Translucent (4 page)

Chapter 5

I didn’t leave
the meteorite behind. Just dropping it on the ground didn’t feel right. Too exposed. Someone else could find it.

For now, I was stuck with it.

Admitting failure, I hiked back out of the wilderness and drove home, the meteorite still in my pocket.

I needed to destroy it.

Or keep it hidden forever.

In English class the next day, I couldn’t think about anything else. Even sitting at home in the bottom drawer of my bureau—now stuffed in a sock—the rock seemed to be burning a hole in my mind. Suppose I borrowed my dad’s sledge hammer and pulverized the fragment into dust, then scattered the dust at the beach.

But what if I needed to get it back? Never in a million years would I be able to collect all the pieces. It seemed less risky to keep it contained, keep it in a safe place in my room.

I should go to the police.

But I couldn’t.

Normal people didn’t just wander into police stations. They would take one look at me and know instantly what I had done at the beginning of summer. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe I would just burst into tears and confess the whole thing on the spot. Maybe this had nothing to do with the meteorite, and this was all my subconscious trying to get me to answer for my sins.

So I couldn’t go to the police . . .
ever
.

“You want to be my partner?”

I snapped out of my daze and glanced around. Next to me sat a boy with curly brown hair, dimples, and bright eyes.

I blinked at him for a second. “What?”

Goes to show you how distracted I was, I hadn’t even noticed the hottie sitting right next to me. This was the last thing I needed right now.

“You want to be partners?” He leaned in, flashing a perfect row of white teeth. “For the exercise?”

The exercise.

Around me, students were sliding their desks into pairs. I glanced down at my desk, which bore only the course syllabus. Without realizing it, I had knotted my fingers in a tight ball. I quickly pulled them apart and searched for some kind of worksheet, nowhere to be found. “Um . . .
sure?
”

I said it like a question, because I still didn’t know what the hell we were doing.

“Awesome.” He hopped out of his desk and shoved it up against mine, then sat back down, carelessly brushing my arm.

I went rigid and stared straight ahead.

Definitely not what I needed right now.

“Andrew.” He smiled and held out his hand.

I took it. “Leona . . . Leona Hewitt.”

“You got any ideas?” he said. “For the exercise? Here—” He tore out a sheet of notebook paper and slid it in front of me.

“Tons,” I said, writing my name at the top. Next I titled the sheet,
Exercise
, and glanced around again for a clue.

“Cool, let’s hear some of your ideas,” he said.

I brushed my hair out of my eyes and stared at my blank paper. “Uh, how about you go first?”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath and stared at his own blank page. “It’s kind of a funny thing, actually . . . this exercise. We’re supposed to write about something we regret, right? So I was thinking I was going to write about this time I was in class and there was this really pretty girl sitting next to me, and I wanted to talk to her so bad but couldn’t work up the nerve to do it, and that’s something I regret, but then . . .” he glanced up at me. “I can’t do that one anymore.”

In my preoccupied state, his words took a stupidly long time to register. And then they did.

I felt myself blush under his stare.
Just don’t blow it.
“That’s . . . really sweet.”

“Okay, your turn,” he said, holding my gaze.

I opened my mouth. Mercifully, our teacher—Mrs. Holbrooke—cut me off before I said something moronic.

“To write from the soul, you must tackle your darkest emotions,” she said. “Think anger, jealousy, fear, guilt, regret.
Pain
is what makes great literature, not pleasure. Now you have your partners, I want you each to take five minutes to write about a dark secret you have, something you regret or something you feel guilty about. The darker the better. Part of the exercise is learning not to censor yourself, even though you know your partner will read everything you write.” She glanced at the clock. “Go. You have five minutes.”

Pencils scraped across paper.

Something you regret or something you feel guilty about
.

I stared at my blank page, petrified. Terror deadened the feeling in my nerves, replacing it with the icy buzz of adrenaline.

I could think of only one thing.

The terrible event at the beginning of summer.

July first. I had just gotten my license . . . 

I couldn’t write about that, I couldn’t ever tell anyone about that. But with the blank lines gaping before me and my name floating in the top right corner, my mind had gone infuriatingly blank. My skin broke out in sweat.

Something else, something else, think about something else . . .

But I couldn’t.

The pencil refused to budge.

