Breathe for Me (4 page)

I quickly hop in the shower, hoping to scrub off the last vestiges of his endearments that cling to my skin. Once that's done, I cover my body from neck to toe in my usual garb, grab a quick bite to eat and run downstairs and out the apartment's main door. The air is hot even in the morning, and I'm quickly slicked with sweat again.

I make my way down the sidewalk toward school. Birds chirp in the rows of trees around me as cars shuffle by on the street. I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder and round the corner toward school. And then stop dead in my tracks. Just barely visible, in the grass at the base of a tree, there's a small bird lying on the ground. Its squawking rips a piece of my heart—it's obviously in pain.

I squat down and eye the poor thing. One wing is snapped, the tip bent at an awkward angle. The bird's numbers descend raggedly, rapidly, as it draws shattered breaths through its beak. From the look of things, it won't make it to the end of the day.

A search for a nest in the tree gives me no help. It's empty. No other birds are perched in the branches.

I swallow hard. I should move on and let nature happen in its own way. One thing I do know is that it's best not to interfere in the cycle of life, but something in me won't let me budge. I can't leave this bird to suffer for hours until it meets its end. Not if I can help it. Unlike my skin, which “only” burns upon contact, one kiss given to me or from me will kill instantly…and condemn that person's soul to Sitri's control forever.

But birds don't have souls, so Sitri couldn't claim it. The poor creature could truly rest in peace. I could brush my lips across its feathered head and take away its pain, permanently.

My heart is pounding so hard, it feels like it will burst through my ribcage. Am I doing the right thing? I press my palm to my heart, willing myself to breathe slowly, calm down. I've never purposely taken a life, as far as I can remember. No déjà vu or niggling memories in the back of my mind of this happening before.

Can I do this?

“Excuse me, miss,” an older man says as he appears out of nowhere right behind me, leaning on a thick wooden cane. “You're blocking the sidewalk.”

I jump from my squatting position and move off the sidewalk, guilt flushing my face. “Oh, sorry.”

He raises one thick grey eyebrow. “Best be getting yourself to school.”

My heart thumps unsteadily. I cast a shamed glance at the creature. “I just saw this bird, and its wing is broken. I think it's seriously hurt.” Of course, I can't say anything more specific about how I know how short the bird's life is.

His brows bunch together. “You shouldn't touch those things. They carry disease. Move along now—I'll notify an animal warden. You don't want to be tardy.”

I swallow, then nod slowly, shuffling away from the bird. If I hadn't hesitated so long, I could have helped it. If bringing death could be considered help, that is.

I shove my hand into my pocket, glancing back behind me. The old man is on a cell phone as he looks down at the bird. All I can do now is hope he does the right thing.

The pitiable bird lingers in my mind, and I spend most of my day in a sort of distracted haze. Samantha notices a difference in my personality, but I tell her I'm not feeling well. It's true—my stomach is a mess, a tangle of guilt and sorrow.

When English class starts, I move into my seat and stare at my desk, trying to shake off my emotions so I can focus.

Mrs. Scott, our teacher, writes swiftly on the chalkboard and talks even faster. “To wrap up this unit on poetry, I'm going to assign you guys a final project. I want you to work in pairs. You and your partner are going to write a poem together.”

There are several moans in class, especially from the guys in the room. I dare a glance at Dominic, who's busy writing in his notebook.

“You may pick your partners now—you have two minutes.” Mrs. Scott looks at her watch.

Students jump out of their seats and scuttle around the room, their voices mixing in a cacophony of laughs and rushed words. I remain seated but turn my gaze again at Dominic, who is also still in his seat. Now looking at me.

I bite my lower lip. Should I go over to him? He's the only one in here I would feel even marginally comfortable composing a poem with.

Then again, that might not be such a good thing.

Terri, a girl in our class, sidles over to Dominic's side of the room. Her gaze scatters across the students who haven't partnered up yet. I see her draw an unsteady gulp of air, tossing several quick glances between Dominic and another guy behind him. Which one is she going to ask to be her partner?

Something comes over me, a surge of boldness that fills my veins. I rise out of my seat and walk to him.

“Will you work with me on this project, Dominic?” I ask in a quiet voice.

Honestly, I'm just as surprised to hear the words out of my mouth as he appears to be. I know I'm flirting with danger, but I can't resist the pull I'm feeling right now. To bring him closer, even if just for a school project. This will be my best chance to find out who he is and why he interests me so much.

He nods, the corners of his mouth creasing in a smile, and gathers his books. “That'd be great.” He slips out of his seat with a well-practiced ease and follows me to my side of the room, moving into the empty spot on my right.

Terri shoots a surprised glance our way then scuttles over to the other guy and settles in beside him.

Mrs. Scott quiets everyone down and explains the instructions. We have to write a poem of at least eight lines on any topic we choose, using poetic writing strategies we've been discussing throughout the unit.

As she talks, I force myself to focus on writing notes. But my body is keenly aware of the heat emanating from Dominic. I can hear his slow, steady breaths. In, out. In, out. The sound is lulling, hypnotic, and I forget where I am for a moment as I listen to him.

“—started on your planning now,” Mrs. Scott is saying.

