Broken Knight (All Saints High 2)

I didn’t look at her, but I felt her forehead resting against mine. Luna was a girl, but she was still really cool. Only downside was sometimes she asked too many questions with her eyes. Mom said it was because Luna cared about me. Not that I was going to admit it, but I cared about her, too.

She tapped my shoulder. I flicked another page.

“Waving an open hand on the side of the chin, forward and back, means slut. Dude, your dad will kill me if he ever finds out I taught you this.”

She tapped my shoulder harder, digging her fingernail into my skin.

I looked up, mid-read. “’Sup?”

“Are you okay?” she signed.

She didn’t use sign language often. Luna didn’t want to talk. Not in sign, and not at all. She could talk. Technically, I mean. Not that I’d ever heard her say anything. But that’s what our parents said—that it wasn’t about her voice. It was about the world.

I got it. I hated the world, too.

We just hated it differently.

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Friends don’t let friends get upset over small stuff,” she signed.

Whoa. An entire sentence. That was new.

I didn’t understand the point of speaking sign language if she was planning not to speak at all, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad and stuff.

“I don’t care about the bike.” I put the page down and scooted toward our branch, leaving. She followed, sitting beside me. I didn’t even like riding my bike. It was cruel on my nuts and boring to the rest of my body. I only rode it so I could hang out with Luna. Same reason I colored. I loathed coloring.

She cocked her head to the side. A question.

“Mom’s in the hospital again.” I picked out a pinecone and threw it at the sinking sun, over the edge of the mountain our tree was rooted upon. I wondered if the pinecone made it to the ocean, if it was wet and cold now. If it hated me.

Luna put her hand over mine, staring down at our palms. Our hands were the same size, hers brown, mine white as fresh-fallen snow.

“I’m fine.” I sniffed, choosing another pinecone. “It’s fine.”

“I hate that word. Fine,” Luna signed. “It’s not good. It’s not bad. It’s nothing.”

She dropped her head down and took my hand, gave it a squeeze. Her touch was warm and sticky. Kind of gross. A few weeks ago, Vaughn told me he wanted to kiss Cara Hunting. I couldn’t even imagine touching a girl like that.

Luna put my hand on her heart.

I rolled my eyes, embarrassed. “I know. You’re here for me.”

She shook her head and squeezed my hand harder. The intensity of her gaze freaked me out. “Always. Whenever. Forever,” she signed.

I breathed in her words. I wanted to smash my stupid bike on Vaughn’s stupid face, then run away. Then die. I wanted to die in desolate sands, evaporate into dust, let the wind carry me nowhere and everywhere.

I wanted to die instead of Mom. I was pretty useless. But so many people were dependent on Ma.

Dad.

Lev.

Me.

Me.

Luna pointed at the sun in front of us.

“Sunset?” I sighed.

She frowned.

“Beach?”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes.

“The sun will rise again tomorrow,” she signed.

She leaned forward. For a moment, I thought she was going to jump. She took a safety pin from her checkered Vans and pierced the tip of her index finger. Wordlessly, she took my hand and pricked my finger, too. She joined them together, and I stared as the blood meshed.

Her lips broke into a smile. Her teeth were uneven. A little pointy. A lot imperfect.

With our blood, she wrote the words Ride or Die on the back of my hand, ignoring the state of my knuckles.

I thought about the bike she’d retrieved for me and smirked.

She drew me into a hug. I sank into her arms.

I didn’t want to kiss her.

I wanted to zip open my skin and tuck her into me.

Hide her from the world and keep her mine.

Knight, 12; Luna, 13

I was named after the moon.

Dad said I’d been a plump, perfect thing. A light born into darkness. A child my mother didn’t want and he hadn’t known what to do with. He’d said that despite—or maybe because of—that, I was the most beautiful and enticing creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

“My heart broke, not because I was sad, but because it swelled so much at the sight of you, I needed more space in it,” he once told me.

He said a lot of things to make me feel loved. He had good reasons, of course.

My mother left us before I turned two.

Over the years, she’d come knocking on the doors of my mind whenever I least expected her—barging through the gates with an army of memories and hidden photos I was never supposed to find. Her laugh—that laugh I could never unhear, no matter how hard I tried—rolled down my skin like tongues of fire.