Sparrow Read online

  I’m sorry.

  At the end of everything, a fish dive.

  Lucas

  When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet

  9

  After Lunch, March

  I’m walking so fast I feel like I’m about to jump out of my own skin. Tristan King. What is she thinking? I swear, her brain has turned to Jell-O and leaked out of her ears.

  I pound a random locker with my fist, wishing I knew some magic spell that would erase the last twenty minutes of my life.

  “Wait, Lucas! Hold up!”

  Israel, with his Ichabod Crane legs, catches up first, Caleb, Luis, and Sam close behind.

  “Hey,” Israel says quietly, “I don’t want to get all up your business or anything, but what the hell was that back there? What’s chewing on you?”

  I’m so pissed I’m afraid what will come out of my mouth won’t even be words, just incoherent noise. “I’m cool, Iz. Just, you know. Freaking Tristan King. Kissing Sparrow.”

  “Okay, but you were a big old shiny turd just now, and no one likes a turd, shiny or otherwise. Especially at lunch. I mean this in the nicest possible way.” He claps his hand on my shoulder. “What’s up? Anything else you want to share with Uncle Israel?”

  “Nah. I’m just tired, I guess. My dad was up puking all night. Said he’d had too much junk food out on the road. So I didn’t sleep much, because my father is not exactly a quiet hurler. Sounded like he was ralphing up his socks.”

  “I feel you, man. I hate all things vomit related.”

  “Word.”

  We take our usual seats for study hall, in the back of the chemistry lab. We’re supposed to work quietly, sitting on high stools at scratched-up counters covered with test tubes and Bunsen burners and vials of nasty-smelling chemicals. The chairs are hard, the tables are sticky, and the whole room smells like burned eggs.

  I hate chemistry, and I’m definitely not a fan of Dr. Holcomb, who was born without a sense of humor. If he were a Muppet, he’d be Oscar the Grouch, but with way less charm. Permanently sour expression, reading glasses sliding down his nose, seersucker suits even in the winter, wispy white hair like dandelion fluff. He wears bow ties, a different color for each day of the week. Monday is always muddy green, so today his Oscar game is strong. My dad says you can never trust a man who wears a bow tie.

  He’s up at the board, writing equations.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says without turning around. “You know the drill. Study quietly. Books, not phones. And I do not want to hear any talking.”

  So we whisper.

  Caleb picks up a test tube, opens it, and sniffs the innards. “Smells like my cat’s litter box. This room sucks hard-core.”

  Luis opens his history book and draws a mustache and goatee on Mother Teresa. “So, for real, what was all that at lunch?” he asks, adding sunglasses and a fedora.

  Sam says, “Yeah, honestly, you were kind of acting like a jerk.”

  “That’s what I told him,” Israel says.

  “Come on! Did you see him back there?” I fume. “Did you see how he put his mouth on her like it was his job? Did you see his face?”

  “Nah, man,” says Luis. “I couldn’t watch. Mushy crap makes me sick. My mama would smack the fire out of me if I ever acted like that in public.” Israel and Sam nod in agreement.

  Caleb says, “Yeah, but oh baby, Charlotte sure would like to suck your face off.”

  “Shut up, idiot,” Luis says.

  “You know, Luis,” Israel chimes in. “For a guy who’s supposed to be such a genius, sometimes you’re dumb as a sack of hammers.”

  “You guys missed it, then,” I say. “The whole time, he was looking straight at me. Like he was saying, ‘This is mine, and don’t you forget it.’”

  “Tristan’s always had a problem with you, bro,” Caleb says. “You’re taller than he is, and you got seriously jacked in middle school. Tristan does not like that. He needs everyone to understand that he’s the big dog around here, not some prancing dancer. But, hey, look on the bright side. It could have been worse. He could have peed on Sparrow. You know, marking his territory.”

  “He might as well have,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  “Yeah, okay, truth. It was disgusting,” Israel says. “I mean, nobody likes to watch that stuff play out in front of them, unless it’s like in a movie or something. But it was just a jackass being a jackass. Shake it off, man.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Because…?” says Luis.

