Ashes and Ice Read online

  I quickly look back at the new girl. It’s been so long since I’ve actually wanted something. And now, for the first time in ages, life seems to offer a glimmer of excitement, something new and beautiful to watch and want and then, instead of getting a flying chance in hell, I get a fabulously orchestrated humiliation campaign launched on the very first day we have a class together. I know it’s stupid, but I think that is why, this time, the embarrassment cuts deeper.

  She doesn’t look up. Her shoulders don’t shake with laughter. Maybe she didn’t see it? I shift in my seat and try to busy myself with some menial tasks to distract me from my borderline obsessive thoughts and the leftover giggles and glances from other students. It doesn’t work, but at least I have a distraction. I watch her, so effing grateful I’m slightly behind her and my staring isn’t completely obvious. Her arm blocks her incessant scribbling on her notebook. I sit up straighter so I can peer in the small, triangular window her arm creates as she rests her head on it. Her hair is pulled over her opposite shoulder so I have a view directly to the page. Dozens of doodles span the page. Squinting, the blurred lines begin to materialize and I see the doodles are of the same image just in varying sizes. The image is some kind intersecting lines like two perpendicular Ss or a curved cross. I can’t make it out. I lean in slightly.

  Creak. Damn chair.

  Her head slowly turns and when her eyes finally meet mine, I remember. She doesn’t have sweet, girl eyes. Her eyes are bits of glass that cut into me. Her eyes are pale green, like swamps and ice. I sit up straight again. From my peripheral vision, I can tell her gaze doesn’t relax or shift away. It seems edged in contempt, in a silent “Eff you” and/or “Stop staring at me or I will kick your puny ass”.

  I clear my throat and try to glance everywhere but at her. I feel her stare burn into me like acid breaking down the particles of metal. I nearly smell the corrosion. But I mimic innocence and just look about the room at all the quotes and boring illustrations lining the perimeter. But my eyes, the disobedient organs, fall back on her. Her steely glare is still fixed on me. It’s almost painful having someone loathe you with such an intensity, especially when I really didn’t do much to piss her off other than completely ignore her then shamelessly stare at her. I mean, is that really so horrible?

  I attempt a smile to break the uneasy glare. She narrows her eyes. To avoid them, my gaze glides back to her notebook and the dozens of image replicas there. Her fingers twitch and she slams the notebook cover closed with an audible smack. An obvious sign she doesn’t want me checking out her stuff. More horrifying, she starts shuffling in her chair—retrieving her pencils, picking up her book bag, scooting out from her seat. What’s happening? Is she leaving the classroom? She can’t do that. But instead of going forward, she pivots toward the back of the room, out of my field of vision. I don’t dare look back.

  A terrifying reality sets in. She’s in the back of the classroom. Tight-t-shirted muscle men are in the back of the room. Perfection will meet perfection. And there will be some fabulous, long gossiped courtship and a lovely happily ever after that I will not be invited to or a part of. The suckage of life truly blows. So much for dreaming. I never had much a chance anyway, so I can’t be so bitter.

  The bell rings and I lean back in my chair and hunch forward. But I am bitter, very bitter—old lemons and sour skittles bitter. I wait for Mr. Jeramiah to walk in the door and start shuffling papers on his desk, preparing for his lecture. Something else clicks into place as I see the papers stacked into piles. My dad… he was writing something before the coughing spell set in, before we called 911. I was sitting in the study chair and he was shuffling papers into piles. He flinched when he saw me. He looked feral, desperate. “Something is coming, Connor. Something is…” That’s when the bloody cough erupted and stole his words away. I slump deeper into my chair. A bitter cold slaps me across the face and I suddenly feel very alone.

  The day goes on, but after eyeing a few more icy glares from the new girl, I stop looking at her, even though the presence of her nags at my mind. I also weed through the slaps on my shoulder, the fingers positioned in an “L” on people’s foreheads as they walk by, and the laughter I hear in the hallway as I make my way to each class. It all pulls me inward—the humiliation, wanting the girl, the desire to ignore her, to ignore everyone, and the inability to do so—drags me down deeper into myself to a numb place.

