Beautifully Ruined (2 page)

I guess I didn’t want to see it.

“I know,” I say, averting my eyes

With that, I push open the passenger door, thanking her again for the ride to school while also promising to see her later, and leave her where she sits, walking directly into the school and
straight to my locker. The halls are empty minus the random teacher passing by or the random choir kid running to the auditorium. This is earlier than Jamie usually arrives so I won’t see Zephyr in the halls anytime soon. It doesn’t matter; he avoids any place I’d be anyway. I never see him until he steps into first period the very moment the bell chimes overhead. To be honest, I don’t expect anything different. I do the same. Everywhere I know he’ll be, every place I know he needs to go, I stay clear. If I know he’s walking in a similar direction to his class I’ll walk to mine—easy when we were dating, not so much now—I take a longer route. It’s getting pathetic. But being in the building this early gives me a little leeway, a little free time to roam and wander without worry of bumping into him or any of his
supportive
friends.

So that’s what I do. I slowly meander through the halls, happy to be in my own world, and think about pointless topics so my mind doesn’t dwell—what’s to watch on television tonight, what’s to do and search on the internet after school, what homework is due next week—I just keep my mind busy and occupied.

It’s becoming an art.

But before too long, my mind is back, my mind is reaching that little bit of reality I refuse to touch. I’m right back in that closet nine years ago, I’m a little girl and I’m so terrified, my hands shake uncontrollably.

I still don’t know why I was in the closet on the floor instead of in my own bed that night. I don’t even know if that’s the same night. I don’t know if my mind is just pasting random memories together or if any of what happened in the bedroom in my mind actually happened in reality.

I see him—I see my father searching for me. I see him angry; I see his features twisted and malicious. I see the bloodied knife in his hands—it
has
to be that night. It
has
to be. It’s just that a part of me—a tiny little piece of me—doesn’t believe it didn’t happen like that.

I sit on the top step of the back staircase, my chin in my hands as my mind goes there, wanders back to a place I never wish it to dwell. I will everything inside of me to remember—
just remember
—anything that can help me understand.

The knife—the closet—the knife—my father—my mother—the knife—it’s always the knife I see, always the knife dripping with blood that comes screaming back to the surface of my mind. Sometimes it’s my blood I see. I can’t tell when I see it, I just
know
because I’m looking up at him, I’m watching him tower over me before I black out and disappear into nothing. A faint voice tugs at my mind when I think these things and see these images. I can never hear what the person is saying; I just know someone
is
saying something nearby.

Why can I not just remember?

It drives me insane.

When the first person climbs up the stairs—their steps echoing off the brick of the corridor, passing me, I stand and make my way to my class. I don’t want to be around a bunch of half-awake zombie high school students fueling themselves with large amounts of caffeine and sugar. Over-caffeinated teenagers are a bit frightening if not handled in the correct manner, and around here, Starbucks courses through their blood—
no
, correction, their blood
is
Starbucks and whipped cream. Maybe sprinkles, too. Only an x-ray can confirm that.

Passing a girl holding the familiar green-and-white cup—a large one at that, I duck into the dim, empty classroom. Mr. Cheney isn’t in the room yet. The room is empty but the door is open—a good sign. I flick on the lights, illuminating the shadows.

Setting my bag in the neighboring seat, I plop into my chair, hearing it creak with my weight as I settle. Feeling a chill, I tug my black jacket from my backpack, along with my binder, and slide my arms into the sleeves, zipping it up to my chin and lifting the hood to cover my hair.

Invisibility is a lovely thing.

Too bad, I’m anything but invisible around here.

Some random brunette with horrible blonde highlights turned orange pops her head through the door. She’s not in this class. In fact, I think she’s a freshman. She certainly has that annoying fresh face and wide eyes thing going for her, much like a baby deer fresh out of the womb.
Ugh
. But dark eyes land on me, recognition flashing across her face, and giggles erupt before her head disappears and I hear laughter boom from the halls.

My God, if anything, I am more conspicuous than before. I’m nothing but a sideshow freak around here. Not my fault. I try to blend but it’s unsuccessful. I don’t have the past to blend. I don’t even have a future for worthy of blending.

