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into the thicket of
jostling teenagers just to have my choice of seating, especially since Justin
always saves me a seat anyway.
                I take my
time packing up my books, flipping open the pages to see his comments
over and over.  Witty, a little flirty, cute. The banter would have filled my
stomach with butterflies if it had been written the normal way, on a note
passed furtively between hands, or maybe as a text. Like this though, it’s
somewhere between eerie and fascinating.
                “Becka?” My
name, spoken woodenly, sends the sound of shattering glass into my ears and the
smell of pooling blood into my nostrils. My stomach tightens into a cold knot.
                “Derrick.” I
can’t make myself turn to face him. Fear races up and down my muscles,
tightening them until my body is so rigid I think I might snap. I take a deep
breath. Derrick is only a boy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I let the
breath empty into my arms, breathing it into my muscles, trying to cleanse the
irrational fear from my body.  
                Oblivious
to my reaction, Derrick goes on. “Can we talk? Just for a minute. I feel
terrible.” His voice trembles and breaks slightly on the last word.
                It takes a
huge effort to turn and look at him. I have to wrestle my body into moving. Derrick
is standing about five feet way away, his right arm held in a rigid cast that
encases it in a permanent bend away from his body. His face is covered in dark
purple bruising and fading scratches are painted on his neck. The rest of his
wounds, whatever they are, are covered by his clothing. I stare. In all the
misery of the last few weeks, I’ve never once asked how he was. I think
someone, my father maybe, had told me he was alright. Honestly, he didn’t look
alright. He looks a lot worse off than I am, my bruises are almost healed. But
how is that possible? I was the one that bled to death on the asphalt road in
the middle of the night.
    His
eyes are full of pain and for a split second pity wells inside me, drowning out
my resentment. “Becka, I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. You have
to forgive me,” he pleads.
                I nod, even
as a strange roaring fills my ears. It’s a rushing sound, like a jet engine
revving close by, or is it wind whistling through a car window? My head swims
and for the first time, the feeling of disorientation that the doctors warned
me about threatens to overwhelm me. “Forgive you?” I state flatly, the words thick
on my tongue. Memories come welling up from the deep dark places inside my
addled brain. I hear the ear splitting squeal of brakes and they go on forever as
the swerve of the car presses me sharply into the side of the car, moulding me
onto the metal like modelling clay. The door gives way and there’s a crazy,
weightless, empty feeling of falling through the air. Then there’s hazy
whiteness streaming around me.
                A great
distance away Derrick is looking at me with cool dark eyes, and grim
satisfaction. I blink, trying to come to the surface of my memories. Derrick is
still in front of me, eyes pleading for forgiveness, the image of remorse. He
is still waiting for my answer. I open my mouth to tell him to stay the hell
away from me, to take his forgiveness and shove it, that he almost killed me,
and then the smells begin; burning and blood, rubber and oil. The whole world
starts to go hazy around the edges. I lurch away from him without a word,
gasping for clear air. Beyond the roaring in my ears, the sounds of breaking glass
and my own ragged breath is another sound, sharp and cold; laughter.
     
    By the time I make it to
the cafeteria it’s jam packed. Our usual table, near the large bay windows on
the far side of the room, is crowded except for one seat between Mandy and
Justin. Matt smiles a warm hello from across the table and Mandy begins a
speech on the