I scanned the room, the other students scribbling effortlessly. I licked my dry lips, but saliva only parched them further. My heart thundered in my ears, making me painfully aware of my surroundings—the prison-like classroom caving in on me, Andrew’s elbow inches from my own, Mrs. Holbrooke’s hawklike gaze moving up and down the aisles, sweeping toward me like a spotlight.

I glared at my blank page and forced the tip of my pencil to the first line. My hand gave a violent tremor, and the lead tore a hole in the paper with a loud scratch.

In my periphery, Andrew’s head angled toward me. At once, burning heat clawed up the sides of my cheeks. I was giving myself away. Every second I didn’t write, I was giving myself away.

Think of something else, think of something else . . .

Face hot and clammy, I peeked at Mrs. Holbrooke.

Our eyes met.

My breath choked off, and I froze. Other students looked over.

They knew . . . they all knew.

I wanted to be invisible.

Sudden nausea twisted in my stomach, and I bent forward, gasping. I had to leave.
Now.
My fingers found the edge of my desk, which I pried away from Andrew’s, staggering to my feet.

“I can’t . . . I can’t do this,” I muttered, the words escaping in a hoarse whisper. I careened up the aisle toward the door, banging into desks. My insides gave another lurch, and I clutched my stomach, about to lose my breakfast.

“Leona, you okay?” Andrew’s voice followed me.

“Ms. Hewitt?” said the teacher.

“I can’t do this,” I gasped, fleeing for the door.

By now, everyone was staring at me. Their eyes burned into the back of my skull.

They
knew
.

I had just given myself away.

I threw open the door and fled. Sunlight scorched my cheeks, singed my long hair, blinded me. Past a row of lockers, I stumbled into the shadows under an overhang and slammed into a trashcan. I pulled my hair back and stared down into the bin, lungs wheezing as my stomach swam in nauseating circles. My stomach clenched, and I made a choking sound, but nothing came out. My stomach clenched again, harder this time, yanking my spine forward.

Behind me, a dry voice said, “Again?”

I jerked upright and swallowed my urge to vomit. My eyes adjusted to the shadows, and the outline of a figure came into view, leaning against the wall between two rows of lockers, not five feet away from where I stood.

As I watched, he pressed a cigarette to his mouth and took a slow drag, making the tip glow red-orange. The whites of his eyes peered out at me like a wolf’s.

I recognized him instantly.

Emory Lacroix.

My heart went
eerily still.

“You bulimic or something?” he said.

I backed away, horrified. “I can’t . . . I can’t be talking to you.”

He nodded to the trashcan. “I said, are you bulimic?”

In the narrow, unlit corridor, my heel hit the opposite wall. My back banged a locker. Trapped. I shook my head, too terrified to speak.

He tapped out the ashes. “It’s an eating disorder girls get. You know, you throw up everything you eat so you stay skinny. Stop doing it. It’s fucking stupid.”

“I’m not bulimic,” I said.

“I’ve seen you around twice,” he said, studying his cigarette. “First day of school and today. Both times you’re blowing chunks. That sounds to me like you got a problem.”

“What do you want from me?” I whispered.

“Just trying to do a little good in this shitty world. Maybe I just saved your life. Who knows.” He took another drag, his eyes on me again. “What’s your name?”

For a moment, I found myself trapped in his tormented blue eyes, and I couldn’t look away. Then I remembered who I was, and who he was, and my eyes flicked to the ground. A fierce heat rushed to my cheeks.

I couldn’t be here.

This was wrong. This was so, so wrong.

“I can’t be talking to you,” I whispered.

“I said, what’s your name?” An edge crept into his voice.

Don’t say your name.

“You got a name, right? You know, that thing you write at the top of your homework?”

I swallowed hard.

Just walk away. Run. You can’t be here.

But for some reason, I didn’t run. I stayed. Like an idiot, I stayed, my feet rooted to the concrete.
Because running would look even more guilty.

Don’t say your name—

“Leona,” I whispered.
You idiot.
My heart had already curled up into a tiny, quivering ball.

He nodded. “Emory.”

“Lacroix, I know.” I risked another peek at him. Alarms screamed in my brain, telling me to move my ass. But I couldn’t. My knees trembled, frozen in place and twitching to flee at the same time.

Maybe I felt obligated to stay.

Holding my gaze, he took a deep inhale from his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Yeah . . . lot of people know me now.”

