Page 22 of Broken Pieces
Still, it stings. It shouldn’t. But it burns straight through me all the same.
“Don’t worry,” Cassie adds, her tone dry, the words rolling out slow as if they might soften the blow. “He looked bored.”
I grunt. The sound barely passing for a response.
My eyes stay locked on the cracked sidewalk. A weed has forced its way up through the concrete. I press my boot down on it until the stem snaps and the leaves crumple.
She changes the subject without warning, steering us away from danger as if it never existed.
We trade cheap shots at Mr. Dalton’s teeth, the way they are stained the color of old paper. We roll our eyes at the fact that Liza still drenches herself in perfume so strong it lingers inthe hallway long after she is gone. We bitch about the vending machines that never stock what they promise, spitting out stale Cheezels and disappointment in equal measure.
It is better this way. The petty complaints. The pointless noise that keeps the real shit buried where it belongs.
By the time we reach the school gates, my chest is tight and my heart is beating like a fucking war drum.
We pass the cliques one by one, each group locked into their little kingdoms.
The cheerleaders cluster together with their glossy lips and sharper eyes, their whispers curling through the air sweet as poison. The jocks with shoulders too broad and egos even broader, swagger dripping off them in waves that drown out what little sense they have. The drama kids sprawl across benches in thrift-store jackets and scarves even though it is warm, reciting lines no one asked to hear, pretending every gesture is profound.
No one says a word to us. Their eyes do the talking, sliding over us with that mix of judgment and curiosity that never changes.
We walk straight through the middle of them, our heads high.Every step is its own middle finger, even if we never lift our hands.
Inside, the school hums with life.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a high-pitched whine that worms into your skull until it feels like static under your skin. Lockers slam shut with the subtlety of gunfire, metal on metal rattling down the hall.
And then I see him.
Zane.
He is slouched against the vending machine. His arms are crossed, shoulders loose, head tilted just enough to show he does not give a shit about anyone passing by. A smirk is alreadyforming on his mouth that promises trouble before he even opens it. He doesn’t need an audience. The room bends toward him anyway, pulled in by gravity that no one can explain.
His eyes find mine across the crowded hallway. He just stares straight through me as if he already knows where the cracks are.
I shoot him a glare so sharp it could peel the skin from his bones. My eyes narrow, every ounce of fury sharpened, meant to cut him down.
He doesn’t flinch.
The bastard drinks it in, savoring the way I burn, twisting my fury to fuel that smirk of his getting wider.
I lift my middle finger high enough for him to see it clear and keep walking without breaking stride.
Cassie snorts beside me. “You two gonna make out or murder each other?”
We slide into our usual seats in the middle of the room, Cassie beside me, always closest to the door.
She says it is for the view, but I know the truth. Cassie always chooses the exit, always lines herself up with the fastest escape.
The desks around us are relics, covered in the ghosts of kids who probably don’t even walk these halls anymore. Initials are carved into the wood in sloppy hearts with declarations of forever that probably ended the next week. Black marker scars the surface too, one desk proudly screaming “suck it” in uneven letters, the ink faded but still legible. Another has a crude dick sketched in blue biro, balls lopsided, lines overlapping as if the artist was laughing too hard to steady their hand.
Cassie drops her bag on the floor, slouching so far in her chair it looks like her spine gave up. She blows a strand of hair from her face and digs a pen out of her boot. It’s chewed and leaking ink. It leaves smudges on her fingers. She doesn’t care.
I pretend to organize my shit, dragging it out like a ritual that might make me invisible.
I pull my books from my bag and set them in a neat stack, the edges lined up with obsessive precision, as if order can disguise the chaos in my head. I pick up my pen and click it three times, the hollow sound filling the space where thought should be.
He is not here.
