Читать книгу Storm - Brigid Kemmerer - Страница 12

CHAPTER 6

Chris wasn’t in school on Thursday. He was noticeably absent from Becca’s third-period English Lit class, and he wasn’t in fourth-period World History, either. He wouldn’t be missing much. Mr. Beamis looked like he could have been there when they commissioned the Model T, and his class usually gave her a chance to do a Wite-Out manicure.

But today brought a new student to the front of the room, and Becca raised her eyes from her nails. Old Man Beamis did a clear double take.

Make that a triple take. The teacher put a hand on the edge of his desk.

The new kid was a lot to look at. He’d certainly crossed that line from boy to young man, with a defined jaw, high cheekbones, lean, muscled arms, and not an ounce of baby fat—all pros. Sandy blond hair drifted across his forehead, broken by a clean streak of white, right in the center of his bangs.

Who dyes their hair white? she wondered.

But it didn’t stop there: One ear had piercings all the way up. The other only sported two—the same number in his left eyebrow. Green eyes matched the tee shirt he wore, staring unflinchingly at the students watching him. His black jeans hung loose, suspended by a chafed leather belt. About fifteen bracelets encircled one arm, crude loops of twine that each held a small rock of a different color. He had a few small tattoos on his forearms, and one on the side of his neck. They looked like foreign symbols, the kind girls got on spring break, something that was supposed to be meaningful in one word, like peace or wisdom but really said Do me.

Beamis read the note the kid handed him, but didn’t bother to introduce him to the class. God forbid someone should interrupt his lecture. He hurriedly shooed him to the empty chair in the middle of the room—Chris’s usual seat. It was one row over and two desks down from Becca. The new kid dropped into the chair, and his backpack dropped to the floor beside him. She could see the marking on his neck now—not Asian, but no language she could identify. She could also see a black ring on one finger, a twine ring on another.

Tommy Dunleavy—who sat two rows over and liked to flick suggestive notes onto Becca’s desk—coughed, “Fag!”

The boy didn’t react, just pulled a blue spiral notebook out of his backpack. Then a pen.

Tommy tried again, his cough a little louder, his epithet a little meaner.

The boy clicked his pen. Beamis, oblivious, picked up his chalk.

Jeremy Blakehurst, Tommy’s best friend, picked up the cough. “Fag!” He also flicked a paper clip. It struck the boy’s shoulder and pinged off the edge of another desk.

Some people nearby snickered. A few girls near the back corner giggled and whispered.

The boy didn’t turn around. But he did set his pen down.

Tommy bent a paper clip so the prongs stuck out, then used a rubber band to fashion a slingshot.

He didn’t even bother with the cough this time. “Hey. Fag.” Then he drew back the paper clip and let it fly.

The boy whipped around. His hand shot out to snatch the paper clip from the air.

There was a collective gasp from every student who’d been watching—Becca included. Beamis droned on.

The boy’s hand had formed a fist around the paper clip, and for a fractured moment, Becca thought he was going to take a swing, that they’d have a throwdown right here in the middle of World History.

But he half rose from his seat and reached across another student’s desk to drop the mangled paper clip in front of Tommy.

“Look, dude,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “You want to ask me out, you man up and do it proper.”

Everybody laughed—including Jeremy. Tommy shoved the clip off his desk and fumed.

The new kid drew back to sit in his chair again. On his way there, he caught Becca watching him—and smiled.

She was so startled she didn’t smile back.

Then Beamis asked a question and turned from the blackboard. The new kid was already facing forward, a pen on his notebook.

A tiny triangle of lined paper fell on her desk. Tommy Dunleavy was hiding a smirk.

Becca didn’t want to unroll it, but somehow not knowing was always worse. So she did.

You give Happy Ending?

She crumpled it in her fist and wanted to punch Tommy. She wished she had a witty comeback, some shred of the new boy’s easy charisma. Something that would make the rest of the class laugh and side with her.

But the new kid was just that—a clean slate.

Becca had no chance of that.

Since school started, she and Quinn had sat alone for lunch, at one of the shorter tables near the back stairwell. It was a lesser location, farthest from the main hallway and the line for food, somewhat hidden behind one of the support columns. Last year they’d spent every lunch with Drew and his jock buddies, and Becca would giggle and blush while Drew ate half her food. She and Quinn had never been popular before Drew showed interest in her. They had loved the attention.

What a waste.

The rain beat an incessant rhythm on the school windows, keeping everyone indoors, turning the cafeteria into a mob scene. Standing in line was just another opportunity to get hassled, so she and Quinn usually just nursed bottled waters. On a day like today, every seat was valuable, and two physics geeks were scribbling notes at the other end of their table.

Becca thought they were doing homework, until she realized they were plotting out some online role-playing game.

Quinn rolled her eyes at them. “Jesus, Bex, you think we can get them to go back to Mordor?”

One of the kids glared at her. “Shut it, Quinn. Why don’t you go eat in the bathroom with the rest of the freaks?”

Becca sighed and twisted her water bottle in her hands. It had already gone lukewarm. She watched the rain coat the windows and started to peel the label off her bottle. Fourteen more minutes of “lunch.”

As usual, she was starving.

“Sorry, precioussss,” said Quinn. “Why don’t you go eat in the lab with the rest of the losers?”