  It feels too much like before—when he died. And that scares me. When he died, I knew I would never be the same. Always a bit gone and out of reach. Always a bit broken because he was no longer there. Dad could sort it out. I could talk to him about it. He could drag me back into the world. But, he can’t. Because he’s the one who brought me to this place to begin with and he’s the reason why I may never be able to let go of it. I think about his smile, his laughter, his guitar and the intensity of his eyes as he blotted out the world and listened to me and nothing else.

  I need him now. I breathe in deeply. And as I leave the chatter of the school behind me, I know that I’m not going straight home. I turn right at the fork in the road as the sky darkens. But the threat of rain doesn’t scare me away, because I know where I need to go.

  Chapter 9

  Jade

  Annoyance stiffens my shoulders as I slap my book closed and stalk to the back of the classroom, claiming a free desk beside two massive boys who barely fit in theirs. I slouch into my new chair, happy to be away from the boy’s prying eyes. He flinched away from me when I passed by. I’m satisfied with that. An image creeps into my mind: walking through a field of flowers, the blooms cowering away and wilting. I exhale, the satisfaction leaking out of me.

  I pull my notebook out just as the teacher walks in. A man, too skinny to fill out the button down shirt he wears. I look back at the delicate lines of my drawings. Gripping the pen, I start another one. The lines, the swivel and curve of them comfort me, ease the anxiety and the cold creeping in.

  As I draw, I look at my hand holding the pen. How can I not remember? I stare at my fingernails, my knuckles, the skin stretched over my hand’s small bones. How can I not remember these hands? These hands growing, fumbling, touching something other than tree bark, my own skin and…

  Blood.

  I tighten my fingers on my pen, and dig deeper into the paper, nearly ripping it.

  Dead things.

  I gulp down, squeezing my eyes shut, but Clara’s vacant, dead eyes are painted there so I blink them open. She’s gone. Gone, gone, gone. And the Etcher killed her. He slashes his victims apart, and then carves something into their skin. It is how they connected the two murders. Three. Clara was the third.

  I let go of the pen and stuff my hands in my pockets. I look around. Desks, floors, plastic, people. Slick surfaces and too many people crowd around me. Their chatter and movements make me flinch. Every so often, I hear a heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats, so many heartbeats like drums, pounding, and I am beaten down into remembering not one heartbeat is my own.

  I realize my hand is dragging a finger over my chest, curious at the silence there. I clench my fist and lower it to the desk. I hate it here. I hate these walls. I feel claustrophobic, cornered.

  A throat clears beside me and I flick my gaze to it. Black eyes set a pale, stubbly face. One of the huge, muscular boys. He winks. I shift away.

  I wait, wait for the bell to ring and release me from this room. But the teacher is still setting up for class, moving his papers around on the desk. The first bell to start the class hasn’t even rung yet. Time moves so slowly.

  That is when I see it. The boy. Grayness rises off him like the fog rolling off the swamp. Sitting behind him, I see the mass of cold, ashen air wrap around him like a blanket until I can barely make out the outline of his hunched shoulders. It scares me how the crisp, clear air around him transforms into something so solid and menacing it may suffocate him, crush him under its deadly force.

  All day he stays like that, through class
after class—gray and depleted, a C shape hunched under the weight of an ominous grey cloud.

  When he leaves the school, I don’t know where he is going, I simply know I have to follow him. He doesn’t see me, never even looks up from the pavement. Shoulders hunched forward, he simply walks through the rain, head down as if he is too afraid to face the world head-on. I try to convince myself he’s disgusting, try to hold onto the bitterness making me feel stronger, but I distance myself because I don’t want to care. The haze around him, however—so gloomy, and gray, and faint—doesn’t stop tugging at me beneath the resentment, somewhere unguarded, deep in my chest.

  I bury the thought. I watch as he opens the creaking iron gate, the doors to a cemetery. I watch as he walks through gravestones, never eyeing them, as if his feet know exactly where to go. I keep my distance, but dart in front of him, cloaked by his lack of observance and my speed.

