Chaos (Kardia Chronicles) (Entangled Teen) Page 4

  My mom stepped in with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a peace offerer’s smile. “Thought you guys could use a break.” I smiled back and she set the plate on my vanity, then made herself scarce. Bink and I both called after her, “Thanks.”

  We sat for a few minutes and noshed in silence until he held out an upturned hand. “Oh, hey, Libby texted me about that guy at school messing with your column. What’s up with that? Want me to kick his ass?” he asked around the better part of a chewed-up cookie.

  I broke off a piece of one and popped it into my mouth, thinking about my response. Did I want him to? Definitely. But that wasn’t the way to solve the problem.

  If for some reason this wasn’t just a one-time deal, I was going to have to talk to Mac again, face-to-face, and tell him how I felt. Reason with him until he did the right thing and stopped this before it got out of hand. Surely he wasn’t going to go out of his way to make me miserable, because that didn’t make sense. I refused to allow myself to become a paranoid psycho just because I’d had the rug pulled out from under me. Not everyone was hiding some terrible secret.

  That firmly settled in my mind, I focused back on Bink. “Nope. Let’s sit back and see how things pan out. I’m hoping this was just for funsies and he’ll move on to other, more interesting things.”

  He nodded and wiped the crumbs off his hands. “Okay, but if he doesn’t?” He gestured, slashing his hand across his neck. There were a lot of times when it was hard to take Bink seriously. The dimples typically made him look like whatever he was saying was designed to charm the pants off the person he was talking to, and they took some of the heat off his threats.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  He was dead serious and it felt really good to have someone on my side who I trusted completely, even if I couldn’t be 100 percent honest with him. People in my corner were in rare supply these days. An image of Mac’s mocking grin flashed through my mind and the tension that had finally lessened enough to be bearable crept back up my neck.

  I gave Bink a tight smile. “If he doesn’t, then you won’t have to worry about it because I’ll kick his cocky ass myself.”

  Bet on it.

  Chapter Three

  The next day I stood in front of my locker, staring at the white tongue of paper sticking out of the slat, mocking me like a five-year-old. I plucked it free, calling on every yoga lesson I’d ever been forced to sit through, and began to read.

  Dear Wit’s End:

  I’m sure She is going to prattle on about setting boundaries and how you should sit down and talk it out.

  My eyes narrowed on the page. Odd how those were almost the exact phrases I’d used.

  But we all know it’s past that point, yeah? Your ma’s not going to stop because she thinks she’s doing the right thing. And to be fair, maybe you’ve done some things in the past that have caused her to lose trust in you? And maybe you need someone keeping an eye out for you right now?

  But hey, I’m not here to judge. Fact is, we’re here now, so my advice to you is this: get sneakier about it. Stop writing in your journal. Instead dig up one of those half-used spiral notebooks with all the paper shrapnel sticking out of the holes and label it SCIENCE or some such. On the off chance she decides to open it, the first bit will be school notes and she’ll leave it alone. Just make sure to put it back in the same place every time so she doesn’t notice it lying around more than your other school stuff.

  Problem solved,

  He

  So this was how it was going to be, then? I crumpled the paper in my hand and tried to keep my head from exploding. Apparently, he was going to refute every one of my responses. Lovely.

  “Oh, crap,” Libby said as she arrived to meet me and walk down to the lunchroom. Her gaze was locked on the white-knuckled fist at my side with the paper sticking out of it. “Again?”

  I cleared my throat and tried to calm the nerve-orchestra going on inside me that made me wish I had stayed home from school. “Yeah.”

  “I, uh.” She chewed on her bottom lip as she tucked her long blond hair behind one ear and leaned in closer. “Talked to Leni in history class. She had a printed copy of the one from yesterday. His.”

  I closed my eyes for a long moment and focused on my breathing. In and out. In and out. “Okay.”

  “She, uh, she said everyone who gets a copy of ‘That’s What She Said’ e-mailed to them also got a copy of ‘That’s What He Said.’” She winced, drawing back like she’d just dropped a scorpion on the floor between us.