“Wow. This sounds like a friendly table.”

Becca snapped her head up. Chris Merrick stood there, beside Quinn, holding a lunch tray. He wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a blue tee. The swelling around his eye had subsided, but the bruising along his cheekbone was downright spectacular. His hair barely covered the scabbing at his temple.

Actually, he looked surprisingly good, considering the damage he’d taken. The shirt made his eyes look bluer, sharp and intuitive and fixed on her face.

Her heart kicked. “Um,” she said. “Hi?”

He dropped the loaded tray beside Quinn, then swung a leg over the bench to sit down.

Every person at the table stared at him.

He picked up a fry, glancing around. He offered the physics kids half a smile. “ ’Sup.”

Quinn dragged her eyes back to Becca’s. “Why is Chris Merrick sitting next to me?”

Chris popped the cap on his soda. “You know I can hear you, right?”

Becca couldn’t stop staring at him. “What are you doing here?”

“And what the hell happened to your face?” said Quinn.

He raised an eyebrow and straightened. “I was mostly being sarcastic with that whole ‘friendly table’ comment, but I can take a hint... .”

Becca shook her head quickly. “I just—I meant—you weren’t here this morning.”

“It was a rough night.” He shrugged and picked up another fry. “Michael let me sleep it off.” He looked down at the table, apparently noticing for the first time that he was the only one eating. “You guys are already done? I barely made it through the line.”

Quinn took a swig of her water.

Becca glanced away. “We didn’t feel like braving it.”

“Here.” He held out his apple. “I can’t eat while you’re just watching me.”

Quinn snorted. “The symbolism here might just kill me.”

Chris grinned, withdrew his arm, and took a bite. “I’ll eat it then.” He pushed the fries off his tray and into the space between them. “You eat the fries.”

Quinn gave him wide eyes. “But ... whatever will you eat?”

A pear, two pieces of pizza, a cup of applesauce, and a Styrofoam bowl of macaroni and cheese still sat in front of him. He shrugged. “I’ll make do.”

Quinn took one, almost hesitantly. “Seriously. What are you doing here?”

“I came to apologize for my dickhead brother.” He took another bite of his apple, his eyes intent on Becca. “And to thank Becky for last night.”

“Becca,” she snapped.

He smiled. “I know.”

Oh.

Oh.

Becca blushed and hated herself for it.

Then she realized Quinn was staring at her, a kind of shocked dismay on her face.

Crap.

“Quinn, look, it’s not like you think—”

“Don’t worry. I get it.” Quinn was standing, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

“Wait—Quinn—”

But her friend was already shoving past other students, making her way toward the common area.

Becca sighed. “Great.”

“We’re not gonna cry about it,” said one of the physics kids.

“Shut up,” she snapped.

Chris took another bite of his apple and set it on his tray. “Now she seemed nice.”

Becca glared at him, irritated. Had he meant the double entendre about last night? God, for ten seconds, she’d entertained the thought that he was going to sit down and be a nice guy.

“So which one?” she said.

He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Which brother? I’m having a hard time differentiating on the dickhead scale.”

“Oh.” He looked startled. “Ah, Michael. But, all of them, I guess.”

So Michael was a big brother. She should have seen that coming. “Great. Apology accepted. You’re welcome.” She started to rise.

“You’re mad at me? Hey—wait a minute.”

She waited.

“Look, I wasn’t trying to mess with your friend.” Chris looked away for a moment. “I wondered if you were doing anything after school. Gabriel’s got a soccer match, if you want to come watch—”

“Are you kidding?” She could barely hear over the heartbeat in her ears. Gabriel must have figured out who she was, must have told Chris. If he hadn’t known already.

“Ah ... no.” He scratched his head, pushing hair out of his eyes. “I’m actually pretty serious—”

“Look. Chris.” She dropped onto the bench again and gripped the edge of the table. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she whispered fiercely, feeling her cheeks flush. “I’m not going to mess around with you under the bleachers. I don’t give hand jobs in the men’s room, or—”

“Wow. You like to get all this out of the way up front, huh?”

“Whatever you’re playing, someone else has tried it, okay?” she said. “I wish you all would just stop screwing with me and leave me alone.”

The table was dead silent for a moment.

Then he stood up. “Sure.” He paused. “You can have the lunch.”

She didn’t look at him.

He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, then tossed some paper onto the table in front of her. “I’ll see you around, Becca.”

When he was gone, she looked up. An envelope sat on the tray, the corner stuck in the greasy cheese of the pizza.

She picked it up and opened it. Three twenties.

You’re probably thinking I owe you my life.

No. Just sixty bucks.

Becca stared at the money, feeling the crispness of the bills under her fingertips. She had no idea what it meant.

The physics kids stood up, taking their notebooks with them. “At least he didn’t leave it on the dresser,” one said.

Becca flinched, but they were gone, swallowed by the swarm of students. Typical. She was used to drive-by one-liners.

She reached out to seize her water bottle—then gasped and dropped it.

It was freezing. She could hear bits of ice swish inside the plastic. Cold crystals clung to her fingers before melting.

She stared at the bottle, now sweating on the table, droplets of water collecting below it.

Then she swiped her hand on her jeans and turned to lose herself in the crowd.