Heart on a Chain

“That didn’t sound right.” He stands, pacing away, running his hand through his hair, causing his hair to spike up again. “When we were in Elementary, we were friends right?” He turns back, looking at me, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I can’t really explain it, but I always felt, I don’t know, protective of you.”

  He glances at me to see what I think of that. When I only sit, watching him warily, he continues, “When we moved, I missed you.” This is said matter-of-factly, as if he’s telling me the sky is blue, but his words rock me. Someone missed me? Not just anyone, but him? “I thought about you sometimes. Wondered what you were doing, if you were still here. Then I found out we were moving back. I was hoping you’d still be here, that I’d get to see you.”

  I couldn’t be more stunned if he’d said he just swam across the ocean. The only thought anyone had ever given me had been when they saw me and thought of a way to hurt or humiliate me—peers and parents alike. To have someone think about me outside of that, to miss me, is beyond imaginable. I study him, trying to decide if he’s just teasing me, setting me up for some elaborate prank, but honestly, he seems sincere.

  “Then I saw you that first day and you ran away, and I’ve been trying to talk to you since. You don’t seem very open to conversation,” he says somewhat wryly. He looks at me, waiting for me to say something. I sigh.

  “Things change,” I say. He cocks his head, trying to understand what I mean. “Life here isn’t the same. I’m not the same.”

  He nods, accepting this. He comes and squats in front of me.

  “Yeah, you’re a lot taller,” he says gravely. I look up at him, and see his downturned mouth, then he glances up at me through his lashes and I see the gleam there. I can’t help it—I laugh. This brings a smile to his face and I quickly cover my mouth to stop the sound. His smile falls, and he reaches up to pull my hand down.

  “You shouldn’t do that. I had forgotten what a great smile you have.”

  I spin away from him, tears threatening again. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” I mumble, rolling my pants back down—a gesture not without pain.

  “Yeah? Why not?” He sounds genuinely curious.

  “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way things are at school. I’m everyone’s favorite loser. There isn’t anyone more fun to pick on than me.”

  He’s silent so long, I finally turn back toward him, and see anger on his face again, jaw clenching. I’m taken aback, worried that he’s angry with me. I glance at the bank on the other side of the stream again, wondering if I can make a run for it with my knees so sore. I know I can, of course I can. I’ve had to run other times with worse pain than this.

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed. It really makes me mad.”

  I choke out a strangled laugh at that. He’s mad about that? I shake my head.

  “I want to be your friend,” he says, and my stomach tightens.

  “You can’t be my friend. No one can be my friend. It’s social suicide.”

  He reaches out and brushes his finger lightly over the bandage knotted on my hand, leaving an improbable trail of fire.

  “I can honestly say that even if that is true, I don’t care.”

  I let out a frustrated groan. “Of course you care. Everyone cares. Do you want to be treated like me? Trust me when I tell you that you don’t.”

  “Trust me when I tell you I don’t care. I think you give both yourself and some of these people too little credit. Besides, if they’re that immature, who cares?”

  “Spoken like someone who’s never lived in my shoes.” I look off to the east, staring at the rugged mountains.

  He’s silent for a minute, head down. “You’re right. I haven’t been there. I’m not asking for a sacrifice by either one of us. I’m just asking for a chance to be your friend.” He gazes back at me, compelling me to meet his eyes.

  “Why?” I ask, barely above a whisper. “You don’t even know me anymore.”

  He smiles, and I feel my resolve weaken. “Yeah, but I’d like to.”

  I shake my head and grimace. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I’m not asking for anything. I won’t expect any more than you want to give. Mostly just for you to not ignore me during photography.”

  The corners of my mouth lift a little at that. “I was kind of wondering how I was going to do that when we had to partner for labs.”

  He grins.

  I look at him dubiously. “I don’t know about the friend thing, though…”

  “Yeah, you might be right. You might not like me too much when you get to know me,” he teases.

