The Brokenhearted (6 page)

“How can you do this from memory?” I breathe.

He shrugs, studying the painting, then glancing at me to check how accurate he was. The answer is
very
. He must have a photographic memory. “I just think about you, and this is how I picture your face.”

“I’m here now,” I suggest. “If you want to do the other half . . .”

“Nah,” he says, quickly flipping the easel back around to face the wall. “Not enough light. Maybe next week.” I bite my lip at the mention of next week. I have to get back to ballet. The only way to spend time with Gavin is in the evenings, and that means telling my parents. But I’m pretty sure telling my parents I’ve been seeing a South Sider will mean being instantly grounded, or at least forced to go everywhere with Serge. It will be the end of my time with Gavin Sharp.

And if there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that I don’t want this to end.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

CHAPTER 7

On Monday I stuff my books into my locker and turn my bloodshot eyes to the crowded stone hallway. I walk slowly through the sea of crisp white button-down shirts and plaid skirts. My throat is raw from lack of sleep; I stayed up talking on the phone with Gavin till 1
A.M.
But being exhausted has never felt so good.

The halls have been humming with an extra intensity today—everyone’s talking about the girl from Midland Prep who was stabbed last night outside her house on Juniper Street. Snatches of conversation reach my ears—the stabbing, prom tickets on sale next week, Principal Bang’s appearance on
Channel Four News Roundup
early this morning to speak about protecting the children.
A droopie deal gone wrong
, I hear someone say.
No way
, says another. Only lowlifes do droopies. It’s all smokestacks and gigglepills for Midland Prep girls.

“How do you say ‘We’re cutting Latin’ in Latin?” a familiar voice chirps in my ear.

“Zahra!” I exclaim, turning to link arms with her. It’s been a while since we’ve really talked, I realize guiltily. I haven’t exactly been avoiding her, but I’ve been pretty evasive when we’ve hung out at lunch, guarding my afternoons with Gavin as if telling anyone would somehow pop the bubble we’ve been living in each day. “Where have you been?”

“
Veni, vidi, vici
. I came, I saw, I yawned. We need an emergency debriefing session,” Zahra says, her eyes covered by a pair of vintage cat-eyed sunglasses. “
Now.
”

“The usual spot?”

Z nods. “Act nonchalant. Bland-sen and Bang are watching you.”

I laugh nervously as I swivel my head around and look for Will and Olive Ann, but Zahra squeezes my elbow and frowns. Suddenly I have the distinct suspicion I’m on display, a glass slide under the Cathedral Day microscope.

Five minutes later, we’re racing through the stacks of the school library, inhaling the smell of old leather and wood polish. We reach the spiral staircase at the back of the main study area and quickly clatter up it until we’re well into the Thesis Tower. It’s lined with dark wood shelves containing the bound thesis projects of every student who has ever attended Cathedral. All this insulation makes it the perfect place for a private conversation—especially compared to the rest of Cathedral, where the gray stone halls are known for their echo-chamber effect, the architecture of the school encouraging the spreading of secrets and lies.

Zahra and I have been coming here to decompress, together and sometimes alone, ever since we discovered it freshman year. We’ve vowed never to take anyone else up here.

At last, Zahra lifts her sunglasses. Her violet eyes are flat and clinical as she looks me up and down, appraising me. As if she doesn’t quite trust me.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to need an anxiety assessment,” I say.

Zahra raises her eyebrows, her mouth sealed shut. She plucks a thesis—
Machiavelli in Bedlam: Today’s Power Brokers and Their Quest to Rule
—from the curved shelf that snakes up the tower and starts to flip through it. “I can wait here all day until you start talking. Some great reading material here. And unlike you, I’m not averse to ditching classes.”

I sigh, knowing she’s waiting for me to spill. “Okay, there’s some stuff I haven’t been telling you. But I guess you know that.”

“Um, yeah.” She smiles tightly, shutting the thesis and gesticulating with it still in her hand. “What in Bedlam’s balls is going on? You’ve been off in the clouds all week, and now I hear that you broke up with Will?”

