Free Broken by A. E. Rought Page A

locker, and display the scar on his wrist. I can’t help but wonder, again, if he was responsible for the scars or if they’re surgery-related. Fine, white lines usually are the result of a surgical procedure. Alex notices my stare, clears his throat, and tugs his sleeves down further. His shadowed expression becomes closed, eyes turned to chips of hazel gemstone, lips a hard straight line, and he shifts his body at an angle, hiding himself in his locker.
    Sorry, I think.
    The battle for my books is short, lots of metallic bangs and cuss words. When I emerge, flustered and pink cheeked, Alex stands watching me like I’m the puzzle he can’t figure out instead of it being the other way around.
    I sling my bag over my shoulder. The weight pulls the nylon strap toward the edge of my shoulder. Much to my shock, and detriment to my pulse, Alex steps close and eases the strap back into place. His face hovers inches from mine. Then he draws even closer, the scent of his leather jacket filling my nose as he wordlessly helps me thread my right hand through the other strap.
    “See you at lunch?” he asks, his words brushing my cheeks.
    “Sure.”
    What else can I say? My brain is on short circuit with him severing the rest of the world from existence. It’s just me and Alex and his hazel eyes, my emotional scars and the visible scars on his wrists. The wretched weight of Shelley High crashes in when he blinks and steps back, and with a wave, disappears into the flow sluicing through the halls.
    #
    The next two hours fly by at a high level of awkward. School work is a huge pain with my writing hand handicapped. Mrs. Johnson has a rare moment of auditory clarity and promises to get me work sheets for the next few weeks. And I learned to turn the pages of my Gothic fiction reading assignment by licking my fingertips and pinching the pages between them.
    Third hour Group and Individual Sports promises to be its own brand of hell. Sure I have a broken hand, but asthma didn’t stop our gym Drill Sarge from making Kat VanderVelde run until she passed out last year. Might be part of the No Student Left Behind law, might not. Either way, it’s definitely a part of Most Students Pissed Off thing. If we can walk, we have to participate—thankfully Mom notified the school that I’m injured, so I can at least avoid basketball.
    On the way across the covered catwalk between the buildings’ second stories, guilt rises up, fills my legs with lead. Why did I say yes to Alex’s invitation to sit together at lunch? Here, where I met Daniel, the glimmer of hope I shelter feels traitorous and wrong.
    I lean against a metal support beam and soak in the heat of the contained sunlight. I’ve nearly convinced myself there’s nothing wrong with making new friends when the old memories hit. Daniel and I met just across the crimson carpeting, my shadow now long across the textile, pointing like an accusation at the spot.
    His damaged echo demands my attention, skull split open and leaking, red streaking down his face. Chills sweep my spine when Ghost Daniel walks toward me, solid in the shadows, gone in the sun. Feet away the smell of cinder and death waft from him.
    And I can’t stand it.
    Windows spin around me as I turn and rush the last few yards. My heart hammers at the base of my throat, threatening to strangle me. Once inside the Sports Complex building with the door slammed shut, I let my muscles relax, and focus on drawing in air. My hand aches, and I cast a look at the ugly immobilizer. The past doesn’t want to release me, but I’m not so sure the present is all that safe. Alex may be kind, but his father has the warmth of a grave, and lacks compassion where I, or at the very least, my hand bones are concerned.
    Thoughts twist and buzz as I press open the door and step into the humid funk of the Ugly Room. Cackling girl voices pierce the air, and Alex Franks is still the topic of conversation. Only now, my name sharpens their tones