“I’m sorry. It was stupid.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “It was.” He pauses, and my stomach knots while I wait for him to decide.
Then he says, “Go get it.”
I freeze for a moment, then walk to the massive cabinet against the dining room wall. Whenever we used to visit this house, my mother would always say how beautiful the cabinet was, the dark cherry wood with shelves of antiques and paper-thin dishes.
I open the long drawer at the bottom filled with lacy tablecloths and napkins. Underneath them is a thin willow switch. I watch my hand shake as I reach out for it, then return to the living room.
I put it in his outstretched hand.
There’s a sudden leap in his throat and the slightest catch in his voice when he says, “Take off your shirt.”
If I really had powers, I could turn off pain the way I can shut my eyes. But I can’t. I feel it. Skin doesn’t get thicker. Instead, it remembers. I know this is true, because the second the air touches my back, it starts to sting like the switch is already falling.
“Turn around,” he says.
This part is hardest. A billion years of evolution tells your cells to run. But you can’t run. You have to turn around and face the desert wall. You have to be still. He doesn’t care if you cry, but you can’t fight.
A sound fills the air, then pain so sharp, you feel sick. Slash after slash, cutting and deep, one on top of the other. They don’t stop until you’re screaming into your palms.
“I TEXTED YOU.” This is Charlie’s pissed-off way of saying hello when he gets to Government. He hefts a chair and drops it next to my desk—he’s too tall to fit his legs under one of his own. “Ms. Stone’s being a bitch.” Apparently Regular Chemistry’s no better than AP Chemistry. I can see another visit to Charlie’s guidance counselor in my future.
“I didn’t get it,” I tell him. “My cell phone broke.”
“You broke another phone?”
“I don’t even know how it happened. I guess it was in the pile of stuff I threw in the washing machine.”
“Idiot.”
Emerald and Camila breeze into class, whispering to each other in a way that looks more secretive than how I’ve ever talked to anyone in my life. Emerald’s shoulders are back like she’s a professional dancer. Below her flowing white dress, her legs are long and bare and strong like a Roman statue come to life. Her mixed-up-colored hair is in dozens of tiny braids that are somehow combined into a larger braid, and then all of that is twirled on top of her head. Sometimes her hair alone makes me think she might be a genius.
She smiles when she sees me, and Charlie gives me a knowing look before he whines, “I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.”
We’re still two periods away from lunch. After Government it’s time to grab Julian and bring him to Dr. Whitlock’s, then there’s nearly an hour of just sitting.
“But I’m really starving.” He looks pretty pitiful, actually.
“There might be some food in my backpack.”
He dives for it, and looks disgusted when he comes up with nothing but a Ziploc of carrots. “Well, this sucks,” he says, but he eats them anyway.
A minute later Mrs. Conner announces that we can work in groups. “We love you, Mrs. Conner!” I shout, then pull my desk next to Emerald’s because if you’re going to do an assignment with anyone, it should be her. I watch the totally engrossed way she works—for Emerald, every assignment’s a major one. I have the urge to unravel her braids or maybe touch the mole beneath her eye. Instead I ask her how Brett is.
She looks surprised for a second, then her whole face lights up—beautiful except for why she’s lighting up. “All right,” she answers.
“Amazing!” Camila corrects, leaning over their desks so I have no choice but to look down her shirt. “He’s taking her up in the plane this weekend.” Emerald’s blue eyes widen and she looks a little embarrassed, like maybe this whole sky date was supposed to be a secret.
“Seriously? That’s awesome.” Because seriously, it is. It’s exactly the sort of badass date you’d love to plan for your girlfriend, but instead you end up taking her to the food court at the mall.
“I guess.” Emerald lifts one shoulder in a graceful shrug.
“You guess?” There’s obviously no way to impress her. “I mean, seriously, I want to be Brett’s girlfriend.” She, Camila, and Charlie start to laugh. “Do you think Brett would consider a sister-wife thing?” More laughs. “Be sure to tell us how it goes.” Emerald shrugs again, looking more embarrassed than stoked.
For the rest of class I have this weird feeling. I’m trying to write, but for each word I’m picturing Emerald and the rower-pilot barreling through the clouds.