Tears of the Broken (19 page)

Just
because I’m in love with him, I guess, doesn’t mean he feels the
same way.

David laughed as he caught a paper-canon, then hurled it up
the back of the room where its journey ended on the brow of a
football jock. I slinked down lower in my chair; I’d really rather
avoid getting a headache from unfinished English homework. It’s bad
enough that Mr. B, with his strict designated seating plan, placed
me right up the front, right next to David. Not that I mind the
David part, I’m just kinda worried I might do something to
embarrass myself—like drool all over his notebook or start playing
footsies with him under the table.

Mr.
Benson walked in, oblivious to the origami air raid going on behind
him as he placed his briefcase on his desk, and David sat quickly
in his seat—playing the good student.

“
Faker,” I scoffed.

He
opened his mouth to speak, then dropped his words with a smile as
his hand shot up and reached behind his head. Everyone behind us
burst into laughter and started clapping. “Nice catch, man,” one of
the jocks called.

“
Settle down, class.” Mr. Benson eyed the room for a second
before turning back to write on the board.

Totally and utterly confused, I frowned at David. What the
hell was all that about?

David smiled broadly and presented his hand, opening his palm
to reveal a paper cannon.

“
Did
you just catch that behind your head? Without looking?”

He
dumped the scrunched up paper onto his desk and leaned closer. “Of
course not. I just made it look that way.”

Oh,
God, every time he speaks, the scent of his cologne brushes against
my tongue and makes my mouth water. He smells so fresh, like he’s
just stepped out of the shower, still steaming and hot, and then
sprayed deodorant all over his skin.

I
drew a really deep breath of David, then opened my eyes
slowly—meeting with his direct gaze. My cheeks flushed with
heat.

“
You
okay?” He held back a chuckle.

Crud! He just saw me go all ice-cream-commercial
crazy—enjoying invisible flavours, with a blissful smile across my
lips. How embarrassing. I flashed him a grin, which he returned.
So, he still likes me, then.

“
Okay.” Mr. Benson folded his arms and sat on the front of his
desk. “Today, we’ll be having a class discussion about…”

Blah, blah, blah. I don’t need to listen to this. My time is
much better spent dreaming about all the things I’d love to do with
the boy I’m sitting next to. Let’s see…long walks on the beach,
kissing as the sun goes down—holding hands…

“
Ara?” Mr. Benson interrupted my dreams. “Perhaps you can
answer that question for us?”

“
Uh—” I sat up a little. Crap! What do I do now?

David nudged me and held out three fingers under the
desk.

“
Um—three?” I said.

“
That’s correct—” Mr. Benson turned back to the board. “There
were three characters in…”

“
Thanks,” I whispered.

“
Don’t mention it.” David folded his arms back over his chest
and kicked his legs out straight in front of him, crossing his
ankles over.

He’s
so sweet. I’m so glad he just gave me the answer. I could totally
feel my cheeks going hot then. Anyway, that aside, where was I? Oh,
that’s right…holding hands, talking for hours—like last night. I’ll
always treasure that memory; David and I sitting so close, on the
grass, our fingers entwined around each other’s—his cold, like
mine, yet warmer than mine. It felt so good, but for such a short
time because he let go of my hand. I want to touch them again—his
fingers—just to make sure they really feel the way I
remember.

When
David’s head turned to watch the pacing teacher move around the
class, I stared down at his hand, just to gauge the distance. Maybe
I can accidently brush past him or…

“
You could at least
try
to concentrate.” He leaned his
head a little closer as he spoke, keeping his eyes forward and his
arms folded.

How
can I concentrate when every time he breathes I can feel it and I
can hear it and I want to run away from class and lie together on
the grass again—talking until it turns dark?

“
Ara, stop that,” he whispered gruffly.

“
What?” What did I do?

“
Er…You…you keep fazing out.”

“
Maybe you shouldn’t sit next to me, then,” I whispered back
with a slight grin.

“
I
shall ask Mr. Benson to move my seat if you wish?” he muttered, his
voice laden with hurt.

“
No,
David, I—”

“
Eyes forward please, Miss Thompson,” Mr. Benson
said.

Everyone in the class turned to look at me. David stiffened.
Damn this tongue. It’s always getting me in trouble. I should just
shut up and never talk. I want to go home and start my day all over
again—only, just not come to school at all.

When
Mr. Benson looked away, I tore a strip of paper from my notepad,
coughing over the sound it made. David smiled, watching my crafty
display of rebellion. “What are you doing?” he whispered so low
that it was only his cool breath I heard as his lips shaped the
words.

“
Shh.” I frowned at him and nodded my head toward the
teacher.

David’s shoulders shook with soft laughter. He leaned over
and looked at the paper as I scratched away with my pen. “No
peeking.” I hid my scribble with my elbow.

He
sat back in his chair, grinning.

Sorry
,
I
wrote.
When I said that, I just meant that
you make me lose my concentration. I want to be next to you. I just
wish we weren’t at school, is all.
There,
that should do it. Somehow, it’s so much easier to say what I want
to say when I don’t actually have to say it. “Here.” I inched the
note closer to him.

David placed his finger on the top corner and slid the paper
across the desk, then smiled, my favourite smile—the one that
lights up the corners of his eyes before it shows in his lips. He
tried to conceal it, but he obviously liked what I
wrote.

He
popped the note in his pocket and leaned back in his chair. Okay,
time to start paying attention. If I distract both of us, there’ll
be no one to give me the answers when Mr. B calls on me
again.

A
cool touch, just above my elbow, stole my newfound concentration.
David ran his fingers slowly down the length of my arm, raising the
fine hairs with bumps of pleasure as they followed the curve to the
back of my hand. I flipped my palm over and he linked his fingers
into mine.