  Charming. He’d officially swiped my title on top of everything else. And there was literally nothing I could do about it because he knew who I was and could out me at any time.

  Anger bubbled higher, and I reminded myself that this was a first-world problem. There were people who had to walk five miles and carry a bucket of water back to their village on their heads if they wanted to drink. This was nothing in the grand scheme of things. That reminder didn’t help, and now I only felt bad for those people in the village on top of everything else. I made a mental note to send the twenty dollars Uncle Steve would be giving me for Christmas to the Clean Water Fund and slammed my locker door shut.

  “What did she say about it?”

  Libby wouldn’t meet my eyes, and I knew I wasn’t going to like the rest of this conversation, so I opted not to have it.

  “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. I’m just going to do me and let him do him. A lot of people feel like my column helps, and I’m not letting him bully me out of doing something I like to do.” I led the way to the cafeteria, making halfhearted small talk as we went. When we passed a trashcan, I pitched the wad of paper into it. “So what’s it today? Fish sticks or grilled cheese?”

  Libby seemed thrilled to change the subject and took her cue to blab about the evils of cafeteria food, holding her sprout sandwich aloft like the Ten Commandments were etched onto the bread. When we got to the line, she bought a bottled water to wash down her weeds, and I chose a pudding, a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips, and an iced tea. Lunch of champions.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? That stuff will kill you, Mags.” She shook her head disapprovingly as we approached the lunch lady at the register, who blinked at me behind Coke-bottle glasses.

  “Two dollars and ten cents,” she said in a two-pack-a-day voice and held out a hand.

  I handed over the cash and then shook my head at Libby as we moved out of the line. “Unless I get cursed and turned into some kind of woodland creature, I will never eat sprouts. Or lettuce. Or any of that other crap you like to eat.”

  A kid I had gym class with piped in with a smirk. “Hey, hey, take it easy. Maybe you should talk it out. Sit down and have some conflict resolution.” He held up his phone, lit with a copy of “That’s What He Said.” “Did you guys read this yet? This dude is hilarious. I think She might want to hang it up.”

  Annoyance bit at me like a thousand little ants. There it was. The first public jab. So much for me doing me.

  “I saw it, yeah. He seems like a douche to me, but whatever.” I shrugged like I didn’t have a care in the world. “And if Libby and I were actually fighting, conflict resolution would have been a great idea, Cody. Now why don’t you get your little chocolate milk, take a seat, and eat the PB&J soldiers your mom made you, huh?”

  I shoved past him, through the rest of the students milling around the kitchen, and shouldered my way into the sitting area. Was everyone looking at me? Probably not. Most people hadn’t even known I existed until the incident, which was thankfully starting to fall into the “old news” category. Soon, it would go back to the happier days when they probably wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a crowd. I’d be damned if I was going to let Mac ruin it with more negative attention by needling me into some sort of psychotic breakdown.

  “Hey, guys.”

  Bink was standing next to us, gesturing to where his tray sat by the books he hadn’t taken back to his locker.


  I smiled, determined to put on a happy face rather than let him see my misery and take the risk of him punching Mac. Not that I cared if he bruised that pretty Irish face. I just didn’t want Mac to retaliate by exposing my identity. This needed to be handled carefully.

  “How’d the paper go?” I asked as we all sat down.

  He raised his brows, holding up a palm in the universal sign for “fuck if I know.” “I won’t get my grade until next week, but at least I handed it in on time.”

  Libby unwrapped her sandwich and then took a solid bite, a few sprouts sticking out of her mouth until she tugged them inside with the tip of her tongue.

  “Did you actually scrape that off your lawn on your way to school today?” Bink gaped at her, nose wrinkling in disgust.

  She ignored him altogether as she chewed. That happened a lot. Where Bink said something and Libby ignored it. I was sort of the glue of the group, and both had confessed to feeling a little uncomfortable when I wasn’t there. I often wondered if that was because they liked each other too much or not enough.

