NINE
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I RISE FROM MY DESK and approach the Cage door. From the left corner of my eye, I try to see what it is Sean is working on. It looks like a work sheet. I could have probably turned my head to get a better look. It’s not as though he would catch me looking and mistake my interest for . . . well, interest. He’s oblivious to me, not even looking up as I pass him.
Brockman motions me through the door.
“Davina. What can I do for you?” That he insists on using my full name grates on my nerves. Like he’s somehow this mature, responsible grown-up who doesn’t go around molesting young girls.
I glance back into the Cage. Just a quick look and, sure enough, Coco is turned around in her desk, watching us, her dark eyes alert and wary.
I face him again. “Can I use the bathroom?” He takes a long moment before answering. Making me wait uncomfortably in front of him. I shouldn’t have consumed so much water at lunch. I’ll have to quit doing that if it means having to ask him to use the restroom every afternoon.
Leaning forward over his desk, he scribbles a pass for me. Tearing it off, he hands it to me. When I reach for it he pulls it back. “Don’t be long,” he warns. Jerk.
“I want to go, too!” Nathan shouts from his desk.
“Shut up, Nathan,” Brockman replies mildly, finally letting me have the pass.
Nodding, I turn and push open one of the heavy metal doors. It bangs shut behind me, echoing off the narrow corridor. I hurry past the workout room, not even looking inside. The sound of male voices and the clang of weights tells me there’s a group in there working.
The girls’ bathroom is small, just two stalls. I’m in the second stall when the door creaks open. I finish but hesitate inside the cramped space. I don’t know why. Maybe because this time of day, there don’t seem to be any girls down here. It was just the sound of guys in the workout room, and I imagine the girls’ locker room has its own bathroom.
Standing, I listen, lightly resting my hand against the cold, graffiti-riddled door. Straining to hear something, I lean forward, waiting for the sound of running water in the faucet. Or the door in the neighboring stall swinging open and shut. Normal sounds of someone in here simply doing their business.
Nothing.
I know someone’s here though . . . imagine that I can hear the soft fall of their breath. I lean forward a bit more now. Peek through the stall crack.
Maybe Brockman let Coco go to the bathroom. Somehow, the thought of this doesn’t make me feel any more at ease.
“I know you’re in there. Come out.”
The sound of that voice jars everything loose inside me. I shouldn’t hear this person here. Of all places, I should be safe from him in the girls’ bathroom.
“Come out or I’ll come in.”
This threat sends a hot streak of panic racing through me. I fumble for the lock and step out.
Brockman waits with his arms crossed over his chest, his pose relaxed.
“What are you doing in here?” I manage to get out.
“I thought we should have a word about what you saw yesterday.”
I cast my eyes downward and move to the sink. Turning on the faucet, I wash my hands, desperate to have something to do other than look him in the face.
“I didn’t see anything.”
He doesn’t reply and I look up in the mirror, biting back a gasp to see he’s moved behind me.
“Come on. Let’s not pretend.”
Instead of denying what I saw again—clearly, he’s not going to accept that—I shut off the water and lightly shake my hands over the sink. Having no choice, I turn.
“You’re in the girls’ bathroom. Someone might come in here,” I tell him, gratified to hear that my voice is steady. Especially as all I can see when I look at him are his fingers with their chewed-to-the-quick nails clenched around Coco’s small shoulder. The image is burned into my memory and fills me with rage and disgust and the overwhelming urge to slap him.
“Girls’ PE doesn’t start until seventh period.”
“Anyone could walk in.”
Smiling, he rips me a paper towel from the dispenser. “The arrangement I have with Coco isn’t exclusive to her, you know.”
Suddenly, I think I’m going to be sick.
“There’s room for you, too. A girl like you is going to need protection.”
Yeah. I need protection from the likes of him. And what does he mean “a girl like me”? Somehow I think he just means: a girl. Period. But then I think of Nathan slapping Gil. That easily could be me. He already squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt—and that was just in the first two minutes I met him. Since then I’d caught him looking at me several times, bending his head close to Brian and then laughing in my direction. Jokes at my expense. And maybe something more sinister. Who knows? Maybe he has a nasty plan for me. The thought has been there, lurking in the shadows, but I refuse to let that cow me into accepting Brockman’s particular brand of friendship.
“No, thanks.” I move past him, careful not to touch him as I drop my paper towel into the trash.
“Just think about it,” he calls as I push open the door.
But it fails to swing out all the way. It stops. Thuds against something. I move back. The door swings and Sean steps inside. I stare, trying to reconcile the sight of him here. In the girls’ bathroom. The small space suddenly feels claustrophobic. It’s like all the air and energy are sucked up inside him.
His face is stoic as ever, but his eyes . . .
I swallow at the sight of them. His eyes are like frosted glass, that outer ring dark blue and starkly prominent as he looks from me to Brockman.
“O’Rourke. Why aren’t you in the Cage?” Brockman’s voice is different. Not so silky.
I stand between the two of them, feeling trapped. The teacher suddenly doesn’t look so relaxed. He plants his hands on his hips and tries to look stern . . . older than the five years or so he has on us. Maybe he’s even going for strong and formidable, but that’s a stretch when he’s a foot shorter than Sean and nowhere near as muscular.
“You’re not going to do this,” Sean says softly—vague words but with an underlying steel to them.
Brockman’s face flushes and his chest puffs out. “You don’t come in here and—”
“Davy,” Sean interrupts him, “go back to the Cage.”
I bristle, resenting him telling me what to do. But then he looks at me. The icy frost still chills the blue-gray of his eyes, but something else gleams there, too. It gives me pause.
He steps to the side, his voice quieter. “Go on.”
I nod. Quite simply, I don’t want to be in the bathroom with either one of them. I don’t look at Brockman. Just move. Hurry out of the bathroom as quickly as I can.
Once in the hall, I pause to look over my shoulder. What just happened? I frown, quite certain Sean had just helped me. That the indefinable something I had seen in his eyes was . . . concern. For me? Why? How? He is a carrier. A true carrier . . . with an imprint. He’s not a mistake. He’s the real thing.
Utterly confused, I turn and walk back inside the Cage. The others are waiting for me.
“Did you see O’Rourke? Is he with Brockman? Is he kicking his ass?” Nathan bounces on his desk like a four-year-old who consumed too much candy. He beats the surface. “Man, I’ve been wanting to kick that guy’s ass.”
Clearly, everyone knew that Sean had come after Brockman—and that Brockman had come after me. I wince.
Nathan pumps a fist in the air. “Sweet. I hope O’Rourke stomps all over him.”
Gil rolls his eyes and then looks at me, his light brown eyes deep with worry. “You okay?” Again, I’m struck with the fact that this boy is supposed to be dangerous. A killer?
I nod, letting the door clang shut behind me.
His gaze moves beyond me. “Where’s Sean?”
I motion vaguely behind me, uncomfortable elaborating on the fact that he followed Brockman and me into the bathroom.
I sink down in my chair and slide my hands beneath my thighs. Sitting on my hands, I fight the urge to look over my shoulder. I remind myself this day will be over soon, and then I’ll be with Zac tonight, living the life that really belongs to me. Not this.
Coco suddenly drops down in front of me. “What happened?”
I blink.