Doomed (2 page)

Pictures I never even knew existed.

Pictures I’ve asked my mother about numerous times, only to be told that there were none. That my dad didn’t like cameras.

Yet here they are, twelve of them. More proof that my mom has been lying to me all along.

I look back at the message, kind of awed that my dad—whom I haven’t seen in ten years—did something like this. I mean, I know it’s not a big deal to set up a blog these days, anyone can do it, but still. It takes time and I’m amazed he made the effort.

The pictures are small, so I click on the first one, and it explodes onto the screen. I’m a toddler, two or so, and my dad is holding me. We’re standing in front of a statue of Sam Houston, grinning wildly. I download the picture, save it. There’s another link below the photo, and when I click on it, it leads me to another letter, one that was written by him when I was a baby. He talks about what it felt like to hold me in his arms for the first time, what it felt like the first time I smiled at him. It’s a little corny, sure, but I don’t care.

It’s too nice to hear that I was wanted. That
someone
loved me. It’s been years since my mom has done or said anything that made me think that might once have been the case.

I click on the second picture, save it, then follow the link. Do the same for the third and the fourth. I don’t know how to describe what I’m feeling as I look at each of the photos and read the words my father has posted for me. It’s a strange numbness mixed with exhilaration—sort of what it feels like to be on a Tilt-A-Whirl just as the ride begins to spin.

My cell phone rings and I almost ignore it—what I’m doing is so much more interesting than anything a caller might have to say. But it’s Jules’s ring, and I know she’ll be mad if I ignore her. I’ve been picking her up for the past two weeks, ever since her car got totaled.

I dive for the phone. “Jules?”

“How far away are you? We’re going to be late. You don’t want a detention on your birthday!”

Shit, shit, shit
. I glance at the clock. That can’t be right—how is it eight thirty already?

“I know, I know. I’m on the way out the door,” I tell her, fingers mentally crossed.

“You mean you’re not even in the car yet?” she screeches.

“I am. I swear, I am.” I hang up the phone, then dive for the jeans I left discarded on the floor last night. I yank them on before running into the bathroom and doing the world’s fastest teeth brush and face wash. And then I’m heading for the bedroom door—finger-combing my hair as I go.

Except, as I’m walking out, my eyes fall on my computer. I can’t help it, even if it’s going to make me later than I already am. I run over and upload all the photos to my local Walgreens account superfast, so I can pick them up after school. It may sound lame, but I want something tangible to prove that these photos exist. To prove that my father really does care about me.

I want to hold them in my hand.

Those five minutes cost me, though, and Jules and I end up being tardy. We split off at the school’s front door, Jules running to her government class and me heading at a more sedate pace to AP English. Which was my big mistake, because while Mr. March isn’t a crazy man about punctuality—at least not like some of the teachers at Westlake High—he is big on accepting the consequences of your actions.

And in this case those consequences are painful, because when I hit the door about five minutes late, he’s already formed groups to analyze scenes. And instead of letting me go to my regular group, made up of a bunch of my drama and Amnesty International friends, I get stuck with the other students who’ve had the misfortune of cruising in after the bell today.

My new group consists of me; head cheerleader Tara
McKinney (who wears about an inch of makeup every day and drives a Barbie-pink Hummer—Barbie pink!—need I say more?); Zane Connolly (the biggest nerd in the school, which is fine, except he has a crush on Tara and it’s painful to watch him try to get her attention); and the two new guys, Theo Jamison and Eli Sanders, who have been here about two weeks. I don’t know much more about them than what the school gossip mill says: they’re stepbrothers, they seem to hate each other, and they’re seriously hot, though in totally different ways.

Theo is all dark and broody and gorgeous, despite dressing like a total prep. Piercing blue eyes partially covered by his shaggy black hair, superbroad shoulders beneath a navy-striped button-down dress shirt, and a really good face complete with strong jaw, full lips, and razor-sharp cheekbones. Plus he’s smart enough to be in all AP classes. Too bad I’ve never once seen him smile.

Eli, on the other hand, is a total charmer. Bright green eyes, carefully styled blond hair, his own set of broad shoulders, and a killer smile that he uses to great advantage. Not to mention that he has awesome taste in music, if the band T-shirts he usually wears are to be believed.