I snap myself back to attention and risk a peek at Dominic. He scoots his desk closer to mine, so close I feel his leg brush against the thin pants covering my knee. I swallow and clench my hands together on my desk. Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. I hadn't planned on being so physically aware of him.

Dominic grabs a pencil and opens his notebook to a fresh page. He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, turning those blue eyes my way. “What should we write about?”

I shrug, my tongue suddenly thick. I can't speak. I smell the clean, soft scent of his soap as it wafts in the air. The sudden urge to lean close and breathe him in deeper startles me. Panics me.

He raises an eyebrow. “You're gonna have to help me out a little here. What are you interested in?”

“Um,” I say, tearing my eyes away from his and studying the black tips of my gloves. “I like studying history.” God, I'm so awkward. This is embarrassing. I wish I could be more open, but fear freezes my tongue.

“That's right. I remember now from the library. Let's choose a famous person or time period and write a poem about that,” he suggests. He scratches some notes on his paper, then says, “Any particular era you want to focus on?”

Mrs. Scott comes over to our desks, leaning over between us. “Make sure you guys choose your topic quickly. You need to have an idea no later than Friday.”

I nod in assent. She walks to the cluster of desks beside us.

Dominic leans closer to me, his cheeks lightly flushed. “I know you're not comfortable with me, but you asked me to be your partner. So can we try to be friends?”

“Friends?”

His mouth splits into a wide grin. “You know, friends. Pals.
Compadres
.”

I roll my eyes, chuckling. “I know what friends are.” I pause for a moment, swallow then whisper, “Yes.”

He nods, turns his attention back to the notebook, seeming to understand when I need a moment to myself. “Okay, let's figure out our topic.”

Reality sets in. I have another friend. As long as we stay that way, everything should be fine.

The last bell of the school day rings. I scramble to get my stuff together, run to my locker, then dart out the front doors. The heat smacks me hard as soon as I'm outside, but I ignore it as best as I can and make my way back home. Only a minute until I hit the grassy area where the bird was.

A small prayer lumps in my throat, but I'm too afraid to whisper it.

It's probably not normal for someone to get so upset over a bird. Well, Jane would have cried for hours about its death, since she always had a soft heart. But I work hard to keep everyone and everything around me at a safe distance. So when something slips below my armor, it takes hold and won't let me go. Samantha was one of the first here in New Orleans who made me want to take the risk and open up. This bird managed to slip in there too, even within just a few minutes.

I reach the tree. The grass is empty, the bird gone.

I exhale slowly. At least it's not suffering here. Hopefully the bird was taken to an animal hospital.

I release the prayer into the air and continue home. Dominic and I decided to go to our homes, finish our homework and meet in the enclosed garden of my apartment complex this evening. It felt too intimate to invite him into my place, and he said his older brother was having a bunch of friends over to his house and therefore would give us no space to work. So this was a good compromise.

I make it home, my steps light and easy, my spirits heartened. Homework isn't overwhelming, so it takes me no time at all to finish it. But as it gets closer to the time to see Dominic, the butterflies take over my stomach in ever-increasing strength. I make a roast beef and provolone sandwich for dinner, picking at it, forcing my nervous belly to hold down at least a few bites.

The temptation to call Samantha is strong. It would be good to get her advice about how to be more natural around guys, even if they are just friends. But I know if I show her I have any interest in Dominic, she'll never let it go, and I'm not 100% sure I'm ready to talk about it yet. Besides, he and I are friends, nothing more. And our meeting is only about a school project. There's no need for me to be nervous.

Still, as I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and run a comb through my thick waves, I can't seem to soothe my erratic heartbeat, my shaking hands. I slip a light-tinted gloss across my lips and step away. I'm not going to get carried away about this.

Don't forget what can happen
, I tell myself. I am instantly sobered. Even though I can't remember all of my past, I'm well aware of the dangers I present to others. I tug my elbow-length gloves higher on my arms, straighten my shirt and grab my notebook before heading downstairs to the courtyard.

There are several empty black wrought-iron tables around the perimeter, so I pull out a chair and perch on its edge, putting my notebook on the table's glass surface. I love coming here, just watching people move in and out of their apartments bearing bags of groceries, carrying babies or holding hands. Plus, it's a good way for me to be around nature without running into others.

There are several grids of boxed gardens, with paths neatly running between them. Each bed holds thick bushes and grasses with wide, flat leaves, as well as flowering plants of pinks, reds and yellows. A two-tiered fountain bubbles in the center of the courtyard, several potted ferns resting along its rim. This garden is a sort of oasis away from the busy streets, one of the few sanctuaries I've found in this city. I have to thank Sitri for finding it for me.

The door opens, and Dominic enters the courtyard. I stand, willing my legs to remain steady. He'd changed clothes after school and is now wearing a pale grey T-shirt and low-slung jeans. His hair is damp, slicked back off his head. A heated rush flows through my veins as I realize he must have freshened up. For me.

“Hey,” he says, standing only a couple of feet away. He towers over me, and I have to tilt my head up to look at him. That errant lock of hair is already moving out of place, sliding back down on his forehead. “You ready to work on our project?”