Breathless (6 page)

It’s not death they hate. It’s the pain of being left behind.

I ducked my head and picked up the pace, keeping my eyes on the toes of my black bal et flats peeking out from the hem of my jeans as I hurried down the hal . I made it to my locker just as the intercom announced that first-period classes would be canceled for an assembly.

My throat went dry, my tongue thick so I had difficulty swal owing around it. This wouldn’t be a ral y for the footbal team, soccer team, or whatever sport was currently in season. With trembling hands, I pul ed my books from my backpack and organized them on my locker shelf, ignoring the way my classmates’ voices dropped to muted levels when they walked by me and picked up in volume the further away they got. Every now and then I could pick up a snippet of conversation.

“They say he might never wake up.”

“I heard
she
was there.”

“Bit by a shark.”

“Who
is
she?”

“His body hasn’t surfaced yet.”

Oh God
. Despite having ditched the protein bar, my mouth watered, warning me that I was going to throw up. I slammed my locker shut and ran into the bathroom, where I kneeled at the first toilet and heaved what felt like acid burning up my throat. When I finished, I stood on shaky legs and rinsed my mouth out with water from the sink. As I dried my face with a paper towel, I looked in the mirror and immediately regretted the action. The girl who stared back at me was one I barely recognized. Dark circles hung under my eyes and the color had drained from my lips, leaving them the same pasty color as my complexion.

The pink shirt only made it worse.

I slipped it over my head and exchanged it for a black v-neck T-shirt I’d stashed inside my bag. Sir had strictly forbidden me to wear black, tel ing me that when I did I looked like a Satan worshiper. Any other time, when Sir told me to do something, I did. But what Sir didn’t realize, or what anyone else who cal ed me emo didn’t realize, was that wearing black wasn’t a fashion statement. It was a tribute to my brother.

Two days after Wil iam had died, Sir cal ed a charity and, despite Mom’s begging, had them come in and take everything away that was Wil iam’s. From his clothes to his toys and even his crib. Next, Sir pul ed down the Noah’s ark wal paper border and painted the pastel blue wal s white. Al that was left was a white, empty room with brown carpet. He told us that we couldn’t live in the past. A year later, when he caught Mom staring at a picture of Wil iam with tears in her eyes, that’s when Sir demanded al the pictures be stripped from the wal s. It wasn’t enough that Sir had al traces of Wil iam stripped from our home, he wanted Wil iam erased from our memories, too.

But I wouldn’t let that happen. After reading
The Scarlet Letter
during freshman year, I became fascinated with the idea of Hester Prynne bearing the mark of her shame in public. I felt that because I was responsible for Wil iam’s death, I should have to suffer as wel . I owed it to him not to forget.

The black clothing and the heavy makeup kept the other students away from me, which I deserved. Wil iam certainly didn’t have the chance to live life, have fun, and make friends, so I shouldn’t either. The black was my scarlet letter.

When I’d finished changing, I pul ed out a smal bag fil ed with more forbidden paraphernalia, like eyeliner and lipstick. I applied thick lines around my eyes, finishing with a sweep of dark purple shadow and a brush of mascara. When I was finished, I felt better. No longer exposed.

As I zipped my makeup case, I heard voices outside the bathroom door and, not wanting to be seen, darted for the nearest stal and locked myself in.

“Peter told me he saw that Edith girl at her locker.”

“No! The one from the accident?”

I peered through the crack of the stal to find two girls bent over the sinks, dabbing at their faces with various cosmetics. A twinge of jealously washed through me. Despite the fact that I worked hard to keep people at a distance, it didn’t mean I didn’t wonder what it would be like to gossip in the bathroom with someone while applying makeup—not that I ever
had
any good gossip.

The redheaded girl nodded. “That’s the one. What kind of name is
Edith,
anyway?”

The second girl, who had her blond hair knotted into messy buns on both sides of her head, snorted. “I have no idea. Speaking of, Amanda told me that her boyfriend’s sister went to visit Gabriel e in the hospital—she has a couple cracked ribs. Amanda said that Gabriel e says the whole accident was that girl Edith’s fault.”

