Seven Days in June(24)

She was tired. Tired of being sick, tired of her mouth getting her into trouble, tired of moving, tired of fighting off the kind of men who thought mothers and daughters were a package deal, and tired of hating who she was.

Maybe she shouldn’t tell him the truth. It was too ugly. But maybe honesty was what it took to make a real friend.

Be nice. Be good.

“I’m not nice,” she admitted quietly. “Not good.”

He nodded slowly. Then he scratched his jaw, peering down at his Timbs.

“Neither am I.”

That was how it started. That small confession. Genevieve had never told anyone she wasn’t okay, and it sounded like he hadn’t, either. She turned her face toward him to speak. And froze. Because his eyes were already on her.

Something crackled between them, an understanding, a mutual pull—and it was so extraordinary, so involuntary, Genevieve actually gasped. Stunned, she parted her lips a little. And then she couldn’t breathe at all, because slowly he dragged his drowsy, drugged-out gaze from her eyes to her mouth and then back up to her eyes. A sure, satisfied smile crept across his face. Hesitantly, she smiled back.

Then it was over. He went back to his book, like that incredibly intimate look hadn’t even happened. And Genevieve’s world was knocked off its axis. But of one thing she was certain.

I’m supposed to know him, she thought.

“Soooo,” she breathed, “what’s your name?”

“I told you, I don’t have friends. Let me brood in peace.”

“Don’t fight it. What’s with the cast?”

He sighed. “I keep breaking my arm.”

“Damn. Calcium deficiency?”

“No. I do it on purpose.”

Genevieve gawked at him. The bell rang. A baritone voice shouted something over the loudspeakers, and the bustling student population filed into the redbrick building. Neither one of them moved.

“You don’t break your own bones,” she whispered. “You’re just antisocial and trying to freak me out so I’ll go away.”

“Is it working?”

“No.” Genevieve was thunderstruck. “What’s wrong with you?”

He sighed. “A lot.”

“I can’t imagine doing something so sick.”

“No?”

She followed his eyes, which had traveled down to her right arm. Her men’s shirt had slid off her shoulder. And the rows of shallow, horizontal slices on her upper arm were visible. A few were covered with Band-Aids, the rest were scabs, and some had grown into scars. Genevieve wore her big shirt daily to hide this—but it had slipped at school a few times. She’d always been prepared to say it was eczema. No one had ever asked.

She yanked her sleeve back up on her shoulder.

“You don’t know what my life’s like,” she spat.

“Try me,” he said, his galaxy eyes eating her alive.

A wild current charged through her, something primal, dirty, desperate, confusing. Was this being seen for what she really was? Being witnessed? It was heady and terrifying. Genevieve had hoped for someone to share secrets with. But she hadn’t bet on someone beating her, crazy for crazy. And she hadn’t bet on the person being a boy, a boy who looked like that, who looked at her like that.

Somehow, he’d snaked into her head and sunk his fangs into her brain, poisoning her with hope. A cruel trick.

Genevieve lurched forward and grabbed his tee in her fist, yanking him down to her level.

“Stop looking at me like your dick’s in my mouth,” she said, seething, still clutching the peach in her left hand. “You like me now? Think you’re original? Boys love to torture the weird girl, the freak. But guess what? I’m already in pieces, so—”

With feral quickness, he plucked her fist from his shirt and pinned her arm behind her back. Genevieve arched, drawing a breath. A delicious tremble tore through her.

He held her like that for a beat and then brought his mouth to her ear. “Don’t.”

“D-don’t what?”

“Call yourself a freak.”

He let her go. Then he grabbed the peach out of her hand and took a deliberately indulgent, wet bite. He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.

“I’m Shane,” he said, a spark of triumph in his eye. And walked away.



Genevieve found her classroom. Peering through the doorway, she saw chaos. A couple of kids were in a cypher, one girl was unbraiding her hair, and a boy was banging his desk on the floor. Four kids were napping in their chairs; another, on the floor. At the chalkboard, the teacher was explaining photosynthesis, which Genevieve had learned in private school in fifth grade.

In a far corner, tipped back way too far in his chair, was Shane.

She wasn’t ready to see him after whatever monumental thing they’d just experienced. She’d staggered away from the bleachers, feeling like she’d toppled into a tornado.

She wiggled the nicked vintage cameo ring she’d once stolen from Lizette’s jewelry box. It usually calmed her. But not now.

With a deep breath, she entered the room. The class gradually quieted to watchful silence. Thirty pairs of eyes followed Genevieve to an empty desk in the front. She sat down.

Reacting to the sudden stillness, the teacher turned around.