  He stops.

  He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t speak. He just stands there like a statue. He’s quiet and alone, though the ever-fading gray cloud wisps away from him as if the gravestone itself is robbing him of his energy, of his life.

  I swallow. A mantra fills my head, trying to edge out another emotion and fill me: Stay away from him. You don’t need to care about him.

  Then I hear it. It’s such a low, muffled sound. Heavy breathing, sharp inhales and exhales. A barely visible shake of his shoulders, hoodie covering his expression. He—the statue of a boy—crumbles. Falling to his knees in the most broken and vulnerable way, I feel something inside me fall with him. He pushes his hood down. Now I see him clearly, even through the rain and distance, I see him perfectly. Tears try to blend in with the rain, but fail. I see his tears. His precious, pained tears. And all I can do is stare.

  Something within me shifts. Annoyance to curiosity. Impatience to sympathy. Reluctance to desire—desire to understand how and why he can weep like the rain. I touch my cheek. Slick. Wet. But my own tears don’t touch these cheeks. And I wonder if it’s because I am too empty a creature to produce my own. It all feels so…disconnected, disjointed, as though vital pieces of me are missing or broken. I don’t miss those bits, but I wonder if it’s only because I don’t know what I’ve lost. Connor is real. I am not.

  Clara was real… I tense, thinking of the shape of her eyes, the flecks of silver along her ears. I swallow hard. Clara. Clara. Is. Dead. My chest starts to ache, stretch, cave in. I look back to the boy.

  I want to run to him and wipe his tears away. I want to grasp at the energy fleeting away from him and give it back.

  I don’t. I just leave him there, alone and crying. The moment I turn away to run, a heavier ache squeezes my chest. I suddenly realize what the expression “pulling on your heartstrings” means because, right now, even without a heart in my chest, I feel they have been cut and I am plummeting into the emptiness.

  Chapter 10

  Connor

  I don’t run to school. I walk, dragging my feet, kicking up rocks because it’s the only energy I have left.

  The day drones on—classes, chatter, the new girl in my peripheral vision, but I don’t look at her even though she moved back to her seat in front of me.

  Third period comes. Coach is on the field and we are about to do some more running. My face aches remembering the last P.E. session. The last couple of days have felt like molasses slowly oozing by. By last night, the video count of my humiliation was up to 25,453 views. I stand in line as Coach Edmund arranges the groups for another run. Dom pushes me as he strides by and pivots around, “Ready for another run, Champ?”

  I say nothing.

  “You too,” Coach Edmund points his finger at the new girl sitting on the bleachers. I found out her name. Jade. I don’t look up, but it doesn’t stop me from seeing her small shape fall into the line and for a very brief moment I think she pauses to look at me.

  That’s stupid. She’s not looking at me. I narrow my vision to a small speck of paint on the pavement. It is time to run.

  “Ready, set, go!” Coach shouts before his high-pitched whistle rings out in the humid air.

  We all propel forward at varying speeds—some slower than snails. I let Jared and Dominic sail past me. I don’t want to repeat my face-in-the-gravel fiasco. I fall into a relaxed stride bordering on absolute boredom. People pant beside me, a few glide past me. Oh, the pool of mediocrity. I feel like I am destined to wade in its waters for eternity. Part of me is waiting though. Maybe Jade will catch up to me. The thought makes me want to slow down and speed up at the same time. I didn’t want to be so interested in her. I even try to convince myself I am not interested. I suck at lying, though.

  A rock rolls under the ball of my foot setting me off balance, propelling me forward. I can sense a face-pavement moment coming on. Oh God, not again. My front foot slaps the ground and attempts to even out my stride, but I can see the ground getting closer to my face. Here we go…

  A hand laces around my bicep, yanks me up hard, and drags me forward, forcing my feet to find and maintain the rhythm.

  I didn’t fall!

  I look to my left as the person releases my arm. Her black hair whips back and forth as she passes me steadily.

