Lost, p.22
Lost, page 22
But there was always an exception, and for him that exception was Eliza Beth. He was lucky enough that he didn’t have to see her until second period English, but even having the morning to prepare for the sight of her hadn’t been enough. He’d thought his anger would dissipate in the week and a half that he’d had to get over things, but the moment he saw her it was like giving oxygen to a dying fire.
He wanted to hit her, especially when she looked across the room at him like nothing had changed.
He had thought she would at least have the sense to stay away from him, but it seemed she wasn’t as smart as he’d given her credit for.
He was highly aware of every member of his English class watching himself and Eliza Beth with absolute stillness as she made her way over to him, almost as if they were waiting for him to lash out and attack her the way that he had Ethan Masters. A part of him wanted to, if he was being honest. But he knew better than to hit a girl, he knew better than to push his luck when he’d just come back from being suspended, and he hardly wanted to give anybody — student or teacher — the satisfaction of knowing how close to the edge he still was. But it was hard when she was getting right in his face. He needed to take control. He gripped his chair.
“Lysander,” she said. “Hi. I just wanted to s—”
“Don’t bother, Eliza Beth,” he said immediately. “Just go away.”
The absence of sound was gone in a minute. People were snickering, taking in surprised breaths, or letting out low, fight-provoking, “Ooh”s. Eliza Beth’s mouth snapped shut at once, but her eyes were still talking. She was angry too, though he didn’t feel like she had a right to be. She looked ready to say something else to him, but Ms. Lowe chose that moment to enter the classroom.
“Everybody to their seats,” she said at once. “Free writing for ten minutes!”
Ms. Lowe caught his eye briefly after she said this, but the look lasted too short a period for him to decipher.
He took up his pen immediately after she had given him a sheet of blank paper, but the words weren’t coming quite as easily as they had every other time he’d done this. This was, no doubt, due to the fact that his own words had in some ways been used against him. Despite the fact that this had in the end been the reason that he was only suspended instead of expelled, having so many people know his innermost thoughts just didn’t sit well with him.
But now that they were already out there, what more did he have to lose?
I always used to think being suspended was no big deal. It always seemed like a good thing — a holiday away from school. But it’s not like that. You’re still expected to catch up on all of the work that you missed while you were gone, and being stuck at home while all your friends are busy gets boring pretty fast. So no matter what people might think, I’m glad to be back at school.
I hated not knowing what was going on with Jack. I know he can take care of himself, but I feel like I started a war the day that I hit Jeffery Hallon, and it’s my fault now if the guy gets bullied by those losers. But he says he was fine the entire time I was gone and I believe him. It makes me hope that things are improving around here, but I’m not sure I’m stupid enough to believe it.
Lysander could feel Eliza Beth’s eyes on him throughout the entire lesson, but he never once looked her way — not even when they were told to get into their groups and she moved into the empty seat beside him. He kept his eyes to his right, on Jack or even George Moore, and if ever he had to turn to the left he made certain he only looked to their teacher.
He could tell that it pissed the girl off, but he really couldn’t have cared less.
What he did care about was the way Ms. Lowe was most definitely keeping an eye on him. He had noticed Mr. Bailey doing it in first period as well, though the two teachers appeared to be doing it for entirely different reasons. His U.S. History teacher had looked at him as if waiting for him to crack and draw a gun on all of his classmates; his English teacher watched him as if she pitied him.
He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Come lunch, he was surprised to find himself running into Loralie. She’d been heading one way down a corridor and he and Jack the other, but she’d stopped when he’d intercepted her and pulled her aside. She’d looked surprised to see him at first, but had recovered quickly and greeted him with a smile.
“Lysander,” she said. “It’s good to see you back.”
She’d been on his mind since he’d seen her at the fight, and he knew she’d been helping him out from behind the scenes. She was no doubt the reason that Marina had come around to explain to Zack about the day at the beach, and was therefore responsible for Zack’s improved attitude when it came to him talking about and defending his fans.
“I wanted to thank you,” he told her, “for getting Marina to explain things to my dad. And for stopping the fight that day. You didn’t have to do it.”
“You were getting your butt kicked. Somebody needed to stop it.”
“Masters could have seriously hurt you,” he said. “You should have kept back.”
“I can take care of myself, big boy.” She punched his arm lightly as if to emphasise her point. “A normal person would just say thank you and leave it at that. So you’re welcome.”
She waved to somebody in greeting as they passed, giving Lysander a moment to really look at her. And then she was back to focusing on him and their conversation, all smiles.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“Ah... No. I just wanted to say thanks.”
He almost felt foolish under her gaze, like he should have come up with something more interesting to say to her than a simple thank you.
“I’ve gotta meet my friend in the library so we can finish an assignment,” Loralie said, “but we should hang out again sometime.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “I’ll come and find you tomorrow and we can work something out.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you around, Lysander.”
