Shatter Me (Shatter Me, #1)(34)

I thought I would need privacy.

I’m such a fool.

Adam is not the boy I remember.

I was in third grade.

I’d just moved into town after being thrown out of asked to leave my old school. My parents were always moving, always running away from the messes I made, from the playdates I’d ruined, from the friendships I never had. No one ever wanted to talk about my “problem,” but the mystery surrounding my existence somehow made things worse. The human imagination is often disastrous when left to its own devices. I only heard bits and pieces of their whispers.

“Freak!”

“Did you hear what she did—?”

“What a loser.”

“—got kicked out of her old school—”

“Psycho!”

“She’s got some kind of disease—”

No one talked to me. Everyone stared. I was young enough that I still cried. I ate lunch alone by a chain-link fence and never looked in the mirror. I never wanted to see the face everyone hated so much. Girls used to kick me and run away. Boys used to throw rocks at me. I still have scars somewhere.

I watched the world pass by through those chain-link fences. I stared out at the cars and the parents dropping off their kids and the moments I’d never be a part of. This was before the diseases became so common that death was a natural part of conversation. This was before we realized the clouds were the wrong color, before we realized all the animals were dying or infected, before we realized everyone was going to starve to death, and fast. This was back when we still thought our problems had solutions. Back then, Adam was the boy who used to walk to school. Adam was the boy who sat 3 rows in front of me. His clothes were worse than mine, his lunch nonexistent. I never saw him eat.

One morning he came to school in a car.

I know because I saw him being pushed out of it. His father was drunk and driving, yelling and flailing his fists for some reason. Adam stood very still and stared at the ground like he was waiting for something, steeling himself for the inevitable. I watched a father slap his 8-year-old son in the face. I watched Adam fall to the floor and I stood there, motionless as he was kicked repeatedly in the ribs.

“It’s all your fault! It’s your fault, you worthless piece of shit,” his father screamed over and over and over again until I threw up right there, all over a patch of dandelions.

Adam didn’t cry. He stayed curled up on the ground until his father gave up, until he drove away. Only once he was sure everyone was gone did his body break into heaving sobs, his small face smeared into the dirt, his arms clutching at his bruised abdomen. I couldn’t look away.

I could never get that sound out of my head, that scene out of my head.

That’s when I started paying attention to Adam Kent.

“Juliette.”

I suck in my breath and wish my hands weren’t trembling. I wish I had no eyes.

“Juliette,” he says again, this time even softer and my body is in a blender and I’m made of mush. My bones are aching aching aching for his warmth.

I won’t turn around.

“You always knew who I was,” I whisper.

He says nothing and I’m suddenly desperate to see his eyes. I suddenly need to see his eyes. I turn to face him despite everything only to see he’s staring at his hands. “I’m sorry,” is all he says.

I lean back against the wall and press my lids shut. Everything was a performance. Stealing my bed. Asking for my name. Asking me about my family. He was performing for Warner. For the guards. For whoever was watching. I don’t even know what to believe anymore.

I need to say it. I need to get it out. I need to rip my wounds open and bleed fresh for him. “It’s true,” I tell him. “About the little boy.” My voice is shaking so much more than I thought it would. “I did that.”

He’s quiet for so long. “I never understood before. When I first heard about it. I didn’t realize until just now what must’ve happened.”

“What?” I never knew I could blink so much.

“It never made sense to me,” he says, and each word kicks me in the gut. He looks up and looks more agonized than I ever want him to be. “When I heard about it. We all heard about it. The whole school—”

“It was an accident,” I choke out, failing not to fall apart.

“He—h-he fell—and I was trying to help him—and I just— I didn’t—I thought—”

“I know.”

“What?” I gasp so loud I’ve swallowed the entire room in one breath.

“I believe you,” he says to me.

“What . . . why?” My eyes are blinking back tears, my hands unsteady, my heart filled with nervous hope.

He bites his bottom lip. Looks away. Walks to the wall. Opens and closes his mouth several times before the words rush out. “Because I knew you, Juliette—I—God—I just—” He covers his mouth with his hand, drops his fingers to his neck. Rubs his forehead, closes his eyes, presses his lips together. Pries them open. “That was the day I was going to talk to you.” A strange sort of smile. A strange sort of laugh. He runs a hand through his hair. Looks up at the ceiling. Turns his back to me. “I was finally going to talk to you. I was finally going to talk to you and I—” He shakes his head, hard, and attempts another painful laugh. “God, you don’t remember me.”