SLEEPING AND I, we had an agreement. See, it agreed to come to me for about half the night, and then when the end of my nightmare came around, it would leave. This time, however, it left the tears with me. I woke up much the same as the day before, but this time my cheeks were still damp with the saltiness of the stupid tears. I wiped the salty water away angrily and glanced around the still-dark room. Everyone else was sound asleep, and me? Well, I was as awake as a kid hyped up on sugar.
Throwing the sheets off, I sat up and squinted at the alarm clock tiredly. I had well over an hour until the others were going to wake up, which left me to either stare at the ceiling until it was suitable for me to actually be up, or I could get ready now and just wait downstairs for Sam. I opted for the latter and made my way to the bathroom as silently as I could, cringing when the door squeaked its way closed. I needed to remind the Head Mistress that our hinges needed to be oiled.
About ten minutes later, I was towel drying my hair and wiping the steam away from the mirror so that I could get a good look at myself. My eyes were still red, but at least my irises didn't look like green Christmas ornaments anymore. The shower had actually given my really pale skin some pink color, but the only thing it had done for my hair was make it look dark and straight. I huffed and yanked a brush through the tangles as best I could before I pulled the damp red strands into a high ponytail and readjusted my half-sleeved shirt.
Then I was slipping on my flats and making my way to the first floor lobby, the book my English class was reading in one hand and my bag on my shoulder. I dropped my bag next to the chair Lyle had been occupying last night and grabbed the remote to turn on the news—you know, for background noise—before settling into the seat and opening the book. I wasn't behind or anything, I just figured I might as well get ahead while I still could. A few minutes later, though, the news distracted me.
“Today marks the eleven year anniversary of Grant and Dianna Niks's deaths,” the news anchor was saying. His words tugged my eyes from the book to stare up at him, my mouth slightly open. I couldn't remember, but judging from the way the news talked about my parents' murder every year, I figured my parents had been important people. Just not important enough for me to not be in an orphanage. “Eleven years and they still haven't found their killer. Can you believe it, Hillary?”
“Actually, I can't, Robert,” Hillary responded, the camera panning out the show her as well. “Can you imagine what their daughter, Jemma Niks, must be going through, though?”
I didn't catch Robert's reply, though, because I was too busy rifling through my bag for my agenda. When I found it, I flipped it open to today's date and paused, eyes wide. January 15th, I read, swallowing hard. It suddenly occurred to me why I'd been having my nightmare more often than usual. My subconscious had been watching the date slowly crawl closer and closer until it'd finally arrived, trying to alert my consciousness. Of course, I hadn't even thought to connect the dots.
I leaned back in my seat and pressed my hand to my mouth, horrified. I'd forgotten the anniversary of my parents' murder. Who did that? Me, apparently. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, forcing back the tears that wanted to fall so badly. I'd already woken up crying this morning, I didn't need to make my eyes any puffier than they already were. I heard the springs on the couch groan as someone sat down, but didn't open my eyes.
“Something the matter, Jem?”
I opened my eyes, revealing Derrick lounging on the couch. I debated on whether I should tell him what was bothering me or not, but figured it couldn't hurt anything. I mean, it was Derrick we were talking about—not his brother Lyle. “I forgot about the anniversary of my parents' murder,” I whispered, my voice hoarse from trying not to cry.
His grey eyes widened slightly in understanding. “That's rough,” he muttered. He was silent for a moment, watching me as I stared down at my agenda. “It doesn't make you a bad person, y'know.”
I laughed without mirth. “Who forgets something like that, though?” I asked, shaking my head. “There's no excuse. None.”
“C'mon, don't be so hard on yourself,” Derrick exclaimed, sitting up and leaning towards me. “You've probably been under a lot of stress lately, what with Dr. Sterling boosting up the visits to once a week as opposed to once a month.”
I shook my head, not allowing myself to be coaxed into a false sense of comfort. “No, there's no excuse,” I repeated, glancing up at the TV with hard eyes. I slammed my book shut and stuffed it and my agenda into my bag. “Tell Sam I went to get breakfast early, would you?” I told Derrick, shouldering my bag and starting for the doors.
He caught my elbow. “Are you sure you're okay?” he asked when I turned to stare up at him, expressionless. His thick, black eyebrows were drawn together in concern.
I snorted. “No.”
