carefully everywhere descending (3 page)

“What's wrong?” asked Jimmy as I cup my hand around the reddened skin and gently rub to soothe the ache a little.

“It's nothing,” I say.

Sam turns around and is on his knees, his dark eyes huge and scared in his face.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks.

“Nooo,” I say. “It's fine. Hey!” Jimmy grabs my wrist and jerks my hand away to examine my shin. It's really not too bad: just a little scraped skin that will heal in a couple of days. “See? It's fine.”

“Did you run into something?” asks Sam. “I left my bike out on the lawn. Was that it?”

“No! I got…. Er, I got stepped on.” It's embarrassing to say out loud. Who gets “stepped on” really? Now all I can think about is elephants and things with big feet. “When I was picking up the pizza. A bunch of kids from school were crowded around the door, and I got in the way. It's nothing.”

Satisfied, Sam says, “Okay,” and gets up to get more water. Jimmy waits until he's out of the room to ask, “Is that true?”

I look at him in surprise. “Why would I make it up?”

“Did someone do this on purpose?” he asks, dropping my hand.

“What? No! What? Why would you think that?”

“Let's talk after Sam's in bed. I don't want to worry him.”

Well, lucky for Sam. He gets to spend the rest of the night happily oblivious while my imagination runs wild with intrigue, fueled by the TV show we're watching. Neither of my parents are that important, so I can't think our family would be a target like the ambassadors and government officials on the program. But what if there's a personal vendetta by someone Dad encountered at work, or an angry ex-boss of Mom's, and they're seeking revenge?

I'm practically vibrating with questions by the time we finally pry the remote from Sam and send him to bed. His and Jimmy's door hasn't even clicked shut before I ask, “Well?”

“These kids,” says Jimmy, “did they hurt you on purpose?”

“No,” I respond. “Like I said, I was standing in the back of the group, and Scarlett West stepped back and nicked me.”

Jimmy's expression sours. “Scarlett West? You were hanging out with her? I thought you hated her.”

“I wasn't ‘hanging out' with anyone!” I say, exasperated. Jimmy gives me a warning look and points to Sam's closed door. I lower my voice. “Come on, Jimmy. What's this all about?”

He's silent for a moment. “Scarlett West drives a 2014 Audi A5 that she
owns at seventeen
. Nothing good can come hanging around someone like that.”

I open my mouth to protest again that my existing in the same place and time as Scarlett West was not of my design.

“When I was a senior, I got beat up pretty bad,” Jimmy says before I can utter a word.

“
What
?” I whisper, and then again when the full impact of that hits me, “
What
?” I grab at his arm and look him over as though the bruises will still be marring his body. He's skinny now, but he was even reedier back in high school. He couldn't have put up much of a fight at all. “Jimmy,” I whisper, devastated.

“Don't look at me like that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It wasn't the end of the world. A couple of punks jumped me in the 7-Eleven parking lot. They said some stuff about our family and kicked me in the ribs for a while and then left.”

“Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't I notice?” I ask. “Did you tell Dad?” But even as the words leave my mouth, I know the answer is no. Jimmy and I both watch our father drag himself in after a long shift, looking old and exhausted, and though we've never discussed it, we both try our best to make his time at home as easy as possible.

“It wasn't anything visible,” he says. “It was mostly in my chest and sides. And it was just bruises. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to make you scared to go to school. You love school. I never understood why. And I was sure they were focused on me, not you or Sam. These were guys from my class.”

“But you said they said something about our family,” I say, still trying to wrap my mind around this series of revelations.

He scowls. “Just dirty insults. No specific threats. But I've been worried the same thing might happen to you. These kids we're around…. They're not always the best, okay? And they think we're an easy target. So just keep your head down and stay safe, you hear me? Stay close to Amber at all times. If you get cornered, call me
immediately
, you understand? I will come and get you. Honestly, I've been worried something might happen, now that you're a young woman—”

“Oh my God,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Let's never have that talk. Ever. Okay?”

