Heart on a Chain (2 page)

Jessica is my main…nemesis, I guess, though there had been a time when we were friends. The summer before Middle School I had suddenly blossomed. My breasts began to emerge, I grew several inches, and suddenly nothing fit me. Shirts were too tight and pants too short. My mother couldn’t be bothered by something as trivial as a growing daughter in her mad world, so I became a thief.

In the early morning hours before either of my parents had risen from their inebriated states I would sneak in and take a dollar or two from both my dad’s wallet and my mom’s purse whenever there was a dollar to be had. That was how I funded myself a “new” wardrobe; three shirts, two pants, one bra, three pairs of panties and one pair of battered shoes from the local thrift store. It cost twelve pilfered dollars and a great deal of guilt.

Though the clothes fit better than any other choice I had, they still marked me. Whereas in Elementary School I had been able to silently morph into a wallflower, unnoticed and largely left alone, Middle School saw me become a target.

It was Jessica Bolen who really started it, set the tone of what my life has since become—at least as far as school is concerned. For some reason she had begun to dislike me at the end of the previous school year. It had been close to the end of the year when she began saying derogatory things about me to my classmates, though there really wasn’t enough time for the gossip to develop into more than a few lazily aimed barbs by her followers.

She had also blossomed over the summer and when school began she walked in as a confident, blonde beauty who had all of the guys noticing her—even the eighth graders and several of the freshmen. With her new confidence came a streak of cruelty and a perfect target for her to hone her skills on—me.

The first day of Middle School, I walked in wearing my second-rate clothes, and searched out the small group of friends I’d had in Elementary School, which included Jessica. As I approached, Jessica turned from where they stood in a circle, talking.

“
What are you doing here? You don’t belong with us,” she sneered at me. I looked to the others, waiting for them to…what? Defend me? Instead, they all began laughing at my expense, and I turned away, humiliated.

Apparently she had overheard her parents talking about my family, and so the year began with her spreading rumors of my alcoholic father and drug addled mother. I couldn’t even defend myself because no one knew as well as I did how true the rumors were. Of course, she didn’t know the whole story and there was no way I was going to enlighten her and give her more ammunition. Not that she needed it since my clothes gave her that.

With her crushing any iota of self worth I might have pretended to have left I didn’t fight back when she called me names, or knocked my books out of my arms, or tripped me when I carried a tray of food in the lunch room.

It was surprising how quickly the other students caught on to her games and joined in. Those who didn’t join in soon avoided me like the pariah I was so that they didn’t catch any of the bullets coming my way.

Every day since then has been a game of survival, like today, as I rush to get out of her path. I’ve learned to avoid areas where she or any of her friends might be, which is difficult since most everyone is her friend—or at least pretend to be.

I had hoped that High School might change the way things were for me in Middle School. I mean, the kids are older and more mature, right? While the teasing, shoving and name calling isn’t as intense as my Middle School experience, it’s still here, around every corner it seems.

My blonde hair has grown long over the years. I’m grateful for that because it makes a nice veil to hide behind. Unfortunately it also provides an easily grabbed handle for those wishing to pull it.

I guess I can always hope this year will be different.

It’s while I’m hurrying to my second period class of the day, walking with my head down but also observing those around me at the same time on alert for the warning signs of danger, that I see him.

Henry Jamison.

I stop cold where I am, getting bumped into from behind, but not shoved. I even hear a mumbled “Excuse me,” though probably because they didn’t realize who they’d bumped.

I’m frozen as I stare at him, mouth agape. The sight of him brings back a flood of memories that I had forgotten.

He had gone to my elementary school; I had known him from the first day of Kindergarten. I’d liked him in an innocent childlike way because he was never mean to anyone. He was the kind of kid that others flocked to naturally, popular without trying or even caring if he was. He made everyone feel as if they were his friend. I had admired that about him. Especially during those years when my life had gone dark and he had still treated me kindly.

He’d sat with me at lunch when I sat alone, which naturally brought others to my table as well. He’d always invited me to play kick ball when he saw me sitting alone, even though he knew I would decline. When I started to notice boys as something other than a complete annoyance I had thought he was the kind of boy I might really like—maybe even love—as more than just a friend.

The end of sixth grade made me think he might see me as something more as well when he gave me a special valentine—a card he had made and not just one of the cheap, small paper ones everyone else passed out.

The remembrance of that brings a remembrance of my first kiss—my only kiss—in the coat closet. How bold I’d been. How nice his lips on mine had been. How much hope I had gleaned from such a simple thing.

My cheeks flush as I think of him holding my hand at recess, sometimes, after that kiss. We’d never kissed again, though I’d wanted to. I think we’d both been too shy and uncertain to make the first move.

He’d moved that summer. I didn’t know, of course, until the next school year started.

Now here he is again.

He’s grown, changed but there’s no doubt it’s him. He’s tall, though he’d been close to my height when I’d last seen him. He stands taller than most of those around him and I’d guess him to be about six feet or so, maybe a little more. He has dark blonde hair, short on the sides and standing in odd spikes on top of his head, which I understand when he reaches up absently and runs his fingers through it. Rather than looking messy, though, it has a startling effect, looking as if he’s spent hours getting it to look like that. His jaw is strong, square, masculine. The promise of the cute boy has become an amazingly gorgeous young man.

