in.
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
Why was she here? That was a good question.
Because it was the last place on earth she wanted to be?
Because self-flagellation was the only thing that felt right?
Gaia’s real answer made her sound like a kiss-ass, so she didn’t want to say it out loud: She was here because she wanted and needed to apologize to Heather, even if Heather couldn’t hear. Gaia didn’t want to pander to the crowd, and she wasn’t looking for social resurrection. She was perfectly happy being a pariah. That was as comfortable to her as a pair of old shoes.
So, as often happened, she said nothing. She continued on her way down the hall without a particular plan in mind.
The second room on the right, through a wide-open doorway, was Heather’s. Gaia drew in a sharp breath and quickly averted her eyes. She hadn’t meant to go right there exactly. She hadn’t imagined how Heather would look, frail as a bird, hooked up by
scores of tubes to machines that dripped and machines that bleeped, shorn of the self-consciously cool clothing and the beauty that made it so much easier for Gaia to ridicule her. Gaia suddenly felt like throwing up.
There was something much, much worse than your enemy receiving praise, fame, and riches and living happily ever after with an exceptionally handsome guy: your enemy getting slashed in the park after you hoped it would happen.
Her eyes swept into the room again. There, as expected, she saw the dark head of The Boyfriend, bowed over Heather’s prone, still body. Maybe he was crying.
Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Gaia had no right to be there. What had she been thinking?
It was some selfish hope for exoneration that brought her, nothing nobler than that. Now what? She’d walk herself to the end of the hall. She’d wait a minute or two. She’d walk herself back out to the reception area, maybe find a waiting room on another floor, keep her own private vigil for a few hours—or days, if necessary—until things settled down. And then, as politely as possible, she’d apologize to Heather’s parents and ask if she might have permission to apologize to Heather. They’d think she was a complete freak, but that hardly mattered, did it?
Gaia trudged to the end of the hall. On her way back she cast one last look in Heather’s room. Quiet though she was, The Boyfriend chose that very moment to look up.
Gaia’s eyes stuck to his, and she couldn’t move them.
Her body reacted before her mind. Her head swam. The Coke she’d had for lunch climbed up her esophagus. All oxygen departed her lungs.
It was him. He was it.
It, him, he was Heather’s boyfriend.
The evil, ugly monster with the matted, stinking hair and the razor-blade fangs moved up from her stomach and took a chomp at her heart.
Gaia staggered toward the elevator so he wouldn’t see her when her knees gave out.
A Salted Slug
IN RETROSPECT, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN so much better if Sam had stayed where he was.
Instead, for no good reason, he allowed his unfaithful legs to carry him from Heather’s side, where he belonged, down the hall and after
the girl
.
It was impossible for him to explain why. He didn’t decide to do it. His body was just suddenly up and moving. It was like when the doctor thwacked your knee. You didn’t
decide
to kick your foot.
“Wait,” he said as she fled from him just as she had a few days before.
Heather’s sisters and a crowd of friends blocked the hallway, impeding the girl’s progress. She dodged and wove like a running back facing a defensive line.
“Leaving already, Gaia?” he overheard Carrie Longman say in an unmistakably hostile voice.
The girl broke through the line and made for the elevator bank. Sam followed her there along with a lot of whispers and nasty looks. It honestly did not occur to him that
the girl
was the girl Carrie had been addressing until he was facing her, just two feet away from her, in front of the elevators.
His thoughts were covered
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
Why was she here? That was a good question.
Because it was the last place on earth she wanted to be?
Because self-flagellation was the only thing that felt right?
Gaia’s real answer made her sound like a kiss-ass, so she didn’t want to say it out loud: She was here because she wanted and needed to apologize to Heather, even if Heather couldn’t hear. Gaia didn’t want to pander to the crowd, and she wasn’t looking for social resurrection. She was perfectly happy being a pariah. That was as comfortable to her as a pair of old shoes.
So, as often happened, she said nothing. She continued on her way down the hall without a particular plan in mind.
The second room on the right, through a wide-open doorway, was Heather’s. Gaia drew in a sharp breath and quickly averted her eyes. She hadn’t meant to go right there exactly. She hadn’t imagined how Heather would look, frail as a bird, hooked up by
scores of tubes to machines that dripped and machines that bleeped, shorn of the self-consciously cool clothing and the beauty that made it so much easier for Gaia to ridicule her. Gaia suddenly felt like throwing up.
There was something much, much worse than your enemy receiving praise, fame, and riches and living happily ever after with an exceptionally handsome guy: your enemy getting slashed in the park after you hoped it would happen.
Her eyes swept into the room again. There, as expected, she saw the dark head of The Boyfriend, bowed over Heather’s prone, still body. Maybe he was crying.
Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Gaia had no right to be there. What had she been thinking?
It was some selfish hope for exoneration that brought her, nothing nobler than that. Now what? She’d walk herself to the end of the hall. She’d wait a minute or two. She’d walk herself back out to the reception area, maybe find a waiting room on another floor, keep her own private vigil for a few hours—or days, if necessary—until things settled down. And then, as politely as possible, she’d apologize to Heather’s parents and ask if she might have permission to apologize to Heather. They’d think she was a complete freak, but that hardly mattered, did it?
Gaia trudged to the end of the hall. On her way back she cast one last look in Heather’s room. Quiet though she was, The Boyfriend chose that very moment to look up.
Gaia’s eyes stuck to his, and she couldn’t move them.
Her body reacted before her mind. Her head swam. The Coke she’d had for lunch climbed up her esophagus. All oxygen departed her lungs.
It was him. He was it.
It, him, he was Heather’s boyfriend.
The evil, ugly monster with the matted, stinking hair and the razor-blade fangs moved up from her stomach and took a chomp at her heart.
Gaia staggered toward the elevator so he wouldn’t see her when her knees gave out.
A Salted Slug
IN RETROSPECT, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN so much better if Sam had stayed where he was.
Instead, for no good reason, he allowed his unfaithful legs to carry him from Heather’s side, where he belonged, down the hall and after
the girl
.
It was impossible for him to explain why. He didn’t decide to do it. His body was just suddenly up and moving. It was like when the doctor thwacked your knee. You didn’t
decide
to kick your foot.
“Wait,” he said as she fled from him just as she had a few days before.
Heather’s sisters and a crowd of friends blocked the hallway, impeding the girl’s progress. She dodged and wove like a running back facing a defensive line.
“Leaving already, Gaia?” he overheard Carrie Longman say in an unmistakably hostile voice.
The girl broke through the line and made for the elevator bank. Sam followed her there along with a lot of whispers and nasty looks. It honestly did not occur to him that
the girl
was the girl Carrie had been addressing until he was facing her, just two feet away from her, in front of the elevators.
His thoughts were covered
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