Break Away (Away, Book 1) (10 page)

If Ian had thought I was a cold, uncaring
person before, his mouth was going to fall flat open to the floor,
and he was going to beg for mercy on his knees after the little
artful revenge I had planned for him. He was going to think twice
before tricking me, sweat thick with fear snaking on his
forehead.

“There’s something I still don’t see,” Linda
said, chewing the red chubby-button she’d shoved past her thin
lips. “If he said he wanted to make a truce with you because he was
Buffy’s boyfriend, then, wasn’t it obvious that he was doing it
just for her?”

“Maybe it was, yeah,” I mumbled with the
last piece of chocolate in my mouth. Whereas I’d engulfed my throat
with three mushy bars while pouring out the anger boiling inside
me, she’d barely eaten one quarter of the small bag filling her
hand—the result of eating at a snail’s pace—one by one. “But that’s
not what bothers me, Linda. The fact he fooled me into believing
that he did care about the stupid truce is! I
believed
him.
I believed he was doing it out of some goodness I’d considered
impossible in him—with the ‘let’s be mature’ speech he gave me, I
really thought it was true. I…I freaking
believed
him!” I
threw my hands in the air. “I mean, how did that happen? I
know
him. I know how crafty he is with the opposite gender
and still fell on his goddamn trap.
Me
, of all people.”

“Ah, so it’s a matter of pride,” she
prompted with a smile. “He saw you crying, too, so it’s a double
stab to your ego.”

“No, yeah, I mean, no, it’s not my pride
that’s been hurt.” Okay, maybe a bit, but I wouldn’t admit it out
loud. Okay, okay, the double-stabbing had hurt like hell. Shedding
tears in front of him had massively killed my pride. Setting my
feet on fire wouldn’t hurt as much. Him spotting me crying had been
like the meteor crashing against the earth and killing the
dinosaurs—a massive extermination of my ego.

I paused and breathed out a big gulp of air.
“It’s just that…for a moment I thought—I know it’s dead crazy.” I
cracked a humorless laugh. “But I thought we could get along. When
we were there, I had this nice glimpse of what we could’ve had and,
I don’t know, I liked it.” I looked down at my fingers, intertwined
on my lap. “I saw a person who might’ve become a friend with time—a
friend
for Christ’s sake.” I added, awed by the stupidity of
that idea.

“You know, I still don’t understand why you
two don’t get along. I mean, you have so many things in common,
with the artsy thing going on, even that indie rock band you both
like so much—and I’ll bet you my Betty Boop ticker double or
nothing”—she raised her wrist to show the oversized watch crowding
the spot below her hand—”that these aren’t the only things. You’re,
like, on the same wavelength.”

“Yeah, well, all of that is reduced to
ashes.” I snorted, a tiny spike prickling my stomach. Okay, another
confession. I’d always thought Ian and I shared a lot of things in
common, despite all the hatred and snapping business between us.
Linda’s heart-tearing bet—because I knew how important her silly
watch, I mean
ticker
was for her—she had a thing for Betty
Boop, who knows why—wasn’t necessary. She wanted to prove how sure
she was of our compatibility as friends, and the problem was…I
didn’t need such distressing means to acknowledge it. That glimpse
at the stairs last night had just reinforced what was already
lurking in the depths of my mind. I knew we were compatible. I knew
it since the first day I stepped into school and saw him on that
corner in the cafeteria, staring through the window at the gray sky
as if it held all the answers in the world, musing. I knew he was
an artist and that somehow, he used the sky as a way of
inspiration, a bridge to his inner flyer, losing himself on the
cottony clouds and bottomless blue—a shade of hypnotic azure during
the bright days, dulled to an ashen periwinkle before rain, and a
shade of soul-stirring sapphire after twilight. I knew the sky’s
identity well, just as he did, because we both mused on it, we both
breathed that peaceful energy, feeding our creative juices to then
smear them out on the tangible or sculpt them.

Something inside of me recognized him, as a
sibling would recognize another, or as an ant would recognize the
scent of a coworker with its long antennae. We artists could
somehow sense that trail that led us to the same colony, though
instead of pheromones, like ants used, it was an invisible thread
that guided us to that recognition—and to that belonging. A
belonging to a world where imagination and creativity fueled life.
A world I had in common with Ian.

