Confusion sweeps across his face. “What tone?”
I realize I still have his arm in my grasp. I let go and grab onto my book again. “Like you want to protect me. I don’t need your protection.”
“What are you talking about?”
Maybe I misread his tone. For the first time in a long time, I’m embarrassed. I look anywhere but at him. The words I said echo in my head at max speed. I barely recognize that emotion. It means I . . . care about what he thinks.
Oh, God.
“Nothing. I have to go.” I quickly duck out from in front of him, but he snags my arm like he did the night of the shotgun return debacle. “Wait. Stop leaving so fast.”
My arm sears with nervous heat where his hand touched. I slide it from his grip. “I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I just.” Oh, God I sound like a lovesick girl. What’s wrong with me? A guy pays attention to you and you become a stuttering zombie.
He grins slightly. “Are you nervous?”
I close my eyes. He’s not here. You will die soon and you’ll never have to deal with him again. An ache grips my chest and moves up. It’s unfamiliar to me.
I peek out and he’s still standing there.
“You’re so strange. But I have to admit I’m fascinated by what’s going on in that brain of yours,” he says.
Compose yourself.
“I have class, so can we, uh, finish this later. I mean, not later. I hate you. I have to go.” I run away from him into the classroom and bury my face in my hands thankful he doesn’t have this class with me.
What the hell was that?
? ? ?
The bell rings in my last class of the day, so I shuffle my way to detention. Detention’s so strange. It’s mostly students staring out into nothing and it’s so damn quiet. My shoes squeak on the linoleum as I walk into the room. There’s only one other person today—Dean Prescott. He sees me and his expression says the words he doesn’t utter: Great. Now I’ll never get away from her. I take a seat beside him.
How did he get detention if he never talks? Or maybe he just doesn’t talk to me.
Dean, Jackson, and I were friends until junior high, when Dean decided that we were just baggage in his life and he didn’t need us. He’s always been a quiet guy, surly, kind of crusty around the edges, like burnt toast.
Mrs. Benton is seated at the front of the room, her fingers clicking the keys on her laptop, not paying attention to anyone else.
“Hey,” I say to Dean.
He rolls his eyes. I can feel the words crawling up my throat like vomit. “I saw your scars.” He looks at me but doesn’t say anything so I continue. “Does your dad know?” I know it’s nosy of me. He and his dad have never exactly gotten along. I want to feel bad for asking, but my obsession with him and his attempted suicide trumps regular human decency, apparently. He doesn’t react, just sits there. I fold my arms across my chest. “Come on, Dean. Just talk to me. I was your friend once. Remember? The time when you and Jackson tried to shut me out of your Boys Only club?”
He glances sideways toward me with his crooked smile. “You never could take no for an answer.” He looks back down to the desk.
“Well, you guys always wanted to play without me. Was I really that bad?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. I’m looking at him, waiting. My breath is sporadic. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he says I was.
“No,” he says quietly. “Jackson didn’t like it because I liked you and he thought if you played with us that you would ruin the vibe.”
No way.
“You liked me?” I push his arm a little.
He gives me a look like I’ve changed into a hideous creature with ten heads. “We were eight years old.”
“Still.” I smile at him. “I’m just glad you’re talking to me.”
He sighs. “What do you want, Ellery?”
“Why do you have cuts on your arm?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Jesus, subtle much?”
“Come on. Level with me.”
“There’s nothing to level with. This is none of your business. We’re not friends anymore. I know what you’re trying to do, but just don’t. It’s too late. Okay?”
“Too late for what, Dean?”
“Nothing.”
Mrs. Benton is still typing away on her laptop, oblivious to anything we’ve said.
I lean over, curling my lips around my teeth, hungry to know more. Excited that there’s someone else who feels the way I do about life. “I know.”
He curls his fingers around the front of his desk. “You know what?” he snaps.
“I know you want to do it again. I can tell.”
“Do what again?”
I move in close to him, hoping I guessed right. “You want to die,” I whisper.
He shifts in his seat, trying to avoid my gaze. “Wh . . . what are you talking about?”