A More Deserving Blackness (6 page)

             
I dream anyway, and wake up sweating and sick, my head filled with screams.  And soft words in Logan’s voice. 

Chapter 4

When I come downstairs Trish is
already at the counter, dressed in a crisp pencil skirt and
jacket, her navy heels clacking against the tile floor.  Saturdays mean little to Trish.

             
“Bree,” she says sweetly, with a smile I really do try to return.  “How was the party?”

             
I shrug, hoping for disinterested.

             
“Oh, come on.”  She crosses the room and puts a hand on my shoulder, only to remove it once again when she feels me flinch.  Her eyes hold the hurt I try every day not to put there.  “You didn’t have fun at all?”

             
An image of Dylan’s ruddy face flashes before my eyes, leaning close to me, the smell of beer on his breath, only to be replaced with the picture of Logan holding my hands to his chest, the feel of his steady breathing under my palms.  Amazingly, I’d forgotten about Dylan and his reeking kisses with everything that had happened after.

             
“Must not have been too bad.  It’s good to see you smile again,” Trish says gleefully, and I realize belatedly that I am.  “Love you.”

             
I barely have time to register that before she plants a quick kiss on my forehead and breezes out the door. 

             
When she returns home later I’m glad I’ve at least showered and dressed finally because following her through the door are my mom and dad, each of them pulling me into a hug and appraising me silently.  Mom, short and curvy like me, beaming but hesitant.  She has on a thin purple knitted sweater, the same one she’d had for years, and the tiny diamond studs my dad had gotten her for Christmas.  And Dad, more like Trish with his long legs, still in work clothes of brown slacks and a white dress shirt, his tie long gone, probably tossed over the back of his seat on the hour-long drive from their house.  While my mom talks about the traffic he stands there searching me with my same gold-brown eyes, like he’s combing over a fishing net for holes. 

             
In the kitchen, Trish unpacks the bulging brown take-out bag she’d carried in, separated from us but not by far, and somehow it all feels like supervised visitation. 

             
“How are you doing, Honey?” my mom asks warmly, playing with the still damp braid at my back.  I have to force myself not to step out of her reach as I nod.

             
“You look good,” my dad offers awkwardly.  He perches on the arm of the couch, the soft fabric of his pants draped over his knobby knees.  “Has your appetite increased at all?”             

             
He sounds like one of my therapists.  He sounds like a man still trying in vain to fix his broken open little girl. 

             
But I nod anyway, and I can’t tell if he believes me.  I can still hear Trish banging around in the kitchen and I wonder how the hell long it really takes to prepare takeout food.

             
“Samantha’s called a few times, asking about you,” Mom tells me.

             
I nod, unable to dredge up any kind of enthusiasm for the girl who used to be my best friend.  I’d met her there that night.  Afterward, she could never forgive herself.  She’d done the best friend thing; she’d brought me flowers and magazines and caramel apple suckers.  I used to love everything apple, before.  But I wasn’t just her friend anymore, I was her mistake.  Not a girl but a tragedy.

             
“She misses you,” Mom says, and I just shrug and smile, hoping she’ll leave it alone.  Samantha was one of the things I’d had to get away from.  Her and her love and her sympathy and her guilt.

             
“We miss you too,” my dad adds, his hands dropping to fold over the arm of the couch to either side of him.  He’s uncomfortable, and I can’t blame him. No one knows what to say to me now.

             
“You still have a lot of stuff at the house,” my mom tries brightly, but I can hear the tension in her voice.  Her curly hair is falling from her clip and her lipstick has all but rubbed off, leaving just a thin pink line around the outside of her lips.  She looks tired.  “If you ever want any of it, just let us know and we can bring it over for you, okay?”

             
I try to nod, because she’s being kind to me like she always is.  She’s trying to help in a helpless situation and I’ve never been very accommodating in letting her.  But I don’t want any of that stuff.  I don’t want my collection of useless things.  I don’t want former best friends who can’t look me in the eye.  And even though I know it breaks their hearts, I don’t want them.

             
We eat and the three of them keep up conversation, almost lively enough that my lack of participation isn’t so glaringly obvious.  And although my mother peppers me with a carefully chosen, steady string of questions that cannot be easily answered by one who doesn’t speak, no one pressures me.  They all eat and talk and carry on, accepting my refusal because they don’t want to break me any further, and I feel incredibly alone.

             
Trish ordered me shrimp pasta, just another thing I used to love, but I can barely choke down a few bites, and although I can see the worry in their eyes they all pretend not to notice.  When they leave I let them each hug me and tell me they love me, and I see the silent look they pass Trish before my dad pulls the front door softly shut behind them.

             
Trish sighs.  “They wanted to see how you were doing now that school started.  They’ve wanted to come for two weeks now, actually.”

             
I glance over at her.

             
“I know.  But they wanted to see for themselves.  They’re kind of –
lost
without you.  It wasn’t
that
bad, was it?”

             
I shrug and she looks at me for a minute, then smiles.  “They want you back.  They’re afraid of losing you entirely.”

             
Then, at my blank lack of response, “I just want you to know you’re welcome to stay here.  However long.  Okay?  They’ll – they’ll understand.”

             
I’m pretty sure they don’t understand any of this, couldn’t
possibly
understand any of this, but because she’s being incredibly sweet and she’s expecting it, I nod.