  “Anything happen with Finnegan?” Bink asked, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Part of me wondered if he wasn’t hoping something else had happened so he had an excuse to whoop his ass.

  “Sort of,” Libby responded before I could fluff him off. She picked at the crust of her multigrain bread. “He’s doing a column for real now, it seems.”

  He frowned and nodded before jamming half a hot dog into his mouth, chewing maybe twice before swallowing. “I heard that earlier today. Ally showed me his reply to that girl whining about her mother and her privacy.” He closed his ham-like fist around the pint of milk in front of him and faced me. “Don’t let it get to you. And don’t forget what I said. I’ll be happy to take care of it for you, if that’s what you want.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if he has a crush and this is his backwards way of showing it.” Libby rolled her eyes and snorted. “You know how little boys do in kindergarten, pulling pigtails and stealing your lunch.”

  Doubtful. I recalled the look in his eyes in the hallway the day before. Disapproval? Dislike? Nothing good, that was for sure. And then it had morphed into more like a satisfied cat toying with a cornered mouse. Nothing good there, either.

  I opened my chips but the greasy smell the second the bag cracked open crawled into my nose and hung there. For the first time ever, I considered Libby’s sandwich with something akin to desire. My stomach was all kinds of screwed up today and maybe I hadn’t made the best lunch choices.

  I set the bag aside and settled on my iced tea. Despite my efforts to play it off like everything was cool, my friends must have been aware of my mood because they changed the subject and spent the rest of the period chatting amongst themselves. It was a relief when the bell rang and I sprang out of my seat.

  As I walked out of the lunchroom, I saw Mac’s retreating back a dozen yards ahead of me. Briefly, I fantasized about launching my uneaten pudding at his head, but I held strong.

  Like my mom always said, time healed most wounds, and soon this would be nothing but a memory. This whole column thing would wear off in no time. It was hard to commit to do anything week after week, and most high school boys had the attention span of a gnat. Mac would get bored soon enough. I just had to hope it happened before I killed him.

  I stepped up to the second-floor art room and the tension pooled in my temples, making my whole cranium throb. It wasn’t that I was anti-art or anything. I was just anti-dickbag, and this was one of the two classes I shared with Mac. I briefly entertained the fantasy of skipping, but art was totally not my strong suit and this week we were working on decoupage, which even a monkey, trained or otherwise, could do. I wasn’t about to miss out on an easy A—which would hike my grade up to a solid D+, holla—for a guy who’d done more than enough to disrupt my life.

  I pulled in a breath and let it out nice and slow, trying to calm myself and all those pesky, needy cells wrangling around looking for an escape hatch. Funny, I’d thought it had been bad when the change first started, but lately, it was getting unbearable and Mac’s recent antics were making it even worse.

  “Hey, Maggie, you going to the game this weekend?” Summer Bochino brushed past me through the doorway.

  Um, yeah, about the game. I totally wish I could go. But I’m doing something less awful. Like scraping the carbuncles off my aunt Lucy’s feet.

  “I don’t think so.” What would someone normal, with a regular life and typical teenage worries, say here? “I have other plans. Mall and stuff. But…um, go Ducks!” I pumped my fist halfheartedly and smiled.

  She squinted at me and shook her head in confusion. “You mean Eagles?”

  I heard a low male snicker behind me, and my shoulders tensed in annoyance even as a tingle of awareness crept over me. Great. So much for my slim hope that, after our little confrontation in the hallway yesterday, Mac had decided that his A+ could withstand the hit of a skipped class to give us both a little time to cool off.

  “Yeah, them, too,” I muttered.

  Summer was nice enough; I just had nothing in common with her and to try to pretend I did would take an amount of energy that I didn’t have at my disposal at the moment.

  Still, she shrugged and gifted me with a dazzling smile before picking her way across the room to a long Formica art table.

  “Go Ducks?” Mac said in a tone drier than Hortense’s elbows.

