Damaged Part 25

"Isn't it obvious?" I shake my head. "You're hot, like amazingly bodacious. I have a little crush on you." Mark looks sheepish when he says the last one.

I smile at him. My face feels funny and I realize that I haven't smiled in a while. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well, I tend to keep things low key." He gives me a lop-sided grin and b.u.mps me with his shoulder. "Want to race or something? I'm guessing you came in here to run and I bet I can totally beat you."

I glance out the windows at the track and nod. "Sounds good."

I spend the next hour running with Mark. We race until my muscles are twitching like I've been electrocuted. I fall onto the mats and lay on my back. Mark sits next to me in a comfortable silence. It seems that I've found another friend.

CHAPTER 22

I still have to see Peter once a week. I didn't get transferred out of his night cla.s.s, although I wish I did. My only option would have been to drop it, and if I did that, I wouldn't be able to retake it because of my scholars.h.i.+p. It was too far into the semester by the time Strictland separated us. I'm just glad she didn't force me to drop it.

Peter's at the front of the room. I don't look at him. Instead, I hear his voice and stare down at my notepad. I've been up for a really long time. It seems like yesterday that I was sitting with Mark, but that was only this morning. I touch my face and feel the cut on my cheek. Yup, that was today. I can't believe I fell off a treadmill. Who does that?

"Miss Colleli?" Peter says. I get the feeling that it's not the first time he's called on me.

I look up. Everyone is watching me. "Sorry, what was that?"

Peter's eyes drift to the cut on my cheek. His brows pinch together. "The poem at the beginning of the book..." When I don't answer, he adds, "The Man Who Was Thursday had a poem at the beginning. What did you think it was about? Did it fit the literature?" Peter is standing in front of me for a moment. Then he crosses the room, leans back on his desk, and folds his arms across his perfect chest.

Why is he calling on me? I want to crawl into a hole and die. That's the one question that I can't answer at all. "It made me want buy a top hat," I say, and shrug. A few students giggle. One says freak. I turn and give that guy a thumbs-up. I'm a proud freak. Deal with it.

Peter stares at me with a hopeless look on his face. He doesn't ask me to elaborate. Instead he calls on the smarta.s.s who says he's not gay enough to think the poem is about hats. Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at the clock. It's almost nine.

"Since no one knows what the h.e.l.l the poem is about, you guys are going to hand in a research paper next week. I want three sources, four pages, double-s.p.a.ced, and include your own understanding of the poem. If you agree with the research, state why. Cla.s.s dismissed." They all groan and exit quickly.

I'm moving at slug speed. I feel so tired. I can't remember if I ate today. I don't think I did. I consider getting some food as I gather my books. By the time I head for the door, the cla.s.sroom is empty, save Peter, who's at his desk.

"What happened to your face, Colleli?"

I raise my eyebrow and look back at him. "That's hardly complimentary, Dr. Granz." I do the shame, shame, thing with my fingers, too, but it's sloppy.

He gets up and walks toward me. "What's with you? You realize that your grades are so borderline that you might fail, right? And, with Strictland breathing down my neck, I can't pa.s.s you if you don't earn it."

I didn't realize that. My spine stiffens. "I don't want you to pa.s.s me through."

"Then, what the h.e.l.l are you doing? I don't understand you. You wanted to take this cla.s.s, didn't you?"

"I wanted to take it when Tadwick was teaching it." Peter flinches. Maybe I said that a little too harshly. "I didn't mean-"

Peter puts up his hands, palms toward me, and backs away. "I know what you meant. It's fine." He grips the back of his neck and sighs.

I've avoided looking at Peter's face, but when he's turned to the side-away from me-I chance it. His lashes are lowered, and his shoulders slumped like he's beaten, as if the weight was too much and it broke him. There are dark rings under his eyes that match mine. His lips no longer smile. Peter looks exhausted, with a sadness that penetrates every ounce of his being. He's drowning in melancholy.

Peter must feel my eyes on the side of his face, because he looks up. Our eyes meet and I wish they hadn't. My stomach drops to my feet. I'm dying. There was air and now there is none. Weeks have pa.s.sed, but I'm not over him.

Peter breaks our gaze and looks down. "I better get going." His voice is faint, weak.