In the time they’ve been here, they’ve all but revolutionized Westlake’s social scene. Eli’s slid right into the spot of star basketball player and top dog to the popular crowd (big surprise), and though Theo has so far resisted the Dark Side, it hasn’t kept him from developing his own very large bunch of groupies. Watching girls trail them down the halls would be funny if it weren’t so embarrassing. I’ve kept my distance on purpose—who wants to be confused with one
of the adoring horde—and I don’t appreciate having to change that now.

Especially when I look around and realize that every girl in the classroom is shooting hostile looks toward Tara and me. Which is ridiculous, since I didn’t ask to be put in this group. Plus, I look like hell—it’s not like any of them could consider me a threat. Yesterday’s jeans, the vintage but wrinkled Hendrix tank top I slept in last night, and hair that looks as if I stuck my finger in an electric socket. To say that I’m not at my best today would be woefully understating the problem.

Still, as we slide our desks together I realize Eli’s looking straight at me. He smiles, and I melt a little at the sight of the dimple in his right cheek, even as I tell myself to get a grip. But it’s hard. I’m a sucker for a dimple and always have been.

Being with them makes reading Shakespeare a million times more difficult, especially when I end up playing Desdemona. I’m totally the wrong person to cast as Desdemona. I don’t have an innocent bone in my body. Nor do I exactly look like your typical, wide-eyed ingenue.

Instead of the long blond hair and big blue eyes of most Desdemona actresses—which Tara possesses, incidentally—I’ve got short, spiky red hair with violet streaks in the front. Plus, I’ve got muddy brown eyes and I’m also close to six feet tall, a height that doesn’t exactly scream cute, cuddly, and in need of protection. Thank God.

But I can’t argue, especially when everyone else seems okay with their parts.

“So you’re good with playing Iago then?” I finally ask Eli, hoping he’ll disagree so I can, too.

He grins cockily. “I’d rather play Othello.” I’m not sure if his enthusiasm is good or bad, seeing as how Othello’s main role in this scene is to
kill
me. But I’ll take it, at least until he says, “Then again, that does seem like a role for Theo. Since Othello is completely nuts by the time this scene rolls around.”

Theo looks up, and the air around us crackles with hostility. An awkward silence descends, one that no one—especially not Theo or Eli—seems inclined to break. Which is a problem, since Mr. March is already making the rounds and we’re directly in his sights.

“Are we going to spend the whole class talking, or are we going to do this thing?” Theo finally demands. His book hits the desk with an annoyed
thump
, and when I look at him, his scowl is blacker than ever.

Talk about typecasting.

No one else says anything—either not brave or not stupid enough to push Theo—so the next few minutes pass in silence as we read the scene to ourselves. And after I read for a while, I realize I’m not nearly as icked out by the story—or the thought of playing Desdemona—as I expected I’d be. After all, I might not have finished the play, but I already know how it ends: with my murder, my friend’s untimely demise, a bunch of innocent people’s deaths, Othello’s suicide, and Iago’s torture. Shakespeare definitely knew how to make a statement.

But when I get to the part where Othello accuses Desdemona of infidelity—because he believes his lying-sack-of-shit best friend—it’s my turn to slam my book down on the desk. “What’s wrong with Desdemona, anyway? Why doesn’t
she run away from Othello toward the end? She can’t miss the fact that he’s losing it.”

“She loves him, Pandora,” Mr. March says as he walks by. “She doesn’t want to leave him.”

“Even though it’s obvious the man is completely out of his mind? I mean, seriously, I don’t care how hot the guy is. He’s got ‘crazy stalker husband with a gun’ written all over him.” In my mind, sociopathic behavior trumps love and attraction any day. Or at least it
should
.

“It’s a sword, actually, and he doesn’t use it on her,” Theo tells me as Mr. March heads on to the next group, who are already standing up, rehearsing.

“So what does he do? How does he kill her?” I turn to Theo impatiently, though the truth is, I’m a little embarrassed that he now knows I haven’t finished the play. But since the test on
Othello
isn’t until next week, finishing it hasn’t been high on my priority list.