It does not help that I broke up with my only boyfriend/best friend in a very public way, very much breaking the calmest boy to walk through the halls. I destroyed him and people watched. They held front row tickets to one of the most horrible things I have ever done. I feel awful about it, I wish I could take it back but life doesn’t work like that.

There is no rewind button for things like that.

Pushing up on my glasses, I tuck my head lower, focusing on the math book in front of me, tomorrow’s word problems, and the various doodles I continue to make when pretending to focus doesn’t work. I’ve already completed today’s assignment, what’s tomorrow’s, yeah? Halfway down the page, chatty students start filing in. Five minutes later, the warning bell rings and Mr. Cheney walks in with a male blonde walking closely behind him, towering over the teacher as he stands straight in the front of the room.

The blonde looks around the room, spying student after student, face after face, and looks interested, intrigued even. I look to him, wondering why he’s in this room. He’s not a student in this class, but then I realize that I’ve never seen him before, which means that he’s a news student.
Yay! Fresh meat for everyone else to focus on
.

When the bell to start class rings, Zephyr flies through the door, nearly walking directly into the new guy before diving into his seat on the other side of the room. I lower my eyes after watching him walk toward his new seat, sharing the table with a teammate from the football team I was surprised was smart enough to be in advanced placement classes.

I can’t help but stare at him as he readies his workspace—setting up his notebook and green pilot pen.

It hurts to watch him, it hurts not having him next to me anymore, it hurts not hearing joke about Mr. Cheney’s bald head, comparing it to a disco ball. It hurts not having him ask me questions about the lesson—from the normal to random, sometimes making me giggle like a school girl.

It hurts not
having
him.

And he looks so happy now.

His smile brightens his face as his friend says something I can’t hear. He laughs loudly at whatever joke is told, his hearty laugh booming from his throat, and my heart tightens, squeezing painfully in my chest, tugging strings in my heart I choose to ignore.

I turn away, tucking my math book into my backpack to distract myself.

“All right, class,” Mr. Cheney booms from the front of the room. He closes his raggedy red notebook, the one filled with grades and seating assignments, and slides it into his leather satchel, bending oddly so his shiny head glints in the fluorescent light. “We’ve got a new student.”

“More like a new victim,” someone behind me mumbles, attempting comedy.

Not too quietly as the whole room bursts into laughter, thinking his comment is funny.

I don’t partake; thinking the humor behind is a long stretch. Michael isn’t as great a comedian as he believes himself to be.

“Calm down, everyone.” Mr. Cheney shoots a glare to the offender behind me—I think Michael Lawson, he doesn’t have working a filter from his brain to his mouth—before he continues. “Milo Simms just moved here from Dallas, Texas. Right, Milo?”

“Yup,” the blonde—Milo—answers.

Very loquacious, this one is.

He’s slouching but I can tell he’s tall. He towers over Mr. Cheney—who isn’t very short to begin with. I can tell he’s at least Zephyr’s height, maybe slightly taller. His blonde hair is shaggy and long—not as long as Zephyr’s, and his clothes scream skater, as does his
I don’t care
attitude. He’s even mastered the hair flip, as he demonstrates three times while he stands before us.

I roll my eyes at his ability to fit a stereotype. It’s quite appalling.

“You’ll be taking that open seat there.” Mr. Cheney points to the seat occupied by my striped Dakine backpack, nodding for me to make the space available.

Milo looks to me, his eyes slowly taking me in, locking on mine, as a slow grin blooms on his face. One I don’t understand and try to ignore.

For some reason, I look to Zephyr, who’s looking from the new guy to me, spotting the smile. The smile that was once covering
his
face from whatever joke his neighbor said is now gone. Now he’s pissed.

Milo walks—more like saunters—over to my table as I drop my backpack on the floor, kicking it beneath the table and out of the way. No need for anyone to trip and make a fool of themselves.
Yeah, like this school needs any more fools
.