“You just have to be careful,” he says. “I don't want you to get hurt.”

He's forceful in a way he usually isn't, so I drop my hands and make myself meet his eyes and nod, though my life is so dull I don't imagine anything like he's thinking could happen. Mostly I'm still a little in shock about what he went through and grateful that he cares enough about me to worry. I give him a long hug, breathing in his familiar smell, and then go to get ready for bed.

 

 

I'
M
A
little paranoid the next few days at school with Jimmy's confession still rattling around in my head. I stick close to Amber and look at everyone a little suspiciously, wondering who gossiped about the cruel students who beat up my brother, and how many people had laughed at it.

So to say I'm not thrilled when Scarlett slides her lunch tray in front of the seat across from me in the cafeteria and plops herself down would be a gross understatement. Amber freezes with her fork halfway to her mouth, her salad plopping leaf by leaf back to its container. Scarlett grins charmingly. Her lips are distracting. She must know it; that's why she smirks and grins and purses them thoughtfully so much. Her expressions are 50 percent conveyed solely by her mouth.

“How are you ladies this fine day?”

“Did you want something?” I ask. It's with an effort I keep my tone civil.

“Well, since you asked….” She pauses a moment, as though waiting for us to laugh. Neither Amber nor I move. Her smile fades, and she hesitates, like she's gathering her courage. She looks me in the eye. “I could really use your help. If I don't pass English, I'm sunk. Mr. Welsh gave me the opportunity to revise all my papers that I'd submitted so far, but I'm… I'm not doing so well. I was wondering… I was
hoping
you could help me.”

My mouth drops open. I can't believe she's flashing her money in my face and trying to buy grades
again
when she continues.

“So, if you would have some time to tutor me, I can't tell you how much I'd appreciate it.”

“Tutor you,” I repeat slowly.

“Yeah, of course.” She firms her jaw and looks at me seriously. “I'll rewrite everything myself, I promise. It's just the comments he keeps giving me don't make any sense, and he says it's because I'm still struggling with the concepts.”

“Why me?”

“Well, for one, I know you're in Honors English, so it should be a breeze for you. But you know that report you gave in World History?” Of course I do; it's the one I had been working on this past weekend. The same weekend I had the misfortune of running into Scarlett at an Italian restaurant. “It was so clear. The way you explained stuff and answered questions at the end made everything make sense. You're a natural.”

I know she's trying to butter me up to get her way, but I can't help but feel flattered. I take a lot of pride in my work, and she makes herself sound so sincere. Like she actually believes that.

I lean back a little from my lunch tray of congealing taco and limp greens and consider. To be honest, I don't really want to. I had a written plan for how I was going to divvy up my time this year, and it's been working out like a dream. Tutoring Scarlett West was not part of that system.

Still undecided, I glance at Amber, who hasn't said anything. She's going to let me make my own decision, but she conveys with her eyebrows one thought:
empathize with her
. I'm sidetracked for a moment reflecting on how glad I am that I have such a great best friend. Then I look back at Scarlett.

“When were you thinking these tutoring sessions might take place?”

Her face lights up. “You'll help me?”

“Yes. Since you
will
be doing all your own work”—I level a severe look at her—“I'm happy to tutor you. When are you free?”

“I am at your command,” she says grandly. “As soon as you can start, and whenever you're free.”

“Why don't you e-mail me the papers you've written so far?” I suggest. “Then I can read them over, and we can meet and talk them through.”

“You're the best,” she says as I tell her my e-mail address. She types it into her phone and then clicks rapidly for a bit longer before pushing a button and sending the e-mail with a
whoosh
. “Tell me when you're ready to meet, and I'm there. Cheers, ladies.”

