

Oh no. She wouldn’t. Would she?

Nate smiles. “I’m cute when I sleep.”

“Who told you that?” Mina shifts closer. My teeth grind together. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t leave me to sit by myself. She knows I don’t have anyone else.

“My mom.” Nate blinks big brown eyes, wondering if Mina will get the joke.

Low laughter, a purr of approval, slips from Mina’s lips and curls on the seat next to Nate. Mina follows it a second later. “Fine, but if you snore and drool I’m recording it and posting it on YouTube.”

Panic dumps into my bloodstream and goes swimming through my veins, tightening my throat, curling my fingers, making my bladder ache even though I used the bathroom just before getting on the bus. The few feet of emptiness in front of me, where Mina and Nate were standing a second ago, stretches on for miles.

The girl behind me shoves at my shoulders with her hot breath.

I have to go, find another seat, but I can’t get my feet to move.

“You don’t mind, do you, Dani?” Mina’s blue eyes meet mine, wondering if I get the message. I do. I’m not nearly as oblivious as she thinks I am. She’s angry that I didn’t give Penny that letter, frustrated by the fact that I’m making her go see the Rockettes for the third year in a row.

This is my punishment.

I shake my head, tongue too thick to form words. Thankfully, my feet begin to move on their own, shuffling down the aisle. I reach the web of senior-girl wires and have to focus on stepping up and over, guiding my large feet safely down on the other side. The action calms me. Dance steps; it’s just like choreographed dance steps, a series of organized movements that will take me where I need to go, to the prearranged place on stage. There is no uncertainty, no need to be afraid.

I pretend I’m back in the theater, inhaling the scent of old plaster and aging wood, scuffing my toe shoes through the chalk near the curtain to keep from slipping on the slick, worn planks of the stage. I move smoothly with the other dancers of the corps de ballet in front of me, each of us dressed for practice in identical pink tights and black leotards, each one with hair slicked tight into a bun, virtually indistinguishable except for our varying heights.

When I’m a Rockette, even that will fade away. Rockettes all have to be between five six and five ten and a half and are arranged on stage in such a way that the audience barely notices the slight difference. They are costumed alike, makeupped alike, trained and creatively padded so that even their bodies seem identical.

And when they dance, they dance as one entity, in harmony, consuming the attention of every last person in their world while still remaining individually invisible.

Invisible, but seen. Anonymous, but beloved.

Sometimes my dream seems the stupidest thing in the world. Sometimes it is a secret treasure in my pocket.

My hands tremble on the worn leather of the seats on either side of the aisle, my eyes stare at the back window and the red emergency handle underneath. I’ve reached the end of the line.

“You okay?”

I turn toward the voice. It belongs to a boy, one I recognize, but not one of Mina’s conquests. Mina only pretends to be bad. In reality she has to be in by eleven, goes to mass every Sunday with her family, and babysits her two little half-brothers every Wednesday night so her mom and stepdad can have their “date night.” She’s never written a letter telling her stepdad she hates the way he says mean things about her biological father, she’s never snuck out her ground-floor window, and she’s never talked back to a teacher or turned in her homework a day late or worn her hair down to ballet class.

Her biggest act of defiance is perpetrated with an eyeliner pencil.

Not so with this boy. He is genuinely Bad. He was suspended twice last year, once for punching an assistant coach during lacrosse practice. At the time, everyone was certain he would be expelled for good. He’s a scholarship student. They’re expected to be on their best behavior, grateful for the gift they’ve been given. And even if his family was a top contributor to Madisonville Prep, there’s a strict “no violence” policy. We aren’t allowed to hit
each other
, let alone a teacher—even if he is just an assistant coach.

But come August, there he was, Jesse Vance in the flesh, hunched over the extracurricular activities registration table, signing up for the fall after-school sports programs. His short black hair stuck straight in the air the way it always had, his bright blue eyes were sharp and watchful, alien in a room full of people who had never considered whether they were predators or prey.

Well … most hadn’t considered it. If I let myself, I could remember. There’s a reason I play the diabetes card to get out of anything resembling a competitive sport in gym class.

Not so with Jesse. He plays every sport known to man and is extraordinary at every one. He’s six feet tall and built like a grown man, strong and solid and terrifying. I’ve seen what his body can do to other boys on the wrestling team, watched the contained violence in the way he wields his lacrosse stick.

We all suspect that athletic promise is the reason he was allowed to stay, though he’s probably dangerous and undoubtedly scary.

Jesse doesn’t have a single friend at Madisonville Prep. He’s the only boy I’ve ever seen who can play with a team, but not seem a part of it. He doesn’t joke or smile with the other boys, he doesn’t date any of the girls. He’s an outsider in every sense of the word. I see him on the town commons at least once a week, but he’s always alone. Not even the rougher, cooler, townie kids will come anywhere near him.

He might as well have yellow caution tape floating around his body.

“Are you okay?”

And he’s asking if I’m okay.

“Dani?”

And he knows my name.

His eyes slide to the front of the bus then back to me. “Sit down.” His hand closes around my wrist, completely encircling the bone. I have small bones, but his hands are huge. His fingers and thumb overlap, beginning a second journey around my arm. My diabetic bracelet slips down to brush against his skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Good. I don’t like people to know if I can help it. My diabetes is mild compared to what it was when I was a kid, but still … it’s something I like to keep secret. To ignore. Even as I make a mental note to eat the muffin in my backpack before too much longer, before the insulin shot I gave myself a few minutes ago in the bathroom kicks in, I manage to largely ignore the mathematics associated with diabetes management.

