Broken (14 page)

Has the Universe shifted? Tiny hates me. Josh isn’t here to harass me. Alex Franks is invading my life…

Bree’s on the bench closest to the side door. She’s in black from head band to suede boots. How she makes a kicky little skirt and military issue boots look good together is beyond me. I definitely lack the put-together gene that Bree Ransom has in abundance.

“Morning!” She sings. She tips her sunglasses down, eyes me and her expression turns sympathetic. I’m sure she’s thinking about whipping out her makeup bag.

“Hey.” I slump to the bench beside her and take a big drag off the sweet, creamy coffee.

“So, did you talk to your boyfriend last night?”

“Haven’t we already had this discussion?”

“Yep.” She stands and holds out a hand for my coffee so I can use my left to stand. “And I believe if you think about something hard enough, it will be true.”

“Why are you getting all metaphysical beliefy on me?”

“Because I think he’d be good to you. And you need a good guy.”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Really? All the stuff going around about him and you think he’d be good to me?”

“Call it intuition,” she says, shaking the wrinkles from her skirt at the same time. “Call it whatever. Other than Daniel, I’ve never seen a guy look at a girl the way Alex looks at you.”

Me neither. He replaces the planet, makes my heart beat faster, and God, I can’t believe it, I think he makes the ache a little less lonely. I scan the quad one last time. Still no Alex. Is he sick with Asia’s flu? He never replied to my text last night. Did I scare him off with that stupid promise? What was I thinking when I sent it?

The entire day passes without a sight of or any answer from Alex.

His absence whips the gossip hounds into a frenzy. According to Ally Rhodes and her harpies, and anybody else with an opinion, Alex Franks is done with me. Word has it I gave him what he wanted and he didn’t come to school because I flipped out when he told me. According to the all-knowing “they,” I should be on suicide watch.

The words dig in like barbed wire, but I’m tired of letting them hurt me.

At lunch I check my phone, and then again after school. Still no reply. The little bubble of hope I’d felt this morning has died a withered, sticky death. At this point, the graveyard fence holds more attraction than Bree’s museum dining room, or any nonexistent text from the guy who is definitely not my boyfriend. With help from the janitor, I gain access to my locker after school, fumble with my books, then load my bag and head for Memorial Gardens.

The wrought iron fencing looms into view, black rotted teeth ripping through the tufty brow fur of the grass edging.

A whisper of fear flits through me.

What if Daniel is the scary corpse I’ve seen the past two times? Where will my broken heart find sanctuary then?

My phone buzzes to life in my bag. I linger at the corner of the cemetery, eyes on the distant mausoleum drenched in afternoon shadows. Torn between backsliding to hanging on the fence and wishing for a grave that will never be, and allowing whatever text it is to delay it, I sigh and give in. The backpack straps whisper over my shoulder.

My pink phone flashes a red message light.

Sliding it open, I see the sender’s name. The fear crashes.

Alex Franks.

I click on the text and open it.

Been home sick. Will be back to life tomorrow. Save me a dance?

I feel the smile without forcing it. The pumpkin across the street echoes my expression. I type into the text field,
Of course! Feel better soon.

I know one little text from him has that affect on me.

Chapter Thirteen

Yards and yards of fabric and I still feel naked. Not for the last time I wonder why I let Bree talk me into these costumes and this dance.

Tank tops don’t show as much skin between my cleavage and chin as this dress does.

Skirts flare when I spin and pin Bree with a half-hearted glare.

“Oh, come on, Emma!” she huffs, and glitter whisks from her exposed skin. “Admit it. We look amazing!”

Her gown floats above the floor when she glides to stand next to me in the full-length mirror back stage of Shelley High’s auditorium. She’s dressed nearly identically to me, and seems to have blossomed in the gown, where I feel like pulling on the garment bag the dress came in. Layered skirts of ivory silk, and corsets embroidered in gold or silver are pushing up our boobs. Filmy sleeves off our shoulders and our blond hair curled, pinned, and dangling. The best Twins costumes she’s ever created.

“Okay. I admit it.”

