A More Deserving Blackness by Angela Wolbert Page B

the hall later and had asked if I was all right, real concern in his blue eyes, and I hadn’t been able to answer, I’d just tugged the leather sleeve down over my wrist.  And then his girlfriend had come up and wrapped her arm through his and he’d just left, awkwardly melting back into the crowd, which meant he almost certainly thought me insane.
                  Why is this chick talking to me like we’re friends?
                  “Are you actually with Logan Brenner?”  Her voice isn’t malicious, just curious.  Just two girls having a friendly conversation.  “What’s it like dating a murderer, anyway?”
                  I stop cold for a second, just a second, but it’s long enough that she and her gathered friends notice.
                  “Wait.  Ohmygosh.  Don’t tell me you don’t know.” 
                  I’m shoving books into my bag without even noticing their subjects now; I just keep cramming them in angrily, one after another, waiting for the little sharks to draw their blood and be gone.
                  This time it’s a new girl.  Just as blonde – no way is that a natural shade - just as beautiful.  She leans up against the lockers directly in my way, twirling a lock of that bleached mop around one pink, manicured finger.  “Poor thing,” she says with an exaggerated little pout.  “I forgot.  You can’t tell us.  You can’t talk.”
                  She bats her I’m-pretty-fucking-sure-those-aren’t-real eyelashes at me and I want to punch her in the throat for talking like that about Logan.  For knowing something about him that I don’t, holding that small piece of him.
                  Out of nowhere, he pushes through the gaggle of them, grasping my wrist none too gently and dragging me from the center to the sound of their dramatic gasping.  We walk for some time after their shocked whispers die out, my footsteps hurried and uneven to keep up with his longer stride.  He marches me completely to the opposite side of the school.
                  When he stops abruptly he looks angry, pulling my arm to spin me around and unzip the front pocket of my bag in one fierce jerk, turning me back around to slap my phone into the palm of my hand so hard it stings.             
                  “Call.  Me.”
                  He practically growls it and I blink at him, trying to understand why he’s suddenly so furious, those girls’ words echoing in my head.  And then I do.  I understand.  With a glance at my wrist I see a fresh ooze of blood.  I’d been scraping it again and hadn’t even noticed.
                  He sighs.  Carefully wraps each of my fingers around the phone, one at a time.  “Please.  Call me.  Just . . . try.”
                  I nod.  I can agree to trying.
                  “I’m sorry.  For telling Erik you came home with me.  I wanted to end the rumors floating around about you and Dylan but,” he shakes his head.  “I shouldn’t have put you with me.”
                  He’s holding my hands around that phone and he’s watching me and I’m watching him, wondering about the things people say about him, wondering what he’s hearing people say about me, and then, out of nowhere, his face breaks into a grin.
                  “Can I ask you a question?”
                  I shrug.
                  “Why is every single one of your books in your bag?”
                  Oh, hell.
                  But I can’t help but smile back at him - a real smile – and he seems to take that in, absorbing it.
                  “Give me that.”  He reaches around me, pulling the absurdly heavy, bulky bag off my shoulder and onto his.  There’s a small, rusty stain at the bottom of his