Free A More Deserving Blackness by Angela Wolbert Page A

roars to life.  I find that almost humorous - he wouldn’t exactly need the volume down to hear me speaking to him.  Trying to appear as casual as he does, I drop my things at my feet and click my seatbelt into place, tucking my hands into my lap, my thumb automatically settling against that sweet spot on my wrist.  I try not to watch his hands as he shifts the car into reverse and twists in his seat to back the car down the drive, try not to wish that he’d fold one of them over mine like before.
                  Of course, maybe that was just saved for special occasions.  Like when a strange girl is choking on her own air and all but clawing her way into his chest cavity.
                  “That jacket would keep you warmer if you actually wore it,” he says a few minutes later, and I look down, having completely forgotten I still held it.  I search his face for any sign of anger or regret at giving it to me.  There is none. 
                  He shrugs.  “But it’s yours to do with what you want.”
                  I can’t decide if he’s bothered or trying to tease me and I’m not sure I want to figure it out.  There are already too many emotions where Logan is concerned, too much reaction, two things I thought had atrophied in me months ago.
                  The drive to school is otherwise comfortably quiet, and he pulls easily into a spot between the sunny yellow scars on the blacktop.  Never once does he take my hand and I miss it, as if it is something I’d grown used to, which is pathetic.  He seems unaware though, and cuts the engine with a slight tilt of his head toward the building, as if to ask if I’m ready.
                  I follow him and he slows his pace to match mine, walking me inside the building and to my locker.  I feel eyes on me and look up, startled to realize just how many of the other students are openly staring at us, some of them pointing and leaning to whisper something to a friend.  As the resident mute, I’m used to a few stares, but this is on a whole new level, and I glance up at Logan to gauge his reaction.  He seems either to not notice or not care.
                  “Do you want me to drive you home?” Logan asks as we reach my locker, and I turn the lock, letting my hair slide onto my face.  I want him to, of course I want him to, but it doesn’t make sense.  He doesn’t make sense. 
                  I surprise myself when I turn and reach my fingers up to his face, lightly hovering just over the bruise on his cheek, and I see a flash of astonishment before its swallowed back into the depths of dark brown. 
                  “Dylan’s been waiting to throw that punch for two years,” he tells me evenly.  “It’s not your fault.”
                  I drop my hand, curious.
                  “Do you want me to drive you home?”
                  I stall. 
                  But Logan is a master of patience.  He simply waits until I’ve gathered my books into my bag and rearranged them twice to catch my gaze, bending at the knees slightly and ducking to see my face past the curtain of my long hair, raising his brows. 
                  “Should I text you instead?” he deadpans.
                  I shoot him a look which only makes his eyes smile in victory, even though he manages to keep it from reaching his lips.
                  I nod.
                  “Yes, you want me to drive you home?”
                  Another nod.
                  “Good,” he says, and I reach up to close my locker.
                  His hand shoots out, clamping over my left arm.
                  “What the hell is that?”
                  He’s staring, appalled, at the raw welt across the skin on the inside of my wrist,