Collateral Damage (5 page)

"Meaning you've read it."

She tosses me a knowing smile.

"All right. One more time." I close my eyes again, move my finger like before, but, when I open them...nothing. I'm not pointing at anything. I'm about to try again when...

"Wait. What was that one?"

"What?"

"The book! You just picked one, and now you're going to pick another. That's not fair! I want to know what it was." Her eyebrows furrow, annoyed, like I'm keeping something from her. She probably thinks I hit
Pride and Prejudice
.

"Actually...if you must know...I missed. I landed on blank, blue space," I explain. "No book. And that doesn't help us."

"Fine."

"Are you sure? I mean, do I have your permission to try again?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just go."

Okay. Last time.

I close my eyes, skate my finger across the page, then open them. It's a hit. "
Ethan Frome
."

"
Ethan Frome
," she repeats, leaning across the table, staring at the name above my finger.

"You read it?"

She shakes her head. "No. You?"

"No."

Jaden jumps from her seat and heads to the computer catalog. I watch her as she types. She's tall for a girl. She has sexy long legs—lithe and graceful. I guarantee she took ballet. Her dad probably golfs; her mom is a member of a garden club. If, you know, such things exist on this side of the interstate.

She disappears between bookshelves, and, when she returns, she's holding two worn copies of
Ethan Frome
.

"Here," she says, tossing one of the books. It lands with a dull thwack and slides across the table, stopping in front of me. I pick it up and flip it over to the description on the back.

"'A novel of passion and unfulfilled longing,'" I read. "Wow, Jade, looks like you landed yourself a romance."

Her head jerks up, surprised, confused; her eyes bore into me, assessing.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," she replies, slowly turning her attention back to the book.

I know I should let it die, but curiosity overrules. "No. What is it?"

She tucks her hair behind her ears. Again. Clearly a nervous habit. "Nothing. It's just that...you called me Jade. It was just...weird, that's all."

I called her
Jade
? That's
it
? "If you prefer Jaden...."

"No. It's fine. So anyway," she continues, "I wouldn't call this a romance. It says here: 'marked by tragedy.' That can't be good."

"Now it's sounding better." It's not dicing people parts and burying them under floorboards or anything. Madness. I'll bet
that
guy loved someone.

"Of course it would. Coming from someone who thinks love can actually drive people to commit heinous crimes."

"It's a matter of semantics."

She rises, exhaling what might be relief. "Great. We met. We picked out a book. Mission accomplished. Let's, um, just plan to read this and get together next week. Then we can divide up responsibilities and get this thing done." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "We have to do an oral report, you know."

"So?"

"I'm just saying."

I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm sure with all that practice for your future Miss America pageants, you'll be a natural."

"I wasn't concerned about me," she says, eyes narrowing.

"Well don't worry on my account. It's insulting."

I move to the librarian's desk, leaving Jaden cemented in place, mouth gaping. The librarian scans the barcode on the book and prints a receipt, then hands it back to me. She does this without uttering a word, even after I thank her.

My lungs refuse to fill until I'm out of that room, away from those halls, crossing the nearly empty parking lot.

I can't wait to get out of here.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

I take my lunch alone. I usually study, or get an early start on homework. I sit outside at the picnic tables so no one hassles me. So far, it's worked. Especially on days like today, when it's barely pushing forty degrees. I know something's changed, though, when Jaden McEntyre bursts through that cafeteria door and marches down the sidewalk, thrusting herself headfirst into my quiet little world.

"I hate Zeena Frome," she announces, slamming her paper bag against my table.

Whatever's inside is ruined. I'm sure of it. Flattened sandwich bread. Smashed banana.

She scowls. Eyes on fire. Pissed. She flips up the collar of her jacket as a cold wind sweeps through.

"Is this supposed to mean something to me?" I ask.

I know she's serious about this intrusion when she picks up her leg, climbs over the bench, and sits down across from me. "Zeena Frome. Ethan's wife? I
hate
her."

Ethan Frome? His
wife
? None of this wants to register. Nothing makes any sense at all.

Why is she out here, sitting with me?

"What? Why?"

"Because she's such a faker! I mean, there is absolutely nothing wrong with her. You know that, right?"

And then...a connection.
Ethan Frome
. Our book. She hates Zeena Frome. "Wait. You mean you're already finished?"

"Yes."

Great. I should've known she'd rush home and read it in a single night. It wasn't that long of a book, but still. Now I really
do
look like a slacker. "I know you're an assiduous intellectual and all, but I was under the impression I had a week to read it."

Her eyes roll. "Look who's been studying Ms. Tugwell's SAT vocabulary lists."

Amusing. Like I have a reason to study for the SAT.