“See ya…”
He watched her go down the corridor in silence, unaware of Jack’s raised eyebrow until he turned back to his friend.
“Moving on a little fast, aren’t you?”
It took him a moment to understand what the boy was saying.
“No,” he said at once. “Absolutely not. It’s not like that. We’re just friends.” And then, almost mortified, he added, “Is that the way it came across?”
“No.” Jack gave him a reassuring smile. “I was just checking is all. It’s my job as your friend to look out for you.”
Lysander could believe that, but now he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t been sending the wrong message to Loralie.
Instead of making his way toward the Art room for his last period of the day, Lysander made his way — as promised — toward the school counsellor’s office. He still wasn’t happy about having to do it, but he figured he would be better off going to the sessions and putting up with them as opposed to skipping them and having to suffer the consequences.
When he opened the door to find Ethan Masters sitting in the room, he almost changed his mind.
Masters looked just as annoyed to see him. A scowl immediately formed on his lips and he looked like he too was considering leaving the room. Lysander found himself hoping the boy would — the day had been going well despite everything, and with only one period left to get through he’d been hopeful he could make it through the entire day unscathed. Having Ethan Masters around was a sure fire way to ensure that didn’t happen.
The red-headed, middle-aged counsellor was already in her seat. She looked up and smiled as the door swung shut behind Lysander.
“Mr. Maverick. Thank you for joining us.”
Without a word Lysander begrudgingly took the only remaining seat in the room, inconveniently located right next to Masters.
“I’m Mrs. Nielson,” the counsellor said, holding her hand out to shake his. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
It wasn’t.
Mrs. Nielson set her notebook aside and positioned herself to face the two boys. They both looked back at her, pointedly avoiding looking at each other, and waited.
The woman reminded him of his sixth grade English teacher. Her smile was thin and she kept her hands folded neatly in her lap; she squinted like she was supposed to be wearing glasses, and her clothes were covered in what was undeniably cat hair. Despite all this, she came across as kind. Maybe somebody he could trust, given a little more time. Even Masters looked at ease around her.
“I’m sure you’re both wondering why you’re here together,” Mrs. Nielson said, “so I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.” She looked between the pair of them. “I wanted to bring you both here today in the hopes that we could work through your issues and regain some sense of civility between you.” Another smile, from one to the other. “Do you think we can do that?”
Lysander doubted it. There had never been a time when he and Ethan Masters had gotten along, and he didn’t see that changing. Nothing could change the fact that Masters was a bully; nothing would ever make Lysander tolerate that type of behaviour.
Masters looked about as hopeful as Lysander.
Nielson beamed at them both. “Why don’t we start by discussing the fight and what it was about.”
That was the last thing Lysander wanted to do. He had spent the day staring down anybody who dared bring up his mother, his sister or his father, and now Mrs. Nielson wanted not only to bring it up but also to discuss it? It didn’t sound appealing in the slightest.
“Why did you start the fight, Mr. Maverick?”
Because Masters was a jackass. That was what he wanted to say, but he held his tongue and stuck to the facts instead.
“He was talking about my family and calling me a fraud.”
“And that made you angry?”
“Obviously.”
She turned to Masters. “And why did you do this, Mr. Masters?”
Masters was silent. He kept his eyes firmly on the scene outside the window and his mouth shut so tightly that Lysander began to doubt that he was ever going to answer. But then he spoke.
“I didn’t know the stories were true.”
Lysander raised an eyebrow.
“The ones about your mother and sister,” he clarified, shooting a glance Lysander’s way. “The other one, I don’t know. I don’t give a crap if you’re a rockstar’s kid or not.”
“Why does it make a difference,” Lysander asked, “if you thought the stories were true or not? You would have used it against me anyway.”
“No,” Masters said. “I wouldn’t have.”
There was a pregnant pause after that in which Lysander wondered what that was supposed to mean. Masters went back to avidly staring out the window, and Mrs. Nielson looked between the two boys with a look that said she thought she was already making headway. She had just been opening her mouth to say something when a cell phone rang from the adjoining room.
“Oh, my.” The woman frowned. “I’m so sorry. I need to take this. I’ll only be a minute.”
The moment she left the room and slipped the door closed behind her, Masters was on his feet. He had his bag in his hand and was ready to head for the door, and Lysander knew that this could be his only chance — so he took it.
“Why?” he finally asked.
Masters growled and took a step; Lysander was up in a flash, blocking his way. He held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.
“I get it, okay?” he said. “It makes you feel good to put people down.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
“I needed to make sure the heat stayed on you, okay?” There was true anger in Masters’s eyes as he spoke. “I didn’t want people to start poking.”
“Poking at what?”
“My life.”
Silence again, in which the only sound was that of Mrs. Nielson's muffled speech from the other room.
