Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand (7 page)

“Break it
up,”
shouts a hall monitor. “What's going on?”

Around me I sense the crowd shift. People who had stopped to watch, start moving again and someone else squats down in front of me. “Madison?”

“Yeah?”

“'Kay, let's get you to the nurse's office.” Firm hands grasp my arm and help me to my feet.

“Here.” Someone stuffs a wad of paper towels into my hands and I instinctively press them to my nose.

“So what did you do to Tatiana?” the hall monitor asks me. Out of the corner of my eye I see that it's Peter Wong, with his round moon glasses and greasy hair parted in the middle.

“That who that was?”

“Yeah.”

“I dunno. You ever check Facebook?”

“I don't have an account.” He steers me down the hall and into the nurse's office where Ms. Rupetha looks up from munching an apple. Her eyes go wide. “What's this?”

“Tatiana DuPré kicked her in the face.”

“I think my nose is broken.”

“Here, let me see. You're going to have two black eyes. Peter, I want you to go tell the principal. Did you witness the attack?”

“Part of it.”

I zone out as they arrange to bring Tatiana to justice, because I know it won't happen. Peter may be a goody-goody who'll rat on anyone, but no one will back him up. People don't do that at our school.

Ms. Rupetha guides me over to the cot in the corner of her office and looks closely at my nose. With a couple of prods that make me wince she says, “It's not broken, just bruised. Looks like she shoved you in the face with her foot, rather than kicked. And you've cut your lip there. You're going to be black and blue, but it could be worse. I once had a student who ended up with the bully's sneaker treadmarks on his face. You could read the brand name backwards, even.”

I blink and stare at her, not sure if she's being serious.

Her expression gives nothing away. “Let's get some ice on this, see if we can keep the swelling down.”

I miss the rest of my classes that day. Ms. Rupetha gives me some painkillers and instructs me to just lay down with my head slightly elevated. I only leave long enough to get my lunch from my locker, which I eat while sitting on the cot and watching the nurse field phone calls from a parent about how to diagnose meningitis. Every bite of food sends pain lancing through my face, so I eat slowly.

W
hen I get to work that afternoon, Siraj glances up from his desk. “I'm going to ask you how school was,” he says, focusing on his computer, “and if you say 'fine', I will suspect that you are lying.”

“I need to log into Facebook.”

“I wouldn't choose today to upload a new profile picture.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“No worries. There's plenty more where that came from. I'm a giver, you know?” He moves aside as I take my seat. I feel like my sinuses are all stuffed with peanut butter goop and my nose is at least eight times its normal width. Usually I don't notice that I can see it when I look around, but now I've got a blind spot wide enough to hide a car in, if it's right in front of me.

My profile pops up, and the first thing I see is that my status is changed to, “In a relationship.” The second thing I see is that I've sent Jean-Pierre no less than a hundred requests for an array of sex acts, half of which I've never even heard of.

“Someone hack your account?” asks Siraj.

I spin around, terrified that he's looked over my shoulder. The sudden motion makes me so dizzy I grab the chair arms to right myself.

But Siraj's moved away to the reshelving cart. At seeing me jump, he pauses, his hand on a book. “What's wrong?”

“Yeah, someone hacked my account.”

“Any idea who?”

Unfortunately, I think, yes. The only person who would know my password is Kailie. I pushed it way too far last night, insulting her about Ben. That would explain why she didn't walk to school with me.

“There something you need to go sort out?” he asks.

“Later.”

“You're sure?”

“Just give me some books to shelve.”

“Suit yourself.”

I
get to the Inn just before dinner time and Kailie's dad turns me away because, as he explains, the family is about to eat. He stares at my bruised up nose, but doesn’t comment. As usual, I can't reach Kailie on her cellphone. I've cleaned up my Facebook page and changed the password, but the damage is done. While I should have guessed Jean-Pierre was hooking up with other girls, it hurts all the same. I know if he had to choose between me and Tatiana, I would lose.

I head home, where I find Mom already in from the shed, clattering around the kitchen. She takes one look at my face and blanches. “I heard it was bad.”

“I know. I look like a freak. I'm avoiding mirrors.”

“Mhmm.”

“Can I not go to school tomorrow?”

“Honey, I don't care if you go to school at all. You're sixteen, do what you want.”

“Can you call me in sick?”

“Mmmm... Remind me again tomorrow.”

I nod and stay put, hoping that she'll want to talk to me. Ask me what happened maybe, or how I feel.

She yanks open the freezer. “Here. Frozen peas.” She pulls a bag out, crushes it to break the peas apart, and then tosses it to me. “For your nose.”

“Okay, so, um-”

“I'm going to call it a night.” She pushes past me to get to her room.

I stand with the bag of frozen peas and the unspoken comment on the tip of my tongue. After a moment, I put the bag of peas against my nose and sit down, resigned to the situation.

I
stay home the next day and in the morning fill the bathtub with a few inches of water and spend hours giving myself a pedicure, then a manicure. My nails look so much better under a layer of opalescent lacquer.

Afterward I pad around the house, walking on my heels so that I don't smudge my toenails, and painstakingly make a sandwich with some cold cuts and bread that Mom got at a deep discount from the local grocer because they're past their sell-by date. It is
not
easy to make a sandwich with wet nail polish, let alone eat it. Mom bustles in to make her own sandwich and is out again in five minutes, leaving a plate with crumbs in the sink.

