She found herself walking to Boston Jefferson without even realizing it. Her feet shuffled on, pushing her along the old familiar route like she was on auto-pilot.
Her old high school looked even more dilapidated than she remembered. Perhaps she was unfairly comparing it to Rose School. Rose sat in the middle of a lush green field, like a castle in a fairy tale, beautiful and impenetrable, with stained glass accents and ivy creeping up the walls.
If Rose was pure fantasy, Boston Jefferson belonged in some dark, dystopian tale. The wide expanse of patched, brown lawn that lay in front of Jefferson was dotted with cans and other trash. Discarded school assignments flopped in the breeze, waving at her from muddy little graves. The stone wall that surrounded the front of the building had crumbled in places and had been reinforced in places with a crooked chain link fence. The fence made the concrete building look more like a prison than a school. Meg walked over to it and gave it a little shake. It wasn’t very sturdy. If it had been put up to keep students in, it hadn’t worked. Someone had cut a human-sized hole in the side. A waste of effort, that. Wouldn’t it have been easier to walk a few inches to the right and step through one of the giant, gaping, holes in the wall?
Meg shivered and moved away from the fence. She wasn’t really worried about running into any of her former classmates. Not during school vacation. She felt safe walking the perimeter of the wall, patting the stone as she went along, but it was still strange being back.
Boston Jefferson had stayed the same, but she had changed. She was no longer the same scared, lonely girl that had scurried down this street a year ago, looking over her shoulder all the while. She looked different. L’Oréal and her strict diet had helped with that. She even felt different. Older. Maybe not wiser but a bit less naïve.
She wasn’t lonely. Lucy, stuck at her grandmothers, had been texting non-stop. The majority of their conversations revolved around Scott, and what tactics Lucy should take to fully ensnare him. It was all a bit boring, but Meg was still pleased that Lucy was texting. Elena, too, had been in touch, and Meg had tagged along with Elena and Zach on a Christmas shopping excursion. Meg had searched Zach’s face for traces of undying love. He looked content with his arm slung over Elena’s shoulder. What guy wouldn’t be happy to have such a beautiful girl by his side? But was he in love? Meg thought he looked bemused and slightly unsure, like a sleepwalker waking up to find himself in the middle of a massive feast, but without knowing how he got there.
Despite these things nagging at her conscience, it was awfully nice to have friends.
And she had more than she’d expected.
Johanne had shown up to Meg’s house on Christmas Eve with a last-minute gift.
“What’s this?”
“Your history term paper.”
The pile of paper was heavy in Meg’s hands.
“You wrote it for me?”
“Of course not. It’s an old report I did in eighth grade.”
Meg flipped through the twenty plus pages, glancing at all the footnotes and annotations.
“It was an AP class,” Johanne explained.
“You want me to copy this?”
“Not word for word,” Johanne muttered. She was also fumbling with the zipper on her coat.
“That’s cheating, Johanne,” Meg said.
“Yes,” Johanne said, avoiding her eye. “But you’re going to be put on academic probation again if you don’t raise your history grade. You might even be expelled.”
Meg was silent. She’d figured academic probation was likely, but expulsion? She thought she’d at least have a year at Rose.
“You hate cheating.” Having Johanne’s report, even as a reference, would be enormously helpful. Still, Johanne was obviously uncomfortable with the idea of sharing it. And there was something else, something that wounded her pride. “You don’t think I can do it by myself?”
Johanne stopped fidgeting and sighed.
“You can. But you won’t.”
Meg opened her mouth to protest, but Johanne cut her off.
“Look, I can’t let you get expelled from Rose. You’re going to help me make things right with Lucy.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Johanne, I don’t see how I can…”
“Lucy listens to you. She respects you.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re my last hope, Meg. I miss my best friend.”
Meg had shoved the paper into her desk drawer but couldn’t stop thinking about it. It distracted her from her seventh viewing of Elf. She thought of little else when she was nibbling at her Christmas dinner of Chinese takeout.
If she used Johanne’s paper, it would be like admitting she wasn’t capable of doing the work herself, and if that was true, did she really stand a chance at Rose? If she didn’t copy it, she would most definitely fail. Any paper she wrote would be awful, especially when compared Johanne’s perfect effort.
