Rage (2 page)

"Could be fun," Erica said gamely.

"Or a waste of time," Missy replied, bored.

"I guess." Erica might have said more, but Ms. Helfand's heels clacked on the linoleum floor, so the girl bent her head to her work. From what Missy glimpsed, Erica was drawing roadkill.

The teacher stopped two tables away, but Missy didn't take that as a cue to continue the conversation. Lately, she didn't talk if it wasn't necessary, not even to Erica, who used to be someone Missy called a friend. Much better to keep everything inside, down in the dark where people never saw or heard the truth. In the dark, you couldn't see when you were bleeding.

Relishing the silence, Missy sketched. Shadows slowly filled her paper, spreading like cancer from each of the corners. In its center, the unfilled part suggested the shape of a lowercase
t
.

"You used to like going out," Erica said softly.

Missy darted a glance at the other girl. Erica was chewing her bottom lip and staring intently at her own picture. It was almost as if she was afraid to look at Missy.

If the notion bothered Missy, it was eclipsed by the more pressing thought:
She doesn't get it.
Wrapped around the charcoal stick, Missy's knuckles whitened. No one got it. No one understood. Not Erica. Not Missy's folks. Not her sister.

Not Adam.

God, no, Adam hadn't understood, no matter how many times he'd told her he loved her, how he'd made such incredible promises and, far worse, made her believe those promises...

In her mind, a word whispered like the hiss of oil on a skillet:
Freak.

Missy shoved the thoughts and feelings down into their prison of the glass jar. Only once the lid was sealed tight did she release her breath. She glanced over at Erica to see if she had noticed her brief internal struggle. She shouldn't have worried. Erica sat slumped, oblivious, halfheartedly moving her charcoal stick across her paper.

Maybe Erica didn't understand her anymore. But that didn't mean Missy had to be a complete turd about it. So she threw the other girl a bone. "Maybe I'll go."

The look of gratitude on Erica's face made Missy slightly nauseated. When had they ever had anything in common? Had Missy really been that desperate?

Erica grinned hugely. "What'll you wear?"

"The usual." Translation:
Black and black and black, duh.

Erica tittered laughter, muffled quickly by her hand. "Me too."

Of course. Missy wore black because it was the color of her soul. Erica wore black because it was trendy.

"I'm so glad you're going," Erica said, gushing. "It's going to be awesome. You'll see. Kevin does the best parties. Remember last year?"

Of course Missy did: she'd hooked up with Adam during that party. They'd left in Adam's parents' car long before the police arrived to break things up. And she'd left her virginity in the back seat.

No. No no no. Don't think about him.

Before she could correct Erica—Missy had never said she would go to Kevin's party, only that she might—Ms. Helfand approached their table. She leaned over Missy, all expensive perfume that didn't mask the need for better deodorant, and she made appreciative noises as she looked at Missy's picture.

"Excellent use of negative space," Ms. Helfand cooed. "Bold strokes, showing a confident hand. And the white crucifix is an excellent contrast to the darkness surrounding it. I especially like how the cross is not upright. It suggests a struggle, even with it bathed in light. Marvelous work, Melissa. Very spiritual."

Missy might have blushed, but the dead face obscured it. She murmured her thanks. She knew that art was best left to interpretation, so she didn't correct Ms. Helfand. Missy hadn't drawn a crucifix.

On her paper, the white sword gleamed.

***

Between classes: the time when high school morphs into a no man's land of cliques and wannabes. Either you choose a side or you get caught in a volley of rapid fire and go down hard, your reputation slaughtered.

Missy was used to the open warfare of high school. She sidestepped the carnage of snubbing by plowing forward, indifferent to the catcalls and pointed looks thrown her way. So what if people called her a poser, a loser, a goth? It didn't matter. None of it mattered. She marched, ignoring the clandestine texting that took place around the students' social battles. Less than four minutes to get to fourth-period world history—Missy didn't have time to be sidetracked by idiots.

And yet, there by the lockers was Adam and his crew, Adam with a smirk on those full lips, his eyes daring her to stop and talk to him, to react to him. Missy walked on, eyes straight ahead, clutching her binder and books to her chest.