  I tossed my backpack onto the nearest table, wheeled around, and glared at him, infuriated as much by my body’s reaction to him as I was by his words. “Back off, Finnegan. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve all this attention from you, but if you could let me know, I promise I’ll stop doing it immediately.”

  His gray gaze traveled from the top of my head down to my toes and back again, and the skin on my arms prickled. “Can’t help myself. You just look so fine in your t-shirts and sneakers, I can’t help myself.”

  The jab made my stomach burn, but I wasn’t about to let him get the best of me again. I held my arms up high like “look your fill” and smiled but the witty retort on my lips disappeared when his gaze shot to the strip of abdomen my move had bared and stayed there.

  On a dime, the teasing fled and the cocky smile that had tipped his lips disappeared. His gaze shot back up and he jammed an agitated hand through his hair. A secret thrill shivered through me, and I stamped it out, lowering my arms.

  Who cared what he said? I should be happy he didn’t like my clothes.

  So turn the other cheek, stupid and walk away, the rational part of me counseled wisely.

  And then, right on its heels, from the irrational part? Want.

  I pushed down hard to squash the energy that whipped at me, struggling to get out. A wisp of power escaped in spite of my best efforts, and the air in front of me crackled.

  He looked at me, I looked at him, and he tilted his head to the side questioningly.

  I froze, waiting to see if he called me on it. The crackle had been so slight, like the shock when two people touch after rubbing their feet on the carpet over and over, but it was there. I had no explanation to give him short of the truth, and the odds of that happening were about as good as Hortense inviting me over for dinner some time.

  Lucky for me, Mr. Foster had killer timing and came barreling in, wild-eyed with his brown vest and perpetually coffee-stained white button down shirt, looking like he’d just been called out of a super-villain’s meeting where they were discussing whether or not to deploy the nanobots.

  Mac and I slowly backed away from each other, never breaking eye contact, like boxers at the end of a round. My knees hit the back of my chair and I sat with a thud, heart stuttering as he finally looked away.

  “Good afternoon, class,” Mr. Foster said, adjusting his thick, round glasses. “We’re going to spend our period finishing up the decoupage project, so why don’t you get right to it. I’ll be at my desk grading papers,” —which we all knew was code for dr
inking whiskey from a coffee mug and posting on communist blogs. He motioned to the corner where the table he called his desk was tucked. “So feel free to come ask questions if you have a problem.”

  I liked Mr. Foster, I just thought he would have done better if the seventies had lasted longer. Still, I was happy to do as he instructed and get down to work. The quicker I settled in and focused on trying to make some art, the quicker I’d be able to ignore Mac.

  I wasted no time, glancing over the back countertop filled with half-finished projects and easily spotted my partially covered wooden music box. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the worst one—although, to be honest, decoupage is all pretty bad—and I plucked it from the pile. Crossing the room, I eyed all the tables to see where Mac had slung his backpack and saw it resting near Summer’s, so I beelined for the farthest table from theirs.

  One thing I could say about art—I might have been bad at it, but it was really pretty soothing sometimes. Therapeutic.

  The first thirty minutes of class flew by as I cut and squished and smoothed. Mindless work, and my brain so needed the break. I worked myself into a sort of meditation, where my fingers moved of their own accord. The dull hum of quiet chatter, the scent of glue and varnish and magazine paper.

  I reached for another cutout and realized with a start that I’d run out. I was going to have to walk by Mac to get more. I considered not, but with another twenty minutes left to the period, I had no choice.

  Standing, hyperaware of my non-descript T and button-fly jeans, I went up for more scraps, aggressively ignoring my new, self-appointed nemesis. Q: When had I become self-conscious about my look? A: Yesterday. Before then, I’d been all about dressing first for comfort and second for the barest hint of streamlined, no-fuss style. I lived in jeans paired with long-sleeve tees in the winter and shorts and camis in the summer, but even those made me feel a little bare lately. Contrary to Finnegan’s snide remarks, they looked fine. End of story. How that translated into a comment-worthy wardrobe was beyond me.