Heart on a Chain

  “You cold?” he asks.

  I wrap my arms around me.

  “A little, but I’ll survive.”

  “Here, I have a jacket…” He opens his trunk, pulling out a zip-front hoodie. I push my arms into the way-too-large jacket. He reaches forward and zips it up, then rubs his hands up and down my arms.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thanks. What about you, though?”

  “I hardly ever get cold. My mom says my dad and I have built in furnaces.”

  He opens the car door, shuts it behind me, and jogs around to his side. He starts the car, taking some time to turn the heat on.

  “Did you like the game?” he asks as we work our way out of the parking lot, which is still jam packed with kids just sitting in their cars, flashing their lights and honking their horns.

  “Yeah, I really did.”

  “You figured it out pretty quickly. My dad watches football on TV all the time, but after all these years Mom still has no idea how it works.” This complaint is given with that same amused frustration I’ve heard before when he talks about her. I wonder how it would be to have a mom worthy of such love.

  Even more, I wonder how it would be to be the recipient of such an emotion from Henry.

  “It was a lot of fun. I’m really glad I came. Thank you for asking me.”

  He reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand which lies in my lap, and continues to hold my hand for the rest of the ride home. He stops at the usual spot, which starts the butterflies in my stomach at what I’m going to find at home. If my luck has held, they won’t be home yet. Yeah, right, since when do you have that kind of luck?

  Since he came into your life, another voice answers, surprising me with its truthfulness.

  “This is your bus stop,” he says as he opens my door. I climb out, starting to unzip the jacket to return it to him. His hand on mine stills the action.

  “Keep it. I can get it from you later.”

  “Won’t you get cold?” I ask.

  “Internal furnace, remember?”

  “Okay, well, I’ll bring it Monday.”

  “Listen, I was wondering if you might want to go do something tomorrow.”

  Of course I want to, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. That isn’t my reality, though, having what I want.

  “Sorry, I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  Disappointment flashes in his eyes. He nods.

  “You sure I can’t drive you home? It’s dark out here.”

  If he only knew the danger isn’t here in the dark, but in the “safety” of my home.

  “No, I’ll be fine. Thanks again. I haven’t had this much fun in as long as I can remember.”

  He smiles, pulls me in for a quick hug which testifies of his internal furnace, releasing me before I can even react enough to bring my arms up to return the gesture.

  “See you Monday morning then.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  I watch him drive off, then walk toward my darkened house. The car is in the driveway, but all of the lights being off are a good sign. I sneak around to the back and climb up to my window, which I had unlocked before I left. I quietly climb in, reluctantly pulling his jacket off to get ready for bed.

  I pull back the covers, moving the pillows I had placed on my bed to make it look like I was in bed already. The chances of one of them actually coming to check on me were slim, but it’s best to be prepared for anything, I’ve learned. Just before sliding into bed I pull his jacket off of the chair back and put it back on, zipping it up tightly.

  I climb into bed, snuggling the jacket close to me. It smells like him, I think, as I take a deep breath in the folds of the material. I relive the night, pushing out of my head the bad parts, especially Jessica, slowly reliving each moment that found my hand in his, or me in his arms. With a contented, happy sigh, I slip into sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  If there can be such a thing as a peaceful weekend in my house, this is it. Whatever Friday night had been for my parents, it has somehow provided a small measure of happiness for my mom. Not that she’s been immediately transformed into a kind, loving mother, but the put downs are few, the complaints about my work almost non-existent, and I haven’t received so much as one pinch or slap.

  I can’t stop thinking about Henry. Monday morning can’t come soon enough, no matter how unusually calm a weekend I’m having. I wonder where he is, what he’s doing. I wonder who he’s with, and I’m jealous of anyone being with him, no matter who it is.

  I have never imagined school being something to anticipate, but here I am again, rushing to get ready and get out the door. I only wish I had something to wear that didn’t look like the obvious secondhand item it is. Mostly I own t-shirts and sweatshirts—shapeless, anonymous clothing. For the first time ever, I wish for something more feminine.

  I run to the corner, then slow to a walk in case Henry is already there. He is. I smile, wondering just how early I’d have to show up to beat him here. I’m wearing his jacket in the cool morning air, having first hidden it under my books as I left the house. I could have just carried it, but I wanted the feel of it on me one more time.

  “Hey,” he calls.

  “Hey,” I say back, shyly, embarrassed, now, that I’m wearing the jacket.

  I shift my books and begin unzipping it.

  “Thanks for letting me borrow this,” I begin.

  He wraps his hand around mine, halting my unzipping.

  “Keep it.” My chilled hand is warmed by his.

  “I can’t—”

  “It’s cold out here.” He squeezes my hands, “I can tell you’re cold. Besides, I’ve got plenty of others.”

  “Okay, I’ll give it back after school. I’m sure it will be warmer then.”

  As we ride in the warm comfort of his car, he holds his hand out.

  “Here, give me your hand and I’ll warm it up.”

