Ashes and Ice (4 page)

I hunch forward, leaning my head on my palm. I think of spit up blood, black suits, roses, eulogies, and wet pillows. I think of lonely guitars, quiet houses, pointing fingers, and scraped foreheads. I think of falling and not wanting to get up. Yeah, her eyes could slice me open, but in so many ways, I’m already bleeding.

I’ve only been living in this bedroom in the attic for a week now, but I’ve picked up her habits and find all her little quirky mannerisms—predictable and odd as they sometimes are—solid and comforting.

7:00am. She is already listening to the radio, sipping on coffee, writing in a crossword puzzle. I don’t see her doing it, but I know she is.

The radio alarm clicks onto the news broadcast.

“Another victim of the Etcher was identified today in California…” I slap the radio off.

The announcer’s words gouge into me. The red haired girl from my woods was pronounced a victim of the Etcher. The name crawls under my skin, grates against my bones.

I shake my head as if that would disturb the thoughts enough to have them tumble off the shelf in my mind and shatter into a million pieces. I breathe in deeply, tasting the humidity. Swinging my legs over the side of my bed, my foot knocks over a stack of DVDs. I get out of bed and stack them, smiling as I look at the various titles in my hands and the dozens scattered throughout the room.

Clara. She gave me smiles and memories. She gave me a place to stay and a stack of movies because she thought it was hilarious how I thought the images moving on the screen was magic. Nanan says I must be a movie fanatic, but really, I’ve been using Clara’s gift for research. Human behavior, interaction, the colloquialisms of current speech, technology. At first, it was overwhelming, but now, it feels like second nature. In the end, I did become a movie fanatic.

I stand up, the DVDs now neatly piled. Pulling one of the t-shirts I picked out with Clara, my arms linger on the shirt, hugging it closer to me. She piled the clothes in my arms until I could barely see over the top of them. The topper to my tower of clothing was the pair of knee-high leather boots Clara, insisted I must have. She made fun of the cautious way I spoke. She laughed at how puzzled and confused I seemed with everything.

I stuff my textbooks into my bag and peer out the window.

I frown. There he is. The boy, the one who flickers every now and then with vivid color. I readily agreed to go to school when Nanan suggested it, because I saw a flicker of light around him when he ran by our house yesterday. I enrolled in school under the name Jade Smith and searched for him. When the bright green color flared up around him on the track, I gasped—my belly falling, my heartbeat… well, if I had a heartbeat it would have raced because, for that one short moment, the boy was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Then, the other boys had tripped him and his brilliant color sputtered away until nothing but a dull, gray haze whispered about him. I don’t know why I tried to approach him, why his fall and humiliation affected me so much. Why it hurt to see the strange green light that enveloped him fade into dingy gray, flickering like an extinguished flame.

For the first time, I had approached a person and was blatantly rejected. I’m not sure why, but his snub sent wicked anger shooting through me. Violent, cold and ugly. I wanted the haze to drown him.

It was just a flash.

Just a moment.

The bitterness of it lingers. I stare out at him, still frowning. He’s running again. A flutter of brown, red, and gray pulse around him for a moment before dissolving. I exhale loudly.

I grab my bag and run down the stairs.

“Hey, sweetness!” She calls out from the kitchen.

“Hey Nanan.” I sneak a peek at the table. She’s holding the newspaper.

“Did you hear…” She points to the radio, then over to the TV. “Another one killed.” She shakes her head, obviously willing the news not to be true—horrified by the reality of it.

“Oh no.” I say, acting surprised even though I just heard the broadcast myself. I suddenly want to run out. I don’t like hearing about the murders, it prickles my skin, makes my fingers twitch, and clouds my mind.

“I better go, Nanan. Don’t want to be late on my second day.”

Nanan nods, but continues. “Some poor thing from San Fransisco…”

I start for the door and, like a slap to the face, heat burns and I see it. The dream twisting into place, the scenes falling in order.

I don’t have to look at the TV screen to see her face. I see her over a store cash register, a sly smile on her ruby lips. I see her easy laugh when I flinched as she turned the lights on in her apartment. I see her broken and bruised, glassy-eyed, next to a back-alley dumpster on a corner bearing a green sign for 24th street.

Clara.

I stumble backward and brace myself against the doorframe. I stare at the TV, breathing in deeply, hoping I am wrong, but her face flashes on the screen. Dizzying weakness slashes me apart. My chest spasms and I wonder if the heart can break even if you don’t have one.

“Jade? Jade, dear, are you okay?”

The air changes. Soothing cold eases its way into me and I stand up straight. My chest doesn’t ache, my breathing is even. I blink twice slowly, trying to refocus.

I stare at the TV screen and, somehow, I don’t see memories and heartache, loss and shame. I see a girl, with too-blonde hair and ridiculous piercings. My fingers twitch.

“Yes, Nanan. I am fine.” I walk out the door and I don’t look back.

After a long prayer of gratitude, marked by my dorkish staring, at the door, I make my way to my seat, nearly skipping, but not quite because dudes don’t skip. I slide into my seat, which scratches the linoleum, making an unfortunate, embarrassing sound. I clear my throat.

No response.

I drum my index fingers on the desk, trying to appear casual, nonchalant. But the beating sound seems to augment my nerves instead of soothe them. I can almost feel my chest pounding against my t-shirt and fear that the whole classroom can hear its distinct and fast-paced bum-bums.

The girl sighs.

Does she hear it? I can’t see her face, but can almost see her eyes rolling and her mouthing “pathetic moron” with her perfect, full, pink lips. My heart beats faster. I
am
a pathetic moron. The bell still has not rung. A brave, rebellious soldier deep within me toys with the idea of apologizing about yesterday, introducing myself, striking up conversation, and impressing her with my wit and charm. When I remember that I have neither, I silence the deceitful bastard and continue sulking, wishing to be someone else—someone cooler, someone who isn’t completely and utterly terrified of taking chances, someone who could talk to this girl without fear of rejection.

