Home Again

There was a moment of stunned surprise, then everyone burst out laughing.

“Sure he is, Lina.” Brittany laughed. “And my dad’s Jack Nicholson.”

Jett frowned at her. “So who is it really?”

Lina stared at them. All of a sudden she felt unwelcome here, and she wondered if she’d ever really belonged. “I told you, it’s Angel DeMarco.”

Jett stared at her, one black eyebrow rising slowly. “I read he had AIDS.”

“No,” she answered. “He just had bypass surgery. No big deal.”

“Oh, right,” Brittany said with a humph, “like you would know.”

She spun to face the crowd. “I do know. I spent the whole weekend with him, and he told me he had bypass surgery.”

“You’re a liar,” Jett said softly, and she knew the second he spoke that the group would follow him. Then he grinned at her. “Hey, give me a smoke, willya?”

“Buy your own,” she snapped.

Jett spun to face her again. “What did you say?”

She stared up at him, seeing his drug-pale skin and bloodshot eyes and the too-black hair that fell across his forehead. She wondered what she’d ever seen in him. Disgusted, she shook her head. “My uncle Francis was right. You guys are a bunch of losers.”

The look in Jett’s eyes turned ugly. “Oh, really?” he whispered.

She backed up. “Yeah, really.”

Jett followed her. She tripped on a stone and thudded to a sit. He came up close, towering over her, grinning down at her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She squished her hands on the muddy earth and shot to her feet. “I’m getting the hell away from you guys.”

He laughed, but it was a cold, angry sound that made her afraid—just like it was supposed to. “What’re you gonna do, make friends with the cheerleaders? They wouldn’t hang with a skank like you, Hillyard.” He laughed again. “And no one’s gonna believe a lame story about Angel DeMarco bein’ your dad, either. Get real. We’re the only friends you’ve got. Now, quit actin’ like a bitch and give me a smoke.”

Lina slapped his face. The smack reverberated in the dense, moist air. She realized a second too late what she’d done—she saw the anger dawn in his eyes, and she was off, scrambling up the bank and running across the football held. He reached for her, missed and cursed, but by then she had a head start.

Lina didn’t look back. She ran all the way to the school and skidded into the quiet hallways. Breathing hard, she raced to Vicki Owen’s door and knocked hard. When the counselor said, “Come in,” Lina burst through the door and slammed it shut behind her. Sinking onto the seat, she gulped in a few aching breaths, then looked up at Miss Owen. “I need help.”

A half hour later, Lina sat in the school gym, alone, waiting for some guy she didn’t know. Miss Owen’s nephew or cousin or something.

Miss Owen had listened to Lina’s story about Jett and the gang and said very simply, “You need new friends, Lina.”

Lina had laughed. “Oh, yeah. I’ll get some out of the Wheaties box tomorrow morning. All I need is a few proofs of purchase.”

Miss Owen had just smiled and told Lina to go to the gym and wait. And so she was here, sitting on the cold wooden floor of the basketball court, her arms crossed. Waiting.

After about ten minutes, the door creaked open. A guy paused in the opening and then began slowly walking toward her. His footsteps left an echoing wake in the huge room.

Lina stared at him, making out more and more of his features with every step. He was tall—way taller than she was—and he had short blond hair. His skin was pale, with two ruddy spots of color on his cheeks. He wore a huge, baggy sweatshirt and oversized jeans.

She recognized him finally. He was the school’s student vice president—Zach Owen. “Hi,” he said, looking at her with a directness that made her uncomfortable.

She nodded but said nothing.

He flopped to a sit in front of her. “My aunt tells me you’re in trouble.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She raked him with her eyes. “Besides, what would you know about trouble?”

He laughed, and for a second he reminded her of Francis, with his crinkly-faced smile. “It’s an act,” he said softly, as if he could read her mind. “Last year my parents died and I went off the deep end—drinking, drugging, you name it.”