Had I felt compelled to close the distance
between my table and his in that moment, to say hi and introduce
myself? Well, yeah, he’d been the only—still was the only—person
around me distilling that same arty vibe swirling inside me, and
it’d been, after all, my first day at school. I hadn’t known
anybody. So the logical thing would’ve been to approach him and
discuss whether the sfumato technique was worth all the pain to
create a smoother look, even if at that time I’d promised myself I
wouldn’t expand my horizons and try to befriend people. But he had
a pull and I couldn’t ignore it. Neither could the girl who
plastered her face against his a few seconds later, sucking him in
a lip lock without caring about the audience in the room. I
remembered how my cheeks had flushed warm, as if I’d been the one
who was kissing him that deeply, and I remember how I’d wanted to
slap my face for such a childish reaction and turn my face
away.

I hadn’t done any of that, though. I
couldn’t stop staring at him with a stream of disappointment
coursing through me. He hadn’t noticed, even if my stare had been
unrelenting. He’d been too busy fisting his hand on the girl’s hair
while his other one grabbed her butt. A very carnal-minded scene,
which ended killing permanently my will to spark a chat. Guys like
him, who didn’t care about public exposure of that kind—because,
really, the only thing they’d needed was a bed—had only one thing
in their mind: have fun, fun. I knew that type. It was, actually,
over processed in my mind. They didn’t look to have friends in the
female department. They looked for ways to lure them into bed. And
as days passed by, my theory got only more solid grounds. Every
girl that approached him, that sneaked a side glance in his
direction, that threw a mischievous smile at him, always ended up
in his arms in one way or another…to be discarded for a new one
later.

The pull to be his friend was strong, but
the disgust that’d built inside of me was stronger, which had only
increased when he started dating Buffy. Maybe the ghost of that
pull had reappeared for a few minutes last night, but it was buried
deep down in the grave of my mind now, layers and layers of anger
pressing it down.

“You’re going to do it, then,” Linda stated,
watching my hard expression. “You’re going to make him pay.”

I nodded. “I just don’t know how I’ll be
able to pretend everything is still sunshine between us so I can
mislead him and strike when he least expects it. Just the thought
of seeing him again…” I curled my hands into tight fists.

She sighed with a shake of her head, and
with that sigh, she told me everything she wanted to say but
couldn’t, because she knew I wouldn’t listen. Once an idea
flourished in my head, the roots couldn’t be unearthed. They were
there to stay, clawed into my brain. I could, in fact, be found on
the last pages of any dictionary with the word “stubborn” to my
left.

Linda produced her smart phone and started
typing, her elbows anchored on her knees, and the top of her shoes
closer to my crossed legs, I noticed. Was she that disgusted by the
couch? Poor old fella.

And there I was again feeling sorry for
inanimate objects.

“Good, there’s reception here.” She smiled,
her eyes glued to the small screen.

“It’s a storage room, Linda, not a jungle.”
I rolled my eyes. “Who are you texting by the way? Your friend here
is in great need of advice, you heartless traitor. I’m
desperate.”

She chuckled. “I’m not texting anyone. I’m
checking out my email to see if I got any response from Iowa. You
know how big it is for me to get into their creative writing
program.”

“Oh, come on, are you serious? Your parents
used to work there, you have it already.”

“No, I don’t.” She glanced up at me. “And
anyway, if you want to keep your emotions on a leash when you’re in
front of him, think of something nice he might’ve done—because
there
ha
s to be something, even if it’s just one little
thing.” She lowered her eyes to the screen again. “Thinking of
nicer things won’t work if he’s not in them, so don’t try that,”
she said, as if she’d guessed my thoughts.

“Ugh, I guess it’s the only thing I have.
It’ll be hard as hell, but I can make up those
nice things
if nothing comes my way. I have a pretty good imagination, after
all.”

The bell rang, the strident ring muted by
the door as if we were under water in a submarine. Footsteps tapped
a muddled rhythm outside.

“Forget what I said. I'm pretty sure Bio is
going to mess up my imaginary skills for the day.” I stood up
grudgingly. “I'm doomed.”