“You were right about him,” I say, thinking of the countless times Zahra’s suggested Will wasn’t with me for the right reasons. I lean my forehead against the wall of books and close my eyes, the red splotches behind my eyelids dancing like poisonous blooms. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I could swear Will’s been shooting me nasty looks every chance he gets this week. “I should have ended it a long time ago.”

She nods, nibbling her bottom lip. “What finally broke the camel’s back?”

“Well.” I grin and clear my throat, savoring the chance to shock my unshockable best friend. “For one, there’s someone else.”

“Bandanna boy?” Z squeals, slapping me hard on the hip with the Machiavelli thesis.

“Uh-huh.” I beam back at her, the thrill of finally sharing my feelings for Gavin sending a pleasant shiver down my spine.

Z grabs my hands in hers. “Why didn’t you say anything before? I tell you everything!”

“Sorry. I meant to tell you. I just—” I trail off.
I just wanted to make sure it was real.

“It’s okay. Forget it. You’ve told me now, at least.”

“Anyway.” I sigh, my stomach twisting with the knowledge that whatever Gavin and I have will collapse like Bridge Nine the moment we’re discovered. “It’s not like it can last.”

“Why exactly?” Zahra asks.

“Zahra, think about it.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Gavin’s from the South Side. And we’re—”

“Yeah, your family owns half of Bedlam. So what? Opposites attract.”

“But I could never even introduce him to my parents.”

“You don’t know that,” Z says brightly, waving her hand through the air as if erasing all my doubts. “Maybe your dad will look at him as a project.”

“Maybe,” I say, but I seriously doubt it.

“And if not, know what?” Zahra throws her arm around my shoulders.

“What?”

“You’re eighteen in a few more months. Your parents aren’t in charge of you forever.”

Just then, the bells begin their frantic noontime ringing.

As we head back down the spiral staircase, I let my thoughts drift back to Gavin. The spaces in between seeing him feel like the blurred background of a photograph, whereas our afternoons together are crisp and clear in a way I’ve never felt before. Just three more hours, I tell myself, until everything comes into focus again.

“Here,” Gavin says, holding his leather jacket over my head and shoulders. We’re huddled under a narrow fire escape in the alley behind Seven Swans. An electrical storm opened up on us as we were driving back on the bike, and we’re both drenched.

“You’re soaked,” I protest. “Keep it on!” His thin white T-shirt sticks to his chest and stomach, but he just shakes his head and holds his jacket over me.

There’s a deafening crack of thunder, and he pulls me to him. Rain drips off our noses as we kiss.

I managed to buy one more day from Madame by telling her the physical therapist insisted, but tomorrow I have to go back. If I don’t, I risk not just my role as the lead in
Giselle
but the entire winter performance. “Anthem,” Gavin says, grabbing my hand and looking me in the eyes. His lashes are wet and bunched together.

“Gavin,” I whisper, just as a car pulls up around the side of the alley. I glance down at my watch. Seven. Time to meet Serge. “I’ll call you later.” I pull my hand away and grab my ballet bag from the back of Gavin’s bike, slinging it over my shoulder.

“Stay two more minutes. I want to tell you something—”

“Sorry.” I flash him a pained smile. “I have to go.”

“Tonight?” his eyes are pleading. “Can you sneak out? Come see me?”

I hold his gaze for a beat. I’ve never tried sneaking out before, at least not while my parents are at home. But it can’t be that hard. I’ve lived in Fleet Tower my whole life, and by now, I’m sort of an expert at being invisible. Finally I nod, my heart somersaulting in my chest.

I dart out of the alley and head for our cream-colored Seraph, idling at the curb. “Hi, Serge. Some storm, huh?” I say as I slide into the backseat.

“Indeed. Perhaps you should have stayed indoors after practice,” Serge says evenly.

I catch sight of Serge’s coal-black eyes in the rearview, the whites bright against his ebony skin. I flick my own away, guilt and paranoia washing over me. Serge has been with our family since before I was born. On her good days, my mother jokingly calls him her backup husband. He has never done anything but protect me and take care of me, and I’ve been lying to him for the past week and a half.

