Don't You Wish (20 page)

“Chump charity,” Ryder chokes between fake coughs.

I glare at Ryder, but Charlie ignores them all. “Let’s go, Ayla. There’s a line.”

Ryder gets a few steps ahead of us, but turns at Charlie’s words.

“ ‘Let’s go, Ayla,’ ” he repeats, a sniveling mock in his voice. “What is this, a community service project for you, Ay?”

The boys around him snort with laughter, but I walk to the side. Instantly Ryder steps out and blocks me. I’m gripping the plastic tray so tight, I can feel the rim making a dent in my palm. “Get out of my way, Ryder.”

“Are you headed back to his cardboard box to hump the homeless?”

Charlie moves forward. “Shut the hell up, Bransford.”

Ryder looks down at Charlie’s tray, and a cold chill goes through me. I’m not even sure what Ryder is capable of. Swinging a punch? Spitting? I don’t want to find out.

“Charlie.” I put my hand on his arm. “Let’s go.”

Time freezes for a minute as the two of them stare at each other, but Charlie steps away first, and we walk side by side, with every eye in the cafeteria on us.

“Find a seat,” I say softly to him.

“You can go to your table,” he says. “You don’t need to stay with me.”

But I do. I want to. “I’m not welcome at that table anymore,” I say, slipping into the first empty seat I see. “Sit with me.”

He avoids my gaze as he takes the chair across from me, silently opening a milk container. None of the kids at my regular table drink anything but soda or energy drinks, and I find his choice oddly endearing.

“I’m not going to let him ruin my french fries,” I say, attempting lightness when I feel anything but.

Charlie eats in silence, his shoulders squared with tension, and all I want to do is reach over and put my hand on his to somehow reassure him.

A huge eruption of laughter from the far side of the cafeteria pulls our attention to a long table under the window. My so-called friends are raucous, forced to eat inside because it’s raining.

“He’s a jerk,” I say, vaguely aware that a door has opened across the cafeteria and two of the janitors are rolling a dolly full of boxes and supplies toward the bathrooms.

“No kidding.” Charlie gulps his milk.

“I wouldn’t let them bother you.”

“They don’t bother me,” he shoots back. “That freaking lunch lady does.”

“Oh, that? That was …” But I can tell by the look on his face, it wasn’t nothing. “A misunderstanding, obviously.”

He closes his eyes, finishes his sub, and rolls up his trash. “I gotta go. I need to make a call.”

I swallow a fry, which has lost any appeal whatsoever. “Okay,” I say weakly.

“Sorry to leave you sitting here alone,” he says, and I believe him. But he’s grabbing his tray and books. “Thanks for lunch,” he mumbles.

“Charlie.” I look up at him, and he finally holds my gaze, his eyes angry and fierce. “I understand how you feel.”

“Really, Ayla, I appreciate your kindness. I get you’re not what or who I thought you were. But there’s no way in hell you understand.”

An ache washes over me, and without even realizing it, I close my hand over his. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“Yeah? Maybe I can find out sometime.”

For a wild instant, I want to tell him. But then I’m aware of an eerie quiet in the cafeteria, and I don’t have to look around to know what’s going on. Once again, Ayla Monroe is providing the school entertainment, and I sure as heck am not going to add to the swirling rumors with a confession like the one that’s on my lips.

“See ya.” Charlie slides his hand out from under mine and walks away, and the soft buzz of students rises again. I watch him cross the cafeteria and pause at the door to the boys’ bathroom. He holds it open for the janitors who are leaving, then goes in.

Feeling ridiculous and alone and foolish, I look down at my fries, which are cold and dry by now. I stare at them for a long minute. When I look up again, Ryder and two of his friends are on their way into the bathroom.

No. Oh, God, no. Did Charlie get out? Every muscle in my body wants to do something, to stop them, to call out, but I freeze, just staring at the door as it closes behind Ryder.

This can’t end well.

I glance around, aware that some kids are getting up to leave. Others are watching the bathroom like I am, but most are clueless about what’s going on. Off to the far side, the table where I would have sat is emptying. I see the back of Bliss’s blond head as she leaves, already surrounded by what used to be my posse.