I bit my lip to keep the cry of protest from leaving my mouth.

The redheaded girl snapped the top of her lipstick back on and leaned against the sink. “What happened?”

The blonde’s pleasure at having the better gossip was evident by the twisted smirk reflected in the mirror. “Amanda’s boyfriend’s sister said that Gabriel e told her Edith tried to push her out of the boat. She was jealous because Gabriel e was dancing. I guess she stood and—” The blonde thrust her arms outward, then shrugged. “Russel lost control of the wheel when he saw what happened. That’s why he crashed into Scott’s boat.”

“No!” The redhead gaped. “So she’s, like, a murderer, then?”

“A total psycho. I don’t know why the cops didn’t arrest her.” After the blonde finished blotting her lips on a paper towel, she crumpled it up and tossed it at the trashcan. It bounced off the rim and fel to the floor. Garbage. Like me.

“Come on,” The redhead grabbed her friend by the shoulder and steered her to the door. “We don’t want to be late for the assembly.” The bathroom door swooshed as they exited.

My vision teetered and I sat down on the toilet to keep from fal ing over. Murderer. Psycho. The words echoed in my head like a gong. “They’re wrong.” I whispered, my voice quivering. The accident had been caused by Gabriel e and her need to thrust her hips like a five-dol ar hooker.
I
had tried to
save
her.

But of course no one would see it that way. Who would believe Edith Smal , a nobody, over Gabriel e Rederick, the pretty blond captain of the equestrian team? I already knew the answer to that. The more important question was, how long until that story infected the entire school? Or worse yet, how long until Sir found out?

Blood pounded inside my head in angry waves as I fumbled with the door lock. Once the door had opened, I stumbled from the stal on legs of rubber and managed to grab hold of the sink before I sank to my knees. I was about to cup some water to my mouth when a low rumble sounded from the wal behind the mirrors, causing the sink to tremble under my fingers.

“What the—” But my sentence was cut short by a low groan, fol owed by cracking porcelain and the sharp clang of a metal faucet as it shot across the room and ricocheted against the ceramic tile.

I screamed and covered my head as the remaining faucets broke free and shot across the bathroom, one missing my face by mere inches. Four geysers erupted from the uncovered pipes in streams that reached the ceiling. I scrambled backward only to slide on the wet floor and land on my butt.

I rol ed onto my knees and waited for the breath to return to my lungs. My back arched, I hung my head and sucked in as much air as my constricted air passages al owed.

My eyes burned and I couldn’t be sure if I was actual y crying, soaked as my face was. I wished I could turn my body into liquid and escape down the rusted drain in the middle of the floor, along with the water raining down on me. It would take too much effort to get up and face my classmates.

More effort than I had. Maybe I could lay here forever.

As if reading my mind, two hands wound themselves in the front of my shirt. The stranger’s tone was an accusation that stung worse than the freezing water pelting my face.

“What the hel ?”

The worst part of starting a new school was lunch. That was always the moment that defined my social standing for the rest of the year.

My first day at Valparaiso High had been no different. I stood in the lunch line pretending to focus on the nutritional guideline sticker on my fruit cup while I searched the room for an empty table. I didn’t want to sit next to someone and force them into awkward conversation. The ideal spot had to have a buffer—a good two or three chairs away from other people—so I could read the obituaries in peace while I ate. I spotted a potential opening in the back of the room, a table occupied by a lone girl with skin the color of a cup of coffee fil ed halfway with cream and with purple dreadlocks cascading down her back—a girl whose name I’d learn later was Morgan Pratt. She sat, alternating her chopsticks from eating tools to drumsticks, while bobbing her head in time with the music on her iPod.

After paying for my food, I walked along the rows of tables, hunched under the weight of the curious eyes al around me. I could feel them taking me in, from my heavy eyeliner to my Cure T-shirt, forming their opinions and categorizing me into something that made sense to them.

“Check out the new emo chick,” a girl whispered.

