Angel Eyes (6 page)

“Really? That’s awesome, Kay. So, your proximity to all that lamb meat not really a temptation?”

“Oh, barf,” she says, pulling her curly brown hair into two low pigtails and then securing a multicolored beanie on top. “You ever see what she does to that stuff? If anything, she’s convinced me that veggies are the only way to go.”

The senior lot is nearly full when we arrive. I squeeze Slugger into one of the last open spots, kicking myself for the Jelly’s run. It’s a longer walk to the math wing from here. Not a big deal unless you’re a veritable ice cube.

“Where you off to this morning?” I ask Kaylee, zipping my parka and flipping up my hood. Big splotches of rain are falling again, and the wind is getting grumpier by the second.

“Gym,” she says.

“P.E. your senior year?”

“Yeah. I put it off as long as I could, but they won’t let me graduate without two semesters.”

“Well, be careful,” I say, climbing out of the car. She does the same, somehow managing to get her foot tangled in the seat belt.

“I tell myself that every morning,” she says, unwinding herself. “I have student government at lunch, or I’d meet you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll see you after school.”

The wind is loud now, making conversation hard. She kisses my cheek and turns to go. Her elbow clips a parked car’s side mirror, and I wince. She jerks and knocks her hip on the bumper of a large truck.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she yells.

I shake my head and follow Kaylee’s lead, not quite running, but too cold to linger. Miss Macy would say I’m moving with urgency. She’d also tell me to knock it off, that it isn’t graceful.

It would be good to see her. Maybe I’ll stop by after school. Thank her for the CD.

Tell her to get shades for her front windows.

The wind kicks up, and I duck my head. By the time I reach the math wing, my eyes stream and my lips could use a thick coat of Blistex. The final bell rings just as I enter the classroom. I fall into my seat, grateful to be indoors.

“Morning,” Jake says.

Ugh. On the mad dash to class, I nearly forgot he’d be here.

“Morning,” I say.

It’s not warm, not by any means, but my parka and scarf seem too much all of a sudden. I shrug out of them and let them fall against the seat. My gloves stay in place.

I look around the room. We seem to be short a teacher.

“Where’s Mr. . . .”

Jake shrugs. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I just got here, remember?”

As the class realizes we’re unsupervised, the volume level rises. There’s talk about Friday’s football game, about the chess club’s devastating loss, something about a school-wide battle of the bands. The girl in front of me pulls out a bottle of bright orange nail polish and sets to work on her fingers. Five or six students disappear out the door, a cold rush smacking me in the face as they do.

“Whatcha think? We free to go?”

I look to my left, over the heads of my classmates and out the window. I can’t see much, but it’s snowflake white out there. Nothing says frigid like snowflake white. “Maybe.”

“You dance this morning?”

I roll my eyes to his, expecting sarcasm, but they’re so . . . inviting. Like a fireplace at Christmas. Stalkers have no business being handsome.

“Not today,” I say, pulling a notebook from my bag. “You?”

He laughs. “I have two left feet. Three sometimes. You give lessons?”

I draw a doodle, a heart squiggle. “Mm-hmm, as long as you’re willing to don a tutu.”

He unzips his sweatshirt and hangs it on the back of his chair. “So if I wear a tutu, you’ll show me how to do that monkey-dance thing?”

Monkey-dance thing. That’s what he remembers?

“Sure,” I say, “but no tutu, no dance.”

“Shoot. I left mine at home.”

“Maybe next time, then.” I turn my face to the blackboard, but there’s nothing there to see. The classroom is chaos now. Cell phones are out, spit wads are being shot at the ceiling, at the teacher’s desk.

“You wanna duck out?” Jake says. “Grab a coffee?”

He’s so uncomfortably comfortable with me. It’s weird. He’s weird. But coffee does sound warm. Of course, we’d have to freeze to get there.

“Come on,” he says.

“You know,
this
,” I say, swirling a leather-clad finger at him, “this is what we call peer pressure.”

“Yes, I know. But you look like you could use a little peer pressure. And who knows, maybe we’ll run into a tutu.”

The door opens, and a gush of wind silences the room. Mr. What’s-His-Name wrestles the door closed and steps inside. He’s carrying a mangled umbrella under one arm and a worn briefcase in the other. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says. “Open to page fifty-six.”

“Rain check?” Jake whispers, digging his book out.

Someone who could use a little peer pressure
, he’d said. I look at my doodle. At the heart with a crack down the middle.

“Tutu first,” I say.

“You have something to share with the class, Miss Matthews?”

Every eye in the room is suddenly on me, on my face. I shake my head, hoping they’ll all look away, but they don’t.

“No, I . . .” I don’t know what to say, so I drop my head. A tear falls onto my notebook—that fast. It smudges my doodle, my broken heart.

The teacher puts a hand to his ear, mocking. “What was that?”

“It’s nothing, sir,” Jake says. “I was just asking Brielle where I could find a tutu. Maybe you know?”

The class laughs, all of them, and their attention shifts to Jake. Even the teacher cracks a smile.

“No, no, I don’t. But good luck with that. Class, you’re opening your books, yes?”

A murmur makes its way across the room—yes, books are being opened—and the teacher launches into his lesson, scraping spit wads off the board with a ruler.

