Part 4 (1/2)

When he reaches me, I can't help but stare down at the ground awkwardly. When I glance up to meet his eyes, I find him studying me carefully, tensed as though afraid I might run away -- which I very much want to do, if only it weren't for my stupid, stubborn, mutinous feet.

”Hi, Cora,” he says softly.

”Hi,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper, my stomach still roiling.

”How are you? How's --” He stops and clears his throat. ”How's your family?”

”Everyone is fine. We're all fine,” I say, my voice pitched in that hard, shaky tone I get when I lie.

”That's good,” he replies, gazing at me closely.

”Huh,” I grunt.

”What?” he asks.

”Like you care,” I mutter darkly.

Damian takes a step back, recoiling as if I've slapped him. His eyes fill with a look of hurt that p.r.i.c.ks me down to my soul. There's so much hurt to go around.

I feel like I'm melting. I wish I were melting. ”I'm sorry,” I whisper. ”It's just...” I shake my head and focus on the ground. ”Anyway, how about you?” I ask.

”What about me?” Damian replies, uncertain.

40.

”How are you?”

His shoulders had been hunched, and they relax a bit now. ”Oh, okay. You know.” He s.h.i.+fts his weight and looks up at me. ”So, uh, how do you like art cla.s.s so far?”

My stomach lurches. It feels wrong to share something -- anything -- with Damian, Even something as harmless and unavoidable as art cla.s.s. But his face is open, and somehow I can't muster my rage just now.

”It seems like it'll be okay, right?” I ask.

”Yeah, I think so.” Damian gives a small laugh. When he smiles, his eyes go all squinty. His strange gray eyes look almost silver in the twilight. And when he smiles the straight angles and high planes of his cheekbones and jaw seem softer.

He is handsome, if a little unusual-looking, with his crooked nose, broad cheeks, smooth coffee-and-milk complexion, and short curly hair. I never really noticed that before. And he looks older. Older, but lost a little bit, too.

Stupid stomach doing gymnastics.

”Well, we'll see.” I stare into his face, while my mind turns circles trying to understand what Damian is doing here, talking to me. Why did he cross the field to speak to me when in all the years he was Nate's best friend, he practically ignored me? And when, now, I see him standing in front of me, I can't help but hate him just for being able to stand here.

We are both silent. I wonder if he knows what I'm thinking. I peer down at my watch; I have to squint to make out the

41.

numbers in the dying light. Quarter to ten. ”Look, I should go. My mom is probably waiting for me,” I tell Damian. Without waiting for a response, I walk away, silently chastising myself. What am I doing talking to him? He's bad news.

Somehow, though, thinking of him as a monster has now become just a little bit harder.

I suppose I should find Rachel. But the number of students has grown, and as I push through the crowd, everything starts to feel crooked, as if the earth is tilted and I'm in a fun house. I'm dizzy and all the kids I pa.s.s seem to be laughing at me, turning leering faces with twisted grimaces on me. I spin around, vainly looking for Rachel. Then I stop. Get a hold of yourself I take a deep breath and sweep my eyes over the crowd.

There she is, standing off to the side of a narrow circle of bodies near the fire. She is smiling, but I can tell that it is pasted on. Her hair has flattened in the warm, humid air, and she holds her hands clasped in front of her. I can sense her sadness and I feel sad for her. Rachel is on the outside, too.

The Nasties are busily ignoring Rachel, leaning on each other's shoulders and giggling and talking to Josh and three other boys. And clearly, the boys are eating up the attention like starving cubs. Macie, as always, is at the center, a sun for the others to revolve around. Rachel and Elizabeth Tillson hover at the outskirts of the circle, like distant planets, while

42.

Pearl and Kellie, Josh, Matt James, and Evan Miller compose the rest of the Nasty solar system.

I remember when Macie first moved to town; we were in the fourth grade. This odd-looking girl with a big puff of hair and mismatched socks and electric pink sneakers stood hunched at the front of our cla.s.sroom as the teacher introduced her as the new girl. I remember Pearl and Kellie scorning her outrageous outfit and ridiculous hair. One week later, however, Macie had turned the tables on the other two and installed herself as Queen Bee, the barometer by which every measure of cool was measured. And the Nastiest trio was cemented.

I hate watching the Nasties treat Rachel like this now. I hate seeing her just standing there, being purposefully ignored, seeing her watching Josh flirt and be flirted with. I can feel their Nasty intentions spreading out like rotten roots curling beneath the ground; I know they are perfectly aware of Rachel standing beside them. I can feel their cruelty curdling the soil. It makes me so mad.

I walk over to Rachel and tap her on the shoulder. As she spins around, I say, ”Hey, I have to go. Are you coming:*”

”What? Is it already ten?” Rachel looks annoyed and glances around at Josh and the Nasties. ”Uh, I think I'll hang around here. Is that okay? I can get a ride from someone else.” She avoids my gaze, kicking at the straw on the ground.

”Are you sure?” I ask almost pleadingly. Why? I add silently. Why do this to yourself?

43.

”Yesss,” Rachel hisses.

”Fine.” I turn on my heel and snake my way out of there and head for the parking lot. Sure enough, my mother is there, waiting. As I near the car, I can see that she is anxiously tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.