Broken (20 page)

Relief washes through me. Dad’s always the diffuser in the Mom-Emma-Dad concoction.

“Dad, this is Alex Franks.”

Alex offers his hand, and Dad shakes it hard enough to dribble coffee out the chip at the top. “So, you’re the boy involved in the fight on Saturday
?
”

Bless him for having a hint of a grin.

“Yes, sir.”

“Word is you broke Josh’s nose.” A ghost of a smile dances across Dad’s face. “And cracked a couple of his ribs.”

A flash of something—pride?—in Alex’s eyes. “I’ve heard that, too.”

“Well, for protecting my daughter,” Dad says, “I’m willing to give you a chance. There’s something to be said for a man willing to risk hurt to defend our Emma.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gentry.”

Mom visibly deflates. She gives my dad a mutinous look, and I’m sure a cold night on the sofa is in his very near future
—like
, tonight. She turns toward the kitchen as he aims for the basement door.

“Not a big chance,” she warns.

Two shocks right in a row. First, Renfield doesn’t ha
te Alex, the cat acts like they’re
old friends. Second, Mom didn’t kick Alex out and tell him never to speak to me again, which is what I dreaded she’d do.

Of course, the afternoon isn’t over yet.

“So, One-Armed Warrior…have
any homework I can help with?” a
sks Alex.

“Yeah. Writing’s a pain with this brace,” I say at the same time as Mom barks from the kitchen, “Not upstairs you don’t!” 

“Dining room table, then?”

I lead the way, with Renfield peeking over my shoulder
,
watching Alex with his lamp-like eyes. He flinches, back claws flexing when Dad starts up the power tools in his workshop. Like any other day, the sounds of a saw and the smell of burning wood drift beneath the basement door. Normally, it’s comforting in an odd way. With wealthy, popular Alex Franks standing in the dining room, I tend closer to chagrin than to cozy.

“What’s he doing down there?”

“Not sure. He’s always building something. C
hairs, picture frames, puzzle bo
xes...”

“That’s cool.” He sounds honestly impressed. “My dad’s always locked away in his lab, muttering over formulas and studying any advancement in surgical procedures. The only thing he made,” he pauses, then looks at his chest, where I know scars crisscross his skin, “is me live.”

“Then I like his handiwork,” I whisper.

When Alex sets my backpack on the table, the cat launches from my arms, using his back claws for traction. He might not have fangs
, but he has some vampire qualit
ies.
The cat lands on Alex’s chest. Lightning quick, Alex wraps his arm around the slinky white cat, and says, “Hey, kitty. You don’t look like a crazy character.”

The cat screws his face up, sneezes at Alex and twists out of his arms. His paws glance off the table top, enough to change his angle and shoot for the stairs.

“Well,” I deadpan, “the honeymoon’s over.”

“Odd cat.”

“I’m shocked he liked you at all.” Okay, so I’m teasing him.

“Thanks,” he says, mocking pain by the scrunched look of his face and hand over his heart.

Immediately my nightmare flashes behind my eyes. The still-beating heart, blood dripping between the fingers…
It doesn’t beat for me.
Alex holding my hand over his heart and saying those words. I can’t ask him about it now, with Mom one room away and banging pots and pans to let me know she’s very close and can most likely hear every uttered word.

Unlike Bree, who just writes the essay problems for me, Alex takes the pencil, positions the papers between us and patiently takes dictation for every class. He even writes out the Trig problems for me, and helps on the few I struggle with. Mom scuttles out of the kitchen a few minutes before five o’clock, eyes serious, mouth set in a thin line.

“We’ll be having dinner soon, Alex.” Though the look on her face says anything but, she adds, “you’re welcome to stay.”

His face brightens, pale as it is. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Emma Jane,” Mom says, “You can clear off the table.