I pushed my hair away from my eyes and glared across the table at Lyle. I'd taken the red strands out of the ponytail earlier in the day, when I'd started to get a headache. And Lyle? Well, Lyle was just being typical Lyle—your grade A jerk. His brown eyes laughed at me as he smirked, his expression practically daring me to say something back.
“Like what you see, Niks?” he said when I just stared at him for a little too long. “You should take a picture, it'll last longer.”
I laughed. “Right, like I need a flimsy piece of paper to remind me how annoying you are,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “My memory's all I need to remember you, Bane.”
His eyes widened a fraction with faux emotion. “Aw, did you hear that Derrick?” he exclaimed, turning to his younger brother for a second before returning his attention to me, a hand placed over-dramatically to his chest. “I've made an memorable impression on Jemma!”
I grinned, and he eyed me warily. “Yeah, an impression that'll have me calling the cops the moment I see you outside of St. James,” I told him, pulling my hair over one shoulder.
He watched me mess with my hair, his expression somewhat serious. Sam elbowed me in the ribs, and I shot her a what-the-heck look as I rubbed the sore spot. She jerked her head at Lyle and mouthed something along the lines of, “Stop flirting with him!” I jerked away from her, staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. Flirt with him? That was the last thing I wanted to do with Lyle Bane.
When I returned my attention to him, he was still staring at me mutely. “What? Don't have a rebuttal for that one, Bane?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Honestly, I was pretty surprised he hadn't said anything by now. He was usually so quick with the comebacks.
He propped his elbow on the table and leaned forward. “Y'know, little red,” he began, his voice quiet, “I don't. You've bested me this time. Happy?”
Actually, I wasn't. In fact, I was very, very unhappy. My whole body was stiff and I stared at him as if he'd just told me I was pathetic and worthless. Actually, I stared at him as if he'd said something worse than that. I wouldn't have batted an eye had he told me that, because I didn't care what he thought of me. What had me glaring daggers at him, though, was his use of “little red”.
He straightened slightly, eying me with surprise. His grin was slow to spread across his face. “Oh, I've hit a sore spot, haven't I?” he murmured, studying me. “What was it? 'Little red' or do you just not like winning?”
I swallowed and narrowed my eyes. “Winning like that is just too easy,” I said, my voice coming out a little more defensive than I would've liked. “And I don't like easy wins.”
His grin widened. “Oh, it wasn't that,” he exclaimed, leaning towards me. “It was the nickname, wasn't it?”
“No,” I scoffed, swallowing when I realized I'd said that a little too quickly. And it was confirmed by the light that lit up his eyes at this realization. “No way. Why would a nickname like that bother me?” I insisted.
He was unconvinced. “So why don't you like it, little red?” he continued, as if I hadn't denied that it bothered me. “Do you not like the reference to the color of your hair, or do you not like being called 'little'?” His grin was so wide, I thought it would split his head in two.
“Who likes being called 'little'?” I spat, staring at him incredulously.
He opened his mouth, smirk still plastered on his face. He was smug, and thought he was winning. I was starting to get scared that he was.
“Hey, hey, you gonna eat that?” Derrick interrupted, pointing his fork at my food. I glanced down at it and then pushed it toward him, rolling my eyes. “Thanks,” he muttered, stuffing his face.
I stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. Derrick had never been one to take much interest in any of the conversations that went on around him unless he'd brought it up in the first place—and he normally had interesting topics to talk about. The fact that he was more tolerable than his older brother, though, spoke wonders to me. It meant that slightly obnoxious, aggravating Lyle Bane probably had a tolerable side—he just didn't like to share it with me. That also could explain why Sam liked him so much.
Speaking of which, she was currently glaring at me like it was my fault Lyle was trying to push my buttons. I elbowed her in the arm and made a face, telling her to get a grip. Lyle aggravated me—on purpose—to no end, there was no way I was going to like him like that. Ever. Still, she just shrugged and went back to picking at her lunch with absolutely no enthusiasm.
“So, little red, I'm curious,” Lyle said, continuing on the banter as if we hadn't even been interrupted. “Why don't you like the nickname?”
I set my hands on the table, forcing them to stay there instead of reaching for his neck. “Just don't call me that, Bane,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady.
“C'mon, little red.” He paused, and the smile that curved his lips upward sent my heart on a speed-race. Okay, so maybe there was a teeny-tiny chance that I could like him like that. But that was on looks alone; personality-wise, he was not my type. “Just give me something to work with.”