  “I don’t know. I just can’t.”

  But I do know. I can’t forget Tristan slamming me up against the lockers when I was nine, calling me a queer because I’d started taking ballet lessons. I didn’t even know what a queer was. Tristan tripping me at soccer practice when I was eleven and kicking me with his cleats while I was down. Tristan and his buddies letting the air out of my tires in the conservatory parking lot last year. He hurts people. It’s what he does.

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “First of all, I don’t understand why she’s all of a sudden so blind about a guy we’ve pretty much hated all our lives. He was a bully when we were kids, and he’s a bully now. He just hides it better.”

  My voice is getting louder, and Caleb motions for me to keep it down, looking over his shoulder at Dr. Holcomb. Caleb talks big, like a rule-breaking badass, but he folds like a cheap lawn chair when he gets caught. He says that his first solid food was Catholic guilt and tears. He hates being in trouble.

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing, Lucas. You’ve hated him all your life. The rest of us just think he’s a bigger-than-average turd. Okay, yeah, he used to tease us when we were kids, but he teased everybody. Nobody escaped. It was like— Luis, what’s that thing when you have to go through something crappy to grow yourself up?”

  “Rite of passage.”

  “That’s it. Putting up with Tristan was our rite of passage. We got over it, but you still hate him. Why is that?”

  “Guys,” I say, exasperated. “What’s wrong with you? He has a bad temper and a mean streak a mile wide. I hate him because he never lets anything go. Once you’re in his crosshairs, you stay there forever, trust me. And now he’s got his sights set on Sparrow.”

  Dr. Holcomb turns around and surveys his domain. We all put our heads down, pretending to read Anna Karenina, which we’re doing for AP English and is about to kill us all. It’s almost a thousand pages long, there are at least a million characters with unpronounceable Russian names who are straight-up awful to each other, and word is there’s a suicide by train at the end. Super-festive.

  When the chalk begins to scratch out equations again, Israel says, “That’s what’s bugging you? He just now noticed Sparrow turned out awesome? Come on, man! She has a boyfriend. She’s happy. Why is that not a good thing?”

  “Really, Iz? Tristan King and Sparrow? It’s freaking unnatural, like watching a hermit crab trying to hook up with a wildebeest. They’re completely different species. It’s never going to work. Because she’s, you know, Sparrow, and he is the Mighty King of Douchebags.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not yours to worry about,” Caleb says. “She gets to make decisions for herself, even if you don’t like them.”

  “I know, I know. But I’m worried she’ll get hurt. He’s just—he’s too much for her. She needs someone who’s not so all about himself, you know?”

  Luis squints and gives me his genius look, the one that tells everyone he knows way more than he’s letting on, that he always has, he’s just been messing with you. Luis loves to be underestimated.

  “You mean someone like you?”

  “Shut the hell up, Luis.”

  Sam, who’s been quiet up until now, studying German verbs and humming under his breath, gives his trademark low whistle. “Watch out, people. Somebody just hit a nerve.”

  Israel does an exaggerated facepalm. “Holy Unrequit
ed Love, Batman! I’m thick as a brick. That’s what this is about. You have a thing for Sparrow.”

  “What? No! I don’t have a thing for Sparrow. It’s just, I’m worried for her.”

  “Why? Has he done anything crappy?”

  “Well, no. I mean, it’s only been five days. He hasn’t had time.”

  Luis and Sam roll their eyes.

  “Do you guys remember Chloe Arsenault?” I ask.

  “That girl who was valedictorian last year?”

  “Yeah. She went on to study, I don’t know, like astrophysics or nuclear engineering at Virginia Tech.”

  “So?”

  “Remember how Tristan was dating her last spring? It only lasted about three weeks, but everybody said they were all hot and heavy. Anyway, I saw them arguing in the hall just before finals. He grabbed her cell phone out of her hand and smashed it on the floor, right in front of her locker. She just about lost her mind. He laughed and said he was only kidding, that he didn’t mean to throw it so hard, but I saw the look on his face. He meant it. She told him to get lost, that she was done, and he said something that I couldn’t hear. But it must have been crazy ugly, because it made her cry.”