“Yes!” she pumps her fist in the air. “I finally win one! You’ve never agreed with me before.”

“Don’t rub it in.” I’m tempted to cross my arms.

Jason Weller emerges from the dressing room to our right. A giggle escapes me, shattering whatever regal image Bree created.

“A monk?”

He smiles broadly, his hood flopping over to cover his face when he bows. I pick at the scratchy brown fabric of Jason’s robe when he rises.

“What else would I be?” He eyes our exposed boob-tops, scrunches his eyebrows together, and then brandishes his Bible like an offensive weapon. “Every royal family should have their own clergy to steer them from the paths of wickedness.”

“Whatever.” Bree gives him an eye roll and sigh combination, then links her arm in mine and gestures vaguely toward the door. “Then lead on, holy man.”

Jason produces a lighter from his robes, then lights an incense cone inside the ornate metal globe hanging from a chain. Then he smoothes his cowl into a collar, adjusts his huge wooden cross pendant, and puts his best monk face on. Striding slowly, chanting some complete nonsense, he walks from the backstage area and into the side hall leading us as if we really were two fairytale princesses.

“I was thinking about killing you,” I whisper to Bree. “But I’ve reconsidered.”

“You’ll be thanking me when Alex Franks sees you.”

“And now I’m thinking maybe I should smack you.”

“That would not be lady-like,” Jason sings into his mock monk chant.

“Plus your hand is in a brace,” Bree says, parroting his tone.

“Only one of them.”

Voices and laughter, thick and thin and jumbled, wash over us once we turn into the main hall. The normal lunch line has turned into a costume parade: slutty angels and trampy faeries, fantasy and horror characters, sports heroes and more. Ally Rhodes shows most of her skin in a Playboy Bunny outfit complete with tail and ears. She turns a catty bitch glare on me, way too predatory for her bunny outfit.

Flutters come to life, battering my insides. I’ve made myself practically invisible since Daniel died. Now here I am, dressed as a princess with most of my cleavage standing out, without my jeans and sweatshirts to hide in. Probably not the best idea with all the gossip flying around since the Dune Eco trip.

The rest of Bree’s friends cluster at the end of the hall. They are a welcome buffer of familiarity, even if the Thespians look like refugees from the Ren Faire. The guys are in tights and puffy pants, with pompous-looking jackets and feathered hats. The girls wear long skirts and corsets, similar to mine and Brees’s, but no one’s costume beats ours in elegance.

“Wow, Bree!” says Amber Miller, a curly-haired girl with a freckles. “You two rock the princess look.”

“
Totally
rock it,” agrees her brother Michael, who is not surprisingly dressed like a court jester.

As one big group, we join the queue, a knot in the line edging and bumping along toward the open double doors.

Inside, the walls are lined in paper cut-outs of tombstones and crypts, skeletons and ghosts. Crepe streamers drape from the ceiling, white crinkles catching and diffusing the few lights that shine. A sad attempt at a graveyard under moonlight, but it makes me yearn for the fence of Memorial Gardens for a moment. I’m not an artist, but I could’ve done a better cemetery landscape on familiarity alone.

People cluster in the same crowds, the Ins and the Sports, the Outs, and the Thespians. A wolf whistle rises above the mid-tempo music. Bree and I turn in a cloud of silky skirts toward the shrill. Prince Charming the Carrot-Top slouches casually by the entrance to the food service bay. He’s a cheap knock-off of Bree’s designer brilliance: pleather knee high boots, a limp cape, a gold chain over his chest. The drama club is as shocked as I am at his attempt at coordinating clothing.

Then he staggers toward us, swaying like a pirate on the high seas.

Bree’s tight grip shows off her chunk of costume jewelry on her finger, and keeps me from slinking into the shadows. Instead, I try to match her stance, head high, back straight. A tangy, sickly sweet smell ghosts in front of him. Worse than spilled whiskey, more like whiskey and beer mixed together. Add the stagger to the booze stink and there’s only one conclusion. Josh Mason is drunk.

“Emma.” He nearly trips over his feet. “‘Bout damn time you showed some skin!”