“I thought I dropped something, so after practice I went to go look for it . . .” I trail off, unable to finish the lame excuse.

“I cannot help but notice your attire, Anthem,” Serge says, as he pulls the Seraph away from the curb and begins to pick up speed. He grew up a child soldier in an African republic, and he’s worked as security for dictators, government officials, and CEOs all over the world. He’s seen it all, and he’s always prepared for the worst—I’m pretty sure the gun he keeps in the glove compartment of the Seraph is loaded and that it’s not his only one. He is not someone who is easily fooled, and he doesn’t deserve to be lied to.

I look down at my soaked jeans and belted trench, my rain boots. “I changed upstairs,” I say quickly.

Serge nods, but I can tell by the silence hanging in the car that he doesn’t believe me.

As we roll through the streets toward home, I open my mouth to try to make conversation, but I don’t quite know what to say. Instead, I reach into my ballet bag, where I’ve kept Gavin’s gray bandanna in a small zippered pocket for the past two weeks. I touch the soft material with my fingertips, my gaze locked out the window, excitement overtaking my guilt as I think about what I’m going to do tonight.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

CHAPTER 8

South Bedlam after midnight is different than the run-down but charming place I’ve gotten to know over the past week. Though the reflected moon bounces off the rain-slicked streets, the main thing I notice once we cross the Bridge of Unity is the darkness. Only one out of every twenty streetlights seems to work over here. We pass by a bar with a wide, cracked bay window displaying two girls no older than I am, dancing listlessly in tassels and top hats and not much else. Mournful accordion music wafts out into the street, and a small crowd of people gather on the sidewalk to watch them through the window.

The motorcycle roars down one side street, then another, until we turn right on a street marked Oleander Way. “This is my block,” Gavin shouts back at me over the revving engine.

He slows the bike, and I notice a group of droopie dealers in the doorway of a burnt-out brick building. Several shiny black cars idle at the curb, snaking slowly toward the corner. Two pale boys, dressed too lightly for the chilly night, scurry to the first car’s window. One boy drops something very small through the two inches at the top where the window is cracked, then the other takes what must be the payment and stuffs it in his pocket.

I pull my arms tighter around Gavin’s midsection, my hands finding the pockets of his leather jacket. I can feel his stomach muscles tighten through the silky lining, and my fear melts into desire.

We pull up to a building in the exact center of the long, treeless block. Gavin parks the bike in front of a squat concrete loft that must have once been a fish processing plant, the words
MACKEREL TUNA ANCHOVIES
stenciled in faded yellow lettering on the front wall above a large metal grate.

“Here we are,” he mumbles as I dismount the bike. He flashes me a pained half-smile, his eyes darting up and down the block, deserted on all but the one busy corner. I’ve been begging Gavin to show me his place for over a week, but each time he’s sighed and looked away, muttering an excuse.
It’s too messy. It’s too cold.

“Don’t look so worried,” I say, not quite sure if I’m reassuring him or myself.

He pulls me toward him, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. He leans down until his forehead rests against mine, until our eyelashes brush up against each other. I lift up onto my toes and press my lips against his mouth.

Gavin unfastens the metal grate and pulls it up with two hands, then unlocks a series of bolts on a sliding metal door. When at last he pushes open the heavy industrial door, I follow him inside. His apartment is a cavernous room with cement floors and a corrugated tin ceiling crisscrossed with metal beams. Canvases are stacked against each wall, six deep; but other than the vibrant swirls of color in his paintings, the place is colorless, sparse. There is almost no furniture, nothing to keep our footsteps from echoing.

A threadbare dark-purple couch takes up the center of the room, a coffee table covered in partially melted candles just in front of it. Off to one side, sheer white fabric hangs down from the ceiling, forming a sort of partition, the vague outlines of a low-slung bed visible behind it.

I follow Gavin to the couch in the center of the room, my forearms tingling with goose bumps, and pull the sleeves of my hoodie down over my wrists. It’s colder in here than outside.