The food court was buzzing. It was a barrage of noise. A parade of anonymous shoppers queued up to the various eateries, and a string of unsmiling workers corralled behind laminate-topped counters were taking customers’ orders with minimal enthusiasm.
Raven wrinkled her nose at the smell of the greasy food being prepared. The pep in her step was a thing of the past. She gagged. She covered her mouth with a shaky hand and plopped into the first empty chair she came across.
“You okay?” asked Sage.
“Yeah. But this place stinks. My stomach—“
Sage shrugged, “Smells like the food court to me. What do you want?”
“Give me a minute,” said Raven, gagging again.
She let her head rest on the table. Seconds later she hopped up and raced toward the restroom, cupping her mouth with both hands.
“Hey! What's wrong?” called Sage. He sprinted after her.
When he got to the restroom he slowed to a stop. He wanted to poke his head in, then figured he’d better not. Instead he leaned against the wall outside, tapping the sole of his shoe against it while he waited for Raven to appear.
Back in Sage’s truck, Raven rested with a wad of wet paper towels pressed to her mouth. Sage handed her a plastic bag from the food court.
“If you're going to be sick again, please do it in this,” Sage begged. Raven rolled her eyes and flipped him off.
“I'm just saying...these are leather seats, Raven.”
“Whatever. Just take me home.” She put her head back and shut her eyes. Sage glanced at her worriedly while putting the truck in drive. His gaze broke after a few long seconds. He roared off.
When they got to Raven’s driveway, Sage rushed from the truck and helped her out. She crouched next to the SUV and threw up again. Most of it splashed on Sage’s shoes. Finally the heaves stopped. Raven wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Sage scrunched his face up at the sight and smell of his soiled Jordans.
“Dang, girl...your aim,” Sage whined.
“Sorry. Help me inside. I feel kind of dizzy.”
Sage’s face and shoulders drooped from embarrassment. Dread, too. He swung into action moving beside her and gingerly gripping her arm.
“Take it easy. I got you.”
Sage led her to the door. Raven thrust her purse at him.
He gave her a blank stare.
“Get my house key out.”
Sage poked around in the bag as if it were booby-trapped with explosives. He retrieved the key, holding it high above his head like a trophy.
Chapter 8
Raven and Sage sat on the couch in her living room. They were surprisingly close to each other considering their brief, but volatile history. Raven sipped from a glass. Sage alternated between bouncing his knee and jiggling the keys in his pocket.
His glass sat on the table, untouched.
“Would you please be still? You’re making me nauseous again,” Raven complained.
“Really? ‘Cause you sound like your old grouchy self,” said Sage, with a smirk.
Raven set her glass down. She scooted over until their hips touched. Sage lunged for some distance between them. He didn’t get far because the armrest hemmed him in. Raven rolled her eyes and huffed.
“Yeah, so I feel a little better. Must have been something I ate.”
Sage looked puzzled. “But we’d just gotten there. You hadn't—“
“Something I ate at school.”
“Oh. Okay. Hey, listen, I have homework to do. Since you’re alright now, I really need to go,” said Sage.
He scrambled up from the couch. Raven sprang up, too. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into a sloppy embrace. Sage untangled himself as gently as he could.
“Don’t do that,” Sage said.
Raven crossed her arms behind her back to keep from making him more skittish.
“Stay for a little while. Please? What if I get sick again? Granny won't be here for a few hours.”
Raven moved closer to him. She placed her hands on the sides of his head plastering his rigid face and neck with kisses. Sage wrestled his head away. In the process, he spied her earrings. It was the same pair from the previous night.
Sage froze as he felt that familiar icy feeling creep into his bones.
Raven saw her opening and tried to ratchet up her game. She went to work on his zipper. The sound of the metal teeth peeling apart snapped Sage back to the moment and his frantic effort to make a run for it. He pulled away from Raven so fast he accidentally kicked the coffee table. It rocked enough to topple his drink over.
Sage started toward the door. Raven clung to him every step of the way.
“Stop it, Raven. Let go. I need to get out of here. Now.”
Sage pried her arms off him. He moved her out of his path to freedom. She saw how serious he was and stopped resisting his departure. Her body sagged right where she stood.
“Fine. Go then.”
Raven pushed him away from her. She stomped back to the couch, flinging herself on it, cradling her stomach. Sage rushed to the door and yanked it open. His foot caught on something and he tripped over it. He barely gave a backward glance to the piece of pottery that fell behind him. It shattered to pieces a few feet from his heels.
“Sorry,” he yelled, over his shoulder.
“You got that right, asshole!” Raven snapped back.
She yanked a throw pillow off the couch and launched it in his direction. Then she grabbed a second one and punched it as hard as she could.
In his haste to leave, Sage had failed to fully close the door. It creaked open, but the sound was muffled by Raven's epic tantrum. So was the sound of her grandmother whooshing over the threshold.
Celia Mason was a big-boned woman in her early fifties. Not one to waste time or money on niceties, she was dressed in drab muted-colored work clothes, wore no jewelry other than a cheap Timex watch, and the graying edges of her hairline stood in stark contrast to the rich black ponytail that fell just past her neck.