She saunters off, and I become aware of the packed, buzzing cafeteria again. It always reminds me of a hive of bees when we're all gathered in a place like this. What did the other drones think of that little get-together? I look around and see a few eyes glance away as I do, but for the most part, I'm ignored as usual. I'm used to that. I'm not weird or attention-attracting enough in any way to draw the admiration or ire of my classmates, but I thought the activities of popular Scarlett would be enough of an interest to send the gossip mills churning.

“That was a kind thing you did,” says Amber. I glance to my right to take in her profile. We're sitting side by side to compose a poem for, coincidentally, Honors English.

“You think so?” I ask dubiously. “It could be an elaborate plan to get me to write her papers for her.”

“She seemed sincere,” she says. “And even if that's her goal, you won't do it, but you will give her some feedback that maybe she'll listen to. I believe it will be helpful to her.”

The first thing that had drawn me to Amber was her thoughtfulness. She had been the new kid for several months by the time we exchanged names while waiting for the bus. We ended up seated next to each other; her with the window at her left and me by the aisle. I had pulled out my math homework and was attempting to work on it, but people kept knocking into my arm and jarring me. After a couple of frustrating minutes, she gently tapped my shoulder and said, “I can see you're right-handed and that position is giving you difficulties. Would you like to trade seats?” We've been best friends ever since.

“Well, it won't hurt to try,” I say. “And who knows? It may be something that ends up on a college application.”

Amber laughs softly, shaking her head and causing her dirty-blonde bangs to swing into her eyes. She's a stout girl with a round face and elegant nose. She's also got perfectly arched eyebrows that I envy constantly.

“What?” I ask.

“I love you, Audrey,” she says with a smile. “You'll be alone in a room with Scarlett West, and the only thing you think of is how you may be able to use it as an entrance for college.”

“Well, I certainly don't have anything else in mind,” I say, flushing.

“I know. I know your schedule is too packed for a girlfriend, but don't you ever… wonder?” Amber is never mocking, and her question is well intentioned. She knows how hard I work and why I do, and she never judges me for it. I know a social life is the priority for many other girls my age, but the time I spend with Amber is enough to make me happy. I tell her so.

“I enjoy spending time with you as well,” she says. “Would you like to come over after school and stay for dinner? We're having couscous and chicken.”

I think of the leftover pizza in our fridge, and my stomach roils a little in memory of the greasiness.

“That sounds heavenly,” I say. “I'll text Jimmy and let him know to meet Sam at the bus stop. I didn't say that to get invited over, though.”

“I know that,” says Amber with another light laugh. “It's fine, Audrey. Please don't worry so much. You're allowed to enjoy yourself.”

The conversation leaves me examining my life with more scrutiny than usual for the rest of the day. I wouldn't say I'm the happiest person around, but I take a lot of satisfaction in excelling in whatever I set out to do. I love my family, and I have Amber. I would say that's a pretty full life, wouldn't you? Sure, I don't go out much, and we don't live in the best place, but that's fine. Most of the ways my fellow students spend their time doesn't appeal to me anyway. Our neighborhood isn't
dangerous
, per se, but my window faces the street, and every time the Nelsons across from us or the Thompsons to our left get into a drunken screaming fit, the sound carries into my bedroom. There's also Larry DeFont a few doors down, who always seems to be in a paranoid stupor from some kind of drug. He peers around with blown-out, frantic eyes and mutters to himself in his filthy clothes. The derelict houses of some of the more troubled families look dirty and broken. So when I overhear the popular kids talking about drinking or drugs, I think about my neighbors enslaved by such pursuits and don't feel the same excitement or intrigue.

Amber tries to tell me not everyone is drunk or high, and there are other ways to hang out, but most of them involve pocket money that I don't have. Amber and her family are too generous. When I get a straight-A report card, which is every quarter, they give me a gift card to the movies, so I can go with Amber. When I won the regional quiz bowl last year, they took me out to the fanciest restaurant I've ever been to. I still dream and drool about the goat-cheese-stuffed chicken I had. But they're so kind and never make me feel like a charity case.