I’m immobilized, alone at my table, waiting. The bell rings, and the rest of the students are up, shuffling, laughing, talking, texting. But the bathroom door is still closed.

I glance around for a teacher; there’s no one but Lunch Lady, who’s oblivious, refilling a napkin holder. Not that she’d do anything for Charlie, anyway.

Slowly I stand, willing the door to open, and willing Charlie—safe and whole—to come cruising out.

The cafeteria is almost empty, just a few band kids gathering up their instruments. I see Candi Woodward talking to a boy, and I wonder, could one of them help me? Could I ask that boy to go into the bathroom and see if Charlie is okay?

Ryder wouldn’t hurt him, would he?

But the band kids leave without even looking at me, and I’m the last person in the cafeteria.

Finally, the door swings open with a vicious push from the inside, and Ryder’s two friends stumble out, guffawing and high-fiving.

“Total ownage!” one says, giving knuckles to the other.

What did they do to him?

Ryder is behind them, urging them out, darting glances around the cafeteria. He stops when he sees me, and gives me an ugly smile.

When he and his friends walk out of the cafeteria, I don’t even hesitate. I go right to the boys’ bathroom.

I see the urinals as I inch the door open, and some stall doors are open. “Charlie?” I call tentatively. He has to be in here.

“Mmmm!” The sound is muffled, coming from the last stall.

I head back to the wide handicap door. It’s locked and all I can see underneath is one of the large paper towel boxes that the janitors just delivered. “Charlie?”

The box scoots to the left. Oh, God. He’s in it. I stick my head farther under the door to see duct tape securing every crack in the box. Those stupid jerks taped him into the box.

He grunts again.

And they taped his mouth. And probably his hands and feet, or he would have—

The box shudders again, as if Charlie is shimmying and kicking with all his might. I consider getting a teacher or the custodian, but before I give that much thought, I’m pushing myself under the locked stall door, turning my face so it doesn’t accidentally brush the floor as I force my way in to help him.

Without saying a word, I start ripping the tape, popping the top in less than a few seconds. He’s curled into a ball, arms, legs, and mouth covered with duct tape.

The juvenile bastards.

He looks up at me, his eyes damp. My heart just about collapses, and I help him out, whispering something encouraging and soft, but not really certain what I’m saying because my hands are shaking and I just want to get him out and be sure he can breathe.

I get the tape off his hands, and he rips the one from his mouth. “Assholes,” he mutters, yanking at what’s left of the tape.

“I’m sorry.” I reach for the lock to open the door and give us air and space.

He grabs my arm. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is, Charlie. He’s after you because we’re friends.”

He searches my face, all sign of his tears gone, but his eyes are still bright. Irate, embarrassed, stinging with emotion. “Are you my friend?” he asks softly.

“Of course.” I feel heat crawling up me, completely unexpected and unnerving. “I don’t brave boys’ bathroom floors for just anyone.”

He almost smiles, that kind of half smile that I noticed the first time I saw him. It does something to my pulse. His
hand still on my arm, I give the lock a push to slide it open, but that just makes him grip me tighter.

“Are you?” he asks again.

“I just told you—”

“Prove it.”

I back up, not at all sure what he means. “How?”

“There’s someone … something …” He takes a breath, closing his eyes, corralling his thoughts. “I want to take you somewhere.”

I don’t even hesitate. “All right.”

“Now.”

I try to swallow, but my throat is bone-dry. All I can do is stare at him, aware of something magnetic and warm in the air, like static electricity, only there’s nothing static about it. It’s alive and real and zipping all over my body.

“Okay,” I manage to say. “Let’s go.”

He finally releases my arm and nods toward the door. “Wait for me outside.”

I walk out slowly. Lunch Lady is wiping down a table and looks up at the sound of the door opening. Her eyes widen when she sees me emerging from the boys’ bathroom.

I ignore her and walk to the first table, and pull out a chair to wait for Charlie, his strange request still echoing. Where does he want me to go? Why am I shaking? What was that feeling I just had?

Do I have a crush on Charlie Zelinsky? Maybe a little. But no crush I can remember ever made me feel so … connected. Liking a boy usually makes me feel silly and excited. It makes me dreamy and lost. But this … this …

“You shouldn’t talk to him.”

