Beast and Clay stayed.
We didn’t talk during lunch. Just ate. Looked at the table. Or out the window. Or stared into nothing. Behind me, some kids hissed and taunted. It started out low, and as nothing happened, gained in volume and nerve.
I didn’t care, didn’t respond. Beast turned and glared, asked if they had a problem.
I could have told him that wouldn’t work. You have to back it up. You can’t just put on a show.
Clay, sitting across from me, locked eyes with one of them.
The voices rose. Something bounced off my back and rolled under my feet. A small orange.
Clay slammed his tray flat on the table with a tremendous bang. The remnants of his lunch scattered. He stood, holding the edges of the tray in a tight-knuckled grip.
“You don’t know jack, so shut your damn mouth.” He hauled the tray sideways in one hand, holding it like a sword—or a rock. Then he hurled it, a gorgeous, spinning plane—like skipping a stone, or throwing a Frisbee.
It clocked a guy. Knocked him off his seat. His friends brayed with laughter.
The guy stood, holding his nose. He glared at Clay.
Clay held his gaze. His hands flexed near my tray.
The guy dropped his eyes. Said something about getting out of there before coach came over and handed out detentions. His friends laughed at him but followed as he left.
Clay sat back down.
Conversations around us started up again.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked Clay.
Clay picked up the trash that had spilled off his tray. Finally looked at me and said, “I’m still a pacifist.” Then he shrugged. “Sometimes you have to take a stand for something.”
“I thought ‘violence begets violence.’”
“So you have been listening.” His lips quirked up in a half-smile. He gestured at the now-empty table behind me. “Who knows where that started? And it’s not over now. They’ll take the part I added, take it down the road, put it off onto someone else.”
Beast’s massive head bobbed in agreement.
Clay’s eyes linked on mine and pulled. “But it had to pass. Had to flow past you. Enough.” He paused, waiting for my eyes to meet his again. “Enough.”
Sometimes that’s the best you can do. Blunt the impact by accepting it. Or take a stand and deflect it. Hope it loses force as it ricochets past.
And I wasn’t deep enough to weigh the cost. To know which choice was best. Always just watching out for myself or Janie. But even I recognized Clay’s truth, and mine, meshed together, like that snake that eats its own tail.
Violence begets violence.
And sometimes violence is the only way to stop it.
I nodded at Clay, trying to thank him. And wanting to argue with his choice. The choice I always would have taken before. Not knowing if I was sad or happy that he saw what I saw now.
The bell rang.
“See you tomorrow, man,” Beast said. Grabbed my tray with his and carted it to the trash.
Clay fell into step beside me as I walked out of the cafeteria. “See you after class.” He started to walk away. Stopped to help a freshman pick up a wash of papers that spilled across the floor.
I joined him, grabbing up pages, straightening them and handing them to the kid. “Hey, thanks,” he mumbled, and didn’t look at either of us, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
“No problem. Pass it on,” Clay said, rolling his eyes at the hokey sound of it.
Something shifted in my chest.
I lifted my eyes and watched as the other kids filed past, and for the first time, really didn’t care what they thought.
Kept my head up on the walk to class. Met Mr. Stewart’s eyes and didn’t look down once.
After school I went where I knew she’d be waiting for me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The old gym was dim and cold, February rain spattering on the vaulted roof. Cyndra stood by the heavy bag, tucked slightly behind it like it could put an arm around her.
“I heard you were back,” she said. Stating the obvious, because it was the easiest.
My lips felt glued. Looking at her was enough.
“You want to go somewhere? We don’t have to do anything but talk,” she said, and I knew what she was offering. Everything but what I wanted the most.
Pain razored my heart, black-red knowledge welling up from the gash.
“No,” I said. Not trying to hurt her, but wanting to cauterize it.
Her eyes glimmered. She blinked it back and dredged up more courage. “Why wouldn’t you talk to me?”
The phone calls, the silence on the line. The stupid stutter my nowhere heart would give at the sound of her breath.
“I was waiting for you,” I said.
She moved closer, looking like she wanted to touch me, hugging herself instead.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I hurt you.”
“You saved my life.” Met her eyes as I said it.
Cyndra tilted her head. “Does that mean you can forgive me? For not—” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say what we both knew.
That she hadn’t loved me enough.
I’d been wondering if I could. If I could let go of the edge of pain. What had been real. If she was as trapped as I used to be. What it would even mean: my forgiveness.
What she was really asking.
I sighed.
“Yes,” I told her.
Her smile went nova. She stepped in, reaching her arms up.
I took her wrists and pushed her away, gently.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing feels real anymore. Or important. And I don’t know what’s left.”
I didn’t say of me.
“I know what’s important,” she said. “I was confused and so scared. But I wanted you. I want you.”
“If I could believe you.” I didn’t say more.
What she had to offer wasn’t enough.
Guilt is not a substitute for love.
She didn’t hear the meaning of my words, only heard the if. Saw the chance. She smiled at me, that sweet, perfect smile.
“You can believe me.” She stepped in again.