“Hi,” he says with a smile. “I’m Milo.” When he says more than one-word sentences, I can hear that drawl I was initially expecting. “And you are?”

I just look at him. I’m not in the mood to make any new friends, not today—to be honest, friends are the very last thing I need. So instead of being polite, like a normal human being and replying kindly, I turn my attention back to the front of the room, resting my arms in front of me on the desk, waiting for Milo to turn away. When he does, I sneak a peek at my ex-boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend that apparently sucks at getting over whatever we had, watching him seethe and fume where he sits, his hands balled into tight fist on the table.

His friend is oblivious to the volcano about to erupt next to him.

Zephyr doesn’t get mad often. He didn’t even get mad at
me
, so this little sight is a rarity. That guy should pay attention. I just know him well enough to know when he’s about to blow, and that moment is ticking closer.

I might not want to be friends with Milo but I hope he never meets Zephyr alone in a dark alley, for his own sake. If they
do
have the misfortune of meeting, only one of them is leaving alive and my bet isn’t on the new guy.

He stared at me. Through the entire class, Milo kept staring at me. I wasn’t even looking at him but I could
feel
his eyes on me. They were just boring into me—staring a hole through my cheek. It was weird—it was seriously awkward, and I wanted class to end sooner than fifty minutes. Just so I could escape whatever staring contest he had going with my freckles. Ending class after five minutes would’ve been smashing. Was that too much to ask the gods of time: to just speed it up.

Zephyr saw this, too. That was the one thing I paid attention to. And knowing Zephyr, after seeing his balled fists and angry glare at the start of class—all directed at my new neighbor, he could easily handle Milo but he couldn’t handle the thought of Milo sitting next to me—staring at me like I was a gazelle on the Serengeti and he, the lion. He would
love
to handle Milo if it meant he could relieve some of the anger he’s been building for the past couple weeks. I can only imagine how he feels. I can only imagine the anger and aggression he wants to unleash. And without football to occupy him, he’s at a loss. He wants to erupt; he wants to explode. He wants…
gah! Why do I care so much about what he wants?

Stop thinking about Zephyr, Joey! Bad decision! Just put on your big girl panties and suck it up, girl!

Yeah, like that’s going to be easy.

Sneaking one final peek at him, I watch him shake his head, trying to clear his brain—maybe shaking away the images of carnage I know is playing in his head with Milo as the main character. The muscle in his jaw ticks twice as his teeth clamp tighter. Zephyr works his right hand open, shut, and open again before he starts retaking notes.

I turn away, ignoring everything about Zephyr and try to focus on the board, tapping my pen against my notebook. Today, we’re learning about European dictators. A large photo of Adolph Hitler takes up the entire screen as Mr. Cheney drones on about Germany during World War II. It’s easy to focus on the tiny mustache beneath his nose as the teacher speaks when you don’t want to pay any attention to the active volcano in the room.

By the time the end-bell rings, I am up from my seat—kicking it back quickly out of the way, shoving papers and books into my backpack swiftly, dropping pens into opened pockets, and hoping no one—and by no one, I specifically mean Milo—speaks to me as I rush from the room.

I sling the bag onto my back and exit the room, speeding faster than hallway traffic.

“So you won’t tell me your name?” Milo asks, keeping pace with me.

Yep, definitely spoke too soon.

I turn to look at him, shooting him a narrowed-eyed glare.

“Come
on
,” he begs loudly, a little whine added for effect.
You want some cheese with that wine?
“I’m being nice here.”

He should know that nice doesn’t get anyone anywhere. Especially with me. Nice is the same as last pick in in gym class, being the wallflower at the school dance, waiting for your crush to ask you to dance, nice is waiting for a partner when the teacher says ‘Split up!’ and you have no friends in the class. Nice doesn’t mean anything to me.

And as much as I miss Texas and my family and all the southern accents I could ask for during visits—because there is nothing that says
Home, Sweet Home
and family like an accent—his is really going get on my nerves if he doesn’t leave me alone.

