Breathe for Me (2 page)

English class. I can't stop my eyes from sliding casually across the room every few minutes to stare at Dominic. He has one lock of hair that flops onto his forehead. For some reason, my fingers itch to push it off his face.

When was the last time I touched another person? I can barely remember what it's like. Even a small gesture, like brushing the small hairs on someone's arms with the tips of my fingers, is forbidden to me.

Dominic looks up from his notebook at that moment. I tear my gaze away, cheeks flaming from almost being caught staring, and turn my attention back to my assignment. We're supposed to be working on a poem, which is usually one of my favorite activities. For some reason, I'm having a hard time concentrating.

Okay, I know why. But it doesn't matter. I'm not going to think about him or our talk in the library. I'm going to finish this poem. I'm going to finish school today. And then I'm going to retreat to the sanctuary of my apartment, where I can shed these layers of clothes and be free of my constraints, if only for a little while.

I reread what I've written so far:

I can feel Dominic looking at me. Emboldened, I lift my eyes and stare right into his. The blue of his irises remind me of the body of water in my poem. Dark. Tempting. Heavy with an unspoken awareness.

Everything falls silent except the rush of blood in my ears.

The rest of the poem's words come to me out of nowhere, and I spill them out onto my paper:

The bell rings, jarring me out of my hypnotized state. I slip my poem into my notebook and stay seated, waiting for the room to empty before I leave to go to my next class. Girls cling together in tight groups, laughing and talking to each other as they pour through the doorway into the hall.

I stay back and watch.

chapter two

W
HEN
I
GET
HOME
I
finish my homework, make a sandwich and take a quick shower to scrub away midday's sticky sweat. After changing into fresh clothes I head out of my apartment and stroll down the street to one of my favorite destinations—Jim's Books. Normally the walk soothes me—dog-owners jogging alongside overly excited labs. Moms pushing cooing babies in strollers. Old people walking hand-in-hand.

But not today.

I keep my focus on the sidewalk, my brain unable to stop whirring. Thinking about Jane earlier triggered a renewed surge of old, old memories. When I was fourteen and she was eleven, we took our mother's old scraps of ribbon and made a mismatched bonnet—we were so proud of our efforts, even though our father chuckled under his breath about its eclectic pattern and colors. Jane wore the hat for a week straight, even sleeping in it. “It'll match every dress we own,” she whispered as she scrutinized her reflection in the rippled creek water. “I think it makes me look older. Don't you?”

But no matter how badly it hurts to think of her, I don't want to shut it off. I've spent the last several months, since arriving in New Orleans, desperate to cling to any scrap of my history I can unearth within my brain. It's all buried in here somewhere, even if most of it is shuttered from me. Sitri's managed to block my current past, for the most part, but he can't block the time before I met him.

I pause mid-stride and cast blind eyes across the neighborhood, breathe deeply and swallow as my sister's small, freckled face at age eight pops up in my mind. Her two front teeth were gapped, but she didn't care. She always wore a huge smile and never let the teasing of other kids rattle her. I envied her easy happiness with her lot in life, the way she found the bright side no matter what the situation.

So unlike me.

I bite my lip, make myself keep walking. The ache for Jane is bone-deep, persistent. She was three years younger than me, but she was my best friend. So many whispered secrets while we curled up in our small bed, clutching a too-thin blanket and each other for warmth. She knew me inside and out…at least, until Mr. Baker happened. Then I turned inward, stopped talking. Angry, bitter, resenting our parents for essentially selling me to the highest bidder. I should have trusted Jane with my feelings. If I had, maybe I wouldn't be here now.

A woman in a business suit nods at me as she goes by. I shake off my sadness and guilt, remembering my mantra—I can't change the past. But I can use Jane as my inspiration and find satisfaction with my current life, fight for any scrap of control possible. She wouldn't want me to stay sad.

I make it to the bookstore door and slip through, inhaling deeply. The musty scent of old books makes me smile.

“I'm in the back,” a deep voice rumbles. Jim. “Be there in just a sec.”

“It's just me,” I say with a chuckle.

“Oh, Isabel—help yourself. I'm—” pause, then a thumping sound, “—trying to take care of inventory. Gimme just a minute.”

Jim's store is cluttered and disorganized. He has his own method for sorting and storing books, one I haven't quite figured out yet. But it's an intriguing mystery, and I'm determined to crack it and surprise him.

I head to the shelf closest to me. A few new books are crammed in, mostly obscure poetry and classics. Jim has a fondness for history, like me. It's one of the reasons we bonded so quickly when I first came in the store about four months ago. I asked him to show me religious history books, and he was all too happy to assist. Though he's old, he's smart and remembers everything. A good resource and a nice person. Surprisingly, his numbers are still relatively high for his age. He's going to be an old-timer for sure, living well into his nineties.

Not that I can tell him the truth behind my research, of course. But still, there's something comforting and familiar about coming here and breathing in the words, escaping my worries and slipping under the skin of a book character's life.

A moment later, Jim finds his way to me. “This is a nice surprise,” he says. “What can I help you with?”

