What's Broken Between Us (6 page)

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I
stand up to close the door so we can go to sleep, but there’s a pair of eyes staring back at me from the hallway. Henry leans against the wall. I don’t have to study him long to know he, too, is drunk. More than anything else, he seems forlorn. What a party this has turned out to be. He looks at me and his face is all shadows, except for a smirk.

I move into the hallway and close the door softly behind me.

“What, Henry?” I ask, getting defensive. There’s something so off-putting about the way he’s got his arms crossed, the way his eyes are playing sinister, the way he’s smiling. It’s not his usual demeanor, or his usual smile.

“Sometimes Imogen calls me depressing, too.” He shrugs. “I
didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the door was open.” He covers his mouth with his hand. It seems like he’s about to crack up. This hurts my feelings and makes me angrier than I’ve been in a long time

“Go back to the party—” I turn and reach for the doorknob.

“I have to talk to you,” he says, his voice getting louder.

I’m slow to face him, not sure I want to hear it.

Now that I’m looking at him, he stares at my feet. “I’m here to confrontation—to confront . . . I have a bone to pick with you. . . .” He licks his lips, and now his smile says that he’s embarrassed. “It’s not good.”

“What could be worse than you stalking me at a party and lurking outside my room?”

He lets out a shallow laugh. “I actually followed Graham.”

“Still sketchy.”

“We have an important matter to discuss. It’d be nice if you’d take it seriously.”

“Well, Henry, then it’s a good thing you’ve chosen right now, when you need the wall to hold yourself up, to approach me about this very serious and important issue.”

He shakes his head, laughing lightly like I’m the one who’s had too much to drink and isn’t making any sense. To his credit, he lifts himself off the wall and doesn’t fall over. “I know that they’re talking, Amanda. I
know
. You were supposed to tell me.”

“I had no idea they were talking.”
I had no idea Sutton was here
, I once told an angry Henry, who showed up at my front door at midnight looking for his sister after she’d missed a dinner
with their grandmother and failed to return his many messages. This time he doesn’t believe me.

“Okay, sure.”

“Why would I—” But I stop myself. His eyes have that faraway haze to them, and he’s got that drunken confidence, complete with tunnel vision and selective hearing that makes people doubly confrontational and blind in their determination. “We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“No, no, we can’t.” He steps forward so he’s got one hand on the door and his back to the hall—his half-baked attempt at blocking me in.

“How do you even know it was Jonathan she was speaking to?”

“She had this . . .” Every ounce of resolve deflates from Henry’s face. His eyes turn glassy and they shift to the side. “This look on her face.”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. Sutton with Jonathan was Sutton unmasked. She turned giddy and indulgent, and her face revealed how she marveled at my brother. Like the cat that swallowed the canary. Normally, Sutton wore a scowl better than anyone, except she couldn’t muster one for the life of her if Jonathan was around. Her usual expression—cranky, intimidating, unpredictable, like she might bite your head off if you said the wrong thing or looked at her the wrong way, and she had the reputation to back these assumptions—cracked and softened. Sometimes, next to him, she looked like she was holding in too much happiness for one person. I thought that maybe
explained the motive behind her evil eye—she had a lot to lose.

“You’re wrong,” I say, even though it’s pointless to get into it with him when he’s like this. “Jonathan told me he wasn’t participating in telecommunications.”

Henry shoots me a glare, like he can tell I’ve use Jonathan’s exact words again.

“They’re lying to us, to everyone,” he says. “Just like the good old days.”

Except in the good old days there was at least Grace keeping them honest, calling them out on their lies. Henry pinches his eyes closed, as though it takes a great effort. The hallway is probably spinning. Or he’s thinking about Grace, too.

Maybe Jonathan did lie to me. Maybe he talked to Sutton. Maybe he told her everything he should have said before he left. Maybe he’s the only one who can understand how much she misses Grace, and their twisted relationship can survive this grief just like it’s managed to endure everything else: Sutton’s temper, Jonathan’s wandering eye. Has Henry ever considered that it might be okay—good, even—for them to talk?

“I guess, if they are talking, who are we to stop them?”

“You don’t understand,” he says, raking his hands through his hair.

“It might not be the worst thing in the world, you know?” I let my tone counter his. Optimism all around. Drunk people are quick to turn angry, but quick to buy into idealism too. “It might help both of them—”

“He ruined her!” His voice vibrates off the walls.

“Henry, be quiet—”

“When she was in the hospital, he didn’t come to see her once; he didn’t even call when she got out—” He breaks off, his eyes getting glassier by the second. “If that would’ve been you, I would have never left your side. They would’ve had to drag me away.”

He’s got to be wasted to be talking like this, and now that I really look at him, his eyes aren’t filling with tears of sadness or even anger. This is just what he looks like when he’s plastered. The eyes are always the first to go. I remind myself that he’s out of his mind. It means nothing that he put me in the car with him instead of Imogen.

“He didn’t even go to her funeral,” Henry says. “Even though he used to claim he loved Grace as much as he loved his baby sister.”