Zephyrs stands up from his seat, slowly placing his things into his bag, staring at Milo as he continues to pester me with questions I don’t want to answer. I can see his jaw tighten and I can see his brown eyes narrow. As much as this makes the little kid in me giddy with so much excitement I might as well be dancing through the halls doing
Gangnam Style
, I want him to move on. My heart is pulling for him—my heart aches for him, but he needs to move on. It’s best for him.

He being protective of me and pissed at some new kid with no shot of being with me who I have no desire to speak to is
not
moving on. It’s sweet. Tremendously sweet and nearly makes me melt, but it doesn’t help me one bit—it doesn’t help him at all.

“Please?” he begs, creepily stalking closely behind me.

Oh my goodness, does this guy not know how to take a hint? If I wanted to talk to him, I’d talk to him. There’s nothing preventing me from conversation other than the lovely little fact that I don’t wish to converse with him. Simple as that.

I tug my bag higher and bolt through the double doors, speeding down the hall toward my calculus class—with this Milo character on my heels, as if this were a race.

“I
do
have a charm with the ladies, you know?”I stop; those words can’t be the ones he wants to go with. I turn to him, watching him wag his eyebrows, trying to be cute. He fails. “It’s a southern thing.”
The ladies?
Who does this guy think he is, Hugh Hefner? If so, I’m the last girl he wants as a Bunny. “It’s only a matter of time before you’ll talk to me. I’ve been told I’m quite irresistible.”

By whom? Your mother?

I shouldn’t turn around. I should be strong and continues my way to class, keep my eyes on the prize and all that jazz. But the annoyance wins out.

I spin on my heels; surprising and startling Milo back a step. “What the hell do you want?”

“She speaks.” The smirk resumes its position.

“And I can kick,” I threaten, readying my foot a few inches behind me. “I guess I’m a double threat.” I prepare to aim it straight for the family jewels. “
What
.
Do
.
You
.
Want?
” I say through clenched teeth, ready for any punishment the principal could dish out. It’d be worth it in twenty minutes.

“Jeez. Easy there, tiger.” Milo’s arms rise in surrender, preparing to shove me away it appears.

“I’ll give you until the count of three to start saying
anything
.” I lean back, waiting for him to open his smug mouth. He doesn’t speak. “
THREE!
” I bring back my foot, fully prepared to introduce it to a very
small
part of him, when his hands fly up again in surrender.

That’s an odd place for them instinctively to go. When someone is threatening his
precious
parts.

“Wait! Please.”

I don’t want to, but sadly, I do.

“You look familiar,” he says, his eyes softening as he looks to me.

That’s what this is about? His stalking me to my next class? I look familiar to him?

Oy!

“You know,” I start, stepping closer to him, calming my urge to maim. “When you want to annoy a girl—which I don’t really advise—telling her she looks familiar is as easy as, I don’t know,
saying, ‘You look familiar
.’ Not annoying her until she nearly dents your manhood.” He snickers. I turn, heading toward class, ready to dive into my studies and forget any of this ever happened. I’d rather dive into my bed back home but I don’t have that luxury today.

But this guy doesn’t let up; he still follows me through the halls, nearly stepping on my heels, as I push my way through the crowd.

“You wouldn’t get anywhere near doing that,” he politely assures me.
Oh, how he doubts me
. But I want to know why he’s still following me? He’s said what I needed. And like a nice girl, I listened before making threats—that’s the best I can offer. I’m sure that we’ve ended this exchange a few feet back.

“You’re right,” I shout over my shoulder. “I’m sure there’s not much there anyway.” I shake my head with annoyance. “Maybe you wouldn’t even feel it,” I mumble with a shrug.

“Easy there,” he repeats, still following me. I really hope he isn’t in my calculus class. I may lose it. I wonder if it’s possible to attack someone mathematically. “I’m just trying to make a new friend here.”

“Dude, What you’re selling, I ain’t buying.”

Milo scrunches his brow. “Friendship?” he asks with confusion.

“Look somewhere else.”

“But you seem
sweet
.” I can hear the sarcasm dripping from his words, oozing from his mouth with every syllable. I don’t like it.