Mouth dry, I opened my mouth to say something, to apologize, to offer my sympathies, anything. But even that I couldn’t do. My words lodged in my throat somewhere and all that came out was a little choking cough. I averted my eyes, mortified.

He tapped out the ashes again, eyebrows knotted.

“Smoking’s bad for you,” I offered, and immediately, the burning returned to my cheeks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I might as well get down on my knees and confess everything, beg for his forgiveness. At the thought, my legs grew weak.

“Bad for you, yeah. That’s the point,” he said, putting it to his lips again. “Kind of don’t care right now.”

Confess everything
.

I could do it, too. Right now. Get it all off my chest.

As if he’d heard my thoughts, his eyes flicked to mine again, and my heart jackhammered against my sternum. He would see it on my face, see my guilt. He would know.

If I stood here any longer, he would know.

Maybe I wanted him to know. Maybe that was why I couldn’t move.

No, Leona . . .

I blinked, and a warm tear dripped down my cheek, for which I was deeply ashamed. I turned away, letting my hair hide my face as a shiver slipped under my skin. My entire body felt numb. I
hated
this feeling, and yet I couldn’t move, couldn’t walk away.

His mere presence tugged at the guilt inside me, held me rigid.

“And I thought I had problems,” said Emory’s voice.

“Go away,” I said.

“I was here first,” he said.

“Go away, go away, go away,” I cried, and another tear burned its way down my cheek, and I wiped it away angrily. Right now I loathed myself.

“Nah, you don’t really want me to go away.” He took another drag from his cigarette and chuckled darkly. “What do they say? Misery loves company?”

“I can’t be talking to you,” I whispered.

His eyebrows pinched together. “That’s the third time you’ve said that. Kind of a weird thing to say.” His suspicious stare lingered for an unbearably long time. “Why haven’t you asked me about it?”

“About what?” I said, alarmed.

“You seem to know who I am.” He crushed out his spent cigarette butt on a locker and flicked the glowing ashes to the gum-stained concrete. “You seem like you want to say something to me . . . so why haven’t you?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” He glanced up, eyes hopeful. “You knew her?”

“Knew who?” I croaked, my throat tight.

“My sister, Ashley. You knew her, didn’t you?”

My body stiffened, suddenly shot through with icy chills. “I have to go,” I choked out, and before I blurted out anything else incriminating, I hurried away, straining to catch my breath so I didn’t pass out.

I slammed my
bedroom door and threw down my backpack after school, knotting my fingers in my hair. Guilt gnawed at my insides, and I sucked down frantic breaths, lungs bristling.

I couldn’t go on like this.

First storming out in the middle of English, then hovering around Emory Lacroix like a stupid moth, practically begging to be found out. Seriously, how suspicious could I act?

I couldn’t handle school, couldn’t handle everyone staring at me like that . . . like they knew. I couldn’t bear to show my face there.

Pacing back and forth between my bed and my bureau, I dug out my cell phone and dialed Megan, but it went straight to voicemail. My hand tightened on the phone, knuckles white.

I had to tell someone. Had to get this off my chest, or I’d never be able to live with myself.

But who? I didn’t want to go to jail.

My anxieties chased each other around in ever tighter circles, spiraling into panic. It was getting worse, not better. I closed my eyes, shutting out the world, and felt myself sink to the ground against my bureau, forehead buried between my knees.

Emory Lacroix . . . he’d looked so sad, so heartbroken.

And it was all my fault. Mine and Megan’s.

But mostly mine.

A twinge went through my heart. I would give anything to make it all better, to undo what we’d done.

Except what we’d done couldn’t be undone.

I needed a distraction.

Instinctively, my hand went to my nightstand drawer and yanked it open. My fingers closed around the meteorite. The fragment’s metallic coolness soothed my sweaty skin, and I held it up to the light. It felt even wetter today, slimy.

Definitely secreting something.

My finger came away clean, but I could feel wetness on it.

I closed my eyes again and rubbed my thumb and forefinger together, trying to get a sense of the texture. Slippery at first, but then sticky after a while. Kind of like . . .
mucous.

Ew. I wiped my fingers off on my jeans, and then reached my hand under my shirt to take the fragment and polish it off. Probably should use a paper towel, but that would mean getting up. Luckily, it didn’t stain my shirt. Didn’t even leave a wet spot.