Celia, or Granny as Raven called her, marched in the house with the precision of a commander-in-chief--which she was, having ruled her dedicated troop of one--Raven--with an iron fist for more than a decade.
After crossing the doorway, Celia stopped in front of the broken pottery. She kicked a piece of it with the tip of her worn leather shoe. Raven snapped to attention when she heard the hollow sound of the broken stoneware rolling on the floor. She flew off the couch.
Celia scoured the room with her eyes. As attuned as any sophisticated tracking system, she scoped out the glasses sitting on the coffee table. Raven was too distracted by the loud thumping her heartbeat was making against her ribcage to realize exactly what her grandmother was looking at, but she sure didn’t miss the way Celia was looking at whatever it was that caught her eye.
The venomous glower in her grandmother’s eyes anchored Raven to a spot in front of the couch. Celia wasted no time with the interrogation. The questions she fired at Raven reeled off like rounds from an Uzi.
“Who did you have in my house? Why is my door open to the whole wide world? And why is my favorite angel in shards all over the floor?” Celia asked, without taking a single breath between queries.
Raven made a big show of composing herself and smoothing the pillows on the couch. Buy some time to get your story straight, she thought. She fixed her mouth to deliver the lie she had concocted, and that’s when she noticed the drinking glasses on the table, along with the spill from Sage’s none too nimble exit.
“Just a friend from school, Granny. I got sick at the mall and he—“
Raven swallowed a hard dry lump in her throat.
“My angel?” asked Celia.
She stooped over and picked up a remnant of the pottery, shook it at her granddaughter. At a loss for words, Raven shrugged. That’s when Celia advanced with speed that could have rivaled any sprinter coming off a starting block. She swung her arm in a short arc. Her open hand connected with the side of Raven’s face hard enough to make the girl’s head snap back.
“Don't play with me, Raven. What were you doing with a boy in the house and nobody here to supervise?”
“Nothing, Granny. Honest, I—“
Celia slapped her again. The momentum from the second blow propelled Raven onto the couch. Her nose spouted a gush of brilliant red blood.
“What's the rule?” Celia demanded.
At first Raven's expression was stoic, but when she wiped her nose with the back of her hand she winced at the sight of the scarlet stain left there.
“No. Boys. In. The. House,” Raven chanted.
“That’s right. Don't forget it again, sister. Now clean this mess up. Then go to your room and get your damned head straight.” Celia marched out of the room.
Raven stood there dry-eyed; Not even blinking; Quiet as a statue until her grandmother was completely out of sight. Not until she was alone did she peel herself off the couch. She tilted her head back to keep blood from leaking on Celia’s floor.
Raven trudged to the smashed angel. She fell to her knees, right on top of a small jagged piece. She flinched for a second, then her face turned serene. The pain in her knee and the sting on her cheek was bliss compared to the damage her grandmother’s wrath had inflicted on her heart.
Chapter 9
Sage was studying in his bedroom. He wrangled a thick geometry textbook, a stack of graph paper, and a compass lethal enough to put him out of his misery with one well-placed jab to the jugular.
When that very thought flashed through his mind, Sage flung the compass down and picked up a disposable ballpoint pen. He chewed on the end of it until the cap popped off and a dot of ink dripped on his tongue. Thoroughly grossed out, he lunged for a wad of tissues and scrubbed away at the surface of his tongue. He dashed to his waste can and tossed in the offensive pen.
Peyton was also in the room doing his own kind of studying. He lounged on Sage’s bed and slobbered over the latest entry in the notebook.
“Dang! You owe me, man,” bragged Peyton.
“Owe you for what?” Sage asked, while standing in the doorway of his bathroom preparing to brush his teeth.
“For hooking you up with that freak, Raven.”
“Hmmp. How ‘bout I owe you a swift kick in the ass.”
“What'd I—-“
“You set me up with that psycho. She's way more trouble than she's worth,” Sage snapped. He waved a toothbrush loaded with toothpaste in Peyton’s direction.
Sage took his time tending to his mouth. Then he went back to his desk. He slammed the textbook closed with a loud whap. Scooping up a pencil, he swung his chair in Peyton’s direction.
Sage opened and shut his mouth a couple of times—-like he had something to say, but couldn’t quite work up the nerve to spit it out. He tapped the pencil to his forehead and chewed his lip.
“What do you think of Jasmin?” Sage finally blurted.
“Who?”
“Jasmin. The girl we met in the cafeteria the other day.”
“Oh, yeah. She's fine. Pretty face. I'd hit it,” said Peyton.
“Fool, you'd hit a dog if it let you.”
Peyton hurled a pillow at Sage. He cracked up when a tassel flicked him in the eye. He reloaded with another one.
“Quit playing, man,” Sage grumbled. “Does Jasmin remind you of someone?”
Peyton stopped mid-launch. He plugged a fist into the pillow's downy guts.
“Not really. Why?” Peyton said.