He gives me a second to let this sink in. I want to push Henry for comparing Grace to me, like it’s the only way I could possibly comprehend how much she meant to Jonathan.

It takes some time before I can find my voice. I don’t even really think about what I’m saying. “You know it was impossible for him to be at the funeral when he was—?”

“When he was the reason there was a funeral in the first place?”

Not what I was going to say at all, but Henry’s face glows victorious, before it darkens again. The lawyers told Jonathan to stay out of the public eye, to mourn in private with his friends and family. Even if he’d wanted to go, he wasn’t allowed. Henry
has no idea. And if he doesn’t understand this, then maybe he’s not giving Jonathan enough credit regarding Sutton either.

“Maybe Jonathan’s apologized to her,” I say.

I’m cut off by Henry’s cruel laughter.

“I don’t know why I thought I could talk to you about this!” he shouts. “You’re in such serious denial about who your brother is. And even more clueless about how destructive he is to other people.” He moves toward me, until he’s close enough that I can smell his faded cologne and the beer on his breath. “Well over a year later, and even with a healthy dose of antidepressants in her system, Sutton’s still barely hanging on. He’s the poison that could push her over the edge.”

Or maybe Jonathan’s the only one who could pull Sutton back
, I want to tell him. But even I can see the hopelessness in expecting anything from Jonathan; and the stupidity in thinking he’s a person who can save anyone.

“We don’t have a deal anymore, do we?” Henry says.

I shake my head. Right now all I can think about is one day in the hall when I was walking behind Jonathan, Sutton, and Grace on my way to class. Jonathan was between them, one hand entwined with Sutton’s, the other on Grace’s shoulder.

“Grace would have wanted them to talk,” I say.

“Everything Grace would have wanted is wrecked because of him.”

I cover my eyes with my hands, trying to pull myself back together. It’s hard to look at Henry. I try to forget about her “lost potential.” I’m sure there are tears gathering under my eyes, but
I let my hands fall anyway. Henry’s moved closer to me. His breathing has picked up. His eyes are so watery, there’s no doubt in my mind that sadness has beat out both anger and inebriation. Even if my experience with drunk boys is rusty now thanks to Jonathan’s absence, my intuition tells me that Henry’s about to fall apart, and he’s going to do it in my arms.

Behind him, I see shadows. No—people, crowding around the far end of the hallway, listening to us. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, or how much they’ve heard, and I try to remember if I saw them when the shouting first started. The door next to me opens and Graham steps out, with one eye open, his hair sticking straight up.

I knew we were being loud but had no idea we were loud enough to attract an audience.

Graham runs a hand over his face. I’m not sure he knows he’s awake.

“It’s okay. Go back to bed,” I say, moving to help him and planning to disappear into the room with him. But Graham’s attention has turned to the girl pushing her way through the crowd. Imogen West. Henry’s girlfriend since the Fourth of July.

“Henry?” Imogen staggers down the hall toward us. She’s got a hand on her hip, and her eyes are wide and angry, ready for a fight. She notices me and her expression hardens. She switches from defense to offense. I would cash in all my chips betting Henry never told her about our twenty-four-hour relationship. I’m Jonathan Tart’s little sister, and that is enough. She stiffens and reaches for Henry’s hand.

“Come on—”

He jerks away from her, but he cringes like he’s immediately sorry he did.

“Come on, Henry.” She moves closer to him. “Don’t be like this,” she whispers, but I’m close enough to hear the pleading in her voice. “Not on the night of our last homecoming. Please.” This time when she reaches for his hand, he lets her take it. She leads him down the hall and through the slowly dispersing group at the end of the hallway. He follows without looking back.

T
EXTING WITH
D
AWN,
M
ONDAY, 12:47 P.M.

Answer your phone?

Hungover. Can’t handle noise.

Not even the sweet, sweet melody of my lovely voice?
☺

Too much boxed wine in the common room last night. Oops. But it was a Freaks and Geeks drinking game, so I’m not sorry.

What was the game?

We drank anytime someone acted like a freak or a geek.

Wow, you college kids are so clever.

Hey, we study so hard, our brains deserve a vacation.

Today is the worst.

It’s Monday, duh. What’s wrong? ☺

People won’t look at me.

Good. People can keep their eyes to themselves for once.

They’re saying I screamed at Henry at the after-homecoming party because Henry said Jonathan deserved to be in jail. That’s not how it went down at all.

But didn’t you scream at him a little?

The real story is the one I told you yesterday. I raised my voice at him only AFTER he raised his voice at me. And I didn’t mean to defend Jonathan, but Henry really hates him. He thinks he’s going to ruin Sutton’s life, even though they aren’t even talking. He’s the one who got drunk and decided to take his hatred of Jonathan out on me. But now I’m the one who’s like a pariah.

You’ve always been like a pariah. ☺

Haha.

You should tell the real story of what happened. Submit it to the school paper! That will show them!

Was that a Freaks and Geeks plotline or something?

As if I can remember things like plotlines after last night. My skull hurts.

Poor Dawn.

Remember you only have 141 days left.

Lunch is almost over. I’ve got to go. Miss you.