Before I know what I'm saying, the words are out of my mouth. "Do you regret it?" Peter looks up at me. His eyes slip over my face until he finds my eyes. "Because I do. I regret it so badly. If I could go back and undo everything, I would. I can't stand seeing you like this, and I can't stand being like this. If I never sat at your table-"

Peter talks over me. "If you never sat at my table, I would have never known that I could be happy again. No, I don't regret it. I don't regret any of it." He works his jaw, as if he wants to say more, but decides against it.

I nod slowly and pick up my books, not planning on saying anything else. A letter falls out of the pages and lands at Peter's feet. He bends over and picks it up. His eyes lift to mine. "Is this from your brother?" I nod. "I thought you were going to throw it out?"

"I did. He sent another and then another."

"You haven't opened any of them?"

I shake my head. "No," my voice is barely there. "He's dead to me. Take it. Toss it. I don't want to see it again."

I head toward the door. I feel Peter's eyes on my back. I know he wants to say something, but I don't give him the chance. I walk out of the room and down the hall. I exit at the front staircase. No one uses the stairs. There are over a hundred steps to the lawn below. I press my back to a pillar and slip down to the floor.

For a long time, I sit there in darkness. The lights around me illuminate the steps, but I'm in shadow. The people below can't see me.

I'm worried that Sam keeps sending me letters. When we were children, he and I were best friends. He looked out for me, took care of me. Sam let me play with his friends. He punched anyone that messed with me. I was his little sister even though we're twins. You were born after me, he'd say. That's why you're my little sister. I think he liked being the older brother. It made Sam feel important.

But all that changed when I cried to him about Dean. I expected him to defend me. He didn't. Sam said I was a tease, and that he'd seen what I did, the way I acted around his friend. The memories bubble up one by one. Once they start, they don't stop.

Dean didn't hurt you, they said. Dean is a good young man. I swear, it's as though my parents and Sam are standing in front of me, saying the same things over and over again. I want to cry out, What about me? He held me down, he overpowered me. Dean wouldn't do that, they said. G.o.d, I'd never felt so betrayed in my life.

But it was worse, so much worse when I told Sam.

I never let these memories out their box. They're like demons and will strip away every ounce of joy I have until there's nothing left. But I let the memories out. I hear their voices. The old words reopen scars that never healed. My mind is reeling. I need to force the demons back, and make it stop. I pull my knees into my chest and lower my head. Wrapping my arms around my ankles, I pull myself into a ball. I close my eyes, hoping that it'll pa.s.s or swallow me whole.

The door behind me opens. I hear it, but I don't look up. Whoever it is will just go down the staircase without even seeing me. The sound of footfalls comes nearer and then stops. I glance around my arm and see leather saddle shoes. I glance up at Peter.

He sits next to me. I tuck my face into my knees again. I don't want to talk to him.

"You look miserable."

"I am miserable." I talk into my knees.

"So am I." Peter takes a deep breath and puts his hand on my back. Peter pulls me to him and I wrap my hands around his waist. I hold onto him tightly, knowing that I'll have to let go. When he pulls away it feels like someone is ripping off my skin, layer by layer.

I push up and turn toward the stairs. "I can't do this, Peter. I can't be around you like this. It's killing me. I have no idea how to get over you. I just can't..." I step away, but he grabs my arm. I stiffen. I love it and I hate it. I want his arms around me. I want my friend back.

"I need to tell you something." He pulls me closer and takes my books away. He drops them on the ground next to his feet. His hands cup my cheeks. I feel Peter's breath on my face. It makes my head feel so light, dizzy almost. I want Peter's lips on mine. I miss him so badly that tears p.r.i.c.k my eyes.

I take Peter's hands in mine and try to pull his hands down. "Don't, Peter... I can't do this." I'm barely in one piece. I feel the wave of regret growing bigger and bigger. It's going to crush me. His touch is going to destroy me. I panic. I pull at him but he doesn't let go. I'm crying. I didn't realize it, but tears are streaking my cheeks.

Peter's thumbs swipe through the tears on my cheeks, wiping them away. "Don't cry." He leans in and brushes his lips to my face, kissing away a tear. I still. My fingers are still clutching his hands, but I stop pulling. I take a ragged breath when he does it again, and again. Peter kisses my face lightly, brus.h.i.+ng away every tear.