  Fat chance.

  “Or you me,” I return, dead serious.

  “I doubt that,” he’s smiling, but his voice is solemn. “But we won’t know if we don’t give it a chance, right?”

  A thousand reasons why we shouldn’t bubble up, but he squeezes my upper arm in supplication, much as you might with someone who really is a friend. The arguments die on my lips.

  “It’s your funeral,” I mutter insolently.

  He laughs, and then holds out his hand to me. “Friends?”

  I stare at his offered hand, before finally placing my hand in his. He gently squeezes, careful of the injury, then stands, drawing me up with him.

  “Come on, friend, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “No!” he looks at me, surprised at my vehement refusal, but I can’t let him drive me to my house. “I mean, that’s okay, I like to walk. I walk home every day.”

  “Okay,” he accepts this without argument. When I begin to climb the hill, my bruised knees that have been sitting in one position long enough to stiffen betray me and I groan involuntarily.

  “What?” his concern is immediate, as he looks me over.

  “Nothing, it’s fine. I think I hurt my knee a little.”

  I try to play it off, intending to grit down on the pain and walk as if nothing’s wrong. My body, never my ally, has other ideas and two limping steps give me away.

  “Alright, enough of the martyrdom,” he says, sweeping me up into his arms as if I were a small child. Surprised, my arms wrap around his neck to hold on, embarrassment causes me to duck my head. He strides easily up the hill, not putting me down until we reach his car. He sets me down, opens the door, moving a pile of books for me to climb in.

  “These are yours,” he says, handing me the pile. “You dropped them outside the school today.” No reference to the fact that the reason I had dropped them—and skinned my hands and knees—was that I had been running from him.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  He closes the door, walking around to climb in the driver’s side. It feels surreal, riding in a car beside a boy, almost as if I’m normal. I direct him to within about a block of my house.

  “Stop here, I’ll walk now.”

  He turns to look at me, an argument ready, but something he sees in my face stops him. He nods, and pulls over.

  “You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Hold on,” he says when I reach for the door handle. He jumps out, running around the car to open my door. I pretend that my knees aren’t blaring at me, and he pretends not to notice as I clamber out.

  “You know, you’re a little taller, too,” I tell him, amazed at my boldness.

  He laughs as he gets back in, gives me a wave, turns his car around and drives off. I watch him go, wonder thrumming through me—right alongside the suspicion.

  When I limp in the front door, I see immediately that my mother is asleep, snoring in a drug-induced slumber. Another first as I sneak quietly past her—not that she’s sleeping but that I ignore my chores for the moment, going up the stairs. I walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. With some trepidation, I approach the mirror.

  The mirror has become my enemy over the years, only required when I need to try to cover a bruise or black eye. Now I look in, pull my long, light blond hair back from my face,
and try to see what Henry might see when he looks at me.

  Rather unremarkable, I think. With a finger, I trace smooth skin (blessed with acne free, blemish free complexion), straight nose, eyebrows neither too bushy nor thin, an ordinary mouth, indented chin. I suppose my eyes are my best feature, wide and fringed with dark lashes. They’re light blue, ringed with gold.

  I shake my head and let my hair fall back into place. Nothing attractive, extraordinarily plain, but he still wants to be my friend. Okay, then.

  For the first time in my life, school tomorrow is something to look forward to. As a matter of fact, I think I might not be able to wait for it to come.

  Chapter Five

  However, as morning dawns, I find myself tied up in knots. Had the previous afternoon really happened, or had I only dreamed it? Because I can’t imagine that anyone would go out of their way to be my friend, let alone Henry. I wake early with excitement, but gradually my self-doubt chips away at it until I find myself dragging my feet, not leaving until the last possible minute.

  Once at school I fall back into my old pattern of avoiding places where he might be. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I see him and he ignores or, even worse, laughs at me.

  By the time lunch comes, I’m taut with tension. I walk into the lunchroom, head down, stand in line to get my lunch, and then head for my usual corner.