My eyes swim hot in my chilled face. I hate that my emotions are so extreme. Hate that I can’t control them. Hate how weak it makes me. The teacher is a jerk, sure, but I’ve dealt with jerks before. It’s just now . . .

I stand and push my way into the hall. But I’m not far enough away from the embarrassment, so I keep going. Before I know it I’m standing outside the math wing. The wind shoves against me, loud as it storms between the buildings, my hair like tiny whips as it lashes my face. The door slams behind me, and I’m alone.

I should just leave. Dad wouldn’t care. But I’ve left my stuff inside. My car keys and my bag.

My scarf and my jacket.

Tears spill down my cheeks. Selfish, stupid tears. They’re not tears for Ali. Not tears of guilt. They’re tears of embarrassment. Of frustration. Tears I don’t deserve.

I can’t leave. I don’t want to stay.

So I stand and freeze.

When the bell rings, I’m numb. I walk away from the doors, away from the steady stream of my peers and their curious eyes. An empty planter box stands between the math wing and the gymnasium. I stare at it, wondering if flowers once lived there. Had the cold killed them too?

“You decided to cut after all.” It’s Jake. His voice is quiet, but it slices through the wind all the same. He slides my parka onto my shoulders and steps in front of me. “I’m jealous.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to . . . I mean, I could have . . .”

Kids rush around us on the right and the left. They look at me, at us, and I try to ignore them. Being scared of people— of their stares—is ridiculous. I’m a dancer, a model. People are
supposed
to look at me. I tell myself these things, but my hands tremble all the same.

“My bag,” I say, straining to keep my voice steady.

“I have it.” He touches the strap that hangs over his shoulder. “Can I walk you to your car?”

“No,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I’ll stay.”

“You sure?”

I nod.

“Your next class, then? Can I walk you there?”

I squint at him. “Do I look like I’m going to fall over?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “No, but you look like you could use a friend.”

I flick one last tear from my eye. “Thanks, really, but I got it.”

He hands my bag over, his face reluctant. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you in photo.” I turn and walk away, toward senior lit. I don’t want to go, but I’ve got to. I’m tired of being afraid.

After the debacle in calculus, the rest of the day is cake. Pop quiz in lit class and a clueless substitute in government. At lunch I grab a hot sandwich and take it to my car. I’m not hiding. Not really. It’s just warmer with Slugger. Honest.

French soars by in a blur of conjugated verbs, and soon enough it’s the last period of the day.

Photo.

When I arrive, the room is empty save Mr. Burns. He’s sitting at his desk eating a bowl of steaming noodles.

“Elle,” he says. “Come on up here before you get started.”

His fringe of gray hair is disheveled, and he’s already dripping noodle juice onto his thinning button-down, but he’s always been my favorite teacher. He could give the artsy fartsy professors in Portland a run for their money.

When I reach his desk, I lean my hip against it, trying to appear nonchalant.

His bifocals sit on the brim of his nose. “You doing okay?” he asks, peering over them.

He has one, two, three film containers on his desk. I stack them one on top of the other. “Sure, Mr. B. I’m good.”

He pulls another film canister from beneath a stack of prints and adds it to my tower. “You’re a good actress, Elle. You always have been. It’s one of your many talents. But you don’t fool me.”

I purse my lips. I don’t want to cry anymore. Not here. Not now.

He pats my hand. “When you’re ready to talk, you will. I just hope it’s soon.”

I nod and meet his gaze.

He squints up at me, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “It’s okay to be broken. You know that, right?”

A tremor in my hand sends my tower toppling. One of the containers falls into Mr. B’s soup.

How could broken ever be okay?

I don’t have the answer, so I tip my chin up, hoping Mr. B does. His eyes widen.

“Oh, you
don’t
know that.”

Squishy, squeaky footsteps make their way into the classroom. I look around, pre-panic.

“Could we maybe talk about this another—”

“Go,” he says, looking around. Understanding. “I’ve got a critique to run. We’ll talk later.”

I move to the far wall and grab the filmstrips I developed yesterday. There are several of them hanging on hooks, dried and ready to be viewed. Before I duck into the darkroom, I give Mr. Burns another look, but he’s mopping the noodle juice from his shirt and doesn’t see me.

It’s okay to be broken?

I’m guessing the darkroom will be fairly empty today, with the critique and all, but before anyone else can stake a claim, I drop my bag at the station in the far right corner. I spread out the filmstrips and remove my gloves. One after the other, I lift the filmstrips to the yellow light.

I don’t want to think anymore. I just want to work.

But unless I’ve been sleep snapping, one of these filmstrips does not belong to me. Snow-covered trees and lovey-dovey couples skating on a frozen lake? Definitely not mine. I return to the classroom, ducking past Grace, who’s draped over our starting quarterback, and rehang the film.

By the time I get back to the darkroom, a couple of the workstations are occupied. Jake’s sweatshirt hangs on the stool next to mine, but he’s hovering at my station.

Of course he is.

He’s fiddling with the enlarger, looking at a negative. My negative. Feigning a confidence I don’t feel, I walk over. His fingers turn a knob, and before I can object, we watch a picture come into focus.

Two girls smile back at us: night and day. The image is black-and-white, but I see it as it was—as we were—that day. My blond hair straight to my waist, hers dark and cropped in choppy layers. My blue eyes smiling. Hers, chocolate brown and twinkling. My mouth curved into an amused grin, and her full lips wide open in a cackling laugh.