The final warning bell rings and the quad quickly empties. A young guy in a vintage Ohio State hoodie sits at a picnic table on the opposite side. I’ve never seen him before, but today he’s permanently in my peripheral vision. He’s clearly my Black Angel watcher. I examine him with his dark features and muscular build. He definitely looks just young enough to be a student, but I know better. He’s most likely a trainee at the academy. He feels me staring and looks up from the notebook he’s writing in. I give him a knowing glance before he returns to his fake homework. The double doors next to him swing open and Luke walks through, the high winds ripping open his jacket. He tugs at his coat, looks across the quad, and spots me.
Damn. I’ve been hiding from him all day. He’s supposed to be in the AP bio class I’m purposely skipping just so I don’t have to see him. Luke stands frozen and stares at me for a second, unsure of what to do. Go away. Go away. But he doesn’t listen. He shoves his hands into his pocket and begins walking toward me, tightening the anxious knot in my stomach that’s gotten so big, I feel like I’ve swallowed forty pounds of lead.
I spent all of Sunday locked away in my room, unable to apologize or face my parents. This morning, I heard Mom getting ready in the bathroom. I stopped in the hall and listened to the low hum of the morning news and the buzz of Dad’s razor, sounds I’ve become so accustomed to hearing, it’s like they were built into the house between the brick and the drywall. I could have knocked on their door and kissed her good-bye or said I was sorry. But that angry burn in my veins was still there. So I turned my back, walked down the stairs and out the front door without saying a word.
My eyes stare back down at my books. I pretend to engross myself in King Henry VIII and all his lays. But Luke keeps coming. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to do this.
“Why are you cutting?” Luke says, his voice accusing and angry.
I shrug and answer, “Just didn’t feel like going, I guess.”
“Avoiding me?” Luke asks, his eyes on the ground, his feet kicking at imaginary rocks.
A gust of wind shakes the red leaves on the trees next to us. I look up. Most of them hold on to their branches, but a few break free and float to the ground, adding to the carpet of colors. Reds and yellows and oranges and browns cover the grass and cement sidewalk. When I look back at Luke, his eyes are fixed on me, waiting for me to speak.
“What do you think?” I respond, my voice quiet, not the sharp, icy voice I was hoping to project.
Luke shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his toes. He shakes his head slightly and narrows his blue eyes. “Really? Some random Australian dude? Who’s a sophomore by the way. Or did you not pick up on the fact that you were making out with an underclassman, Reagan?”
Reagan. My own name stings my skin. Luke never calls me anything but Mac.
“Never thought you’d do something like that to me,” Luke continues to push. He stares at me, waiting for me to say something. Say I’m sorry. That I was drunk. That I never meant to hurt him. But I did.
As I look into his eyes, aching, anguished emptiness tears at the walls I’ve carefully constructed around my heart and slips inside. I want to crumble. To tell him the truth. But I can’t. I’m shocked we’re still here. It’s only a matter of time until we disappear. So I’ll continue to crush his soft heart until the thought of me, the memory of us, makes him sick.
“I guess you don’t really know me as well as you think you do, Luke,” I finally reply, each syllable wrapped in daggers.
Luke stares at me, long and hard. He opens his mouth to speak but the sound of squealing tires pulls our attention toward the parking lot. I can see the top of a gray van come to a stop behind a row of cars. And that’s when I hear the scream. The piercing, heart-stopping scream of a young girl.
“No, please, no!” the voice screams. “Help me. Somebody help me!”
My training kicks in and I sprint across the quad. The screaming intensifies as I get closer to the parking lot. Fifty yards. Forty yards. Thirty yards. My Black Angel watcher is still twenty yards behind me, shouting my name.
“Reagan! No, stay back,” he calls out but I keep running. The girl screams for help again and I push my legs to go faster.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, my muscles in overdrive. As I reach the parking lot, a group of teachers and students have started streaming out of the buildings, still one hundred yards behind me. I’m twenty yards away when I lock eyes with him and those pins prick my spine. The janitor. He’s inside the van, the side door swung open, a knife to the girl’s throat. Her dark hair swings wildly away from her face and even with a blindfold over her eyes, I recognize her. Tess. Claire’s bully. Her exposed arm is cut and bloodied but she’s still fighting and screaming and pulling out of his grasp. As soon as he sees me, his dark eyes widen and his mouth drops open.
I sprint full speed for him. He immediately lets go of Tess and lunges for me, the knife outstretched in his hands. Before he can reach me, I grab his thick wrist, pushing his arm down and away from my body, then kick him square in the groin. The knife falls to the ground with a clang. I reach down to pick it up, ready to return it to the janitor’s neck, but he’s already back inside the van.