“Lyle,” I snapped, my voice much louder than I'd intended it to be. Lyle leaned back, stunned by the anger that lingered just beneath the surface of my words. “I told you not to call me that. Respect my wishes, please.”
I don't know who was more stunned by the fact that I'd used please, him or me. It only took a second for his surprise to fade and be replaced by over-cockiness. “I don't think so,” he said, leaning forward so that he was practically halfway across the table. My hands clenched into fists, nails embedding themselves into my palms as I refrained from slapping him across the face. “Little red.”
I broke. “You are such an insensitive, incorrigible jerk, Lyle Bane,” I snapped, jumping to my feet. I threw my hands into the air. “Ugh, why can't you just leave me alone like everyone else does?” I wrapped my fingers around my bag and stormed out of the cafeteria without another look.
Five minutes later, I was sitting on the bleachers overlooking the track. I often came to the track to get my mind off of things that were bugging me, and usually did that by running. But since it was only lunch, and I really, really couldn't afford to skip class, I opted for just sitting and watching the cars pass back and forth on the main street about a mile away. I could just barely hear their engines from this far, and as far as I could tell, everything seemed normal. Peaceful, almost. It made me ache to know what it felt like to live a normal life with a normal family.
Someone rapped their knuckles on one of the bleacher seats below. “Hey,” Lyle said, his voice quiet, uncertain. It threw me for a loop; Lyle was never uncertain. In fact, the way he looked up at me like he wasn't sure how I'd react to seeing him almost gave me pause.
Almost.
“What do you want?” I asked, glancing back in the direction of the main street. My tone left no room for uncertainty: I wasn't happy with him, and I wasn't about make his life easy for him.
I saw him rub the back of his neck from the corner of my eye. “I came to apologize,” he explained. I glanced over at him sharply. “I mean it, Niks. I'm sorry about the way I treated the situation.”
“'Treated the situation',” I repeated under my breath. “Oh, you mean completely disregarding the fact that I asked you not to call me that and disrespecting me?”
He winced, as if he truly regretted what he'd done. “I know, and I really am sorry about that,” he muttered, staring down at the metal bench that came up to his knee. “Can I ask you a question?”
My eyes narrowed. “Depends on the question,” I told him, tilting my head as I stared down at him.
“What is up with you and that nickname?”
I stiffened, jaw clenching as I stared down at him. He glanced up and met my gaze, and I swear I saw genuine curiosity in them. It wasn't like Lyle to be genuinely curious about anyone's reactions, especially about mine. I was slowly beginning to realize, however, that the way he acted when I was around might actually not have been the way he acted when I was gone.
Eventually, I sighed. “Do you really want to know?” He nodded and I glanced away, studying the way the trees swayed in the wind. I bit my lip and clasped my hands together, bringing them in close like I was cold. To be honest, it was a little chilly; but that wasn't why I was curling in on myself. Swallowing slightly, I said, “My parents used to call me that...”
The only thing that met my ears was the wind whistling. I hadn't expected a big response from Lyle. Actually, I'd expected him to make some witty comment like he always did. Instead, I heard rubber clang against metal and the bleachers protest as Lyle climbed up beside me. I stiffened at his close proximity, but didn't move away. I didn't look at him either.
“I'm sorry,” he said finally, sounding slightly on the frustrated side. “I don't know what it is, but the moment I can talk to you, I end up trying to get a rise out of you.” He paused. “And I took it too far this time.”
I shrugged. “It's not just your fault,” I muttered, rubbing my face with my hands. The wind blew my hair to the side, and I sighed and tied it back again. “Today's just been a little rough for me, and I handled the situation wrong.”
“Something happen?”
I dropped my hands and stared at him, half a smile on my face and an eyebrow raised. “I think this is the most interest you've shown in my life in the past eleven years we've known each other, Bane,” I told him, searching his brown eyes for the answer to the unasked question I had. There had to be a reason he suddenly had an interest in me.
His returning smile was slow and uncertain. “I guess that's true,” he admitted, nodding his head slightly.
I was still debating on whether I should tell him about me forgetting the anniversary of my parents' murder or not when the bell rang off in the distance, signaling the end of lunch. “Looks like it's back to class,” I said as I stood and grabbed my bag. I hopped down the bleachers to the ground, turning to look up at him. “Catch ya later, Bane.”
