Long Way Home
Page 51

Mixing it up. The way her cold eyes slide up and down my body suggests mixing it up means me on my knees performing certain acts. I don’t know why my face heats with shame, but it does. Like somehow this is all my fault and I deserved it. Yet I keep my head held high. “My life is none of your fucking business.”
Jana flinches. “I was trying to be nice. Excuse me for asking questions. And to think I was nice to you last year when you wanted to make new friends. I told everyone not to believe you. That you would always be biker trash.”
“You’re such a bitch,” Addison says like she’s bored, and I’m shocked by the unexpected backup.
A guy in the back mumbles, “Burn,” and a few other people nervously laugh.
Jana turns her little serpent head in Addison’s direction. “All I did was express concern for Violet and she yelled at me. I didn’t do anything wrong. She’s the bitch. Not me.”
The look of disgust on Addison’s face is humorous—at least for me. “Nothing works up there, does it? Like your mind—it’s a ghost town. Somebody else asked her about being kidnapped. You decided to get nosy, then get nasty. You’re still mad because Violet made you look like a fool last year at lunch. Let it go, Jana. With the way your mind ticks, you’re going to be made to feel like a fool a lot in life.”
“All right.” Our teacher walks back in. “I don’t see enough books open or groups formed or actual work being done.”
“You just dug your grave,” Jana whispers to Addison.
Addison cracks a smile that’s so bitter it’s sweet. “What are you going to do? Talk badly about me? Go ahead. You spouting off words you don’t even understand is the least of my problems.”
The distant look in Addison’s eyes—I’ve seen that before in Dust’s eyes. An old soul. A soul that’s seen too much, done too much.
Addison opens her book, the sleeve of her cheer warm-up hitches up and the world freezes. There are bruises on her wrist. Those are the type of bruises I had on my arm from when Fiend manhandled me. My stomach roils, and I have to breathe in to keep from getting dizzy.
People form into groups, and when Addison begins to work by herself, it hits me. Breanna, the person Addison always partnered with, is gone.
Her world is tilted. My world is tilted...and it’s a terrible feeling. Like being caught in a landslide and no matter how you grasp at the mud around you nothing can keep you grounded.
I want to feel safe. Maybe Addison does, too. High school is a war zone. The people who surround you are your best form of defense. “Want to partner up?”
Addison raises her head, and as casually as I can, without being overly obvious, I pull back my long sleeve and expose my own fading bruises. Recognition darkens Addison’s face and she yanks down her own sleeve in such a slow way I’m not sure she’s aware she’s doing it.
She finally meets my gaze. “Sure.”
I go to try to turn my desk, but Addison moves hers instead. People with two fully functioning legs can do such things faster. She slides her book for me to share with her, then places her hand over the page to stop me from reading. “This doesn’t mean I like the Terror. I’m really pissed at them. If they weren’t around, maybe Breanna would still be here.”
Yeah—“I get it. I’m pretty mad at them, too. I have been for a while.”
A few beats of her digesting my answer and then she asks, “Where are you sitting at lunch today?”
I used to sit at a table that contained Jana. I sat as far from her as possible, but we still shared the large round plastic space. “Not sure.”
“Want to sit with me?”
Definitely. “Okay.”
The ends of Addison’s lips lift, she removes her hand from the book and reads the first question aloud.
CHEVY
COACH TEACHES FRESHMAN GEOGRAPHY. Multiple world maps cover the walls in his room and little else. Most teachers try to make places welcoming by adding posters of baby animals or maybe posting some sort of inspirational saying on the bulletin board. He’s got none of that. World maps put up with gray tape. That’s his best.
It’s his planning period and I’m supposed to be an aide in wood shop—keeping the freshmen from cutting their fingers off. Parents get pissed when that happens.
I knock on Coach’s door and he pops his head up from the pile of papers on his desk. “Tell me before I lose my mind. I taught you what the capital of the US is, right?”
Already knew it before I took his class. “Washington, DC.”
“Thank God. These kids are morons.”
Considering how many of them I’ve had to stop this year from losing digits, I have to agree. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah.” He leans back in his seat, causing it to roll. “Take a seat.”
The chair in front of his desk is too small for me, like it belongs in an elementary school, but when Coach tells you to sit, you sit. He’s a great guy. As big as a tank. Played football in college, then a year in the pros until he busted his knee. Gentle black man when he chooses, but on the field the man morphs into a rabid wolf, tearing hunks out of us until we break.
He’s made teammates of mine cry. He’s run me so hard I’ve vomited on the sidelines. He demands respect, we give it and bust our asses to receive it in return.
“I heard about what happened to you,” he says. “Want you to know that my church and I were pulling for you. We had a special prayer session for you the morning you were gone. The entire team came. I even heard that some of the guys had grouped together and went searching for you and Violet in case you had been dropped off on the side of the road. You had a lot of people thinking of you.”