There is no ignoring the fact that Jesse is touching me. He’s looking up into my eyes, expecting an answer. Expecting action.

If someone had told me this was going happen, I would have been terrified. My panic attack after Mina’s dismissal would have faded to a tiny tremor on my radar in comparison to the earthquake of this interaction. A boy is
touching
me, and not just any boy, but Jesse Vance.

But this crept up on me unaware, this moment of being tugged down into the empty seat next to Jesse. His hand is warm and firm, but strangely gentle. It’s as if he knows how ridiculously hard the solo dance to the back of the bus was for me, as if he understands what it feels like to be breakable.

“It’s the last empty seat.” His tone is dismissive, but his fingers linger on my wrist before pulling away. He crosses his arms and turns toward the window, but his shoulders are so broad that his body still brushes against mine.

The place where we touch has a mini panic attack of its own. The skin beneath my sweater burns hot then cold, the nerve endings shredding and reforming themselves in the wake of this shocking new discovery.

The discovery that maybe separation isn’t as desirable as I’d thought, that maybe, just maybe, the gaps between people are meant to be bridged.

Jesse

For a second, I think about grabbing her and making a run for it. We could be out the back of the bus and into the woods behind the school before anyone notices we’re gone. The alarm doesn’t work. This is the same bus the lacrosse team uses for away games, and Coach disabled the alarm last spring so we could load our duffle bags and equipment from the back without listening to the thing scream. Dani and I could go. Run. Hide.

I could force her to come with me.

She’s tall, but thin. Physically strong—I could feel it when I grabbed her wrist—but emotionally weak. She almost lost it when her friend ditched her. She won’t fight or call for help. And when I tell her the truth, she might even believe me.

Dani isn’t like the others. I can tell she knows what it’s like to be afraid. She knows how many things there are to be afraid of.

“Thanks.” Her voice is deeper than I thought it would be, but pretty. It sounds like she’d be a good singer. “I’m Dani … guess you know that.”

Of course I know. She’s pale and a little too skinny and never wears a skirt or makeup, but she’s one of the prettiest girls at Madisonville Prep. Not hot, but beautiful in a simple kind of way. Her big brown eyes see everything and her hair is shiny like those girls in the shampoo commercials. I’ve always wondered if it’s as soft as it looks. It would have to be pretty soft to compete with her skin. Her skin was like tissue paper. I could feel the flutter of her pulse underneath it. I can still smell the soap and mint and flowers mixing in her perfume.

Or maybe it’s just shampoo. She doesn’t seem like the type who wears perfume. She doesn’t try that hard. It’s part of what makes her interesting.

Most people at Mad Prep don’t notice Dani, but I knew her name and basic details a few days after I enrolled. I know she has a pretty, blond stepmom who picks her up after school and a big deal doctor dad who is a Major Donor. I know that she’s some kind of dancer and that she would be one of the first people signed up for this stupid field trip.

I knew all that even before the man with her picture slipped me five hundred dollars to make sure she got on this bus.

I wasn’t planning to go to New York before that. It’s the last day of school before break; who wants to make it any longer than it has to be? Especially to go to a museum or some musical with one hundred dancing Santa Clauses or whatever the hell that Radio City thing is about.

Madisonville Prep dismisses at three forty-five; the bus from New York City won’t be back until after eight at night. It’s a no-brainer. It’s better to stay at school and watch a bunch of dumb movies or sleep in classes where the teachers couldn’t care less what you do now that finals are over, and be free four hours earlier.

But then, last Tuesday, the man gave me the money. Five hundred dollars. More money than I’ve ever held at once.

I go to an expensive school on scholarship and I live with people who’ve never earned more than twenty grand a year and don’t like spending much of it on me. Even the money the government gives them for allowing me to live there. I pay for a lot of my own food, and buy my own clothes and uniforms with money I earn working construction during the summer. I break my back for three months so I can spend the school year breaking the rest of the bones in my body. Playing three sports doesn’t leave much time for an after-school job.

My counselors at school say it will all be worth it in the end. I have decent grades, but I have star potential as an athlete. I’ll get a scholarship, change my life, and finally become something more than a foster kid or an “abuse survivor.” I’m a big deal. Scouts are already noticing, even though I’m just a junior.

At first, I thought the man was a college scout.

He was wearing a green warm-up suit, glasses, and a ball hat. He hung around for our entire soccer game against Ithaca High School, even when it started to rain halfway through. Most of the parents had gone to sit in their cars by the end, but the guy stayed. And gave me money to go on a field trip. And to make sure Danielle Connor went on it, too.

“You’re Jesse, right?” She picks at the skin around her cuticle. I can see her fingers out of the corner of my eye. I’m making her nervous.

Still, I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.

Run. We have to get off this bus.

She’ll think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. Maybe nothing is going to happen.

Right. Some old man in dark glasses gives you money to make sure a pretty girl gets on a school bus going to a big city. Nothing’s going to happen, there’s no way he’s going to grab her and lock her in some basement room and do things to her.