He stops a couple of feet from us, his gaze snags on my hips before jerking to my chest and the curves thrust up by the corset. I want to rip his tongue out when he licks his lips. Bobbing in place, Josh squints into the line trickling in the doors. His eyes widen ridiculously huge, then he shoves a hand through his hair.

“Shit,” Josh mutters. “Of course. Of course
he
’d be here.”

Slinging a dark, greedy look at me, he lurches back the way he came and disappears into the food room. Hopefully he’s finding something to eat that will soak up the alcohol.

An air of ‘what the hell?’ hangs over our drama club. As one, the Thespian clique turns toward the door and the source of Josh’s ire. A couple shrugs and a “harrumph” and someone mutters “There’s no competition for the Best Costume Contest.” Most break away toward the dance floor, or the snacks, leaving me and Bree.

I can’t move.

I see the real source of Josh’s anger. Gravity holds me tight, sourcing from the tall, black-clad villain at the ticket table. He turns toward me, locking me in his mismatched gaze, shadowing the rest of the world, filling the air around me. Even Bree melts from existence.

Alex Franks’s black clothes fit like they were tailored for him—given his father’s money, I’m sure they were. His knee-high boots look dashing not ridiculous; his gloves go up to his elbows over billowed sleeves. A black bandana covers his hair, tied back by the mask around his eyes, but leaves the silly drawn-on mustache and his full lips completely visible. A smile crooks his mouth, washes under the mask and touches his eyes.

“O-o-okay then,” Bree says from a thousand miles away, “I think that’s my cue to leave.”

I might nod…I’m not sure. All I see is Alex. All I hear clearly is my heart beat filling up the emptiness.

He comes toward me, any hint of him being sick is gone. There’s a spring, a purpose to his stride. The dim lighting seems repelled by him, like Alex is a light source of vital, renewed life. When he draws close the energy of a couple days ago has returned, crackling in the space between us. The awe and wonder have returned to his eyes, too—I’m something so much more than common to him.

Alex’s gaze trails slow and easy from the hem of my gown, over the corset ties. It strays on my lips, before brushing my freckles and settling on my eyes.

“Milady,” he says, bowing at the waist.

“Good sir.” My voice is wispy and foreign. I drop a tight curtsy, wishing I had left my clunky brace at home.

The DJ, Jason’s cousin, Adam, leans toward his mic, the beak of his giant Raven mascot costume dangerously close to whacking the microphone when he says, “And now we’re going to slow things down. Couples, this set is for you.”

Guys and girls pair off, blurry in my Alex-focused vision. Devils and angels in short skirts, sports stars and cheerleaders. Alex slides closer, the scent of leather and cologne wafting in my breaths. Inside, I’m alive and tingly, excited to see him again. On another level, though, blooms a strange familiarity. How can this guy I barely know feel like a boyfriend already? On some intimate, emotional level, he feels so much like Daniel.

“Want to dance?” he says, extending a gloved hand.

I can’t resist teasing him. “With you?”

“I don’t see anyone else here.”

“Then I guess you’ll do.”

His laugh is rich, and pulls a bigger smile from me. I take his hand, expecting an electric shock. Disappointment sparks in my chest, replacing the charge I’d hoped our connection would ignite—intangible but so real, and part of what makes Alex who he is. A buzz hums beneath his leather glove, almost a tease in comparison to his raw electricity.

Thoughts jumble with feelings, clogging in my chest. Tendrils of hair tickle on my neck as I follow him, weaving deep into the heart of the dancers. I should be more hesitant. Ally Rhodes is out here, Josh, too, and both of them glaring daggers.

The shyness fights to come free of where I stuffed it. It’s just impossible to feel bad around Alex.

He lights me up like a current through a light bulb.

“Great costume,” Alex says, voice husky as he draws me close. One gloved hand rests on the back of my hip. I surrender and brace my immobilizer on his shoulder. “Really, Emma. You are beautiful.”

“Yeah?” My cheeks flame and I tuck one against his shoulder where he won’t see. “Except the stupid brace.”