Angel Eyes (7 page)

I can hear it. Her laugh. Her addictive, childish laugh.

My hands shake, and the lump returns so forcefully to my throat that I suddenly realize I’ve had a short reprieve.

“Great shot,” Jake says, enlarging the picture. “Where is this?”

I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m doubled over, holding my stomach.

I thought I destroyed all that film. Surely I had. There are four filmstrips lying at my station, ready to be viewed. How had he picked up the
one
that could gut me?

“Hey. Hey,” he says quietly.

I’m hyperventilating. Jake helps me into a sitting position on the floor and places two blazing hands on my shoulders. My breathing slows a bit. After a minute or so I’m able to think again.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Again. I shouldn’t have touched your stuff.”

“No, it’s . . . I just . . . I forgot about that picture. About that day.”

I look up at him, my eyes moist with tears, and for the first time I wish I could explain. What I’m thinking. Why it hurts so much.

“It really is a great shot. But I’m sure most of your shots are great.” The attempt at bravado does not go unnoticed. “Would you like me to get rid of it for you?”

“Yes. Please.”

Good shot or not, I can’t look at her right now.

My body shakes.

“Hey,” he says again. He places both hands on my knees heavily, and they obey his touch. I can’t breathe, but at least I’m not shaking.

“You’ll destroy it?”

“Absolutely.”

He tears the filmstrip from the enlarger and shoves it into his pocket.

“Better?”

I swipe at my eyes. “Yes. Thank you.”

My left leg stretches out next to his right leg, just inches shorter. My gaze bounces around, finally settling on my hands. I
should
say something, explain myself maybe, but my tongue is heavy and confused. The other students work around us. We get a look or two, but it’s funny, no one says a thing about the idiots on the floor.

The bell rings and Jake stands. He reaches down for my hand and I take it, pulling myself up beside him. I can’t believe how warm his hands are.

“So, two days,” he says.

“Huh?”

“That’s how long I’ve known you, two days. And I’ve had to apologize on both of them.”

I find my gloves and slide them on. “Maybe try not to be so consistent.”

“Right.” He chews his lip. “No more staring, no more touching your stuff. Tomorrow there will be no need for apologies.”

“It’s a good goal,” I say.

He throws his sweatshirt over his head and moves me out of the way, against the wall. He busies himself packing up my photo supplies.

Making amends, I guess. I let him.

When he’s done, he slides the strap of my camera bag over my shoulder and lays it softly against my hip. I nearly hyperventilate again. His skin radiates heat. Literally.

“What were you doing out that early anyway?” I ask. “And on Main Street? Stratus doesn’t open till at least noon.”

He swings his own bag over his shoulder. “The doughnut shop was open.”

Big fat liar. “So you were getting doughnuts?”

He shrugs.

Maybe he really is a stalker? I narrow my eyes. He’s not off the hook, and I want him to know it—he was staring at me, for crying out loud!—but he seems content to ignore my suspicion.

He jerks his head to the door. “Shall we?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I really am sorry,” he says as we leave the darkroom.

“Sorry you got caught creeping.”

He laughs. “I meant about the film.”

Of course he did.

“Just promise me you’ll destroy it, and we’re square.”

“I can do that.”

He smiles, and I can’t help it—I smile back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Calculus?”

“Sure.”

I watch him walk away and wonder what
she’d
say. What my best friend in the whole wide world would think about my new stalker.

Never mind.

I know what she’d say.
Run, Elle
, she’d say.
Hide
.

I’m an idiot. Letting a guy affect me like this. Like she did. I do my best to fight the cold and the ache, but they creep back in. It’s only fair. How can I have hope when she has none? My hands resume their tremors, and I pull the lambskin gloves back in place. I duck my head and walk to my car in the senior lot.

The wind is picking up, and I can smell the coming rain. I crawl into the driver’s seat, lean over the dash, and peer out the window. The clouds are black now and heavy, queuing up, like waves waiting to crash. Raindrops the size of lemons smack my windshield—the firstfruits of a massive storm. I flex my gloved hands and start Slugger.

I’ll never sleep tonight.

5
Brielle

T
he rest of the week passes, and Jake keeps his word.

No more apologies.

He sits next to me in calculus every day, still hovers in photo, but he doesn’t touch my stuff. I make it through my classes and spend my lunch hours with Kaylee and Slugger.

On the downside, my nightmares are getting worse. I’m not sleeping much, though I pretend to, for Dad’s sake. Every few hours his mammoth feet set the floorboards squeaking and my bedroom door bumps open. I know he means well, but worrying about him worrying about me makes everything harder.

The weather’s getting vicious too, and I’d give anything for a drop of sunshine. I’ve never hated the cold like this, never hated winter or fall, but my muscles ache, always clenched against the cold, and I can’t figure out how to stay warm. I wear thermals under everything.

Still, it’s Friday, and I survived the week. My first week back. There’s some kind of victory in that.

I haven’t stopped by Miss Macy’s, haven’t thanked her for the CD. Getting out of the car does not sound appealing, but on the drive home from school, I cave. Miss Macy’s always been so good to me.

The studio comes into view, and I park. Slugger hasn’t had time to warm up, and white smoke monsters climb from my nose and mouth. I wrap my scarf around my face, leaving the tiniest slit possible for my eyes. I glance at myself in the rearview. I’m a cable-knit ninja. A cashmere-wrapped mummy. But I’ve killed the smoke monsters—another small victory.