I heave a sigh and get an elbow to the ribs for it. Soft, not like the vicious hits Alex gave Josh, but the point is made. Together Alex and I reload my backpack with my books and papers, pencils and the like. Silently, we help set the table,
putting out Mom’s
linen placema
ts and good china. Funny she’
d bring that out when she acts like she hates him. Then Mom opens the basement door and yells, “
Merle
! Dinner!”

Drill Sarge in an apron directing
traffic.

“
Merle
sits at the head of the table. I sit here. Alex, you there,” she points to a seat by the window, then points across to the opposite side, “and Emma, you there.”

Divide and conquer.

Alex obliges silently, despite the empty seat beside the one I’m supposed to sit in. Dad comes up the steps, sawdust whitening his
clothes
and clinging to his glasses. He eyes the seating arrangement, then my Mom with a slight shrug of his shoulders, before sitting where he normally does. Once I’m seated, Mom brings out the chowder and rolls.

“I ho
pe you’re not allergic to shell
fish, Alex,” she says innocently. “We’re having Clam Chowder.

“Actually
,
I love sea food,” he says.

If he’
s foiled her
plot to run him off, she doesn’
t show it. Mom ladles the chowder for us, and then passes the rolls and butter. Dad pops up, dusting off sawdust and walking toward the kitchen. He points at Alex before disappearing through the door. “Like hot sauce? I prefer my chowder with a little kick.”

“Love some.”

He’s trying too hard,
I think.

The bottle of
red poison
—I
hate spicy stuff
—passes
from Dad to Alex. He adds a liberal amount to his bowl. No hot sauce virgin could get away with that much without making some kind of face. The entire table watches his first bite, and the aftermath.

Nothing.

“So,” Dad says after a spoonful, “Have any plans after high school?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Gentry. I was thinking about going to Med School.”

“And become a doctor l
ike your father?” Mom asks
. Her tone
is conversation
al
, but I know her. I see the tightening around the eyes
.

“Now, Arlene…” Dad says in that soothing voice of his.

“Don’t ‘now Arlene,’ me.” She shoves part of a biscuit into her chowder, drowning it with force. “That boy’s father
hurt Emma’s hand. On purpose
.”

Alex’s eyes widen, and he swallows his mouthful. The temperature drops in the room, a cold front emanating from Mom’s expression. She could probably crack nuts with
her eyebrows with how hard they’
re pinched together.

“I know what you think of my father,” Alex says. I’m not sure if it’s recklessness, or bravery in action. “And I’m terribly sorry Emma was hurt.”

“But…?” she prods.

“No but. He taught me not to argue with adults.” Okay, so he’s not reckless.

A harrumph escapes Mom, who then eats her soggy biscuit. Tension shifts and swirls around the table. Dad holds her in an even stare, one slight shake of his head before saying, “So, how are you liking Shelley High?”

Alex chews, swallows, then casts a swift g
lance at Mom
. She’
s busy tearing another biscuit to crumbs. He turns back to my dad. “It’s taking some getting used to. Shelley High is smaller than Sadony, and people weren’t very welcoming.”

Mom doesn’t say anything. Guilt maybe? She hasn’t been very welcoming either. Whatever her problem, Mom keeps it to herself, eating the chowder and monitoring every little look that passes between me and Alex.
Dad seems uncomfortable, either
from
the awkward silence, or the fact there’s a boy at his table.

“How,” he asks, “did you meet our Emma?”

Alex turns to me, gaze soft enough to be a caress. Heat spills through me and I wish we weren’t at the dinner table with my parents. I’d cuddle my face into his chest and breath
e
him in. “She was standing outside with Bree Ransom, drinking coffee. We said ‘hi.’ Then I helped her open her locker.”

“After he chased off Josh Mason.”

“The boy he got into a fight with,” Mom points out, jabbing her spoon in Dad’s direction.

“We’ve already established that, Mom.”