Come
on. This isn’t playing fair. Why here? Why in class? I can’t
breathe. I can’t even feel my arms anymore.

I
squeezed his hand tightly. Don’t ever let go, David.

We
sat with our hands concealed under the desk for the rest of class.
But every now and then, David ran his thumb over mine and smiled at
me—and every time he did that, my heart skipped into my throat like
the rush you get on a roller coaster.

I
grinned like a Cheshire cat, silently praying the teacher wouldn’t
notice the reason for my happiness, and as I sat, feeling closer to
this boy than I have to anyone in my life, ever before, I drew a
conclusion again that I thought I’d discarded completely. I’m in
love.

I
am
definitely
in
love.

Dad
paced the floor, hands behind his back, droning on about some myth
to do with faeries—Alana will love this lecture—and as usual, Emily
and I quietly gossiped our way through the hour. I must say, our
conversations are so much better now that Emily has a crush on the
boy behind us—Spencer—and not so much on my dad.

Although I’m glad for the decrease in creepy comments about
how nice my dad’s smile is, hearing about Spencer is getting kind
of old, too. Which is why History class is good, because she can’t
talk about him where he can hear us, so we get to talk about David,
instead.

But
I already know all the bands Spencer likes, what colour his bike
is, that he has a baby sister and I’ve been told endlessly how cute
he is. I don’t see his appeal, myself. He’s quiet and meek—a little
like Alana—except he’s tall, with longish, blonde hair. The only
engaging thing about him is his dazzling hazel, almost green-grey
eyes.

It
was during rehearsal for the benefit concert that Emily, who’d been
busy organising everything and doing more than her fair share of
work, had noticed Spencer. She told me she’s seen him move in slow
motion ever since.

I
understand
that
—if not why on Earth she’d feel that for such a plain guy
like Spencer—but the feeling, I get. It’s about the only thing that
makes sense to me. I mean, I know how I feel about David—I just
wish he’d let me know how he feels about me…well, aside from being
crazy about me. “I don’t get it, Em.” I covered my mouth to hide my
whisper. “We talked until it went dark, but we never really shared
anything. I mean, I don’t know anything more about him
specifically, than I did yesterday. But I know him better.” I
rested my head in my hands. “Er! Does that even make
sense?”

“
Did
he kiss you?” she asked, looking behind us at Spencer, who blushed
and looked away.

“
No,” I answered quickly, “he was very…gentlemanly.” My lips
scrunched up and I stared, bewildered, into the
whiteboard.

“
Well, like, did he ask you to be his girlfriend?”

“
Do
guys do that?” I dropped my hands from my face.

Emily shrugged. “Maybe he’s just being a gentleman—that would
be very like him, Ara. He might be waiting for you to make the
first move?”

I
sat up in my chair. She could be right. “Maybe I should offer him
my intentions in writing, then.”

“
Nah, I don’t think—”

“
Em.” I elbowed her. “That was a joke.”

“
Oh.” She frowned and shook her head. “Ara, you tell the worst
jokes.”

“
Yeah, I must get it from my dad.” I grinned as the whole
class broke into laughter at one of Dad’s inadvertently humorous
comments.

“
No.” Emily sighed, leaning on her hand as she gazed at Dad.
“He’s funny. You must get your terrible joke problem from your
mum.” My heart stopped for a beat, and as Emily stared forward,
dreaming about something far away, my chest shook. I held my breath
and blinked back the hot tears brimming around the edges of my
lashes.

There’s no way she could understand the impact of what she
just said to me, and that is my fault. People here don’t mention my
mum. Not anymore. Not ever. I wasn’t ready for that—like I wasn’t
ready to go back to a normal life or school or friends or boys. Dad
forced me into it, and now it’s going to backfire—on me. I covered
my quivering jaw and pinched my nostrils together, desperate to
stop my caged breath from escaping as a sharp snivel.

Emily’s right. I do get my undisputable knack for telling
crappy jokes from her—from my mum. It was kind of our little game.
I didn’t realise until now that I still play it.

A
burning tear spilled onto my cheek and I released a slow, jagged
breath into my hands; the hot air from my lips came out moist
against my palms. Dad looked up suddenly and started talking with a
slight information-stutter as he frowned at me.

Please, Dad, get me outta here—I don’t want them to know. I
can’t bear for my life to become the latest topic of dramas. It’s
enough that I’m known around the school as “Hey New Girl” and “Just
Ara”, I don’t need to be called “Murderer “as well. My shoulders
lifted around my ears with the agony of that thought.

Dad
sauntered casually over to his desk and lifted a piece of paper.
“Sorry, class—” he said, “just remembered I need to send a note up
to the office. Uh—”He scanned the room observantly. “Edmond!” The
whole class turned to look up the back of the room, following Dad’s
unusual tone. The boy in the rear row of seats dropped his comic
book and sat up straight. Dad handed me the note; “Go,” he
whispered.

My
feet carried me swiftly—leaving the curious stares of the entire
class burning into my back as I fled the room. Dad’s scolding of
the comic-book-reading-kid absconded into the halls until the door
slammed shut behind me, leaving only the echo reverberating down
the empty corridor.

Blinded by tears, I dropped the fake note to the floor and
felt for the wall as the hot, salty liquid of my troubled past
streamed down my cheeks. For every tear I swiped away, another took
its place, and I fought to quiet my sobs—but the pain just goes too
deep. I pressed the tight crease between my brows with my fingers,
and, hearing a door slam down the hall, whipped around to face the
bricks.

I
have to get out of here before someone finds me. Bathroom maybe?
No, I don’t want to be reduced to crying in the toilets in my first
week at school. Plus, if someone comes in and finds me, it will
undoubtedly lead to a questionnaire in the lunchroom, later,
followed by a ride on the explanation train.