"Freak alert," crowed one of the guys—either Matt 1 or Matt 2, one of Adam's bro-hos, his adoring fans who thought he was God. Missy could never keep the Matts straight, even when she and Adam had been together.

"Emo cutter girl," said the other Matt. "Careful—she'll bleed all over you."

"Or cry all over you."

"Cries as she bleeds. Where you going, emo cutter girl?"

Her dead face stayed on, mouth sealed, gaze set to Screw You.
Words,
she told herself. They were just words. And never mind that they were true words.

She ignored Matt 1 and Matt 2 and the other guys standing there with Adam as she went to her locker to swap out her morning textbooks for her afternoon load. The Matts kept insulting her, calling her "emo dyke" (which was just stupid, because she'd never been into girls) and "cutterslut" and even "dead prude walking." She came close to rolling her eyes. How could she be a slut
and
a prude? Bad enough she was being taunted by jerks. Couldn't she at least be taunted by jerks who understood the words they said?

Worse, though, was part of her held her breath, waiting to see what Adam would do.

She dumped her books in her locker, silently chiding herself for thinking about Adam at all. So what that they'd been together for nine months and twenty-eight days? So what that he'd been her first?
Adam
+
Missy
had ended more than two months ago. Their relationship was past tense. Pluperfect, even. They were done, finished, stick-a-fork-in-me, pencils-down done.

And then she heard his voice, clear as birdsong on a spring morning: "Looking hot under all the black."

No. No
way
was he hitting on her.

Like a switch had been flipped, the Matts changed their taunts to comment on her looks, and now some of the other boys in the group joined in. But Missy barely heard them over her pounding heart. Why was Adam hitting on her? She stole a glance from the cautious barrier of her overlong bangs—and yes, he was looking at her, looking
into
her, his eyes burning a hole in her heart. Her stomach clenched, and in a sudden flash of tactile memory she could feel his hands on her, doing such things to her...

She grabbed her afternoon pile of books and slammed her locker, then quickly fumbled on the combination lock.

"Be seeing you," Adam said.

Not if she could help it. Missy fled down the hall, her ears ringing with the Matts' laughter, her stupid body reminding her just how much she missed being with Adam. And that slowly turned to panic. The familiar feeling of suffocation leeched its way through her, making each breath torture, and her heart screamed behind the prison of her ribs.

She thought desperately of her lockbox, tucked safely away in her closet.

Not again,
she told herself.
Not again.

Whether she meant Adam or her razorblade, Missy couldn't say.

***

As soon as Missy vanished around the corner, Adam turned to the others. "Grabbing a smoke," he announced, and the other boys all got in line, like soldiers. Or lemmings.

"Rah, carcinogens," said Death. Of course, the boys didn't hear him. They were in the prime of life, and because they weren't chosen to be Horsemen, there was no reason they should notice Death at all.

Give it about twenty years with their pack-a-day habit. Then they'd notice him, all right.

Death could have followed Missy, but he didn't bother. She didn't know it, but tonight was going to be a big night for her. And if Death wanted to be there, he'd better get his work done for the day. Being the epitome of patience wasn't an excuse to be a slacker.

Whistling a jaunty tune, he sauntered out of the school.

Missy dove. She hit the ground hard on her side, her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. But she didn't feel the sting; she was too busy cradling the soccer ball to her gut.

"Nice one!" Bella pumped her fist in the air. "Now up! Six seconds! Go!"

Missy scrambled to her feet and pivoted right, throwing the ball two-handed over her head. Bella, though, had anticipated the direction correctly and was already body-blocking the shot, and now she was dribbling the ball, backing up for another attempt on the goal.

"Got to use your body better," she scolded, dancing backward. "You practically texted the direction. Fakeout. Just because you're a goalie doesn't mean you can't be shrewd."

Breathing heavily, Missy dropped into a low ready position, pretending she didn't feel the burn in her thighs. The rich smells of grass and dirt tickled her nostrils, and beneath that was the familiar odor of hard-earned sweat. She blinked perspiration out of her eyes, telling herself yet again that she needed a sweatband on her forehead. She swayed left, then right, her gaze locked on the soccer ball.

