Page 35 of The Broken Note

Everyone is watching, peering, surveying my every move. I’m a walking exhibit. A show for their own twisted pleasure.

It’s surreal.

Annoying.

Lonely.

I’ve always had a dark respect for Redwood Prep, only because I know what a cut-throat place this is.

But now?

Now, I hate it with a passion.

The pretense. The blind greed. The unspoken competition.

I know why they’re watching. Not because they care about me. It’s because they don’t want to miss the moment that I fail. They want to be there to laugh. To point at me. To tear me apart until there’s nothing left.

For a long moment, I walk alone.

And then, a warm hand closes over mine.

When I lift my head, I see Dutch’s face. Sharp lines. Devastating angles. Pure poetry in the shape and symmetry.

And then the eyes.

When Dutch pins those amber eyes on me, I feel a strange, tingling sensation all over my body. It reminds me of that time I tried the upside down rollercoaster and felt all the blood rushing to the top of my head. Like my world, everything I was and knew, had become something new, different and uncontrollable.

“Hungry?” Dutch asks. His tone is calm. This is normal to him. Being on display. Being poked and prodded by their eyes, even in his most vulnerable moments.

I almost feel sorry for him. What hard lessons did he have to learn to become so callous? How much of his heart did he have to bludgeon until it no longer cared?

He leads me to the cafeteria. There’s a long line, but we don’t stand at the back of it. Instead, Dutch leads me right to the front. Everyone makes room, abandoning their trays and skittering back as if there’s an orbit around him they can’t touch.

The cafeteria ladies smile. They place steaming hot bowls on our trays. I glance over the spread of food behind the glass domes, realizing that there is no soup on today’s menu.

I eye Dutch suspiciously. “Did you ask them to make this?”

He says nothing.

But my suspicions are confirmed when the lunch lady grabs my wrist and squeezes. “Hope you feel better, sweetie.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“This way.” Dutch grunts.

I follow without argument.

He leads me to the table where I usually sit with Serena.

My heart pangs painfully.

Dutch pays close attention to my face and says, “We can sit somewhere else.”

“No. I want to stay here.”

I don’t want to forget Serena just because she’s not at school anymore. I want to feel that sting. That guilt. I want the reminder because I don’t ever want to forget her.

Dutch sets both trays on the bench and picks up a spoon.

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