  I warily place my hand in his, thinking this feels a little too much like simply holding hands, something I’ve never done with anyone else. Then I decide I’m overanalyzing the whole thing. Clearly, he’s just trying to help, and I’m grateful for the sake of my cold hand, anyway.

  “I wanted to tell you…I mean, what I wanted to say was…” his voice is oddly unsure, vulnerable. He clears his throat, then starts that thoroughly distracting thing of rubbing his thumb across my palm.

  “I had a lot of fun with you Friday night.”

  “Me, too.”

  He opens his mouth, closes it again, jaw clenching once before finally saying, “I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me your phone number so I can, you know, call you sometime.” I wonder if it’s normal for it to be such a big deal to have someone’s phone number. Having never had a phone—or a friend—I have no idea.

  “I’d be glad to give it to you if I could.”

  He glances at me, brows furrowed with that charmingly puzzled look he sometimes has.

  “You aren’t allowed to give out your number?”

  I duck my head, ashamed now. “We don’t have a phone.”

  “Oh.” That stymies him. He’s silent for a minute. “Well, that sucks.”

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. It sucks for him? How does he think it is for me? Although, admittedly, it wouldn’t do me much good since there isn’t anyone I’d want to call, let alone anyone who would want to call me.

  He smiles at my laughter. “Saturday and Sunday were long days. I really wanted to talk to you.”

  I’m surprised at how his thoughts echo my own, but even more surprised that he even thought of me at all after the game. Surprised that it warms me so much to hear him say it.

  “For me too,” I tell him.

  “You think you might be able to get out again this weekend?”

  “When?” I hear myself asking, knowing it’s completely impossible.

  “Well, Saturday would be nice if you could. My mom is big on…well, pretty much every holida
y. But since Halloween is almost here, she has her big annual Halloween dinner planned for this Saturday.”

  “You want me to come to your mom’s dinner?” I’m taken aback.

  “It’s not a big deal, or anything,” he rushes to tell me. “She has this big holiday themed dinner for most of the holidays before the actual holiday. Kind of a tradition, but kind of fun too, I guess. I just thought you might like it.”

  “Who would be there?” I ask.

  “Just my family.”

  I feel a little queasy at the thought of being there for a family function—or anywhere for that matter. I haven’t had a lot of experience in anything that has to do with normal families.

  “But won’t your mom be mad if you bring me to your family dinner?”

  “Actually, she invited you.”

  “But… she doesn’t even know me.”

  “I’ve told her about you and she’d like to get to know you.” Panic floods me. Why would she want to know me?

  Reading my mind he says, “She likes to know all of my friends.”

  “Oh.” The dread eases a little. That makes sense, I guess. That’s probably how most normal moms operate.

  “I thought I’d tell you now so you can have the week to think about it again. I seem to have better luck getting you to come that way.”

  I laugh.

  “Okay, I’ll think about it,” I promise, already disappointed that there’s no way my luck will hold for another weekend, allowing me to say yes.

  I probably would have told him no, except for an incident that happens on Friday.

  After lunch I’m walking to my math class, not paying attention to my surroundings. Since Henry and I have become sort-of friends, the other students seem to have lost most of their passion for bullying me. I’m not sure of the reason for it, but I’m not going to call attention to it either by questioning it. I’m by no means full of confidence as I walk down the hallways, still keeping my eyes on the floor, but maybe not as watchful as before.

  That’s why I don’t see Jessica. As I pass the girls bathroom, I’m suddenly shoved inside, falling as my books go skidding across the floor. I look up to see what happened and see Jessica with two of her cohorts standing, blocking the exit. One of them faces toward the hallway, keeping anyone out who might try to come in.

  It’s been so long since anyone has done anything to me, that instead of cowering as I usually do, I scramble to my feet, intending to confront her. Something in her face stops me.

  Her eyes are narrowed, mouth pinched. She looks more than angry. She looks like my mom looks just before she inflicts some kind of violence on me. She sees my hesitation and begins moving toward me slowly, like a predator cornering its prey.

  I take an involuntary step backwards, see her eyes widen with pleasure at that.

  “I have a question for you,” she says casually, but I can hear the menace in her voice.

  I swallow over the lump in my throat, all of those feelings of fear and humiliation that I had almost forgotten about recently coming back full force.

  She’s still slowly walking, examining her nails. “I was just wondering…” her eyes shoot to mine, and I’m stunned by the power of the hatred I read there. “Just who do you think you are?”

  I’m not expecting that. My face must reflect my confusion because she suddenly strides up to me, her face right up in mine.

  “Do you think you’re so great that you deserve someone like Henry Jamison?” When I don’t answer her, her anger flares. With a half-scream, half-growl she punches me across the face, knocking me back to the floor.

  “You are a loser!” she screams at me. “He is too good for you. Leave him alone!” She turns away, supposing that I’ll obey her. I know better, know to leave well enough alone.

  But something has shifted in me, ever so slightly, and before I can stop to consider the consequences, I open my mouth. “He’s my friend,” my voice is soft, but she hears it clearly.

  She swings back toward me.

  “What?” she screeches.