I waved half-heartedly and turned, beginning my trek back to classes. With the way things were looking, classes today were going to last forever. Which meant I'd be paying absolutely no attention whatsoever, and no pulling up of the grades would be occurring any time soon. Just my luck. The one day Lyle Bane acts somewhat humanely towards me and I have to go and ruin it by failing all of my classes.
My chest was on fire and my throat was dry as I gasped for breath. It was almost as if I was dying, my heart was beating a little too fast and my legs were starting to grow weak. Sweat plastered the hair that had escaped from my ponytail to my forehead and the back of my neck. I felt icky and gross; and I loved it. Running was my escape, and I loved every burning, torturous moment of it.
“You're gonna end up running yourself into the ground.” The voice was muffled by the ear buds blasting music into my ears.
I slowed to a stop, stumbling slightly. “What was that?” I asked, gasping for breath as I turned to Sam and leaned my hands on my thighs. Every time I stopped running, I felt like I was about to pass out and probably die. I hated stopping.
Sam shook her head, blonde curls falling over her shoulders. “You just need to be careful, Jem,” she muttered, standing up from the bench she'd occupied while she'd been waiting for me to get closer. “There's something for you back at the room.”
I squinted up at her. “What is it?” I asked, reaching for the towel I always brought with me. I wiped my face off and grabbed my water bottle.
She frowned and pressed her lips together. “Rachel says it's a letter,” she replied, glancing back in the direction of the dormitory.
“Samantha Jaclyn Reys,” I started, still breathless. “You better not be making this up.”
“I'm not,” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “But you have to remember that this is Rachel we're talking about here, she could've written it to get at you.”
I shrugged. “If she did,” I muttered, starting for the dormitory. Sam followed. “Then there shouldn't be anything to really get worked up over. She doesn't know anything important.”
Sam sighed. “I guess.”
Lyle and Derrick were in the lobby with Marc and Vince—their other roommate. Whom I despised with a passion. Vince Gold was the most perverted seventeen year old guy on the planet, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was attractive, I don't think girls would ever like him. His gold eyes and dark hair contrasted nicely with his tanned skin. It was just disappointing that such an ugly personality was wrapped in such an attractive package.
I got Sam's attention and put a finger to my lips, pointing at the back of Vince's head. She nodded and we started making our way to the stairwell. Vince had this weird obsession with me, and both Sam and I found it incredibly disturbing. He bordered on psychotic when he was around me, and I tried to avoid him as much as possible. We were halfway across the room when Lyle noticed us, his whole demeanor perking up as he started to stand up.
I shook my head furiously at him and pointed at Vince when he paused and stared at me with confusion. He glanced at Vince and then back at me, a slow smile spreading across his face as mischief lit up his eyes. Looks like Old Lyle was back. So Nice Lyle was only temporary, good to know.
Lyle stood up the rest of the way and sauntered over to us. “Hey, Samantha,” he exclaimed, smiling the most innocent smile I think I've ever seen. It infuriated me. “Hey, Jemma.” The mischievous glint in his eyes was hard to miss when he looked at me.
I clenched my hands at my sides, wanting to slap him so badly. He was laughing at me without really laughing, something I think only he could pull off. I glowered up at him, preparing to snap multiple profanities at him, when I saw Vince's head snap in our direction from the corner of my eye. All thoughts of telling Lyle off angrily were replaced by panic as I turned to Sam and started pushing her towards the stairwell.
“Go, go, go!” I hissed at her, pushing her ahead of me. We were at the door to the stairwell now.
“Jemma!” I heard Vince exclaim from behind us.
I turned in the doorway, keeping the door open with my foot. “Oh, hey Vince,” I said, forcing my voice to sound polite. “Sorry, but we have to go. There's, uh, there's an emergency up in our room.” I ducked the rest of the way through the doorway and raced up the stairs after Sam.
I closed the door to our room behind us, leaning against it and breathing heavily. When I glanced at Sam—who was on her bed—grins spread across our faces and we started laughing uncontrollably. I was the first to recover, and I went to lie on my bed before I remembered that Rachel had said I'd gotten a letter. The main reason I remembered was because the envelope encasing the letter was sitting on my bed, the barely legible scribble spelling out my name facing the ceiling.
The blood drained from my face and silence encompassed the room as I picked it up.