(Unless They Want To)
“Grace! Look out!”
I turn toward my cousin’s voice—the first girl to speak to me since I went off on Jaxon and Flint five hours ago—just in time to see a basketball flying toward my head. I swat it away, then press my lips together to keep from crying out as pain radiates up my hand.
It’s ridiculous that the act of deflecting a basketball could hurt this much, but whoever threw it threw it hard. My whole arm aches from the jolt of coming into contact with it, and I didn’t even know that was possible.
“What the hell?” Macy asks the gym at large as she jogs over to me. “Who threw that?”
No one answers.
“Seriously?” My cousin puts her hands on her hips and glares at a group of girls standing by the locker room door. “Did you do this?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter.” “Doesn’t matter? I heard how hard that ball hit your hand.
If it had gotten your head, you could have had a concussion!”
“But it didn’t. And I’m fine.” It’s a bit of a stretch, considering I’m still in pain, but I’ve made a big enough
spectacle of myself today, thank you very much. No way am I going to start whining about a few mean girls.
Or a lot of mean girls, for that matter, one of whom apparently has a future in professional basketball.
I mean, yeah, I’m not denying it’s been a weird day. I haven’t seen Jaxon or Flint since I went off on them this morning. But even though Jaxon hasn’t shown up at any more of my classes, Byron was waiting outside my art class with an extra parka when it let out—so I wouldn’t have to go through the spooky-as-hell tunnels again, thank God. Rafael sat with Macy and me at lunch plus walked us to AP Spanish, the one class we share. And Liam walked me from Spanish to PE.
None of which went unnoticed by the other students and none of which has exactly worked in my favor. I mean, I wasn’t looking to make a bunch of friends here, but I also don’t want to have to dodge flying basketballs every second of the day, either.
“You sure you’re okay?” Macy asks, frowning at the way I’m wiggling my fingers and shaking my hand.
I stop immediately. “I’m sure. I’m fine.” The last thing I want is for Macy to make a big deal out of something that could have been a lot worse.
She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything else about the basketball. And if I catch her glaring at some of my classmates, I’m not going to call her out on it. I’d be pissed if someone was messing with her, too.
Still, it’s past time to change the subject, so I ask, “What’s all this?” gesturing to the black leotard, tights, and sequined skirt she’s wearing.
“Dance team,” she answers with a proud little grin. “I’ve got one of the solos at Friday’s pep rally.”
“Seriously? That’s amazing!” I squeal, even though I’ve never been a big dance team enthusiast. But Macy obviously loves it, and that’s enough for me.
“Yeah. I’m dancing to—” She breaks off as the coach blows a whistle.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means the period’s over. And since this is the last one, it also means you’re free.” Macy grins. “I’ve got practice for two hours after school, but I’ll find you when I’m done, and we can go to dinner together. If there’s not another earthquake, that is.”
“Right?” There have been several more tremors this afternoon—nothing big, just aftershocks, but they’ve definitely set most of the students, me included, on edge. “Who knew I’d experience more earthquakes in four days at the center of Alaska than I did my whole life living on the coast in California?”
“It’s weird,” she agrees, looking baffled. “Sure, we have a quake every once in a while, but we haven’t had this many in a row in a long time. Maybe ever. You must have brought them with you.”
“Sorry about that,” I joke. “I’ll try to tone it down.”
“You do that,” she answers with a grin. “See you after practice.”
“See you.”
I shoot her a little wave before heading back toward the locker room. No one bothers me as I change, but no one talks to me, either. And I gave up trying to talk to people
somewhere around lunchtime. I can only take so many cold shoulders before I get the message.
I get dressed in record time, then grab my backpack and head out. I probably should go back to my room and get started on my homework, but I’m not used to being cooped up in one room all the time.
Back home, I was always outside—in the pool, at the beach, running through the park. I even did my homework on the front porch swing, watching the sun set over the water.
Going from that to being stuck inside almost all the time is more than a little rough.
I think about heading to my room and changing into all those outdoor clothes so I can go for a walk. But nothing about me is particularly thrilled at the idea of putting on half my closet just to brave the subfreezing temperatures, either, so in the end, I decide on a compromise. I’ll wander around the castle, getting to know it better, since there are huge portions I haven’t set foot in yet, even with my classes taking me all over the place today.
For a second, Jaxon’s warning from the first night flits through my head, but that was for late at night. Just because the sun outside the castle has been down for a couple of hours already doesn’t mean the halls aren’t safe now, while everyone is awake and going from one activity to another. Also, I’m not going to spend the next year and a half afraid of the people I go to school with. Those guys the other night were assholes, no doubt about it, but they caught me unprepared. No way am I going to let it happen again. And no way am I going to become a prisoner in my
own school.
Thoughts of Jaxon have me pulling out my phone and opening my message app. There are six text messages waiting for me from Jaxon—all sent during the earthquake. I haven’t opened them yet because at first I was too mad to want to know what he had to say. Then I didn’t want to be around anyone when I opened them. I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, and the last thing I want is for someone watching me to see how I feel about Jaxon— especially when I currently have no idea what, if anything, is going to happen between us.
