Payback (8 page)

SAM FINISHED REVIEWING CHAPTER
seven of his physics book and tossed his mechanical pencil down on top of a pile of dog-eared notes. His eyes were dry, and he felt like he hadn t blinked in hours. Actually, it was quite possible that he hadn't. Physics was just that riveting.

Rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Sam leaned back in his desk chair and sighed. He had about eight more chapters to go through, and his energy stores were sapped. If he looked at one more equation, he was going to snap and do something stupid. Like run through the hallway naked, singing Backstreet Boys songs at the top of his lungs.

Some guy on his hall had done that during midterms. It wasn't pretty.

Sam knew from years of cramming experience that there were three options for restoring his brain to a functional level.

One: caffeine

Two: sugar

Three: exercise

And since exercise could translate into a walk, which could possibly lead to seeing Gaia, Sam opted for number three.

He pushed away from his desk, grabbed his worn wool coat, and was out on Fifth Avenue in thirty-five-point-three seconds, departure time hindered only by a slow elevator. Sam took a deep breath of the crisp afternoon air and turned his footsteps toward Washington Square Park.

With any luck, Gaia would have ducked out of lunch for a quick game with Zolov and he could get a dose of her. Something to tide him over until finals were a thing of the past and he could see her again.

What a joke. Sam knew that if he saw her, it would only make things worse. It would only make it that much harder to work. He shoved his freezing, chapped hands into his coat pockets. He knew he should turn around and head home, but he didn't. Instead he walked directly through the arch at the top of the park and immediately started his search.

He knew it was bad for him, but he couldn't help it. He was a Gaia addict, and this might be the only place he could score a hit.

But it was possible to take Gaia in moderation. Sam nodded as this thought occurred to him, making him feel slightly better about his mission. He could just stand across the park and watch her as she anticipated her next move on the board. He could at least see for himself, with his own eyes, that she was okay. That would be enough.

Or would it?

Now that he'd felt what it was like to have Gaia in his arms, would anything less ever be enough?

He could talk to her, maybe. If he could get his voice box to work in her presence, which almost always seemed to be a problem.

As long as she didn't haul off and punch him, he could, in fact, kiss her.

Maybe that would help. If he did, maybe he'd see that it was just another kiss and not the mind-blowing, shiver-inducing, skin-tingling event he'd imagined it to be.

And then he saw her. And all the blood in his body raced into his heart. It was just the back of her head. The tangled blond hair. It had such an effect on him, he almost had to sit down.

This was bad. Very, very bad. If seeing the back of her head did this to him, what would seeing her face do? Her eyes. Her mouth. Hearing her voice. Sam suddenly knew for sure that if he went over to the table where she was sitting, probably lightening the wallet of the guy across from her, he would never be able to walk away.

It would be impossible. Gut-wrenching. If she gave him any indication that he could have her, he would flunk out of college before he could say "obsessed."

Still, of course, he found himself walking toward her, his eyes trained on the little space of her back and shoulders visible over the top of her chair. In moments he was right behind her. He could practically feel her concentration as she focused on the chess-board in front of her. The guy she was playing was so engrossed, he didn't look up as Sam stood there, hovering like some lunatic.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Probably because he had nothing to say that didn't sound ridiculous.

"Hey, Gaia. Did you know we kissed?"

"Hey, Gaia. How's that head wound?"

"Hey, Gaia. Will you marry me?"

His stomach suddenly wanted to exit through his lips.

Sam snapped his mouth shut, turned on his heel, and forced himself to walk away. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. But already he knew he'd be useless at his desk for at least a few hours.

He couldn't afford actual interaction. Even if he had left his heart on the ground under her chair.

THERE WEREN'T MANY CLASSES THAT
were easy to handle in the midst of a monster hangover, but the worst was undoubtedly AP biology. Dissecting a fetal pig made Heather's stomach move in ways she'd never experienced before. She spent half the class period mentally calculating the distance between her lab table and the garbage can, wondering if her projectile vomit would make it that far.

Megan nudged Heather with her arm, and even the slight movement sent a stabbing pain through Heather's temple. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Shouldn't she be over this by now?

"What?" Heather snapped as quietly as possible. More because saying anything louder would cause severe head trauma than from any concern over attracting her teacher's attention.