“Wait,” Linda prompted already on her feet,
frowning at the smart phone on her hands. “There’s something going
on.”

“Of course there's something going on.
Aren’t you listening? We’re headed to Bio-hell. My head will be so
scorched I—”

“Dafne,” she ignored me. “Remember what you
told me yesterday, about those three people who fell into coma out
of the blue?”

I stopped brushing the dust off of my jeans
and narrowed my eyes at her. Her tone had edged on apprehension,
close to the one she’d used when telling me Peanut’s belly had
swollen, fearing her dog’s heart disease had worsened. She only
used that tone when something bad was coming, and I didn’t like it.
“Yeah?” I said, worry lacing my voice.

“They say it’s getting worse. It’s on MSN
news.” She told me as she read the information. “The cases have
increased, and they think it might be a virus, but it’s not a sure
thing.”

“A virus?”

She nodded stiffly. “Too many hospitals have
reported people in coma, a weird type of coma, and the facts are
always the same—people suddenly falling asleep while watching TV,
or listening to their iPod, or reading a book, just out of
nowhere—at least that’s how most witnesses saw it, though it became
obvious they weren’t sleeping. Poor people,” she added with a sad
sigh.

Surely the amount of cases weren’t that high
and Linda was blowing things out of proportion, like she always did
when she got too worried or excited about something. Though
excitement was out of the question right now. “How many?” I asked
doubtful, worry sharpening my voice.

“They still don’t know the exact numbers,
but”—she paused and looked up at me—”It’s…it’s all over the
country.”

A
ll over the
country
. Linda’s words tailed after me the rest of the day,
echoing through my head, the fear clenching my chest and
stomach.

Worry had fluttered wildly inside of me after
we’d left the storage room, squeezing my heart to a prune while I
walked down the hallway, headed to what used to be a purgatory of
study abuse on a regular day. But it hadn’t been one today.
Whatever Mr. Truman might’ve said during the class, it’d never
reached my ears. My mind could only focus on those words.
All
over the country
.
All over the country
. Why was I so
obsessed with this, with something that might’ve been nothing more
than a huge coincidence? A person falling into coma, or a weird
type of coma, whatever, wasn’t something unheard of. It was really
common in the medical field. Maybe the way these people had fallen
was, indeed, weird, but a virus wasn’t a trigger for worry. At
least not for me.

I wasn’t one of those people, like Linda, who
stressed over everything and meditated to keep their body away from
a nervous breakdown. A virus wasn’t worse than a war, poverty, or
selfishness. Usually it only took a lab, or several labs, to find a
cure and then release it out in the world. I knew it sounded rather
easy and simple to do, but it wasn’t. None of that was. But wars
and terrorist attacks took a whole lot more to undermine. Their
roots were too intertwined into human nature, and more than a
physical action, as piercing one’s skin with a vaccine, it was a
mental action. A grueling inner labor. A battle with the mind. And
not everyone was willing to lunge themselves into that inner
battle. And that was a reason for worry—deep worry.

There was no medical solution for that.

Knowing this, I shouldn’t have pondered on
those words so much. I shouldn’t have plagued my head with images
of people falling unconscious. But I did, and I couldn’t stop that
worry from lacing itself with fear. And I couldn’t stop that fear
from eating me whole when I spotted those same people reading in
the hallways and outside school, their eyes glued on the pages,
oblivious to its surroundings.

I didn’t like to read. I couldn’t lose myself
in a book like Buffy did, so I didn’t really understand that
fascination millions of people had with the written word. The thing
that I did understand though, was that look. That enthralled look
over gazing at something magical, soul-stirring. The same look I
had when looking at a breathtaking Monet painting or a captivating
Auguste Rodin’s sculpture.

But the look some of these bookworms had
wasn’t the same one. Their eyes were glazed over with something
that raised the hairs on the back of my neck, tightening the skin
beneath. It was as if they were on a trance, not deep, but edging
one that might’ve not been considered healthy. And I couldn’t stop
wondering how many of them was I going to see after spring break,
because I was almost certain that this odd behavior I’d been
noticing for a while now, and that I’d assumed was the result of a
contagious bug floating in the air—which might’ve not been that far
away from reality—was related to those enigmatic cases in the
news.