He laughs at something someone says and my stomach tightens in recognition. His smile is the same as I remember it, disarming and beautiful.

I stand here staring at him, forgetting to keep my usual watch for elbows or feet thrown my way, so when an elbow comes, I’m unprepared. It sends my books scattering across the floor—loudly—which catches his attention. His eyes meet mine and I see a flicker of recognition in their dark depths, a perplexed smile at the corners of his mouth. Horrified, I quickly scoop up my books and flee down the stairs, humiliated that he should have caught me staring, even worse having him see the new sport I’ve become.

Chapter Two

I spend the rest
of the day hiding, even ducking my precious lunch, missing what is possibly the only meal I’ll get today. Instead of looking for feet stuck out in front of me, I watch for him. As I settle into my last period of the day, photography, I breathe a sigh of relief that this horrible day is almost over. I sit alone at a table for two, confident that no one will sit next to me unless forced to. I sit with my head down, avoiding all eye contact with the precision I’ve developed over the years, which is how I see the large, white, athletic shoes stop by my desk.

A sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach at the coming confrontation as it always does. But then—nothing happens. With a sinking feeling I realize my tormentor wants my whole attention, and won’t leave until he gets it. I take a breath and lift my head—and feel my mouth drop at the sight of Henry standing there.

Dismay fills my chest.

Oh, no, please, not him too.

“
Can I sit here?” he asks.

What?
I cock my head a little, sure I haven’t heard him correctly. I look around, seeing that there are a few other empty seats still available. I see a couple of the football players sitting toward the back, looking my way, snickering. I look back up at Henry and feel tears prick my eyes at the realization that it
is
him also—that he is somehow part of it, part of the torture, him sitting next to me is part of the game.

Before I can gather the courage to tell him no, he’s placing his stack of books next to mine and sliding into the seat next to me. I immediately scoot away from him, hovering on the opposite side of my seat. He either doesn’t notice or chooses not to comment on it.

“
Hey, you’re Kate aren’t you? Kate Mosley? I don’t know if you remember me; I’m Henry. Henry Jamison? We went to Elementary School together?” he ends on a question and I just stare at him like an imbecile—like my mother, when she’s taken a few too many of her chill pills.

This is a new tactic, one I haven’t dealt with before. I look around again, to see who else might be in on it, but just then the bell rings and the teacher rises from his desk, commanding our attention for the rest of the class—or trying to anyway. For my part, I can’t concentrate at all on what he says; all of my attention is straining to the left.

I’m on guard even more than usual. My emotions are on edge, because though I don’t know Henry now I had known him when he was younger. I had admired his kindness so much, even more so once any shred of kindness at home had disappeared—and had dimmed in my school mates. But apparently time has changed more than just his size and looks, it has changed his nature and he’s quickly taken up the “torture Kate” game.

Each time he moves I jump involuntarily. I feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to be baited. I keep my eyes fixed resolutely on the open notebook in front of me, blank in spite of the teacher’s lecture. He’s telling us which supplies we will need for the class. I can’t even concentrate enough to try to plan a way to get the impossible items. The only thing I look up for is to watch the clock. As soon as the bell rings, I’m ready.

I spring from my seat, scooping my books off the edge of the desk. By divine intervention, I don’t drop them. I run from the room, not caring who I bump into on my way out, scrambling to keep my feet beneath me as I’m bumped and shoved.

I scramble past the area where the buses are parked, even though my house is five miles from school, which qualifies me for a ride on one. I quickly discovered the bus is just a persecution chamber with no hope of escape for those same five miles.

It’s worth walking. Plus, there’s the added benefit of walking taking more time, which keeps me from home a little longer. Today I walk quickly, at least until I’m past the boundaries of the school, beyond where most kids who have to walk have turned off. A few cars pass with windows rolled down, students hurling insults my way, but I ignore them.

I still can’t believe he’s part of it. I’m not sure why it should bother me so much. There are those who ignore me, of course. I would have preferred him to be one of those, though honestly I guess I’d hoped he might be the same as he had been all those years before.

I worry over this all the way to my house, the sight of which brings a tightening in my abdomen, as usual, and my attention is drawn from wondering about Henry Jamison to the reality of what lies ahead.

I wonder what mood
she’ll
be in today. I actually prefer it when she’s in a melancholy mood, even though it means a lot of crying. It’s better than her violence, which I’m always on the receiving end of for something as simple as walking the wrong way or swallowing too loudly. I hurry inside, setting my books down, and removing my shoes to keep down the chance that she’ll know I’m home.

I rush into the kitchen to start my chores, which means cleaning up the messes she made today. There are several plates and bowls piled in the sink, as well as the glasses from Dad’s binge last night. I quickly wash, dry and put them away. I sweep the floor which is littered with food crumbs, and wipe the table. I throw away the empty liquor bottles, returning the others to the cabinet.

I hurry upstairs into the bathroom, gathering up the damp, smelly towels from there and from in front of my parents’ bedroom door, and take them back down to the laundry room. I’m headed back to the bathroom to scrub the already-clean tub and toilet when I hear her.

“
Kathryn!”