Black Bird of the Gallows(4)

Reece tugs his backpack higher on his shoulder and shifts his weight a little awkwardly. A little defensively. “We were safe. Haven’t you seen those nature shows? If you stand up and don’t act scared, they’ll leave you alone. See? It worked.”

I get to my feet and brush snow off my knees. “I’m pretty sure that advice is about bears,” I mutter, heart still racing. “I don’t know what shows you’re watching, but—”

Reece draws in a sharp breath. “Angie!”

What now? My gaze snaps to the sky, expecting another round of crows, but no, he’s pointing at my coat sleeve like it’s on fire. What’s he worked up about? The only thing out of place is a bee, resting on my coat sleeve. “Oh, it’s a honeybee.”

His lips draw tight over his teeth. “That’s not a—” He snaps his mouth shut. “Just hold still.” Teeth clenched, he raises a gloved hand.

I rear back, alarmed that maybe he’s looking to swat me, but his gaze is riveted on the bee. “Hey, it’s not hurting anything,” I say. “What are you doing? It’s not—”

He whacks the bee to the ground and proceeds to stomp it. Really, really stomp it.

I watch this, wondering if I missed a key scene here. In eighth grade science, we’d spent a whole unit learning about bees, so I thought it was common knowledge that honeybees aren’t naturally aggressive. They die after they sting, so they don’t tend to let loose without good reason. Reece must have missed that lesson.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think it’s dead.”

He’s breathless. His hands shake. “Just making sure.”

“What’s with you?” A clanking rumble announces the approach of the school bus. “A bunch of crows dive-bombing you is fine, but one bee is the end of the world?”

He swallows hard. “Thought you might be allergic.”

“I’m not. Are you?” He shakes his head as I blink down at the pulverized bee, a smear in the snow. “That was weird.”

“Trust me, you haven’t seen weird.”

I glimpse his face before he turns away. I wish I hadn’t. What I see there sours my stomach. His features are stretched taut with grief. Reece looks as if his soul itself had been cleaved. As if he has to stitch it up every day just to keep what’s left of him together. The sight sends a shiver burning down my spine because I know how that feels. My dad said there was “no Mr. Fernandez.” Maybe Reece lost his father tragically. My heart bumps unsteadily against my ribs. This boy knows grief. He knows that isolating ache that doesn’t quite ever go away. It’s right there, laid bare for anyone who cares to look. How many would, in the halls of Cadence High?

The bus grinds to a halt and the doors wheeze open.

Reece pauses on the first step, looks at me over his shoulder. “Angie, stay away from the bees.”

“But—” I fall silent as something raw flashes in those dark, haunted eyes.

Eyes as sharp and black as the crows who touched his skin and played with his hair.

He wasn’t afraid then, but he is now.





2-the lunchroom


Cadence High has the smallest cafeteria in the history of cafeterias. It’s cramped, uncomfortably warm, and smells like thirty years of deep-fried things. Narrow tables are arranged in long rows and spaced close to one another. Pull out your chair too far and you’ll bump into the one behind you. It’s impossible to sit alone, even if you wanted to.

My friend Deno drops his tray next to mine with a heavy clunk. It’s heaped with the cafeteria’s dubious fare. He seems to enjoy it, so I check a snarky comment about how troughs would be more efficient than trays in this cafeteria and try to disentangle my congealed pile of french fries.

“Check out the new kid.” Deno jerks a chin to where Reece stands in line.

“That’s Reece,” I say. “My new neighbor.”

Deno’s brows rise above the thick aqua frames of glasses he doesn’t need. “No way. Dead family house?”

“Can’t call it that anymore.” I wag a soggy french fry at him. “New family is very much alive.”

“Sure, until Ortley’s ghost shows up and scares the piss out of them.”

I roll my eyes. “The house isn’t haunted.” But the boy living there might be. The memory of Reece’s anguished expression is warmer and fresher than the food in front of me.

Deno grunts then scoops a spoonful of soup. “Dude broke in on his first day. ’Course, he looks just like them. Maybe they don’t realize he’s new.”

Deno’s right. Reece is in. I watch him from my designated spot at our table. Most of the school band, as well as a strong contingent from the Arts and Literature Club, sits at this long row of tables. We think we’re cool, but the rest of the student body doesn’t necessarily agree. It’s the next row of tables over, which I have a perfect view of—packed with varsity jackets, pretty hair, and vapid conversation—that’s supposedly the one to be at. I don’t see it. I can’t imagine wanting to sit anywhere else.

There is little doubt which table Reece will be sitting at. He’s still in line and has rendered himself nearly invisible among the pack of Cadence High’s athletic stars. He laughs easily and a little too loud, like the rest of the boys. His grin holds on the edge of a perpetual smirk. His eyes are greatly transformed—banked, heavy-lidded, and disinterested, they render him unrecognizable from the boy I met at the bus stop. Reece’s gaze slides to me, then away, without a flicker of recognition.