  And stop dead in my tracks when I see him sitting at the same table, looking right at me, smiling. At least, I guess he is smiling at me because a glance behind me doesn’t reveal anyone there looking in his direction.

  As I come closer, still hesitant, he steps out from his chair. I stop again, frozen, tense, waiting for… what? For him to flip my tray out of my hand? For the joke to come at my expense? For his mocking laughter?

  He walks toward me, a questioning look in his eyes, the smile on his lips faltering somewhat. He runs his fingers through his hair, stopping when he’s standing in front of me.

  “Hi,” he says.

  The sound causes me to twitch nervously, and I quickly glance around to see if anyone has heard. He still has a chance to back away. He takes another step and raises his hand toward me. I step backwards, ready to duck if he pushes my tray upwards. He halts the motion, color draining from his face. He stares at me, and I feel my cheeks flush with chagrin.

  “Let me carry that for you,” he says, quietly, taking my tray. I’m reluctant to release my grip, having lost more than one meal in the past from this very tactic. Not wanting to get into a tug-of-war with him, I let go. To my surprise, he simply turns around and places it on the table next to his own—then pulls the chair out. I look at the chair, then back at him. Another tactic I’ve fallen prey to before, the chair being pulled out from under me as I go to sit.

  Henry simply waits.

  With some reservation, I start forward, gripping the edge of the chair as I sit to keep it from being pulled out, but I don’t feel a backward tug on it. It’s a little uncomfortable to be sitting at the table, and I look longingly at my usual spot on the floor. I feel very exposed. Henry sits next to me; his size and presence shelter me, offering some sense of security—false or not, I find it comforting.

  “How are you doing today?” The question is unexpected, and I put down the slice of pizza I’d been about to bit into.

  I shrug, “Fine, I guess.”

  He grins, “I meant your hands and knees.”

  “Oh.” I glance down at my palms, and suddenly his large hands are there, pulling my hands toward him. His touch burns through me from the point of contact, all the way to my stomach. I’ve had more human contact in the last twenty-four hours than I’ve had for as long as I can remember—excluding the violent kind, of course—and it has all been from him.

  He examines my hands carefully, as if he were about to make a diagnosis. He rubs the pad of his thumbs softly over the scabbing scratches, and I shiver involuntarily.

  “They look better. Clean, not infected.” He glances up at me, and grins again. My heart thuds and I pull my hands back. He doesn’t seem offended, the smile never wavering. “You aren’t limping so badly, either.” This surprises me; I thought I wasn’t limping at all. “Did you walk to school today?”

  I nod, still tongue tied.

  He shakes his head. “You miss the bus?”

  “No, I never ride the bus. I always walk.”

  “Healthier, huh?”

  I almost laugh at his words.

  “Yeah.” Healthier with the decreased chance of being beat up!

  “Then you blow it all by eating that greasy crap,” he teases, indicating my pizza. To him, greasy crap; to me, likely the only meal I’ll get today and therefore beyond delicious. I can’t say that, of course, so I shrug and pick it up again, taking a big bite.

  Then I notice the others at the table. They’re the “losers” and they’re looking at me, mouths hanging open, shocked more than they would have been if Henry had sprouted a second head and started talking in tongues. I quickly look down, trying to ignore them as I eat, but hyper aware of their stares anyway.

  As if that isn’t bad enough, soon two of Henry’s friends come over, dropping their trays loudly and high-fiving Henry. They glance aside at me, but I think that maybe they seem less surprised to see me here than the losers are.

  “You know Ian and Kaden?” he asks me, and I only stare as they both jerk their chins toward me in greeting. Soon three other boys come and sit, Henry again making introductions, as if I haven’t been attending school with these guys for several years.

  With them come a lot of noise and talking, and I’m glad to sink into obscurity, eating quickly. Henry keeps glancing my way, as if to make sure I know I’m included in the conversation, but not trying to draw me in, for which I’m grateful.