As if on cue, the king of hell—AKA Dominic—enters the classroom, flanked by his faithful minions, Jared and Phil. Damn it. Steroids and STDs ‘R’ Us have perfected the lazy/cool/confident stride I am attempting and I wish I could puke on them just so they would appear a bit less perfect.

Jared abruptly stops beside me and drums his palms on my desk. “Everyone! Let me introduce you to our very own internet celebrity, Connor Devereaux!”

I stare at him as Dom comes around and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“What?” It’s all I can manage.

“Oh, you didn’t see?” Phil takes out his cellphone and props it in front of me, his thumb poised over the play button.

Before I know it, I see the video play out my demise on the track on Tuesday. At the end, the camera zoomed in and caught sight of my wet, glassy eyes. As soon as the video stops, the three guys roar in laughter. My eyes don’t move away from the screen, but travel down to the corner: 14,234 views. I sit back in my chair and swallow. I know I look like a loser, but I hadn’t quite grasped how utterly pathetic I looked.

“Did you see his face? He was so gonna cry!” Jared’s voice hitches on bellows of laughter. Phil’s finger moves to the send button and a screen flashes announcing the video has been sent to all contacts. Within a few seconds, ringtones and vibrating cellphones announce a new message and, as my classmates check their phones, I hear a crescendo of giggles, whoops of laughter, as eyes and fingers point at me. The three guys slap my back as they move to the back of the class. I scoot down in my chair so my chest is barely above my desk. I want to disappear.

I quickly look back at the new girl. It’s been so long since I’ve actually wanted something. And now, for the first time in ages, life seems to offer a glimmer of excitement, something new and beautiful to watch and want and then, instead of getting a flying chance in hell, I get a fabulously orchestrated humiliation campaign launched on the very first day we have a class together. I know it’s stupid, but I think that is why, this time, the embarrassment cuts deeper.

She doesn’t look up. Her shoulders don’t shake with laughter. Maybe she didn’t see it? I shift in my seat and try to busy myself with some menial tasks to distract me from my borderline obsessive thoughts and the leftover giggles and glances from other students. It doesn’t work, but at least I have a distraction. I watch her, so effing grateful I’m slightly behind her and my staring isn’t completely obvious. Her arm blocks her incessant scribbling on her notebook. I sit up straighter so I can peer in the small, triangular window her arm creates as she rests her head on it. Her hair is pulled over her opposite shoulder so I have a view directly to the page. Dozens of doodles span the page. Squinting, the blurred lines begin to materialize and I see the doodles are of the same image just in varying sizes. The image is some kind intersecting lines like two perpendicular Ss or a curved cross. I can’t make it out. I lean in slightly.

Creak.
Damn chair.

Her head slowly turns and when her eyes finally meet mine, I remember. She doesn’t have sweet, girl eyes. Her eyes are bits of glass that cut into me. Her eyes are pale green, like swamps and ice. I sit up straight again. From my peripheral vision, I can tell her gaze doesn’t relax or shift away. It seems edged in contempt, in a silent “Eff you” and/or “Stop staring at me or I will kick your puny ass”.

I clear my throat and try to glance everywhere but at her. I feel her stare burn into me like acid breaking down the particles of metal. I nearly smell the corrosion. But I mimic innocence and just look about the room at all the quotes and boring illustrations lining the perimeter. But my eyes, the disobedient organs, fall back on her. Her steely glare is still fixed on me. It’s almost painful having someone loathe you with such an intensity, especially when I really didn’t do much to piss her off other than completely ignore her then shamelessly stare at her. I mean, is that really so horrible?

I attempt a smile to break the uneasy glare. She narrows her eyes. To avoid them, my gaze glides back to her notebook and the dozens of image replicas there. Her fingers twitch and she slams the notebook cover closed with an audible smack. An obvious sign she doesn’t want me checking out her stuff. More horrifying, she starts shuffling in her chair—retrieving her pencils, picking up her book bag, scooting out from her seat. What’s happening? Is she leaving the classroom? She can’t do that. But instead of going forward, she pivots toward the back of the room, out of my field of vision. I don’t dare look back.

A terrifying reality sets in. She’s in the back of the classroom. Tight-t-shirted muscle men are in the back of the room. Perfection will meet perfection. And there will be some fabulous, long gossiped courtship and a lovely happily ever after that I will not be invited to or a part of. The suckage of life truly blows. So much for dreaming. I never had much a chance anyway, so I can’t be so bitter.

The bell rings and I lean back in my chair and hunch forward. But I am bitter, very bitter—old lemons and sour skittles bitter. I wait for Mr. Jeramiah to walk in the door and start shuffling papers on his desk, preparing for his lecture. Something else clicks into place as I see the papers stacked into piles. My dad… he was writing something before the coughing spell set in, before we called 911. I was sitting in the study chair and he was shuffling papers into piles. He flinched when he saw me. He looked feral, desperate. “Something is coming, Connor. Something is…” That’s when the bloody cough erupted and stole his words away. I slump deeper into my chair. A bitter cold slaps me across the face and I suddenly feel very alone.

The day goes on, but after eyeing a few more icy glares from the new girl, I stop looking at her, even though the presence of her nags at my mind. I also weed through the slaps on my shoulder, the fingers positioned in an “L” on people’s foreheads as they walk by, and the laughter I hear in the hallway as I make my way to each class. It all pulls me inward—the humiliation, wanting the girl, the desire to ignore her, to ignore everyone, and the inability to do so—drags me down deeper into myself to a numb place.