throws her arms around my neck and squeezes tight. I feel a tremble in her arms.
“You can tell Jack, I don’t care who or what he is, if anything happens to you, if you don’t come back, I’ll hunt him down and find a way to make death stick,” she growls into my hair. Her words are tangled up in tears. I don’t cry, but I feel it. For the second time today, a clump of something hot, tight and salty is stuck in my windpipe. I felt for sure when I hugged Mom goodbye this morning that I was going to cry, but I managed to hold it back. Teens don’t cry when they go camping for the weekend.
Leah decides not to walk me to the parking lot. Instead, she stays in the bathroom to fix her face. Dragging my weekender up the hall, I head for the front doors of PHS. Stupid bag. It weighs a ton. I was supposed to be getting a lift into school with Jack, but that didn’t go down too well with Mom, and she ended up driving me.
“Beau.” A nails down a chalkboard shudder rips right through me. The last time I heard this voice, it was dumping me. Sure, Mark and I have passed each other in the hall a couple of times, but we don’t speak, not anymore. I twirl on the balls of my feet to meet with my Ex. Oh goody, he’s with The Boob.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.” As soon as I open my mouth The Boob latches on to his left arm like a leech.
“Hey Beau,” she chirps through bubblegum-pink lips. I resist the urge to hiss at her, but I can’t muster the enthusiasm to speak. Instead I force a smile. Her Austen-esque bosom heaves as she sighs.
“How’ve you been?” he says.
“Good.”
Awkward. Lots of awkward hours amble on by.
“You going somewhere?” he finally says, eyeing my weekender.
“No.”
He laughs. “What’s with the bag?”
“What’s with the questions?” I say. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Movement in the parking lot catches my attention. I look through the double glass doors and see Jack’s car sliding into a parking space.
“I have to go. Doctor’s appointment.” He calls my name once more as I hightail it out of there. By the time I reach Jack’s car, he’s climbed out, popped the trunk, and is waiting to grab my bag. I steal a glance over my shoulder. The glass doors are reflecting the bright, white sun. I can’t see through to the other side, but I know Mark’s there, watching. With any luck, the curiosity is chewing up his insides.
Chapter Eleven
AIRPORT BATHROOMS ARE A sanctum for the suited-and-booted frequent flyer. The city is home to that airport--the one that no one has ever heard of, but everyone needs to catch a connecting flight to or from.
I can hardly move for women lined up at the sinks, brushing their teeth, retouching makeup, and giving themselves a wash down with a damp paper towel. I skulk off into one of the cubicles and take a seat on the toilet. Propping my foot up against the door, I pull my sock up over my skin. This is not some quirky way of having a pee. This is the start of the premeditated plan.
The premeditated plan has me sitting in wait for the suck-and-blow-swoosh of the hand dryers. The second it starts, I begin tearing off strips of tape and tacking the knife to my ankle. The knife is cold against my skin, too cold to sit there for any considerable duration. I’m going to get ice burns. I decide to pad my sock out with toilet tissue and tack it over the top. My hand is trembling as I twist the tape around and around. Not too tight, not too loose. When I’m done I clasp my hand and squeeze it into stillness.
Baggy jeans were a good wardrobe choice, I think as I stand up and shake them back over my sneakers. The knife is lost amidst a bulk of blue denim. I grab a lungful of composing air. Then make my way back to Jack.
He’s right where I left him, standing beside a payphone. Only now he has three flight attendants keeping him company. They’re all airbrushed beauties in tight skirts and silky shirts. Jack is making them laugh
“You can tell Jack, I don’t care who or what he is, if anything happens to you, if you don’t come back, I’ll hunt him down and find a way to make death stick,” she growls into my hair. Her words are tangled up in tears. I don’t cry, but I feel it. For the second time today, a clump of something hot, tight and salty is stuck in my windpipe. I felt for sure when I hugged Mom goodbye this morning that I was going to cry, but I managed to hold it back. Teens don’t cry when they go camping for the weekend.
Leah decides not to walk me to the parking lot. Instead, she stays in the bathroom to fix her face. Dragging my weekender up the hall, I head for the front doors of PHS. Stupid bag. It weighs a ton. I was supposed to be getting a lift into school with Jack, but that didn’t go down too well with Mom, and she ended up driving me.
“Beau.” A nails down a chalkboard shudder rips right through me. The last time I heard this voice, it was dumping me. Sure, Mark and I have passed each other in the hall a couple of times, but we don’t speak, not anymore. I twirl on the balls of my feet to meet with my Ex. Oh goody, he’s with The Boob.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.” As soon as I open my mouth The Boob latches on to his left arm like a leech.
“Hey Beau,” she chirps through bubblegum-pink lips. I resist the urge to hiss at her, but I can’t muster the enthusiasm to speak. Instead I force a smile. Her Austen-esque bosom heaves as she sighs.
“How’ve you been?” he says.
“Good.”
Awkward. Lots of awkward hours amble on by.
“You going somewhere?” he finally says, eyeing my weekender.
“No.”
He laughs. “What’s with the bag?”
“What’s with the questions?” I say. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Movement in the parking lot catches my attention. I look through the double glass doors and see Jack’s car sliding into a parking space.
“I have to go. Doctor’s appointment.” He calls my name once more as I hightail it out of there. By the time I reach Jack’s car, he’s climbed out, popped the trunk, and is waiting to grab my bag. I steal a glance over my shoulder. The glass doors are reflecting the bright, white sun. I can’t see through to the other side, but I know Mark’s there, watching. With any luck, the curiosity is chewing up his insides.
Chapter Eleven
AIRPORT BATHROOMS ARE A sanctum for the suited-and-booted frequent flyer. The city is home to that airport--the one that no one has ever heard of, but everyone needs to catch a connecting flight to or from.
I can hardly move for women lined up at the sinks, brushing their teeth, retouching makeup, and giving themselves a wash down with a damp paper towel. I skulk off into one of the cubicles and take a seat on the toilet. Propping my foot up against the door, I pull my sock up over my skin. This is not some quirky way of having a pee. This is the start of the premeditated plan.
The premeditated plan has me sitting in wait for the suck-and-blow-swoosh of the hand dryers. The second it starts, I begin tearing off strips of tape and tacking the knife to my ankle. The knife is cold against my skin, too cold to sit there for any considerable duration. I’m going to get ice burns. I decide to pad my sock out with toilet tissue and tack it over the top. My hand is trembling as I twist the tape around and around. Not too tight, not too loose. When I’m done I clasp my hand and squeeze it into stillness.
Baggy jeans were a good wardrobe choice, I think as I stand up and shake them back over my sneakers. The knife is lost amidst a bulk of blue denim. I grab a lungful of composing air. Then make my way back to Jack.
He’s right where I left him, standing beside a payphone. Only now he has three flight attendants keeping him company. They’re all airbrushed beauties in tight skirts and silky shirts. Jack is making them laugh
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