Miss you back.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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G
raham meets me by my locker. We’ve still got a few more minutes before the bell rings and dismisses us from lunch. I can tell by the way he hesitates before he greets me that something is on his mind.

“Yes?” I nudge him.

“I was just thinking . . . you never told me what happened, you know—why you were yelling at Henry on Saturday night.” He’s put on a voice that’s careful and padded.
Let’s not wake the beast.

“He was yelling at me, too.” My voice sounds defensive, and I instantly feel bad. Graham glances to the hall, at all the people who’ve turned their backs on me, and scratches his forehead with
his thumb. This is Graham’s tell: he feels uncomfortable. It’s not his fault; I’m sure he had no idea when he woke up today that his girlfriend would stand accused of defending Jonathan Tart while screaming at Henry, whose poor sister is still suffering. “Henry was totally smashed and, I don’t know, it was like the only way he’d hear me was for me to yell back.” I don’t add that I hardly remember yelling at all, because Graham trusts whatever his friends have told him.

“What’d he say to you?” Graham asks.

I shake my head, giving a slight shrug. A shiver runs up my spine.
If that would’ve been you, I would have never left your side.
“He was just upset because he thought Jonathan was trying to reach Sutton. I tried to tell him that Jonathan wasn’t in touch with anyone. He wouldn’t listen.”

Graham does not like this one bit. His eyebrows dip.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, reaching out my hand because I know he’ll take it. “Like I said, he was drunk.”

Graham nods. He squeezes my hand. This excuse gets people off the hook for anything.
Almost
anything.

Later, I walk into sixth period early and sit in my seat by the window. Henry arrives early too. He takes a seat in the middle this time, right next to mine.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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H
enry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at me, as the room fills up. Bryan walks awkwardly up to his usual desk, now occupied by Henry. He lets out a quick laugh, and I expect it to be followed by, “Hey, man, you’re in my seat.” But his eyes shift to me, and then he moves quickly to the opposite side of the room.

I try my best to listen as Mr. Scott details our next assignment. He caps off his explanation with the dreaded words, “Partner up.”

This is where I pretend to be looking for something in the textbook, flipping the pages back and forth, like I’m much, much too busy to worry about being anyone’s partner—and definitely
too occupied to notice how no one is looking my way, wanting to pair up.

A pen taps against my desk, three sharp knocks. It’s Henry. He’s turned sideways in his chair and is reaching across the aisle to get my attention.

He raises his eyebrows in an almost friendly manner. “What do you say, Amanda?”
Amander.

I feel my mouth drop open, but I keep my eyes on him, too scared to look at anyone else in the room—they all probably look as shocked as I do.

Henry smiles—he actually smiles.

He begins sliding his desk closer to mine, the way the rest of the class has positioned themselves. But I’m still too mystified to move.

“Don’t make me do all the work,” he says, reaching forward and tugging on the legs of my desk, closing the gap. But his voice—it’s light and playful.

I cut to the chase. “Why are you doing this?”

“Convenience,” he says. This joke doesn’t take, so he tries another. “You know I’m not a bloody picky lad when it comes to partners.” He looks at me expectantly.

In our past life, I wouldn’t have let this go. Lad? Bloody? No, Henry is not British enough to say
bloody
or
lad
. This is him playing up Britishisms to annoy me the way he did when he first moved here.

Now I just look at him, straight-faced and somber, and he finally caves.

“Because.” He clears his throat and lowers his voice. “Who else was going to be your partner?”

“Well, I . . .” I want to point out Ellen Lapin, who serves on the student council with Graham and probably would have been my partner out of pity, or as a favor to Graham. But now that I’ve been caught in the hallway at the homecoming after-party, defending Jonathan Tart, I wouldn’t expect her to offer.

“And,” Henry says quietly, his eyes suddenly looking down. I can see the apology before I hear it. “I’m sorry I cornered you outside your room and yelled at you . . . it was misdirected anger, and I was off my face, and . . . I’m sorry.”

“You were a real
wanker
.”

“I was. And I’m so sorry.”

“So this”—I tick my finger back and forth to indicate the two of us—“this is a peace offering?”

He nods once, then open his hands, palms up, and shrugs. “I know it’s not much.”

“Okay,” I say, trying my best not to sound skeptical. This could work. We’ll just have topics that are off-limits. He can go on hating Jonathan, and it doesn’t have to affect this project. And maybe it will actually help. Maybe people will forget there are reasons they don’t want to look at me, since Henry—
the victim,
according to the rumors—has forgiven me enough to be my partner. Perhaps someone was eavesdropping and caught his apology. No matter how quietly he said it. “I’m sorry, too. For yelling back and . . . everything.”
Everything.
For not knowing how to talk to him about the things that matter, about the grief that we share,
instead of the hatred we don’t.
I’m sorry.

“Oh, come on. You know that’s not necessary. Half the time when I yell at you, I’m only doing it so you’ll yell back.”

That’s not allowed,
I think. Smiling, and talking to me all casually, like we haven’t just come off of a sixteen-month-long hiatus.

Mr. Scott claps to get our attention and continues class. I follow along and pretend my life is typical.