And just that fast, I was tagged and branded like another cow in the herd. I approached Morgan, struggling not to squirm under the continued stares of the students around me. Her eyes locked with mine, and before I could reach for the back of the metal chair, she pul ed it against the table by looping the toe of a red stiletto around the bottom rung.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She ripped the ear buds from her ears and pressed her shoulders back.

The nearby tables fel silent as students abandoned their conversations and shifted their bodies for optimum visibility.

“N-n-nothing.” I felt the eagerness of the surrounding students as they leaned forward, waiting for a fight to break up an otherwise boring lunch.

“Who sent you?” Her eyes narrowed and she whipped her head around the room. She scanned the tables of kids whose smiles shriveled like month-old bananas. “Which one of you was it?” She zeroed in on a group of whispering girls who wore matching maroon ribbons in their hair.

“Gabriel e?”

A blonde with frosted pink lip gloss rol ed her eyes and flipped her ponytail behind her shoulder. “Look, Morgan, I don’t know who lit the fuse on your tampon, but your obsession with me is getting old and a little creepy. I already told you that I’m not into chicks.”

Morgan’s hands began to tremble and she quickly bal ed them into fists. “I think the bleach has gone to your brain, Gabi. You clearly don’t understand the definition of lesbian. It means I like
human
girls. Your family tree, however, is nothing more than a rest stop for dogs.”

A hiss reverberated against the cafeteria wal s as the entire room sucked in a col ective breath. I clutched my fruit cup to my chest and took a step backward, wishing I could become a chameleon and fade into the white concrete wal s.

A pulsing vein appeared on Gabriel e’s temple as she pushed back her tray and stood. “The only reason you’re a lesbian is because no guy wil touch you.”

Morgan threw her iPod into her backpack and zipped it shut. “And the only reason you’re a whore is because every guy here already has.” She slipped her arm through the strap and pushed away from the table. “Stop sending your little minions over to screw with me.” She scanned the room.

“Everybody, just leave me the fuck alone.” With that she threw back her shoulders and marched from the room.

“Freak!” Gabriel e cal ed after her, eliciting giggles from the girls around her. She smiled smugly and sat back down, never once looking in my direction.

That day, I had ducked my head and tucked my fruit cup close to my body. Alone, I had slunk away in the opposite direction as Morgan, where I’d found a bathroom to enjoy my lunch in peace.

The same bathroom where I now found myself sprawled on the floor, an angry Morgan Pratt hovering over me.

***

“I have no idea,” I answered. “The floor started shaking and before I could get out, the sinks exploded.”

She looped fingers adorned with thick plastic rings around my wrist and pul ed me toward the door. “Don’t just stand there. Move. Before my hair dye starts to run.” This week her hair was a mix of black and pink dreads, tied into a high ponytail with a black ribbon.

I nodded and fol owed her out of the bathroom, bracing myself for the looks I was sure to receive due to my sopping wet appearance. Instead, an empty hal way greeted me.

My heart sank into my knees. “The assembly,” I muttered. My shoes made squishy protests as I shifted my weight back and forth. Wet footprints led from the bathroom to where I stood. “I can’t go in there like this!” Water trailed down my arms like silvery veins and hung from my fingertips in fat beads.

Morgan laughed. “That’s for sure.”

A sob worked its way up my throat but I swal owed it before it could escape. “It’s bad enough half the school thinks I’m responsible for the boat accident. But this—” I shook water from my hands.

“Wait a sec.” Morgan’s eyes, sparkling with glitter, bulged from their sockets. “You mean to tel me
you’re
Edith Smal ?”

My body trembled, a precursor to the breakdown that was sure to come. “I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.” She opened her mouth but I cut her off before she had a chance to speak. “I appreciate your help in the bathroom but we’re late for the assembly.” My shoes squeaked in protest as I spun on my heels and sloshed down the hal way in the direction of the auditorium.

“Smal s! Hold up!” Heavy footsteps descended upon me, then I was twisted around by my elbow. A flash of metal appeared between her lips as Morgan played with the barbel implanted in her tongue. “You’re going the wrong way. If you don’t want to make a scene, you’d be better off using my private entrance.” She jutted her chin toward the door at the opposite end of the hal way.