"Have you talked to Lucy today?" Megan asked, casting a glance in their friend's direction. She was sitting at her lab table, looking like three-day-old roadkill, watching blankly as her lab partner made the first incision.

"No, but it looks like she and her mirror had a little disagreement this morning," Heather said flatly. It was a sad day when she couldn't even glean any joy from her own creative insults.

"Come on," Megan said, pushing away from her table. "Crosby's not paying attention. Let's go talk to her."

Heather didn't see why they had to bother, but she wasn't in the state of mind to argue. She followed Megan over to Lucy's table and then trudged the extra steps to the window as Megan pulled Lucy to the wall. Heather slumped against the black counter that ran along the windowsill, hoping Lucy's tragedy, whatever it was, merited only a short story.

As Megan started the ritual poking and prodding, trying to get the sordid details of why Lucy was make-upless and wrinkled, Heather zoned out. All day she'd been getting little flashes of her escapades the night before, and she was still trying to piece it together. Where Charlie had taken her. How she'd gotten there. And why. Only small snippets of the conversation reached her ears.

". . . thought he liked me . . ."

Typical.

". . . said I was beautiful . . ."

Shocker.

". . . said no, like, a hundred times . . ."

Wait a minute.

". . . I don't know ifit was
rape.
"

Heather's heart hit the floor, disturbing her already coiled stomach as it went.

"Lucy ...
what?
" she said, finally focusing on her friend's gaunt face. A horrid pain stabbed at her temples, but she barely felt it.

Lucy seemed to shrink before her eyes, hugging herself so tightly, she could have been wearing a strait-jacket. Megan turned to Heather, her eyes wide with disgust, disbelief, and fear over what Lucy had just told her.

"I said, I don't know if it was rape," Lucy repeated, sounding like a timid five-year-old being made to speak in front of the class.

Heather grabbed Lucy's tiny wrists and looked her in the eye. "If you said no, it was rape," she said quietly but firmly. Lucy just blinked a few times, heavy tears filling her already puffy eyes. God, not Lucy. The girl couldn't have been more innocent if she'd grown up on a milk farm in Wisconsin instead of the Lower East Side. She still carried around a Hello Kitty pencil tin.

"Who was it?" Heather asked. Her skin felt like it was tightening over her bones, pulling her in.

Flashes of memory assaulted her brain like a strobe light. Charlie holding her down. Her bruised thighs. The rough, raw skin on her face and neck. His hand on her neck . . . covering her mouth . . .

Lucy just shook her head.

"Lucy --" There was an edge in Heather's voice that she didn't intentionally put there. She suddenly felt like pounding something, but at the same time it was as if her entire body had started to ache.

She remembered how she'd felt when she'd gotten home last night. Raw. Spent. Abused. What if --

"You don't have to tell us if you're not ready," Megan said, shooting Heather a warning glance as she ran her hand over Lucy's fine brown hair. Heather was shaking now. She reached out and grasped the edge of the windowsill, pressing her fingertips into the painted wood. She had to stay composed. She couldn't let them see the wall come down. And it was dangerously close to crumbling.

Charlie. The sweater. The bed. The bra. The pillows. The hands. The bruises.

What had happened between the living room and the bedroom?

She didn't remember saying no, but she didn't remember saying yes, either.

WHEN IT CAME TO SCHOOL DAY
activities, it took more than a hallway catfight to surprise Ed Fargo. He'd seen a lot in his day. Danny Cicinia putting his fist through a plate glass door, Mr. Weitzman threatening to "toss" Jason Cirelli if he talked back one more time, Renee Barrow pulling the fire alarm just so she could get thrown out of school in time to make the bus out to the Meadowlands to see Rage Against the Machine.

Still, he was almost shocked into speechlessness when Heather Gannis walked right up to him in front of everyone who was anyone -- at least to her -- after eighth period.

"Can we talk?" she asked.

Ed would have really preferred not to. Lately, conversations with Heather either involved Gaia bashing or Sam gushing. Two topics Ed wasn't remotely interested in. Plus there was the whole pain-of-talking-to-an-ex thing. That never helped, either.

But one look at Heather's eyes told him not to turn away. She needed him. She had no right to, but that was a discussion for another time.

"Yeah," he said. "Do you want to meet me at Ozzie's later?"

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Now," she said.

