He was gone. Somehow I was certain that he wasn't faking. Wasn't a few feet away, listening. Getting off on my screams.
And I did scream. Ripping my throat raw. First they were words. Help me. Then just help. Then just ragged sounds in all sizes and kinds. They were angry, terrified, primal, and the last, the worst, lost.
I thrashed, kicked, hammered, and battered. My skin split and bruised and I broke a finger. The pain was good. It drove the fear off to the side a little. When one corner of the box edged a fraction of an inch out as a result of one mulish kick, I froze.
The box was prison and protection. It kept the earth from crushing and suffocating me. Fighting my coffin would kill me quicker than accepting it.
Okay, I told myself. Stop. Cass. Stop and think. Try to go Zen. Take a deep breath. I stilled myself then drew in a breath, soft and even, held it, then let it out slow. Did it again. Again.
That's better. Now. Don't think about where you are. You're in the dark. A dark room, resting. Your eyes are closed and you're resting. Come on, Cass, you can do this. Concentrate.
Think. Slow. Breathe. In. Out. Slow.
I imagined myself stretched out in a field of grass, at night, stars overhead, my eyes closed.
Breathe slow. In. Out. Slow. Slow.
Good. Calming down. Good.
Now, think.
Concentrate.
Fear is a weapon.
His weapon.
Right now, you're shooting yourself with his gun. Accept the fear and deal with it. Just fuckin’ deal.
Breathe.
Slow.
In and out.
Work through this.
Let me think like my dad.
Kyle Kirby.
Kyle Kirby put me in this box and covered me up with dirt and now he says I can't say his name.
It's all about control. Kyle has physical control. I have to get mental control. That starts with me. I have to get control.
Kyle.
Kyle.
Kyle Kirby.
There. It's mine.
I'll think your name all I want, jackass. I control what's in my head.
But then panic swooped back over me and I dragged in harsh, rapid breaths. Why did the dark seem so heavy?
Breathe.
Slow.
In and out.
Don't think about where you are.
Get the where out of your head. Concentrate on why you're here.
Answer: David Kirby.
I closed my eyes and tears leaked out.
David Kirby.
Dorky David Kirby asked me out. What made him think he could dare ask me? Can U imagine? How far down the food chain would he have to go for a date? God, I thought he was gay.
If our school gestapo allowed cell phones, we could text and none of this would have happened. But I scrawled it on a piece of notebook paper and folded the page in half once and then again, and then over on itself. I left it under the seat of my desk in American History.
Erica would be in the class the next hour. She was coming from across campus and I had to scoot in the other direction, so I couldn't hang around for a handoff. This had been our mail system since September, when we had to reinstate our sixth grade CIA, dead-drop, secret agent stuff that we had made up back when we had yearned to be spies.
David Kirby had shuffled up to me before class, tugging one ear and clearing his throat. “Um, Cass, I wanted to ask you something.”
I would have swept right past him, but I was stunned. David Kirby. Loser with a capital L. Well, capitalize all the letters. Had he spoken to me?
It wasn't like he was an upright maggot. Not ugly, but not good-looking by any means. Face too long, expression to match. Spaniel eyes. Not cute, needy. A guy you want to push away. He was skinny, always in clothes a size too big, looking like his bones had been pitched into his shirts and pants unassembled. Long-sleeved shirts, buttoned up to the chin. Good clothes—Hilfiger, Lauren, Abercrombie & Fitch—but it was the way he wore them. He leached the cool factor out of them.
David Kirby was one of those kids that gets shoved in their lockers, gets their butt cheeks taped together in gym, well, if he gets any attention at all. Never saw him with a girl. Ever. Just skulking around alone. Not banger, not Goth, not goat roper, born-again, grade-point grubber, or jock-remora. Not even one of those who floats between the groups. David Kirby couldn't be described in positives—just what he wasn't. He wasn't a wannabe. He wasn't-ever-gonna-be.
And he had stepped into my zone.
I turned to him, he made eye contact, and I looked around, making sure he got the idea that I was embarrassed to be seen talking to him.
“I wondered,” he sputtered. “I mean, I'd like it if you'd…” He tugged his ear again. God, soon his lobes would be different lengths. “If you'd go out with me. This weekend. Or next, maybe. Whenever you're free, to a movie or whatever. Miniature golf.”
He said it in one breath. Eyes on the floor. Had he rehearsed? I didn't know whether to laugh or gag. Either made me look bad.
“I know miniature golf sounds lame,” David continued. “But at a movie you just sit, and the golf thing, it's so lame that it can be fun, and you get a chance to talk, get to know each other. But, you have to promise to let me cheat, ‘cause I'm lousy.”
From someone else…it might have been almost, well, cute. But honestly, David Kirby? I think not. Now I was doing the throat clearing. “David, that's, like, really sweet, you know? But, I'm pretty tied up for a while. I'll have to get back to you.”
I remembered to flash him my totally famous Cass McBride dimpled grin/head tilt. It was October, a week until Homecoming, and those ballots were already cast. I would be the first junior Homecoming Queen ever.
But being the first junior Prom Queen this coming spring was going to be a lot harder and I had to keep the charm thing going. Every vote counted.
I twinked away as David was narfing something about, “Thanks, I'll wait to hear from you.”
The bell rang and we all sat, slouched or sprawled, in our desks. Our teacher's a coach. Translation: We read a chapter, answer the questions at the end, and have a test on Fridays. If the chapter is short, Coach shows a movie while we nap. Today we read and copied answers from each other while Coach drew basketball plays. And I swear David made calf eyes at me the whole class. I wrote the note to Erica and stashed it in the desk.
After the escape-bell rang, I sailed up the aisle but noticed David moving at the back of the room toward my desk. I stopped. Shit, he must have watched me squirrel the note away.
“Forgot something,” I said as I tried to push my way against the toward-the-door tramplers. Then I saw David slide the note into his pocket.
One Prom Queen vote lost for damn sure, I thought.
I never thought that a few careless words scrawled on a piece of paper could put two people in graves.