I shrug. “Just…looking for something interesting.” In addition to research, I've been doing a lot of general reading. In my apartment I have stacks upon stacks of books I've bought here, devoured nightly as I cuddle up in bed. Every once in a while a striking image or phrase triggers a sense of déjà vu in me. Nothing overly important—just snapshots of places I've been, things I've done before Sitri dropped me in New Orleans and I was born anew.

It's become a bit of a compulsion, seeing if I can tease the darkened memories out of my unconscious, piece together my life word by word, picture by picture. Yes, a small way to reclaim power in a powerless situation but the only thing I can do right now. A secret of my own, something I haven't told Sitri so he doesn't try even stronger methods to wipe my memory.

Jim scratches his chin, considering me for a moment. “I think I know just the thing.” He turns around, shuffles over to another shelf. “Where is it?” His fingers and eyes run across each row as he scours the books. “Ah, here we go.” With a gnarled, shaky hand, he withdraws a book and hands it to me, careful to keep his skin distant from mine.

I glance at the cover.
Jane Eyre
. I blink in surprise, then look back at him.

He shrugs, a light flush covering his cheeks. “I don't deny that I'm a bit of a romantic. Not sure if you've read it or not, but Jane's strength of character is fascinating. She's strong and opinionated and doesn't let anyone else determine her future. I think you'd be surprised how interesting and dark the novel is.” He nods at the book. “It's an early edition as well. Read the forward to learn more about the Bronte sisters.”

Jane
. Her name has been haunting me all day—maybe this is a sign. And she would have loved a book like this. I exhale a shaky breath and smile, clutching the book to my chest. “I'll take it.”

“Do you have notes from English yesterday?” Dominic appears at my side out of nowhere the next morning, as if brought to life by my near-constant musings about him. While reading last night I couldn't help but remember the striking blue of his irises, wondering how he spends his evenings. Right now he looks relaxed, one thumb loosely hooked in a loop on his jeans while the other arm casually bears a couple of books. But beneath that careless surface I sense intensity. It pours from his eyes into mine.

I slowly nod in reply to his question, not quite trusting myself to speak. I didn't expect to see him, and I'm a little off-kilter.

We move to the fringe of the hallway, and I dig through my notebook, flipping to yesterday's page where I'd sloppily scrawled my notes. I rip it out and hand it to him, my hand thankfully steady.

He gives me a small nod of thanks and takes the paper. “I'll get this back to you in the library during lunch.”

“Uh, so, did you read that story?” I blurt out, curiosity getting the better of me.

Eyes wide, he shakes his head in disbelief, a crooked grin on his face. “I did. Read it twice, actually. I can't believe she dies like that.”

“I thought it was crazy how sorrow over seeing her husband alive is what made her die,” I say, a thread of interest bubbling into my voice. Stories have an odd way of easing my nerves. I'm not so awkward when I can focus on something outside of myself. “I didn't see that one coming the first time I read it.”

“Well, I can't wait to hear what you recommend next.” He stares into my eyes with that odd intensity; I swallow and look away for a moment, heart thrumming.

I dare another glance at him. “Okay.”

Obviously sensing my unease, he glances at the time on his cell and says, “Gotta run. Thanks for the notes, Isabel.” With that, he walks off.

I press my back to the locker for a long moment and watch him melt into the crowd, the top of his shaggy head visible above the rest as he moves away from me.
Focus
, I tell myself and re-enter the stream of students, heading into Algebra II. It's not like he and I are friends or anything. He's probably just curious about why I'm so different.

The teacher, Mr. Morris, fills the chalkboard with mathematical formulas just waiting to be answered. I know what's coming. I bite back a groan and slide into my seat in the back of the room, then open my math notebook. Not my strongest subject, as I am most decidedly right-brained.

“Class, pop quiz time,” Mr. Morris says, his gruff voice always sounding like he's on the edge of a sore throat.

This time, everyone groans.

I hear loud whispers in front of me as Becky, a redheaded basketball player, grouses to her fellow teammate, Alexis. “This is ridiculous,” she says. “He knows we all hate math and no one understands it. Why torture us?”

Alexis snorts in reply. “What else can he do but come up with stupid quizzes? It's not like he's spending his evenings dating or anything. I mean, look at what he's wearing. I didn't know they made clothes like that past 1980.”

Mr. Morris, who must have overheard Alexis, shoots the two of them an angry look. “Zip it!” he says, adjusting the knot of his brown tie and pulling it tighter into the collar of his dress shirt. His cheeks turn a mottled shade of red, and his chest rises and falls rapidly as he glares.

I tear my eyes away from the numbers above his head as their descent gains speed, rolling forward with jagged determination to speed him closer to zero. The way it's been since I started in his class.

“Answer the questions on the board, class,” he chokes out, interrupting my train of thought. “You have half an hour to complete the quiz. I suggest you start now, before you lose more time.”

The room grows quiet in a flash as everyone begins to work. In the silence, I chew the end of my pencil and turn my attention to my paper for several minutes. But my thoughts dawdle away from math and return to Dominic. He's coming to the library again, this time to see me, specifically. Is this what a date feels like?

I scoff at myself.
Ridiculous
. What am I even thinking? I can't date anyway. And even if I could, exchanging notes for class wouldn't classify as one.