A sharp whack in the shin under the table can only come from Alex. He doesn’t argue with adults and obviously I’m not supposed to either, or back sass as Mom would call it. She’s definitely stabbing me with the look that says she does not appreciate my lip.

“If that boy was hurting her, then Alex did the right thing,” Dad says.

“Would you like to see the bruises?” I offer, needling Mom with a sarcastic glare.

“He bruised
you?” Dad and Alex say at once, s
harp notes of shock, sour notes of anger in both voices.

An unpleasant shade of red creeps into Alex’s cheeks. Mom’s have blanched, like someone siphoned the blood from her face.

“Yeah.” I stab at a clam with my spoon, wishing it would pop, bleed, anything to dispel the tension in the room. “
It would’ve been worse
if Alex hadn’t stopped him.”

A solemn nod from Alex. “Josh
was
drunk. I tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t having it.”

It’s impossible to miss Dad arching his eyebrows, as if saying, “See, Arlene?”

Quiet descends, except for the scrape of spoons. The only conversation is Mom and Dad, giving each other Significant Glances. Apparently, Dad wins. Mom stands, wipes her hands on her apron and says, “Well, Alex, it was
…
” I want to rail at her for pausing, “
a pleasure meeting
you.”

The frosty dismissal
is unmistakable. Alex stands, gathers his dirty dishes, and says, “It was nice to meet you both.” He gestures to my bowl. “Are you done, Em?” When I nod, he piles my dishes into his and carries them into the kitchen. Mom watches wide-eyed, but narrows her gaze when he walks to stand beside me, and close to her. “I understand my father has destroyed your faith in him. Please give me a chance to prove I may be my father’s son, but I care about Emma and wo
uld never
hurt her.”

Dad inhales, and I think the entire house does, too.

“I’ll try,” she says. Then adds, “But if you’re going to be seeing Emma, in any capacity, it will be here.”

A smile lights his face, tugs at the pale lines of scarring. “Thank you, Mrs. Gentry.” Then he turns, and holds his hand out to my dad. “Mr. Gentry.”

The guys shake hands, and Dad adds, “Nice meeting you.”

At least Dad sounds honest about it. With Mom, it had all the tones of “get out of my house.”

The drab gray walls are even more morose with Alex walking away from them. I don’t look at my parents as I follow him to the front door. When he pauses, the rest of the house could fall away into black, the world with it. Alex fills my vision, the resigned expression from dealing with my uptight mother melting into the expression just after the amazement I see every morning. One part tender, one part joy, all of it mine. He laces his fingers in mine, and pulls me closer. Then closer still. Kissing distance. With a motion of his chin he tucks my head to his shoulder and slides both arms around me.

I melt into him, breathing in the warmth of his skin. I can taste the smell of leather and Alex on my tongue. If he kissed me now, I wouldn’t mind. One arm loosens, then he slides his hand up my sleeve, across my shoulder to my chin. With gentle pressure, Alex guides my face toward his.

The look on his face is more intimate than any kiss.

“Have sweet dreams tonight, Emma.”

They will be now.

He releases me, takes hold of the door knob, wishes my parents a good evening and then steps onto the porch. Renfield reappears, leaps onto the back of the sofa and watches out the living room window, his tail swishing gently. Alex lifts his hood, then without a backward glance, steps out of the dingy yellow light and the night swallows him whole.

A shudder runs down my spine when Renfield yowls plaintively. He made the same noise the night Daniel died. So did I.

What connection do we all share? Daniel, Renfield
,
me, and Alex?

I flick off the porch light, and turn to face my parents. Dad gives me a little smile, then scoops his coffee cup from the table and retreats to the basement. Mom has the same look on her face that she had the day Daniel left after he’d given me his class ring to wear. She’s losing me, she thinks, it’s penned on every line of her face. Her lips turn down, her frustration and sadness cutting at me and filling the void between us.

I want to say something, make it better somehow.

“Well,” she says, “he’s not so…intimidating up close. Seems mannerly, too.”