I jump at the sound of a woman’s voice next to me, and I spin around to face Lunch Lady.

“I don’t think this is any of your business, Mrs. Alvarez,” I say, copping my best Ayla-dissing-the-staff tone.

“You’re better than him.”

“Really.” I choke softly. Even the school workers are opposed to him. “And you know this how?”

“The same way everyone does, Miss Ayla.”

A shot of irritation pushes me to my feet just as the bathroom door opens and Charlie walks out. Fueled by a need to smack down the cafeteria worker, I slip my arm through his and tuck myself close to him.

“Let’s go,” I whisper.

He just gives me that beautiful one-dimpled smile and ignores Lunch Lady completely.

I see enough signs for Hialeah on our way out of the Gables that I kind of know where Charlie is taking me. Home. His home. I dig up in my memory what I’ve heard from around school.

He used to live under a bridge in a box. Now he lives in Hialeah. His mother cleans offices. That’s it. That’s the sum total of what I know about this boy who is taking me out of school in the middle of the day.

He’s pretty quiet on the drive, not talking about the incident. I don’t want to, either, so I pick up one of his books, a tome on organic chemistry.

“I thought the college class you’re taking was a physics class,” I say.

“Both.”

“Are you going to graduate early?” I ask.

“Next year,” he says. “In January. After I took a year and a half off, I crammed in a bunch of summer classes, and I have all the credits I need to get out of the happy place we call Crap Academy.”

“Then what? College?” I check myself, a little sorry I mentioned it. He likely can’t afford college.

“Probably Duke, although Johns Hopkins and MIT are options.”

“Whoa,” I say, with a whistle. “You’ve already applied?”

He throws me a look. “I’m already accepted with a full ride.”

My jaw drops. “Then what are you doing at Crap Academy? Why not go to a public school and not have to deal with the grief?”

He takes a deep breath through his nose, his lips tight as he stares ahead at traffic. “I have my reasons.”

“Like you’re a masochist? You wouldn’t get treated like this at public school.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve gone to one.”

He shoots me a sideways look. “Yeah, right. In another life.”

“You have no idea,” I say vaguely, looking out the window as the Spanish villas and exclusive shops of Coral Gables morph into a seedier section of Miami. Something deep in my belly squeezes, and I hear words in my head.

Tell him. Tell him. You can trust him
.

“Ayla, there’s actually a lot you don’t know about me.”

It’s like he’s reading my mind. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say softly, keeping the irony out of my voice.

“I mean, you heard I lived in shelters with my mom.”

“I heard, and I don’t care.”

“And some news reporter interviewed me after I won a science fair, and a pharmaceutical company wanted to use my research.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t hear that. Just that you were on the news and the people at Croppe thought they’d get good press by giving you a scholarship.”

He slides a look at me, questioning.

“What?” I ask. “I don’t think that’s anything to be ashamed of, seriously. You don’t live in shelters now, do you?”

“No, we rent a house. Right around here,” he says, jutting his chin toward some run-down residences.

“It’s not bad,” I say, sensing that he expects me to curl my lip at the houses, but this neighborhood is just a few steps down from Rolling Rock Road. Not exactly living in squalor, just not Star Island.

“Well, I thought you should see it, just so you know. Before …” His voice trails off.

I turn to him, adjusting the seat belt that feels like it’s crushing my chest.
Something
is crushing my chest. “Before what?”

“Before our friendship goes any further.”

“You think if I see that your mom doesn’t have much money, I’m going to run screaming into the arms of Ryder Bransford? Seriously, Charlie? I think you know now that I’m really, really not that girl.”

“I do.” I expect him to smile, to lighten this up, but he doesn’t. “We’re almost there.”

“Anybody going to be home?” A funny feeling creeps through me. Is he the same as Ryder? Taking me home for sex? If so, I know I’m going to be kind of interested … but wildly disappointed in him.

“Someone is always home.”

“I thought your mom works.”

“At night.” He pulls into the driveway of a wee little gray house, with a carport and a tiny front porch. The grass is cut neatly, and there are some flowers under one of the windows. “There’s more to the story than the TV news reported.”