Ed's brows knitted, and he automatically gripped the armrests on his chair. When Heather turned and headed into their history classroom, Ed followed without hesitation. Something was really wrong if Heather wanted to spend an extra two minutes in the school building after the freedom bell had rung.

As soon as he was through the door, Heather closed it behind him. She leaned back against the gray metal desk at the front of the room and regarded him for a moment, as if she was rethinking her decision to spill. Then, just when he thought she'd changed her mind, she spoke.

"I think Charlie Salita might have raped me," she said. At least that was what Ed thought she'd said. Part of him was now fairly sure he was hallucinating.

"What!"

"Don't make me say it again," Heather said, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away.

Ed knew all the color had drained out of his face and that every pore on his body was producing sweat at profuse levels. This was something no part of him was willing to believe. This couldn't happen. Not between people he knew. Not between people he was friends with. Once.

This couldn't happen to Heather.

"Are you going to say anything?" she asked. For the first time in recent memory, her voice sounded vulnerable. She used to sound like that with him all the time. But that was before. When they were together. When they were in love and it was safe to be vulnerable.

"Are you okay?" Ed asked, holding her gaze.

"I don't know," she said. She held herself a little tighter. "That's the problem -- I don't know anything. I don't remember much."

Ed rubbed his hand through his hair, mostly to clear the sweat that had accumulated on his palm. "What do you remember?" he asked.

He would kill Charlie Salita. He would find a way to get up out of this chair if he needed to, but he would definitely kill the guy.

Heather sighed wearily and dropped into a chair next to him, causing a metallic scraping sound that echoed in the empty room. Ed could see the pores around her nose, smell the sweet trace of perfume that was left from her midday spritzing. It was the closest her face had been to his in years. His heart couldn't help responding with a strong hammering to his chest. He ignored it. This wasn't the time for that.

"More every time I think about it." She started to pick at her nails. They were all chipped and ripped and shredded. Was that from fighting back, or had she destroyed them in the trauma of the aftermath? "I remember him holding my arms down. I remember his hands on my neck. . . ."

As she spoke, Ed started to feel like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. It was like his insides were clawing at him, but he couldn't tell her to stop. If she needed to talk about it, he needed to make himself listen.

"You don't want to hear this, do you?" she said, her tone flat.

Ed coughed. "I'm sorry. No. I'm fine. I just . . ."

"You want to know why I came to you," Heather said, staring straight ahead.

Ed said nothing.

She traced a tile on the floor with the toe of her boot, over and over again, getting faster each time. Ed watched, mesmerized, until she pressed her palm into her thigh, holding her leg in place.

"I didn't know what else to do," she said.

Ed's dark half wanted to tell her to go to Sam. That Sam was her choice. That she wasn't Ed's responsibility anymore. But the dark half 's voice was weak and irrational. It wasn't who Ed was -- most of the time.

"You have to tell someone," Ed said, fighting the urge to reach out and take her hand. If he touched her, she might shrink away. The emotions in the room were so raw, he wasn't sure if either one of them could take that. "I mean, someone other than me. Someone who can do something. The police or a guidance counselor or something."

"I don't want to," Heather said quietly. "At least not yet. Not until I'm sure."

Ed's heart clenched even tighter. She was broken. Charlie had broken her.

"How are you ever going to be sure?" Ed asked, trying to keep the rage and confusion he was feeling from coming through in his tone.

Heather rested her elbow on the desk in front of her and pushed her hand into her hair. "I don't know," she said, sounding a little desperate. "But you'll help me, right? Figure it out?"

He'd never seen so much trepidation in her expression. Not even right after the accident, when things had gotten intense in a bad way. It took more guts for Heather to be this openly confused than it ever took for Ed to surf the biggest wave in the ocean.

"I'll help you," he said, and before he could stop it, his hand reached out and covered hers. They both just looked at it for a moment. Ed marveled at how it hadn't changed -- the look of her skin against his. It felt different, but it looked just like it always had.

"And you won't tell anyone?" she asked.

"I won't."

But Ed's other hand was hidden at the side of his chair, and his fingers were crossed. A childish gesture he hadn't used since the third grade, but then, a lot of things were happening today that hadn't happened in a long time.

Heather didn't want to involve the police until she was sure, but Ed knew of only one way to find out. Get Charlie to confess.

And he knew of only one person who could do that. And it was the last person Heather would ever want knowing her secrets.

Gaia Moore.