Page 13 of Burn

He’s fixed his gaze on Aaron, who’s been talking to Mike without pause. Aaron turns his attention to the front.

“Whatever, man. Macbeth. Got it,” he says in the most defiant tone.

Mr. Roberts winces.

“It’s bad luck to say that. Try to remember,” he returns his attention to the broader group and continues. “Pick a scene. Monologue, group, whatever. Pick something that’s under tenminutes. You’ll have a month to work on it and present it to the class.”

Great.

Everyone rises, and again, I watch as natural groups form. Some of the girls giggle and hug their group. The guy’s form into small groups, jocks with other jocks, academic kids with other academic kids. I shift back and forth. I know the scene I’d love to do, but I need a few other girls and a guy. Mr. Roberts approaches me; his eyes are soft and kind as he hands me a beaten-up copy of Macbeth.

“Going it alone, Morgan?” he asks.

I shrug and smile.

“Guess so. I love the witches’ scene, but everyone has settled into groups. I’ll find a monologue.”

He looks around the room. For a minute, I think I’ll ask some of the other groups if I can join. Instead, he puts a warm hand on my shoulder, lightly squeezing it before walking away. I spend the rest of the class flipping through the pages, ultimately settling on Act One, Scene Seven. Lady Macbeth accuses Macbeth of being a coward, and I could use some of her bravery.

The bell rings, and I stand up. My focus is on tucking my book into my bag rather than on the people around the room. I don’t notice him until we collide. He’s solid. He doesn’t even budge when I bump into him. My gaze moves from his feet, taking in the drawn-on tattoos that have faded since this morning, up to his dark hoodie, and finally to his dark eyes. He glares down at me, his lips twisting into a grimace. If he didn’t look so intensely evil, he would be beautiful, with a splattering of light freckles across his nose and a silvery scar that intersects his eyebrow.

“Morgan,” he snarls. The sound vibrates through my chest.

I start to step back, my flight response at an all-time high, but he grabs my arm, holding me in place. Something about him makes it impossible to look away. I want to avert my eyes. I want to scream out for Mr. Roberts to help me — for anyone to help me — but I’m frozen.

“You got me in trouble,” he seethes. “They called my parents.”

I open my mouth to respond. To tell him thathegot himself in trouble, but before I can, he continues.

“There you go again, inviting my dick into that mouth.”

A chill spreads down my spine. No one has ever talked to me in such a vulgar and explicitly sexual manner. I slam my mouth closed. If I can’t speak, I won’t give him any excuse to terrorize me. His grip on my arm tightens so much that I wince. His eyes roam over my face and continue down my body, lingering on my chest as it heaves with my rapid breaths. I’m powerless to resist when he pulls my arm, crushing our chests together. He lowers his head slightly, putting our mouths so close that I can smell the faint hint of a cigarette mixed in with the peppermint of his gum. My stomach churns. I hardly ate anything at lunch, but it feels like it might come back up.

“You,” he breathes against my lips. “Are fucking worthless.” I suck in a breath, the words feel like being slapped. “You aren’t worth the dirt on the bottom of my fucking shoe.”

With that, he pushes me back, releases my arm, and turns to walk out the door.

Any confidence I had goes with him.

Lucky

The first sensation I feel is a crushing weight on my chest, as if a colossal elephant is standing directly on it. I struggle to inhale deeply. How could I do so with that giant beast perched there? The second sensation is a smell; I detect thick, toxic smoke. The odor is everywhere. My eyes fly open as my heart rate spikes like a Formula One car off the starting line, going from zero to one hundred in about 2.5 seconds flat. My eyes search the room; no smoke, no fire.

The third sense that stirs back to life is sound. I hear the beeps of the monitors connecting to my chest, increasing in tempo. The oxygen machines make a ‘swoosh’ noise as the pump inside moves up and down. An alarm kicks on, sounding strangely like an ambulance siren mixed with a fire alarm. My throat feels raw and blistered, distinctly like something is lodged here. I reach my hand up, rubbing at my neck, and pain shoots through my hand — an IV tube twists and pulls, caught under the blanket draped over me.

Next, I start when the door flies open, and a middle-aged black woman in a nurse’s uniform rushes in. When she registers my eyes are open, she halts mid-step. Her expression shifts from concern to joy, and a broad smile spreads. She pauses a moment before continuing to the machines I’m connected to, lifting the sheet of paper the heart monitor prints and pressing buttons to silence the wailing alarms.

“Well, well, well,” she sighs, crossing her arms. “You gave us quite the scare.”

The newest sensation is confusion, which must be displayed clearly across my face.

How did I get here?

What happened?

I open my mouth to ask these questions, but physically, I cannot speak. My hand moves again, and I feel the tube now. It’s taped to the side of my face and feeds into my mouth and down my throat. Her hand reaches for mine, gently guiding it down to my side.

“The doctors decided to intubate you. Your oxygen levels were dangerously low, and we didn’t trust your lungs to do the work for you.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in the most sympathetic way.

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