  “Okay,” Sam says. “So he’s a doucheburger. But you think if you keep talking smack about him, Sparrow will suddenly see the light? You saw her back there. She’s got it bad. And trust me, man, you do not want to get all up in that. It will blow up in your face, and you’ll be the bad guy, not him. Just be cool and let her handle herself. You’re worrying about nothing.”

  I’m getting nowhere with these guys.

  “Okay, okay, this is me, giving up. I get it. I’m an idiot. But just so you know, I don’t have a thing for Sparrow. I love dancing with her, that’s all. And she’s a friend. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

  Israel grins and raises his eyebrows. “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

  “Knock it off, Iz. I can’t stand it from Delaney, so don’t you start. Besides, that’s Hamlet, not Henry V. You should know better, drama dork.”

  Caleb busts out laughing. Dr. Holcomb turns around, scowling behind his reading glasses, and points his chalk at us.

  “Gentlemen in the back, five hundred words on the merits of silence. On my desk by homeroom tomorrow.”

  I’ve learned my lesson. You can’t count on anything. Nothing lasts, especially the good stuff.

  She has Tristan now.

  10

  After Rehearsal, May

  I’m sorry, Lucas, I have to go, like, right now. I’ll text you later.

  Everybody watches as Sparrow pushes me away, then runs across the room, fumbling with her tutu. She runs the gauntlet of the corps, mouth frozen in a smile that never reaches her eyes. Delaney chases after her.

  I can’t believe the way we danced just now, the way she felt in my arms, the way she looked at me. The way I finally let myself look at her. For ten minutes I let the truth show. Sparrow, I wasn’t pretending.

  What was I thinking? I want to smack myself in the face. I blew it; she bolted. End of story.

  The whole room is buzzing, chewing over what just happened. Now there will be something extra delicious to savor at lunch, to dissect and analyze before class, over coffee at Nora’s.

  Levkova claps her hands together, trying to regain control.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you are acting like a pack of hyenas. Please remember who and where you are, and retrieve your manners. This minute, please.”

  I wait as long as I can stand it for everyone to make it back to center floor, still chattering softly. “Madame,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other, running my hands through my sweaty hair. “Madame, please—”

  She looks at me with such compassion and understanding that I almost lose it.

  “Go.”

  I grab my bag and tear out of there like my hair is on fire, still in my tights and slippers. I can smell her honeysuckle shampoo on my skin, taste the salt of her sweat on my lips, feel her damp curls under my chin.

  Outside, where the air is filled with the sound of birds and the sun is warm and bright, Tristan King is pacing in front of his car like a caged tiger. “What the hell did I just see, Savannah?” he shouts. “You were hanging on to him like you wanted to crawl inside his clothes!”

  “Tristan,” she says. “Please calm down. Stop shouting at me.”

  “I saw what you were doing! His hands were all over you!”

  He grabs her arm and jerks her to him. She twists away without making a sound. Opening the passenger door, he snarls, “Get in the car.”

  My heart starts to race, and I break into a run. He’s parked at the back of the lot, and I feel like I’m in one of those nightmares where you’re running as fast as you can but you never get anywhere.

  She sees me before he does.

  I reach out and pull her behind me. Her entire body is shaking.

  “Back off, asshole. She’s not getting in the car with you.”

  Tristan’s voice is icy, filled with contempt. “Hell yes, she is. You think you’re going to stop me? You? A dude wearing tights?”

  People have started to leave, standing in small groups to chat, tossing dance bags into their cars, laughing and joking around.

  “I know I’m going to stop you. You really want to make a scene here, Tristan? You want to prove to all these people that you’re still the same douchebag you’ve always been?”

  Sparrow says, “Tristan, please stop. You’re scaring me.”

  “I’ll take you home, Birdy. Go get in my car. Go now, okay?” I hand her my car keys, which I’m grateful I had the brains to dig out while I was flying down the hall.