  Jade.

  My heart skips a beat. I nearly lose balance again. She stopped me from falling. She touched me. My eyes fixate on her as her delicate frame paces swiftly past the stragglers. Perfect form, perfect carriage, perfect stride. Perfect, perfect, perfect. I can’t pull my eyes away from her.

  With swift grace, she gains speed and falls nearly in stride with the two monstrosities of human beings: Jared and Dominic. Is she actually going to try to beat them? I propel myself forward so I can get an unobstructed view of the three of them and the finish line. She pulls between them. Jared looks down at her. A flicker of tension grasps his muscles, making each one more pronounced. He pumps his arms faster, pulls ahead slightly. Dominic glances to his side and smirks. Smirks? What is he smirking about? Jade runs faster and pulls ahead of him. He tilts his head to the side, staring at her backside with so much intent and interest, a ripple of disgust and anger rattles my insides. That perv.

  Jared is in the lead. Jade in center. Dominic lingers slightly behind, intentionally. Jade’s strides pick up pace and she pulls past Jared. He glares at her, horrified.

  “Don’t let her win, Dom!” Jared shouts.

  “I don’t know. I kinda like the view.” Dominic points directly at Jade’s rear.

  She doesn’t look to her sides; she keeps staring forward toward the finish line.

  It happens so fast. She raises her arms straight out to her sides, fists clenched and stops abruptly. Jared and Dominic didn’t see it coming. Her fists hit their guts and they stumble a step backward before tumbling to the ground with loud grunts.

  “Dammit!” Jared doesn’t hold back how pissed off he is. He finds his feet and tries to catch up with Jade, but she sails past the finish line, alone and victorious.

  I smile.

  She looks back. Her eyes shift from Jared to Dominic and then to me. To me? Her face remains as plain as stone, staring me down.

  She winks, then snaps forward and walks right off the field.

  No smile betrays her, but that wink was for me. A dizzying rush flushes through me and I feel exhilarated and… happy.

  Chapter 11

  Jade

  He beams yellow rays of light all around him—brilliant, blinding, and beautiful. And something insides me explodes. From happiness? From satisfaction? From victory? Yes, from victory. Victory over Connor’s whispering pale gray disappearing into a bright, flaring glow. I love the warm feeling of pulling light from him.

  He’s smiling at me.

  I wink at him, promising myself I will never be the source of that bitter grayness. I will pull out his light, because he is too beautiful to be without it.

  Chapter 12

  Connor

  My nerves thrum like hummingbird wings. I can almost hear the buzzing. I
smile to myself, replaying the glorious moment Jared and Dominic tumbled to the ground in a fantastic, unglamorous thud. My heart flip-flops as I think of Jade’s wink at me, which , perhaps, the sexiest gesture directed at me in my life. Still smiling, I take a bite of my food. As I bring another sporkful to my mouth, someone tugs my earphones. “What the…”

  “So, have you let the fame go to your head?” my head snaps up toward the smoky, soft voice to my right, “Or can humble, average, non-youtube-able people sit beside you now?” I think my heart stopped and is mangled somewhere in my throat. Her long legs extend, netted and crossed at the ankles. She props her elbows on the cafeteria table, her eyes fix on the pencil between her fingers. Jade.

  “I, uh, um…” Speak, you idiot! “Uh, I mean…”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “Um, I mean, of course you can sit here.” I’m embarrassed the sound could have been defined as a little more than a chick’s peep—quick, sharp, and high. Dom or Jared would have probably made it a point to ask if my balls had dropped yet.

  “Thanks.” She doesn’t look at me. She twists and brings her leather boots under the table. Throwing her book bag onto the table, she opens it, rummages through it, and pulls out an apple and her notepad. She flips the book open, takes a bite out of the apple, and spins her pencil over her fingers, flipping it down her knuckles like some mini-sized acrobat. I don’t know if I’m staring at her flat out or just leering sideways. “So, Connor,” my name tumbling from her lips doesn’t sound like a dead fish, “what’s up with your lame-ass excuse for running?”