  Lunchtime passes both too slowly, and much too quickly.

  After lunch, I have two classes before photography. I go through the motions in those classes, but I’m counting down the minutes until photography. I’m earlier than usual, then try not to keep watching the door, looking for the familiar, dark blonde, spiky hair to come in. When I see his frame filling the door, my pulse quickens. As he sits next to me with his usual greeting, I can tell I surprise him when I look at him with a shy smile and say “hi” back.

  Class starts and there’s no chance for conversation, but I feel a kind of comforting satisfaction sitting here next to him. Today is the last day of note taking, and on Monday we begin labs. I’m looking forward to that so that I’ll have an excuse to interact with him—and dreading it at the same time.

  As soon as the bell rings, I start stacking my books, not in as big a hurry as I’ve been before, but still needing to get off campus before the bulk of the students do to increase my chance of being left alone.

  “Need a ride home?” his words stop my movements. I think about how it had felt, sitting next to him in his car. Then I think about the looks and talk it will cause, not to mention how much sooner I’ll arrive home.

  “No, thanks, I’m going to walk.”

  “With your knees?” he’s skeptical. “Come on, it’s on my way.” I still hesitate, anxious about the thought of walking down the hallway next to Henry, with everyone watching, wondering if I should suggest meeting him at his car—knowing I’d never actually show up.

  He takes my hesitation as capitulation, and grabs my books, piling them on his own as he stands.

  “I promise not to bite,” he teases with that disarming grin. Without that, I might have said no, but I’m sadly powerless against what it does to my heart. Head down, I walk out of the room beside him.

  Once we’re in the hall, I slow my steps a bit, walking just slightly behind him. It seems too brazen to walk right next to him. He slows his steps to match mine, keeping me next to him. I try to slow more, but he also slows. Finally, when we’re barely moving, I realize the ridiculousness of it, and begin walking at a normal pace. I try, unsuccessfully, to ignore the looks and whispers that come our way as it’s ob
vious we’re walking together since Henry occasionally grabs my elbow to steer me through the crowds.

  I’m grateful when we reach the car. He opens my door for me, handing me my books before shutting the door. As we pull out of the parking lot, I’m again aware of disbelieving stares and students pointing at us. Henry’s oblivious.

  “So, you have any big plans for the weekend?” he asks, attention on the road as he navigates the maze of teen drivers still pulling out of other lots and merging into traffic.

  Let’s see; housecleaning, laundry, cooking food I won’t be allowed to eat, and maybe a beating or two. And, oh, yeah, swinging on my children’s swing-set as a means of escape.

  “No, not really. You?”

  “Nothing to write home about. I’m sure my mom has a list of chores for me,” this said with a lighthearted grudge in his voice and a smile on his lips. I wonder at those chores, certain they’re nothing compared to my own. “I thought I might go to the football game tonight. You going?”

  The football game? I have to think for a minute. Ah, yes, he must mean the high school’s football game. I’m barely aware of the schools extracurricular activities as they aren’t for me. No matter what game he’s referring to, I won’t be attending.

  “No.”

  “Do you want to go…with me, I mean?”

  I look at him, stunned. Is he asking me on a date? No, I laugh silently at myself, of course not. He’s just trying to be nice, to be my friend. My silence spurs him to speak again.

  “I could come pick you up. You know we don’t want you walking on those sore knees for a few days,” he teases, smiling at me.

  “No, I can’t.” There’s no answering smile on my face, and even I hear the quiet desperation in my voice.

  “Oh, come on, it might be fun and—”

  “No! I said no. I just…I just can’t, okay?” He’s silent following my outburst.

  “Is everything okay?” His voice is full of concern.

  I keep my head turned away, not answering, not trusting my voice because I can imagine it, imagine sitting next to him on the bleachers, drinking a soda, almost being a normal teenager. I feel his gaze on me, though he doesn’t press me.