I stop, turning on my heel again. “Listen to me: I want
nothing
to do with you.” Milo smirks. “So go use that
southern charm
on a girl with low standards because you’re not getting in my pants, got it?”

I’ve dealt with my fair share of asshats this year alone and I want to be done with them, I want them all to disappear. Is that too much to ask? Do I just have this sign on my forehead that says
bother me all you like
? It should say
try and bother me but I’m no longer responsible for my actions
. I might need a larger forehead.

Milo doesn’t nod. He doesn’t move. So help me, the boy just looks at me—looks down at me since he has advantage in the height department. And slowly, so slowly, a crooked grin blossoms along his lips, and while I admit it’s cute—even, and I’ll admit it, adorable—I still want to punch it into his teeth.

For some reason, it’s always someone’s smile that makes me want to maim people—usually the smiler themselves. People shouldn’t smile around me, it always leads to bad things like jackasses and tricks. Sometimes even Wanna-Biebers with too much time on their hands and ulterior motives, but once bitten, they stay and do more damage—sometimes irreparably.

And right now, he’s at the top of my maim list. He’s even the second and third on the list. Maybe fourth.

Taking a step back and a deep breath, I take a moment to think, I need to detach myself. I need to back away. It’s time for me to start that counting crap Dr. Jett tells me to do when I feel
emotional
—just breathe, one, inhale, two, exhale, three—as I’m doing this, I back away, heading for my class at the end of the hall. If I’m near him any longer, I’m not responsible anything I’ll do next.

Sitting next to him is surely going to be one hell of a good time for the rest of the year, I can tell. I can see it now.

Sliding into the classroom—I nothing I have no new classmates—I take my seat and try to shut down, try to focus on school and class because that is why I am here. Like every other teen, I’m here to learn and take things away, I’m here to gain new things, ask questions, and try to be something. I’m here to graduate. All this is nothing but a pit stop on my life. After all this—every little thing this hell has put me through, I go out into the world and become someone greater than
Joey Archembault, daughter of a psycho murderer
. After all this, I get to become something greater than whatever these people have made me painted as in their minds.

I get to become human.

And that’s enough to push me through the rest of my day. It helps me endure it all.

In calculus, I ace a pop quiz. It helped that I did the homework over the weekend while everyone else lazed around, partied, or simply forgot. I get through gym by running the stupid mile—I can feel the muscles growing. And I get through chemistry without burning anything that shouldn’t be burned. But that didn’t stop someone from trying to set fire to a failed English essay. But my mind is elsewhere for everything, even the classroom fire alarm going off for two minutes. I’m not focused, I’m not engaging like I should be, I’m just there. I’m doing the minimum just to get by.

My grades aren’t falling. I’ve been throwing myself into my homework, actually—my grades are better than before (if that were even possible). But in life, I’m doing the bare minimum—I just exist. The teachers haven’t said anything to me; no one’s asking questions, they’re just letting me be.

And I appreciate that.

Though, I know they miss someone answering their questions. I would, too, if I went through the trouble of creating a decent lesson plan.

What can I say, I’m the golden student.

During lunch, I’m in the library seated behind the classics section with a granola bar—sadly, apples aren’t allowed in the library—and a book. Kennie’s camped in the chair right next to mine, sometimes asking me questions about her homework, sometimes asking me about other things. I mostly don’t answer.

She doesn’t talk about Zephyr or anything that could bring him into the conversation. She’s very good about that and I couldn’t thank her enough for not pressing it. Maybe she knows I’ll hit her—I won’t hit her hard but I’m not above abuse these days. After that brief little break from character this morning, where she became open and vulnerable, all talk about what’s happening to me and where I disappear in my head is forgotten. Now Kennie’s back to being bubbly.

I like bubbly Kennie.

“So, I hear there’s a new guy,” she starts, trying to pull me away from the pages in front of me. It’s the newest assignment in English,
Catch-22
. So she succeeds. I’m happy for the distraction but I don’t want to talk about Milo. Maybe we should revisit the topic of Zephyr…

So I play dumb.

“Is there?” I ask, turning the page and fixing my glasses.