             
“You want me to leave you alone now, don’t you?”

             
Not knowing how to answer that, I just choose not to, but she already knows the answer.

             
“Well, I’ve got some work to do anyway.  It’ll get better, Bree.  I promise.  Just give it some time.”  She squeezes my shoulder and slips away, and despite those kind of meaningless words that she loves to overuse, I have a rush of gratitude for my sister. 

             
The rest of the weekend passes slowly, little difference between the days and the nights, and it feels like just one endless, sluggish moment until Trish and I are standing in the kitchen on Monday, her getting ready for work and me for school, both of us turning suddenly toward the sound of a knock on the front door.  Trish’s thin brows narrow in confusion, the click clack of her heels following her into the foyer.  Barely listening to the muted sounds of voices, I take a deep breath.  I scoop up my bag and Logan’s coat into a fist and turn to follow because it’s nearly time to leave – and then stop dead.

             
Logan is standing on my front porch, his dark hair still wet from a shower, in the same combination of boots, jeans, and t-shirt as I’d always seen him.  This time it’s blue.  Although it isn’t bad, there is definitely a slight bruise on the left side of his face, one I know he’d gotten last night when he’d stepped in at my defense.  Beside him Trish is holding open the door and staring with a thousand questions and a hopeful smile brimming in her brown eyes, but sometime in the few steps it takes me to reach them she’s disappeared.

             
Logan’s eyes travel slowly over my body, searching.  It isn’t sexual, and I don’t mind, I just wait.  When they return to mine he doesn’t smile but motions with his head to the car parked in the driveway behind him.  “Can I drive you to school?”

             
I hesitate, fidgeting with the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

             
“Your sister already gave her okay,” he tells me, as if that alone is the source of my concern.

             
I purse my lips, considering him, and he lets me, as unfazed by the scrutiny as before.  He doesn’t nervously adjust his stance, doesn’t shift his feet, doesn’t drop his gaze for even a second.  I’m frozen in indecision.  I don’t know why he would want to, I’m certain I didn’t prove myself to be great company the other night, and his face gives me no answers at all.  But I feel pulled to him, to the comfort I associate with him, the safety he’d offered me, selflessly, just a few nights before.

             
Logan finally moves a bit, just a slight shift, and I realize he’s pulling his phone from his pocket.  He doesn’t look at me as his thumbs move swiftly over the screen, and then he’s shoving it back in his jeans, his expression unchanged.

             
I hear a trill in my backpack.  Pause a moment.  Hold his gaze as I sling it around to unzip it.  I fish the phone out with my hair hanging down over my arms and read,
Okay?

             
Just that one word again, and once again I’m surprised to feel a smile touching my lips.  He’s watching me expectantly, and I nod.

             
Logan holds the door for me, walks behind me to the shiny black Dodge in the drive, and then reaches around me to open the passenger door.  He waits, closing it once I’m safely inside.  Then he drops into the drivers’ seat and turns on the car, reaching smoothly to turn down the radio once the engine roars to life.  I find that almost humorous - he wouldn’t exactly need the volume down to hear me speaking to him.  Trying to appear as casual as he does, I drop my things at my feet and click my seatbelt into place, tucking my hands into my lap, my thumb automatically settling against that sweet spot on my wrist.  I try not to watch his hands as he shifts the car into reverse and twists in his seat to back the car down the drive, try not to wish that he’d fold one of them over mine like before.

             
Of course, maybe that was just saved for special occasions.  Like when a strange girl is choking on her own air and all but clawing her way into his chest cavity.

             
“That jacket would keep you warmer if you actually wore it,” he says a few minutes later, and I look down, having completely forgotten I still held it.  I search his face for any sign of anger or regret at giving it to me.  There is none. 

             
He shrugs.  “But it’s yours to do with what you want.”

             
I can’t decide if he’s bothered or trying to tease me and I’m not sure I want to figure it out.  There are already too many emotions where Logan is concerned, too much reaction, two things I thought had atrophied in me months ago.

             
The drive to school is otherwise comfortably quiet, and he pulls easily into a spot between the sunny yellow scars on the blacktop.  Never once does he take my hand and I miss it, as if it is something I’d grown used to, which is pathetic.  He seems unaware though, and cuts the engine with a slight tilt of his head toward the building, as if to ask if I’m ready.

             
I follow him and he slows his pace to match mine, walking me inside the building and to my locker.  I feel eyes on me and look up, startled to realize just how many of the other students are openly staring at us, some of them pointing and leaning to whisper something to a friend.  As the resident mute, I’m used to a few stares, but this is on a whole new level, and I glance up at Logan to gauge his reaction.  He seems either to not notice or not care.

             
“Do you want me to drive you home?” Logan asks as we reach my locker, and I turn the lock, letting my hair slide onto my face.  I want him to, of course I want him to, but it doesn’t make sense.  He doesn’t make sense. 

             
I surprise myself when I turn and reach my fingers up to his face, lightly hovering just over the bruise on his cheek, and I see a flash of astonishment before its swallowed back into the depths of dark brown. 

             
“Dylan’s been waiting to throw that punch for two years,” he tells me evenly.  “It’s not your fault.”

             
I drop my hand, curious.