Page 64 of Broken Pieces
Skylar
Thecorridorsmellsofcheap perfume, and something fried drifting in from the cafeteria.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. Lockers slam open and shut. The noise presses in, squeezing the air from my lungs, turning every breath into a battle.
Cassie moves beside me, her voice low, talking about something we’re supposed to hand in for English.
I nod at the right places but don’t really hear her.
My fingers clamp the strap of my bag, nails biting into the canvas. I keep my eyes on the tiles, counting the cracks instead of looking at the faces that turn when I walk past.
They’re not saying anything. Not yet. But the itch between my shoulder blades is already there.
The way whispers travel faster than footsteps in this place. Something in the air’s shifted, sharp around the edges, and I can’t tell if the change is crawling under my skin or hanging in the air around them.
Cassie stops at her locker, twisting the dial.
“Did you do the reading?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
She side-eyes me. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
She doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t press.
It’s been a week since I last saw him.
Zane’s seat in homeroom stays empty. His boots don’t drag across the floor. His hoodie or that black leather jacket aren’t slung over the back of his chair. He’s gone, and no one even mentions him. Teachers still call his name, pause for half a beat, then move on.
I tell myself I don’t care. That I’m glad he’s not here. That what happened on that rooftop was a mistake and I’m better off without him.
But the memory keeps clawing back with those fucking words he threw at me before he left.
Cassie’s locker swings open with a screech. She mutters something about forgetting her gym shirt again, but I’m watching the hallway.
Cassie leans in, spritzing way too much perfume over her neck.
The sweetness hits hard, thick enough to taste. It clings to the back of my throat.
I cough, waving it away.
“Jesus, you trying to kill someone?”
She smirks. “Boys like girls who smell good.”
“Boys like tits and trauma,” I mutter, waving the cloud away.
She pulls out her notebook and slams the locker shut, then turns.
“You’re off today. Weird off.”
“Just tired.” I shrug.
“You’ve been tired all week.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