"Anyway, you won't need a week. Once I started I couldn't put it down. It was so addictive...like a train wreck."

"A train wreck," I repeat, disbelieving.

"You know—you don't really want to see blood and destruction and death because you know it'll haunt you forever, but at the same time you can't look away?"

I know it. And believe me,
no one
wants to see blood and destruction and death in the real world. "You're comparing
Ethan Frome
to a
train wreck
?"

"Yes!" In making her point, her hand hits the picnic table. She flinches. Her eyebrows pull together as she examines her middle finger and what I'm assuming is a splinter. "That's
exactly
what I'm comparing it to," she says, voice lower. "It's
awful
."

She pinches her fingernails together and, after a few failed attempts, plucks it out.

I wonder what she'd do if I offered her a Band-Aid. I imagine her head exploding as I pull the tiny first aid kit out of my bag and hand her some Neosporin. Not only am I prepared…I'm
prepared
. She seems to be okay, though, so I keep the Band-Aids to myself.

"A good awful, right?" I ask, still eyeing her finger.

"A horrible awful. A
tragic
awful." Her attention shifts to a group of underclassmen coming from the parking lot. They move in a huddle, heading toward the building, giggling and whispering and staring. And it's not only these girls; it's everyone in that cafeteria—anyone watching us. There's not a soul within sight of us not talking about her right now.

Jaden McEntyre, sitting outside with Parker Whalen.

But Jade doesn't seem to care. Anyone else and they'd be shunned.

What is it about this girl, and why do rules never seem to apply?

"So, what happens?" I ask.

At the sound of my voice, her eyes tear from the group of girls. She checks her finger one more time. "I can't tell you. You have to read it."

"I'm going to read it. I just...you know...want to know what I'm in for."

She shakes her head, serious. "It's awful. There are no words."

Wow. Pile on the melodrama. "I get it. It's awful. Enough with the head bobbing. You can be more specific."

She sits straighter, taller, like she's waited for this moment all day. Someone to talk to. Someone to tell. "There's this horrible accident. But it's not really an accident. See, Zeena and Ethan are married, right? Zeena brings in her cousin, Mattie, to help around the house because she's sick or something. Well, Ethan decides that he sorta has a thing for Mattie, but he doesn't know how to act on it."

"I guess that's where the whole romance comes in."

"That's just it," she continues, digging in her lunch bag. "There
is
no romance. Ethan and Mattie don't do
anything
. And Zeena, well, she's just awful, complaining and moaning about how sick she is. Get this: she goes to a doctor who says she shouldn't lift a finger anymore, and that she needs a 'hired girl' to come and take care of her."

"I thought that's what Mattie was for," I say, highlighting a definition in my science book before I forget.

"Yeah, well, not anymore. She realizes something is going on between Mattie and Ethan, and decides to kick her out."

"Makes sense."

Her eyes widen, stunned at this—these words, the horror in them. And I guess, to a true romantic, it's a terrible thing to say. Because yes, people should be allowed to love whoever they want. But it's never that easy. Not really. There are rules. Guidelines. Boundaries one shouldn't cross.

"No! It doesn't!" she argues. "Ethan and Zeena are
not
in love."

"So you're telling me the tragedy of this novel is a loveless marriage and a loser who can't act on his adulterous feelings."

She winces, pulls back from the table. "God, you make it sound so awful. And no, that's not the tragedy. Not all of it, anyway. When Ethan is taking Mattie to the station they realize they can't live without each other, so they decide to kill themselves. They're sledding down a mountain, heading straight for this huge tree. They hit it, but it doesn't kill them. I mean, it screws them both up—Ethan has a limp, and Mattie, well, she becomes an invalid...all sick and ugly...and you know what Zeena does...."

She trails off, leaving the rest unsaid, forgetting that some of us haven't read this book yet. We don't know how it ends. "Sorry. I don't."

"She picks right up like there's nothing wrong with her in the world, and starts
taking care
of Mattie. I mean, really. She was practically on her deathbed, needing some poor hired girl to come in and take care of her, and all of a sudden she's well enough to care for herself and everyone else? It's tragic. That's all."

My first thought, after hearing this, is that maybe I should've let her read
Pride and Prejudice,
anyway. All the love and longing and suicide attempts—it's a serious buzz kill. My next thought is about Jaden—how I can't believe she abandoned her lunch table—her friends—to sit outside in the cold to deliver this summary. How I can't believe she read the entire book in a single night. When I look closely, I can see the faintish purple bruising beneath her lashes expertly covered with make-up. And those green eyes are muted today. They're nothing like when she's with her friends—people she actually
enjoys
spending time with. They usually shine.