The first message came in a few minutes after Brit Lit got out.
Jaxon: Hey, thought I’d catch you at art, but you aren’t here. Are you lost? 😉
A few more minutes had passed before the second message came in.
Jaxon: Need a search and rescue? o_O
The third message came in pretty fast after the second one, followed in quick succession by the next three.
Jaxon: Sorry to bug you, just want to make sure you aren’t in any trouble. Quinn and Marc aren’t bothering you, are they?
Jaxon: Hey, you okay?
Jaxon: Getting worried over here. Just looking for a heads- up that those jerks haven’t found you again. You good?
Jaxon: Grace?
I remember the messages coming in during the earthquake and not paying any attention to them. But now that I’ve read them, I feel like a total jerk. Not for not
answering them right away, because—earthquake!
And yeah, I definitely don’t have to answer him just because he wants me to. But I do feel guilty for laying into him the way I did in the art studio when he was obviously just worried about me. And for not answering him for so long when he actually apologized in his texts—something— like please—I’m pretty sure the great Jaxon Vega almost never does.
All I was thinking about in that art closet was how embarrassed I was that he was there, arguing with Flint and making a spectacle of me. I didn’t think about the fact that he was there because he was concerned about me and that the fight with Flint happened because he was so on edge.
In my old school, it would be absurd, and probably even a little freaky, to have a guy get so worried about me. But I can’t really blame Jaxon for being legitimately concerned, not when he’s already had to rescue me twice. And not when his last texts came in the middle of a freaking earthquake, which got people so worked up that every teacher I had for the rest of the day took ten minutes out of class time to go over earthquake safety.
If everyone else is freaked out by the quake, it’s hard to be upset at Jaxon for feeling the same way.
Because I feel bad for making him wait so long for a response, I fire off a couple of texts in quick succession.
Me: Sorry, been busy and haven’t checked my phone
Me: You busy? Want to explore the castle with me?
Me: And hey, you never told me the punch line to the joke When he doesn’t answer right away, I shove my phone in my blazer pocket and wander into one of the side hallways
with no real destination in mind for my exploration.
I pass a room where two people are fencing, complete with white uniforms and head masks, and pause to watch for a little while. Then I wander down to the music hall, where a curly-haired boy is playing the saxophone. I recognize the tune as “Autumn Leaves,” and just the sound of it nearly brings me to my knees.
Cannonball Adderley cut an album in 1958 called Somethin’ Else. Miles Davis and Art Blakey played on it, and it was my father’s favorite—especially the song “Autumn Leaves.” He used to play it over and over when he was working around the house, and he made me listen to it with him at least a hundred times, where he described every single note, explaining over and over how and why Adderley was such a genius.
The last month since my parents died is probably the longest I’ve gone without hearing that song in my entire life, and to run across it here, now, feels like a sign. Not to mention a punch to the gut.
Tears flood my eyes, and all I can think about is getting away. I turn and run, not caring where I’m going, knowing only that I need to escape.
I take the back stairs and climb up and up and up, until I arrive at the highest tower. Most of it is taken up by whatever room lies behind the closed door, but there’s a tiny alcove right off the stairs with a huge window—the first one in the castle that I’ve actually seen with the curtains open—that looks out over the front of the school. It’s dark out right now, but the view is still gorgeous: the snow lit up by lampposts and the midnight-blue sky filled with stars as
far as the eye can see.
The room itself has built-in bookshelves that go all the way around it and a couple of comfy, overstuffed chairs to lounge in. It’s obviously a reading nook—everything from the classics to modern-day Stephen King fill up the shelves
—but I’m not here to read, no matter how much I usually love it.
Instead, I sink down on one of the chairs and finally, finally let the tears come.
There are a lot of them—I haven’t cried, really cried, since the funeral, and now that I’ve started, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop. Grief is a wild thing within me, a rabid animal tearing at my insides and making everything hurt.
I’m trying to be quiet—the last thing I want is to draw more attention to myself—but it’s hard when it hurts this much. In self-defense, I wrap my arms around myself and start to rock, desperate to ease the pain. Even more desperate to find a way to hold myself together when everything inside me feels like it’s falling apart.
It doesn’t work. Nothing does, and the tears just keep coming, as do the harsh, wrenching sobs tearing from my chest.
I don’t know how long I stay here, battling the pain and loneliness that comes from losing my parents in the blink of an eye and then everything familiar in my life less than a month later, but it’s long enough for the sky to turn from the dark blue of civil twilight to pitch black.
Long enough for my chest to ache.
More than long enough for my tears to run dry.
Somehow, running out of tears only makes everything hurt worse.
But sitting here won’t change anything. Nothing will, which means I might as well get up. Macy should be done with dance practice soon, and the last thing I want is for her to come looking for me.
Having her see me like this—having anyone see me like this—is what finally galvanizes me. But when I climb to my feet and turn around, I find that someone already has.
Jaxon.