“What happened?”
“Same thing that happened to you.” Masters met his gaze squarely. “I had a sister. She went missing. And three days later she turned up dead.”
That was the last thing Lysander had expected to hear. Did he believe it? He didn’t want to, but there was no joking in Masters’s eyes, nothing in his tone to suggest he was making some kind of cruel joke. He was gripping the strap of his bag like his life depended on it. Like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
Lysander knew that feeling.
Masters clenched his jaw. He nodded toward the door. “Now get out of my way. I’m not sticking around for any more of this.”
Lysander stepped aside in silence. Masters bumped his shoulder only half as hard as he usual would, as if he didn’t have the energy to put in the effort anymore. Lysander turned to watch him go.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” he said as the boy passed him.
Masters was almost completely out of the room before he mumbled, “Sorry about yours, too.”
Lysander spent the remainder of fourth period pretending to care about what Mrs. Nielson was saying while he thought on what Masters had told him. He by no means forgave the guy, but he couldn’t deny that he understood. He’d have to locate Masters the next day, he decided, and tell him as much. He would keep the boy’s secret.
But it by no means made them friends.
He met Jack outside the main office when the last bell of the day finally rang and together they followed the swarm of students out onto the street. The end of the day was always a good time for them, made better by the fact that everybody was too busy racing away from the school to look at them twice. Not even Masters glanced their way as he walked towards the highway — alone for once instead of accompanied by his usual gang. For a moment Lysander considered catching up with him, but he shot the idea down quickly.
“So, you wanna talk about it?” Jack asked. “I’ve spent some time with Nielson before. I know how annoying she can be.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Lysander said. “Honestly, I expected worse. But you’ll never believe who was there with me.”
The car pulled up beside them with a squeal.
The smart move would have been to run. But when the door closest to him was flung open and he found a gun in his face, Lysander couldn’t convince his legs to work. All those years of track team practice abandoned him as he stared down the barrel of the weapon. Into the face of the man behind it.
“Afternoon, Lysander.” Alfonzo cocked the gun. “Get in the car or I’ll shoot your little friend.”
Nothing had changed about Alfonzo since the last time Lysander had seen him. He still had a bird’s nest of brown hair, narrow grey eyes, and a slightly crooked nose that had likely been broken one too many times. If anything, he was perhaps slightly tanner now, as if he’d been in California a while.
Waiting? Lysander wondered.
From the moment he had learned of his mother’s death and his sister’s disappearance, Lysander had dreamed of hunting this son of a bitch down and making him hurt. It didn’t matter what the police said, what his father believed, what the whole world insisted. To him, Alfonzo was the cause of all his misery. And now here he was, not two feet away — but the man had a gun. It just wasn’t fair. When was the universe ever going to give him a break?
He wanted to tell Jack to run. He wanted to launch himself into hurting Alfonzo without having to worry about anybody else getting hurt, and it would only be a matter of time before somebody noticed the gun and started screaming. What did it matter if he ended up injured in the process? It would be worth it, just to watch the guy bleed. But a quick glance at the car showed another two men, both masked and ready to act. They were outnumbered.
The barrel swung from Lysander’s face to Jack’s.
“Okay,” Lysander said quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m getting in.” He glanced at his friend. “Jack, get out of here.”
“Yeah, Jack. And take this with you.”
The man in the front passenger seat threw something onto the pavement, but Lysander didn’t have time to see what it was before he was being roughly shoved into the back of the car. Alfonzo followed, his gun far too close for comfort. Lysander’s heart raced; he had to fight hard not to panic.
He caught one last glimpse of Jack’s stricken expression before the tyres squealed and the car launched into motion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Dakota’s song did not want to work for him.
This beat was too fast; that tune was too slow. It had seemed like a good idea to use a piano, as it had been the girl’s instrument of choice, but Zack couldn’t express himself with the keys the way he could with a guitar. Any lyrics he managed to write were cliché, or they just weren’t him. He had gone through the process of writing and scrapping so many times that he was giving himself a headache.
But he couldn’t afford to stop — the clock was ticking.
“Don’t try to force it,” were Pat’s words of wisdom whenever Zack complained about his predicament. “Just give it some time, and eventually it’ll flow.”
That was easy for the singer to say. Pat could write two songs to every one that the rest of them had to work tirelessly to pump out. And to add insult to injury, ninety percent of his lyrics were hits rather than misses. Zack would never admit it out loud, but sometimes the man made him feel incompetent. He knew Pat often felt the same way about him when it came to writing riffs.
That was why he had the singer with him now.
With Pat’s help, he reasoned, he should be able to write a masterpiece — but that was assuming he could come up with something for them to work with. Until then, all Pat could do was offer the occasional suggestion or words of encouragement. It was all that Zack would allow him to do. He wanted to at least get this started on his own.
