Drowning Instinct(15)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

All the things I wouldn’t mind telling you. That‘s what I thought, Bob. Of course, I kept quiet. We said good-bye and went our separate ways. I don‘t remember if I ate my sandwich that day.

That seemed to . . . start something, though. Some nights, he dropped by the library on the way to his car—to see how I was getting on, he said. He would talk about the cross-country team, which was not doing well, but he didn‘t pressure me to join. Other days, he didn‘t come in but looked toward my window on his way through the lot and raised a hand. The windows were polarized, so I don‘t know if he saw me wave back. But he knew where I was, Bob, he knew.

d

Then, ten days before Mom‘s book party, on a Tuesday: 6:45 P.M., and still no Mom. It would be dark in another ten minutes. The library would close in fifteen. Through the library windows, lights glowed on a soccer game on the lower field. The football team was scrimmaging on the upper field. Beyond was a dense thatch of blackness where the woods began.

When the library closed, I didn‘t know what I should do. I didn‘t have a cell yet. I couldn‘t go anywhere. Even if I could, I was afraid Mom would come, not find me, and then get pissed. She was really stressed out about the store and the book party. Times were tough at the store, and she‘d let two employees go, leaving just her and Evan, the store manager, to do everything. The last thing she needed was for me to go MIA. So, better for me to wait on the curb when the librarian shooed me out. If I got too spooked, I could always move under the lights in the breezeway.

One of the dubious perks of coming early and having to stay late all the time was I got my homework done, and I could use the library computer to write to Matt, which was safer than home because I wasn‘t allowed to lock my bedroom door either. (Honestly, Bob, it‘s amazing how much an open-door policy is just like living in a jail. There are so many things you just don‘t—can‘t—do.) Now, I found the sentence where Matt asked how things were going and started my reply again.

What‘s going on with me, the boy asks. Hah. After everything you‘ve been through? You are so brave. My life is nowhere near as exciting. School is, you know, school : But it beats the hospital. My favorite class is chemistry. I‘ve got this awesome teacher….

―Hey.‖

I was so startled I actually jumped. The librarian always retreated to her office so she could count down the seconds until I would stop being this major inconvenience and just leave already. No one else used the library this late. I‘d been so absorbed, I hadn‘t heard anyone come in. I craned my head around.

―Oh,‖ I said. ―Hi.‖

―Hi.‖ David‘s dark hair was damp, and pearls of sweat stood on his upper lip. He smelled of locker room soap and leather. A backpack hung from his right shoulder and a gym bag large enough for a cello dangled from his left. ―Want some company?‖

―Uh,‖ I said. ―What are you doing here?‖ Brilliant: like the guy had no right to be in the school library.

―Fencing practice.‖ He hunched his left shoulder with its huge bag. ―I saw you from the hall. Actually, I see you here every afternoon, but you‘re usually gone by now.‖

He‘d seen me every day? The idea that anyone who wasn‘t a teacher or guidance counselor would even think to look— or care—was a little jarring. ―Yeah, I . . . I have to wait for my mom. She‘s late.‖

―That sucks. Have you called her?‖

―I don‘t have a phone.‖

―No way. No cell?‖

―Well, I . . . I just never needed one. I mean—‖ I tried to be all jokey about it.

―Who‘s going to call me?‖

―If you don‘t have a phone, how will you ever know?‖ His eyebrows pulled down in a frown. ―Seriously, you should have one for emergencies at least.‖ He made a move for a front pocket of his jeans. ―You want to use mine?‖

―No, thanks. My mom probably got delayed at the store, that‘s all.‖

―Okay.‖ David studied me a moment. ―How come you don‘t have a car?‖

How long you got? ―I might get one.‖ I didn‘t have a license either, but he hadn‘t asked about that. ―Maybe this summer.‖

―Well, that sucks,‖ he repeated. ―Waiting around must be a drag.‖

―I don‘t mind too much.‖ Then, all bright and chirpy: ―I get all my homework done.‖ God, that sounded pathetic.

―I‘d hate having to depend on my folks all the time. It would drive me nuts.‖

Been there, done that. I didn‘t know what else I could say, though, so I kept quiet.

Why was he even talking to me? Student council elections had come and gone. (Yes, Bob, he won.)

After another moment‘s silence, David thumbed off his gym bag, which settled with a dull metallic clatter to the floor. ―So,‖ he said, dropping into a chair alongside mine,

―what are you working on?‖

―Oh.‖ I made a move to minimize the screen, but he was crowding in at my right elbow, his eyes skimming the words. This close, I could see the fine film of sweat along his temples, too. He smelled . . . really nice. ―It‘s, uh, a letter. To my brother.‖

―Yeah? Where is he?‖

―Away,‖ I said, and then I did close out of the account. ―It‘s private.‖

―Oh, okay. Sure,‖ he said, and easily enough that I didn‘t think he‘d seen the word hospital. Or maybe he was just nice enough not to let on. No, on second thought, the word passed him by. David was a decent guy and didn‘t seem to be that good a liar. Believe me, Bob, it takes one to know one.

More. Awkward. Silence. I glanced at the librarian, who was studying us through her office window. God knows what she thought was going to happen. She caught my eye then did the whole checking-her-watch routine. Like I always had guys drop in at the last second just to piss her off.

I turned back to David. ―So how was practice?‖

―Not so great.‖ Wrinkling his nose, David tipped his chair back and then gave this long and very languid stretch so his shirt rode up and I could see bare skin. ―My focus is crap. I‘m making a lot of dumb mistakes.‖

―Oh?‖ His stomach was staring me in the face, so I couldn‘t help but look. David was a couple cans shy of a six-pack, but his belly was still muscular and trim—and crisscrossed with bruises. Some were fresh, angry, purple wheals; others, a mottled yellow-green, were healing. He looked as if he‘d been whipped. ―What happened?‖

―Hunh?‖ Startled, he followed my gaze and then rolled up the edge of his shirt and studied his skin as if seeing it for the first time. ―Oh. Those are saber cuts. You get used to it.‖