  She clutches the keys so tightly that her knuckles turn white. “Tristan, please,” she says. “I love you so much. Please don’t be like this. We were just dancing. It didn’t mean anything. It’s work to us, that’s all.”

  Ouch. Her words are like a kick in the teeth, but I’ll chew on them later. When I know she’s safe.

  “You know what?” Tristan says, slamming the passenger door shut and walking to the driver’s side. He doesn’t look at Sparrow. He keeps his eyes on me. “Go ahead and go home with your ballerina boyfriend, Savannah. I don’t give a crap what you do. He’s obviously the one you really want. I’m out of here.” She runs to my Jeep.

  He flips me off and peels out, blaring Plague Pyre from his speakers. I take a minute to visualize his tires blowing out all at once, that shiny black car wrapped around a tree, his face planted in the airbag. It makes me feel a little lighter.

  When I open my car door, Sparrow is sitting with her knees drawn up to her face, rocking back and forth. I get in and start the engine.

  “What did he say to you?” she asks.

  “The usual. He’s not exactly an original thinker.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “You asked him if he was okay?”

  “No, Birdbrain, I’m asking you.”

  I’m trying to keep it light, make her laugh, but she is in my car, surrounded by the stench of mildewed tights, the memories of burritos past, and the sour ghost of the chocolate cherry milkshake I spilled all over the floor two weeks ago.

  “Okay, no joking,” I say softly. “I told him that you’re way out of his league. I told him that he doesn’t deserve you. And then I encouraged him to have romantic relations with a farm animal.”

  She closes her eyes and leans against the window. “I’m so tired,” she says.

  I pull out of the parking lot and turn on some music. Swan Lake.

  “No,” she says, her eyes still closed. “Anything but that. I can’t stand it right now. The oboe breaks my heart.”

  She presses her face against her knees. I rest my hand between her shoulder blades and rub slow, gentle circles down her back, feeling the knots in her muscles, the knobs of her spine. I do this for her in the wings before every performance, when she’s so nervous she’s afraid she’ll
throw up. She says it makes her feel calm.

  “Look, Birdy,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I said what I said when we finished the pas de deux. I was out of line, and I know I probably freaked you out. I just … well, I don’t seem to have much of a filter right now. So I’m sorry, and we can talk about it or not.”

  “Oh, Lucas, you didn’t freak me out. Okay, maybe a little. Let’s talk about it later, okay? I don’t have the juice right now.”

  “You got it. Whatever you want.”

  We’re quiet for a while. She stares out the window, then turns to me.

  “Are you okay? When you said you didn’t have much of a filter, you sounded funny for a second.”

  Oh God, how I want to tell her, to tell someone. I’ve been carrying it around with me for weeks now, like a stone in my heart. It never goes away.

  “Well, no, actually. I’m kind of not okay, but I don’t want to unload any more crappy crap on you right now. Seems like you have your hands full.”

  “Lucas. Tell me. If there’s something wrong, I want to know. Maybe I can help?”

  “I wish you could, Birdy. I sure do wish you could.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Okay, but it’s just between you and me, okay? I don’t want it getting out all over school, and my mom wants to keep it quiet.”

  “Promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

  I give her a weak smile. “Yeah. You’re freakishly good at keeping secrets.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Okay. So, remember when my dad got home in March, after he’d been away for three weeks?”

  “Yeah. That was a long time. Your mom was really missing him.”

  “We all were. Anyway, he had a good trip. He’d sold three of those machines that blast kidney stones and stuff with, I don’t know, death rays from outer space. So my mom made him this awesome dinner, all his favorites, like glazed ham and scalloped potatoes.”

  “And baked apples and that chocolate pecan pie. I was there on his birthday last year. Super-delicious, right?”

  “Right. Except when he walked in, he looked like death on toast. Vampire pale, big dark circles under his eyes. He said he was feeling kind of puny, probably because he ate too much junk food while he was traveling. He went straight to bed, then puked all night long. The next day I actually complained to the guys that I couldn’t sleep because he was hurling. I feel terrible about that now.”