All my latent anger came bubbling up like acid.
“You want to,” I said. “Why? Because James won’t touch you, and Alexander doesn’t like girls? Because you want to make Richard furious and I’m the easiest way to do it?” I pushed her back so we were no longer touching. “You know what he’s like when he’s furious. You’re lovely, but you’re not worth that.”
The last words were out of my mouth before I could catch them, before I even realized how awful they were. She stared at me for a moment, motionless. Then she turned and wrenched the door open. “You know, I guess you’re right,” she said. “People do get hurt.”
As the door swung shut behind her, I was transported back to our first day of Gwendolyn’s class, two months before. It was maddening how beautiful she was—but did that make the rest of her any less real? I dragged one hand across my face, feeling sick. “Hell,” I said, quietly. It was all I could manage.
I gathered my things, shouldered my bag, and left the building, furious by then at both of us. When I got back to the Castle, I paused outside her door on my way up to the Tower. One vagrant line of verse wandered through my head. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.
I knew better than to believe it.
SCENE 5
The following morning, James dragged me out of bed a little after seven to go for a run. The bruises on his arms had faded to a rotten green, but he wore a sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled down to his wrists. It was cold enough by then that it didn’t look peculiar.
We often ran the narrow trails that wound through the woods on the south side of the lake. The air was cool and sharp, the morning overcast, our breath coming out in long plumes of white. We kept a good pace together for a two-mile loop, talking in short stilted bursts.
“Where’d you go last night?” he asked. “I couldn’t find you after final curtain.”
“Didn’t want to deal with Richard in close quarters so I waited in the lobby.”
“Did Meredith ambush you?”
I frowned at him. “How did you know?”
“I thought she might.”
“Why?”
“Just the way she’s been looking at you lately.”
I stumbled over a root and fell a little bit behind him, then doubled my speed to catch up.
Me: “How has she been looking at me?”
James: “Like she’s a shark and you’re an oblivious fur seal.”
Me: “Why is that the word everyone’s using to describe me lately?”
James: “Who else called you a fur seal?”
Me: “Not that. Never mind.”
I watched the ground for a moment, thinking. The dull ache in my left side intensified whenever I inhaled. The air smelled of earth and evergreen and approaching winter.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened?” James asked.
“What?”
“With Meredith.” He said it lightly, teasing, but there was apprehension there, too. Guilt made my face warmer than exertion already had.
“Nothing happened,” I said.
“Nothing?”
“Not really. I told her I wasn’t interested in becoming Richard’s next punching bag and she left.”
“Is that the only reason?” I could tell from his tone that he wasn’t convinced.
“I mean, I don’t know.” I’d lain awake most of the night repeating the scene in my head, agonizing over those last few words, thinking up a thousand things I should have said instead, wishing it had gone a different way. I couldn’t pretend I was immune to Meredith; I’d always admired her, but from what I thought was a safe distance. By coming closer she’d confused me. I didn’t believe she really wanted me, just that I was the easiest mark. But I couldn’t admit that to James—because I was embarrassed, and because I was afraid I was wrong.
He watched me, waiting for me to elaborate.
“It’s like Alexander said the other day,” I told him. “I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss her or kill her.” We jogged on in an awkward silence softened by the twittering of whatever dim-witted birds hadn’t yet flown south for the winter. We passed the trail leading back to the Castle and started up the steep hill toward the Hall. When we were halfway up I asked, “What do you think?”
“About Meredith?”
“Yeah.”
“You know how I feel about Meredith,” he said, with a note of finality that discouraged further questions. But it wasn’t really an answer—there was something unsaid, something trapped behind his teeth. I wanted to know what he was thinking but didn’t know how to ask, so we climbed the rest of the way up the hill without speaking.
My calves were burning by the time we landed on the wide lawn behind the Hall, doubled over, breathing hard. As our bodies cooled, the November chill crept in. My shirt was stuck to my back, beads of sweat sliding out of my hair and down my temples. James’s face and throat glistened feverish red, but the rest of his skin was pale from sleeplessness, and the contrast made him look distinctly unwell.
“Water?” I said. “You don’t look good.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
We trudged across the wet grass to the refectory. At eight a.m. on a Saturday, it was mostly empty. A few teachers and early risers sat reading quietly, mugs of coffee and breakfast plates in front of them. At one table, a cluster of dancers clad in black spandex stretched their long legs. At another, a choral music student sat inhaling steam from a cereal bowl filled with hot water, perhaps hoping to counteract the effects of what looked like a murderous hangover on her vocal chords. A small mixed group had accumulated at the far wall where the mailboxes were.
“What do you suppose that’s about?” I asked.
James grimaced. “I have a fairly good idea.”