That afternoon I get so bored that I pick up
The Book of Mormon
and start to read. I've never read the Bible before, so I'm not sure how it compares. The story of a family fleeing Jerusalem goes on and on in the same theme. Two sons are good and do what God says, they get blessed. Two sons are evil and rebel, they get cursed. After the third iteration, I feel like I've had the point hammered into my skull, so I put the book down.

It's now two, and I'm bored stiff. The house feels smaller than ever. I go stare out the back windows at our yard, which we just leave to grow wild. A rickety fence does its best to hold out against the forest beyond it, and the dilapidated shed slouches in the corner, the door slightly ajar, the steady hum of Mom's potters wheel inside.

It's a relief when someone knocks on the front door. At least, I'm relieved until I open it and see Mr. Beale. He looks me over, his mouth pressed into a thin, puckered line. “I hear someone hacked your Facebook page.”

“Yeah. It's no big deal. It was a joke,” I say.

“Was it Kailie?”

I hate lying to people, but Mr. Beale gives me the jitters. “No. She wouldn't do something like that.”

“You don't think?”

“I'm sure.”

“How sure?”

“I found the person who did it. It's all good.”

He looks me straight in the eye, then looks over the rest of my face. I take a deep breath, hold it, and meet his gaze. Just stare back, I think. Don't think anything. Don't worry about him finding out about Kailie. He won't, not if I just stare.

He looks away first. “You all right, then? Your face?”

“Just looks awful.”

“Looks like it'll clear up in a week or so. You let us know if you need anything, all right?” That's the sort of thing the Beales say all the time, but no one takes them up on.

“Thanks. I'm all right.”

He nods, as if confirming something to himself, and turns to leave.

I go get myself ready for work.

“I
didn't think you'd be in,” says Siraj.

“I would've called if I wasn't.”

“Well, you and your exciting life. You sure you can remember to call?”

“Very funny.” Only then do I see Kailie peer out from the shelves.

“My guess that someone is not supposed to be away from her home right now.” He nods in her direction. “I am very insightful, did you know that?”

“Don't tell on her.”

“What makes you think anyone would ask me? When does anyone ask me anything?”

“You're a librarian. People ask you to find books for them all the time.”

“Even that, it's only three books. The dictionary, the thesaurus, and
Fifty Shades of Grey.”

I shake my head as I cross over to where Kailie is. “Thank you for not ratting me out,” she says.

“Thanks for trashing my page.”

“I got mad, okay? You were really rude that one night you came by.”

I could point out to her that the last time she came to my house, she dragged me out to one of her parties just so I could drive her home, but the urge passes as quickly as it comes. “You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure you were too. I gotta sneak back.”

“I'm good. Don't get caught.”

Siraj watches her dart across the room, peer through the glass door, and then dart outside. “It's like an action movie in here.”

“Well, the action sequence is over.”

“I know. They do go fast. The good ones.” He taps away at his computer as if he's just talking about the weather.

I stifle a laugh. Given the way my face is right now, it'd probably just hurt.

M
y resolve to stay home all week cracks on Wednesday. I don't have work on Wednesdays and the solitude drives me nuts, so on Thursday I head back to class. Everyone turns to look at me when I step onto campus. I ignore the stares and just go to my locker, where I find Kailie trying to jam a folded up piece of paper in through the vent.

“What's that?”

“It's my apology note. It's too fat.” She turns around and hands it to me. “Your face looks all right.”

“Liar.”

“It's not as bad as it was Tuesday. I bet you the black eyes are gone in a week.”

I unfold the paper and spread it out flat against my thigh. “What is this, a news report?”

“Yeah, it's been exciting around here.”

I skim the words. “Carson threatened Jean-Pierre? Greeeeat, and then what? Tatiana and Belinda got into a fight? And then...
what?”
The page details all kinds of vigilante action against the people who hurt me. Jean-Pierre got his car keyed and Tatiana had her locker vandalized.

“Apparently if you get sweet little Madison kicked in the face, there's hell to pay. Also, I wouldn't recommend trashing her Facebook page.”

“Oh whatever.”

“Seriously. I thought I was going to get kicked in the face.”

I look around and then step forward and hug her, publicly. “That should take care of the, like, two people who cared.”

Jean-Pierre walks past then and slows his steps, looking at me.

I look away. Three days with no contact makes me assume we're over. If there ever even was a “we”.

“Hey,” he says.

Kailie ducks her head and darts off.

I avert my gaze from him, his beautiful eyes and lips that I can feel the ghostly memory of pressed against my own. “Hi.”

“Listen, can we talk? After school, maybe?”

“If you want.” I try to keep my voice casual.

“'Kay. I'll come by your house.”

“I've got work.”

“Okay, then can you meet me in the ditch for, like, five minutes?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“See you then.” As if copying Kailie, he also ducks his head and walks off.

T
he ditch is one of the coolest places to play if you're small enough to fit in the culvert, because that leads to a storm drain that's got little rooms branching off it. Not sure why there are rooms, but they beg to be turned into secret hideouts. The only problem is, if it rains you'll drown, but since that's never happened, generation after generation of elementary schoolers hang out in there.

At the mouth of the culvert are two boulders, just the right height to sit on, facing each other. They allow you to sit low enough that you can't be seen from the sidewalk, and when I get there after school, Jean-Pierre is already sitting on one. I jump down and sit on the other. High pitched kid screams and shouts sound throughout my subdivision. The elementary school kids all got dropped off by the bus half an hour ago, but none are close by.

“How're you feeling?” he asks.

“Been better.”

“Listen, I didn't know whether I should come by or message you on Facebook or what.”

“I think I'm done with Facebook right now.”

“Well, yeah. Look, I knew it wasn't you, okay? I never thought it was you.”