Theo shifts a little, until he’s so close to me that I can smell the mintiness of his mouthwash and a warm, fresh scent that is curiously inviting. It’s a combination of the forest near my old house—all piney and delicious—and the lemon tree in my backyard.

His midnight-blue eyes are laser focused as he watches me, and I squirm despite myself. But I still take his hand, let him pull me to my feet. He’s even taller than I thought, and now that I’m standing next to him I feel completely overshadowed. Completely overwhelmed.

“He’s tormented, Pandora. Nearly insane with his love for her and the idea that she’s betrayed him. That he isn’t enough for her. That she wants another man.”

His hands come up to cup my face, and my heart starts beating so fast that I can barely hear Eli over the thunder of it when he says, “Knock it off, Theo.”

We both ignore him.

“Why does …” My voice breaks. “Why does Othello ask her if he won’t believe what she says?”

“He has to ask. He wants to believe her. But then he can’t, when his most trusted friend’s words are in his head, telling him that she’s been with Cassio.” He slides his palms down until they’re ringing my throat. They’re a little rough as they scrape against my collarbone. Shivers slide up my spine. “She’s crying and pleading with him, and she looks so beautiful, sounds so innocent, that it makes him even crazier. Because in the back of his head is Iago, convincing him that she betrayed him. Providing proof that she gave his gift to another man as a token of her affection.”

I can’t breathe, fear and panic and fascination welling up inside me as I stare at this guy who suddenly looks as intense as I imagine the real Othello would. The thought flashes through my head that Eli might be right, that Theo might be a few cards short of a full deck. But even as every instinct I have tells me to get away, I don’t move. It’s insane, but I’m trapped by the promise in his eyes as much as by his hands around my throat.

Maybe I
was
too hard on poor Desdemona.

And then he begins to squeeze and my too-fast heart nearly explodes.

“Stop it.” I shove him away from me, stumble backward, and though his fingers had barely tightened on my
neck—just enough to be felt but certainly nowhere near hard enough to hurt—I can feel the imprint of each one.

“What’s
wrong
with you?” I demand.

“No, that’s perfect!” Mr. March exclaims from his spot across the room. “That’s exactly the right vibe for the scene. Othello is desperate. He’s crazed, furious, a wounded animal, and Desdemona knows it, but she loves him so much that she can’t believe he’d ever hurt her. Even as he strangles her, she can’t believe it. She thinks he’ll stop.”

The bell rings, thank God, and I shove my stuff into my backpack and head for the door, not even bothering to turn my desk around. I can’t remember the last time I felt this idiotic and have no idea how I’m going to face Theo later today in AP Government.

Behind me I hear Eli call my name, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. I’m afraid Theo will be standing there, watching me, and I can’t get the sensation of his hands around my neck out of my head, off my skin. I swear I can still feel them there, warm and slightly calloused.

It’s only ten o’clock, but already nothing about this birthday is turning out like I thought it would. Perhaps I should take that as a warning …

The rest of the day passes in kind of a blur … and with no more close-to-homicidal incidents, thank God. Class, friends, Amnesty International meeting at lunch, more class, an Eco Club meeting after school, and then sweet, sweet freedom. Jules gets a ride home from her boyfriend, so Emily and I hit the parking lot five minutes after the meeting ends.

“I can’t believe you want to stay home on your birthday,” she complains as we climb into the gas-guzzling behemoth that is my car. My mother bought it for me after I crashed my first car and nearly died. It completely wasn’t my fault—some idiot ran a red light and plowed straight into me—but I think the fact that she had to come home from DC early to take care of me stressed her out enough that she bought me a car that puts about a thousand tons of steel all around me. Either that or she gets a bonus at work for actually owning a car with the worst gas mileage on the planet.

“So, what
do
you want to do for your birthday tonight?” Emily asks as we head out of the parking lot.

“Sit on the couch and gorge on ice cream?”

“Well, obviously.” I can almost hear the eye-roll. “I mean, besides that.”

“Not much.” I start to tell her about the e-mail from my dad, and the blog he’s set up for me, but I stop at the last second. It’s still too new, too personal, to share with anyone, even my best friend. Especially since I’m not even sure how I feel about the whole thing yet. “Maybe go out to dinner, if you want.”