  I sit up, wiping the blood that seeps from my cut lip with my thumb.

  “I said he’s my friend,” my voice is surer now.

  With another frustrated scream she jumps on me, straddling me, slamming my head against the cold tiles. Then she slams it twice more for good measure before I can recover enough to try and stop her.

  She leans over me and speaks with gritted teeth, spittle showering my face.

  “In what world do you begin to think he could be your friend, let alone love you? I’ve seen the way you look at each other. It’s disgusting. I’m telling you right now that I won’t let it be. I am the only one good enough for him, and I will have him when you quit…tricking him, or whatever it is you do to make him want you. If I have to tell you again, you’ll be sorry!”

  She slams my head again, then rises off of me. After a kick in my stomach, to make sure the message is clear, she strides out of the bathroom. I lift my head to watch her go. Both the other girls who are with her look back at me, and I swear they look almost apologetic.

  I groan and lay my head back down for a minute. I hear the bell ring and groan again. Slowly, I roll onto my side and push myself into a sitting position. The room sways and I close my eyes against the sensation. When it stops, I grab the edge of the sink and pull myself up.

  I look in the mirror, see the drying blood on my face at the corner of my mouth, which is already swelling. I turn on the water and carefully clean the blood off, rinsing my mouth out with a handful of water. I touch the back of my head, which is throbbing, wincing when my fingers brush the knot that’s already forming there.

  I might have cried then, that my tenuous sense of security has been shattered, except for something she said to me. Something that sings through my blood and causes my nerve endings to tingle.

  I’ve seen the way you look at each other, she said, and the possibilities that accompany those words bring a smile to my face.

  By the time photography rolls around, my lip is swollen, but it can’t keep the wide smile from my face. Henry looks at me in alarm.

  “What happened?” he demands angrily. I’m beginning to understand that his anger isn’t directed toward me, but rather toward whoever hurt me, so I’m not quite as alarmed by it.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say happily.

  I can see the anger faltering, warring with something else.

  “Are you happy that someone hurt you?” he is incredulous.

  I shake my head.

  “Then what’s with the big smile?”

  “I’m happy because I get to say yes.”

  “Yes?” he looks lost.

  “Yes, I get to say yes—to you. For Saturday. If you still want me to come.”

  A grin fights to wipe the frown from his face, his eyes showing his confusion.

  “You had to get beat up to say yes?”

  I shrug, my smile never wavering.

  “That’s messed up,” he mutters.

  Mr. Hurley stands to begin class, as Henry leans over to me.

  “So, what does the other guy look like?” he teases, and I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s going to let it go.

  Chapter Nine

  On Saturday, Henry picks me up in our spot at six o’clock. I made sure that I’d done all of my chores very well and very quickly. I was still trying to figure out how to sneak out when my parents started fighting, giving me my chance to escape. I’d gone up the stairs as if going to my room, as I knew they would expect, then pulled Henry’s jacket on (which he’s kept insisting I keep for another day each time I try to return it to him) and climbed out my window. I run all the way to our meeting spot, keeping to the shadows in case they see me in the dusk.

  I arrive just as he’s pulling to the curb. I don’t wait for him to get out and open my door, just pull it open myself and jump in.

  “Hey!” he complains.

  “Go!” I command, sliding down in the seat as I slam the door beh
ind me.

  “Is someone chasing you?” His body is taut with alarm.

  “Not yet. Just go.”

  He doesn’t question me again, just hits the gas and peels away from the curb. When I feel the car complete the u-turn, I peek up over the back of my seat. I don’t see my parents or their car. With a sigh of relief, I sit all the way up and smile at him.

  He’s looking at me oddly.

  “That has to be the strangest way I’ve ever picked anyone up.”

  “Sorry.” I know I don’t sound sorry; I’m exultant. I’ve gotten away!

  We drive about three blocks, then turn left and go another two blocks. He turns left again onto a side street and pulls into the driveway of the third house up. He puts the car in park, and shuts it off.

  “Don’t even think about touching that door handle,” he warns.

  He didn’t need to bother, I don’t think I could move if my life depended on it.

  I’m staring out the car window with dismay at the large, red brick house that rises in front of me. It’s huge. I know people who live in houses like these—people like Jessica. People who wear jeans that cost more for one pair than my entire wardrobe cost. People who drive expensive cars and drink expensive wine and who spit on poor families like mine.

  Henry opens my door. After a minute, he leans down and peers in at me.

  “Did you want to come in, or should I bring your dinner out here?” he teases.

  I’m glad it’s getting dark enough that he can’t read the alarm on my face or see the tears that shine in my eyes. I climb out of the car, keeping my eyes down.

  “You live here?” I ask and hope he can’t hear the quaver in my voice.

  “Yeahhh,” comes his drawn out answer, hesitant, ending on an upswing like a question.

  I look at the manicured lawn with its groomed flowerbeds and bright landscape lighting and feel my stomach sink. There is stamped, colored cement covering the wide driveway beneath my feet, a four-car garage up ahead with obviously expensive custom doors. A rather large building stands behind the house.