Now I glare at the wind. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. Brown leaves spiral down the street, and brave shoppers wrestle with glass doors that don’t want to close. The green and red holiday banners lining Main swing and snap. I hear them over Slugger’s rattling windows.

Armed against the wind, I lunge from the car. Like a Band-Aid, right? Fast, fast. The wind yanks at my scarf, tugging my ninja wrappings from my face, but I reach the door and shove inside.

It’s not warm in here, but at least it’s not windy.

Three of the chairs in the reception area are filled. Moms waiting for their daughters.

Dad always stood. He’s never been one for faith, and trusting the strength of a small folding chair is far outside his comfort zone.

The moms look up from their magazines, tiny sparks of recognition on their faces. I move past the empty desk before they can offer condolences.

I stop in the doorway and watch. The afternoon class is young—kindergarten, first grade maybe. Bedazzled in wings and sequins, they spin and twirl to Miss Macy’s floaty music. Colorful tutus and tiaras litter the floor. Miss Macy is lovely, dressed in a simple pale-pink ensemble: leotard, skirt, and tights.

In the corner of the studio an older student, junior high I’d say, works on a solo. I recognize it, a simplified number from
Swan Lake
.

The girl is good. Very good, actually, but she’s struggling. She stops a time or two and turns to Miss Macy, but the teacher is distracted with the little ones and doesn’t notice.

I take pity on her and cross the floor.

She sees me and drops back on her heels.

“Go ahead,” I tell her. “I’ll help.”

She blushes, but resets and begins again, moving through the choreography. Here and there, I reach out and adjust her body position. She’s a quick learner and makes the corrections with ease. “Your turnout is beautiful,” I tell her. “Really. For someone your age.”

Her blush deepens, but she continues. Her skill is evident. Her poise inspiring. When she finishes, I clap lightly. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.”

“If you’re careful not to collapse your torso, it’ll help. But really, it was wonderful.”

“And you couldn’t ask for higher praise than Brielle’s.” Long, thin arms wrap my waist from behind.

I turn into Miss Macy and squeeze. She smells of soap and roses. It’s the familiar smell I was expecting to find on Monday, and I choke at the comfort it brings. “Thank you for the CD.”

Her face is perhaps more lined and her eyes darker than I remember, but she looks much the same. “I’m glad you got it. The question is, did you dance it?”

“I did,” I say. “Just ask the guys at the doughnut shop.”

She laughs and waves out the window. “I’ve given them a show or two myself over the years.”

“Yes, well.” I turn to see the men waving back. All three of them.

And Jake.

Only Jake’s not across the street. He’s just outside the window.

Again.

He’s got that stupid grin on his face, and he’s pointing at the bright orange tutu lying on the floor, pressed against the glass.

“Oh my,” says Miss Macy. “You know him?”

I turn back to my mentor. “Tell me about the studio. Who’s teaching?”

“Well, I just hired a new instructor. Helene something. Nice girl. So graceful she puts a butterfly to shame. You two would be quite a team. I’d love for you to meet her.”

“That’d be great,” I say. I’m distracted. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jake bouncing up and down like a kindergartner.

Miss Macy peers over my shoulder. “I think he wants the tutu,” she says.

“That’s exactly what he wants.”

“Well, my goodness, take it to him.” Miss Macy lifts her foot and nudges me with her leather slipper. “Handsome boy like that. My goodness.”

I rub my eyes. “No. If I take it to him . . . Just . . . No. But thank you.”

Eventually Jake stops pointing and motions me outside.

“You best go,” Miss Macy says. “Never keep a gentleman waiting, Elle. Best manners, remember.”

Best manners?

“I’ll just . . .”

“Yes, yes.” She kisses my cheek and pushes me toward the door. “Bring him by. Tell him I have purple tutus as well.”

The room fills with giggles, and I slip out onto the sidewalk. The wind smacks me, and my mouth fills with my own hair. I spit it out and shove it from my face.

As I stalk toward him, I do my best to disregard the tiny ballerinas lining up along the glass, but they tap and point.

I’m a fish. In a tank.

In Antarctica.

I retreat into my jacket. “What are you doing here?”

He smirks and holds up a half-eaten doughnut.

I kinda want to punch him.

“Really,” I say. “Really?”

“Where’s my tutu?” he asks.

Fifty fingers press against the glass—foreheads and noses too— and though I’m outside, I’m suddenly claustrophobic. I push Jake away from the window and down Main Street. Anything to get away from our miniature audience. He’s wearing another sweatshirt, but I can feel the heat radiating through it. Through my gloves, even.

I’m dragging him now, his sweatshirt balled in my hands. The theatre ahead has a recessed entryway, and I step into it to escape the wind.

“So, doughnuts. At three thirty in the afternoon. Explain.”

He tugs his sweatshirt from my grip and readjusts the hood. “Actually, I was picking up a job application. The doughnut was just a plus.” He shoves the rest of it into his mouth and dusts off his hands.

“You want a job at the Donut Factory?”

I wait while he chews. And swallows. At least he’s not talking with his mouth full. Miss Macy would approve.

“The photo supply store next door.”

Still skeptical. I’m sure I look it too.

“You seem to need proof.” He huffs and pulls a crinkled piece of paper from beneath his hoodie, holding it up for me to see.

“I don’t need proof,” I say, scrutinizing the page.

It’s an application for Photo Depot. Fine. We just keep running into one another. Whatever. My eyes are watering and my nose is running. I sniff and flip up my hood. I’ve got to get out of this cold.

“You okay?” he asks, tucking the application away.

“Just cold,” I say. “Good luck with the application.”