"You taking a nap?" Bella laughed. "Don't just squat there in the goal box! Come out and grab the ball! I dare you!"

Missy didn't take the bait. If she darted forward, she'd be committed to that and would have to block the shot while leaving the goal unprotected. Bella arced left, and Missy shuffled right, galloping sideways.

"It's not enough to watch the ball," Bella said, moving right, now left again, coming forward and then darting to the side. "Watch my hips. But always follow the ball. Don't look away too long, because the ball moves fast." She emphasized the point with a powerhouse kick, aimed high.

Eyes on the ball, Missy lifted her right knee and pushed off with her left leg, reaching long. Thumbs together so that her hands made a
W
, she caught the ball and rode it to the ground.

"Good! Six seconds. Go!"

Again, Missy hurled the ball away—and this time it got some distance before Bella got it under control. Missy took a moment to palm sweaty hair off her forehead and glance at the rest of the team. The girls, paired off, were scattered across the field, some doing passing drills, others attempting scoring shots while the partner tried to block or steal as the coach called out pointers. It was a good team this year, but they'd lose a boatload of seniors after graduation. Like Bella. But that meant that next year Missy would be the primary goalkeeper and one of the JV girls would be where Missy was now: drilling like mad for the time when she'd be the last line of defense.

The protector.

The thought made Missy grin. Here she didn't need her dead face. Here she didn't hide her heart in a glass jar and pray to God or whoever that it would never break again. Here it didn't matter that she was a freak, a loser, just a girl sailing through what passed as life.

Here, on the battlefield, Missy was home.

Bathed in sweat and adrenaline, Missy spread her arms wide and barked out a laugh—a raw sound, a primal sound, one that evoked joy and bloodshed in equal parts. It was the sound of jubilant violence.

But here was Bella again, approaching on a zigzag. Missy turned to face her opponent, and she caught a panoramic sweep of the people speckling the bleachers—some girls, a few guys who got their kicks watching girls get sweaty, a parent or two who'd taken "soccer mom" to the extreme by coming to the practices. And there, standing on the sidelines near the locker room, was a woman in black—as black as a dead heart, from her wide-brimmed hat to her trench coat to her boots—just standing there, watching the players.

No. Watching
Missy.

"Heads!"

Missy spun just as the ball slammed into her stomach. She doubled over and went down hard. Even as she lay on her back, breathless, she saw the black-garbed woman, as if a flashbulb had burned her image on Missy's retinas.

Black as death,
she thought, and on the heels of that:
She's not Death.

As if
that
made any sense.

Bella ran over to help her up. "Christ, Missy, you okay?"

Biting her lip, Missy nodded.

"Good." Then Bella slapped her upside the head. "The hell were you doing, staring off into space? Come on, girl. You know better. You want to be goalie, you got to keep your head in the game."

"Sorry," Missy muttered, hands clasped on her stomach. "Saw someone..."Her voice trailed off as she stared by the locker room door, where no one stood in black, let alone at all. The woman had disappeared.

"Someone what? Coming at you?" Bella scanned the field as if to see who was ignoring the coach's orders to pair off.

"No. It was nothing. Just got distracted." Missy's stomach hurt, but that, too, was a distraction. Soccer means getting hurt. You have to have a high pain tolerance to play, especially if you're goalie. You're going to get kicked, and not always politely on the shin guard. You're going to have balls zooming at you, ready to take your head off. And you have to get in the way of the shot, even knowing that it's going to hurt.

Pain never stopped Missy. Truth be told, she relished it. On the soccer field, she was more alive than anywhere else. It was the one place where she could be herself, feel things the way she was meant to feel them—without getting overwhelmed, without it being like a hand squeezing her heart or gripping her throat.

When she played soccer, Missy could finally breathe freely after a day of slow suffocation.

"All right," Bella said, clapping Missy's shoulder. "Stretch out with me."

She led Missy through the exercises, pummeling Missy with words of wisdom as she did so.