A bus stop loomed up ahead, and she paused, unsure of where to go. If she went home, the temptation to copy Johanne’s paper would be too great. If she went downtown, she could go to the library, and attempt to write the paper on her own. She thought of doing all that research by herself, without Johanne to help her, and almost grew faint at the thought. Sister Bernadette, her history teacher, demanded notations and primary sources. Meg had never really done proper research. It would be so much simpler to copy Johanne’s paper, or just skip the whole thing altogether.
She looked up and saw a slight figure moving on top of the stone wall. He held his arms aloft, like a circus performer astride a tightrope, and kept them level as he jumped over the cracks and holes.
The man stepped into the glow of the streetlight. There was something familiar about that slow gait, and the way the hair seemed to fly on its own as he walked.
She gasped as she realized it was the boy from the bus, the one that had sucker punched Danny Vasquez and, inadvertently saved her from being discovered by the Jefferson kids. He had lost the dark coat, which was a pity, because it would have been very useful, and much more appropriate, in the cold, windy, weather. Instead, an oversized flannel shirt billowed around his thin figure like a superhero’s cape.
“I know you,” she blurted out as he walked by her. “I saw you, on the bus.” Her skin was a mass of goose pimples as she crossed and uncrossed her arms.
He stopped and looked down at her, his head cocked like an inquisitive puppy.
“It was a while ago.” She couldn’t get over how dumb she sounded, yet she couldn’t stop herself from babbling on. “Back in September. You punched…I think you punched some guy. On the bus.”
“Dangerous things, buses,” he said. “But that can’t have been me. I don’t punch people on buses.”
She started to stumble through an apology, but he interrupted her.
“I drop-kick people on trains,” he said. “But only if they deserve it.” He hovered near the edge of a giant hole as if contemplating the best way to get around it. “Did the fellow on the bus deserve it?”
She thought about it for a moment. Did Danny himself wrong her? He hadn’t been responsible for the actions of his goons. And she’d been the one who’d lied about him. He hadn’t denied it, but he wasn’t to blame.
“No,” she said, reluctantly.
“Then it definitely wasn’t me. Perhaps I’ve got a secret twin. Or an evil doppelganger. Either way, I should stay clear of public transportation.”
“A good plan.” She was afraid he’d walk on and disappear again. She wanted to keep him talking. “What are you doing up there?” she asked, waiting for him to wobble. The top of the wall wasn’t very thick. He couldn’t have much foot room up there.
“Walking on this wall. It’s a nice wall.”
“If you like graffiti.” She motioned to the faded tag below him.
Meg’s breath caught as he leaned over to look at it. He had bent at the waist and was dangling, almost upside down, though his feet stayed firmly planted on the wall. A world-class gymnast would have struggled to stay upright, but he didn’t tremble a bit.
“That’s modern art. You don’t like it?”
“It’s not like it’s Banksy or anything. It’s just someone’s initials.”
“Interesting.” She studied him as he looked down the expanse of the wall. His lips were a bit on the thin side, and his bottom teeth were the tiniest bit crooked. A thin t-shirt was all that he wore underneath the flannel shirt, but he didn’t seem bothered by the cold. His nose, which was of the button variety, wasn’t red or sniffly.
Meg’s nose was a leaky, scarlet faucet.
“So you’d prefer a clean, unblemished wall?”
“Of course.” Meg wondered why they were talking about a wall in the first place. “Who wouldn’t?”
“It’s got more character this way. It’s been around, seen a few thousand kids come and go.” He tapped at it with his shoe. More rocks came scurrying down. “It’s the flaws that make it beautiful. Otherwise, it’s just some stones and mortar.”
“I just see a wall.”
“Ok then, not a fan of masonry, are you? Take my shoes.” He pointed a battered old sneaker at her, effortlessly maintaining his balance on one foot. “They’re old and pretty beat up, but they’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned. I wouldn’t trade ‘em in for a million new pairs.”
“They have a hole in them!”
“Huh.” He looked down at his wiggling toe. “So they do. That’s a shame.”
Meg watched the shoe as he waved it back and forth. It was a worn, gray, high-top sneaker. In addition to the hole, the sole was peeling off in places. It was filthy, as well, and she was about to back away from it, and chide him for being so proud of a dirty old shoe when she noticed a splattering of something dark brown across the star logo. Was it blood?
A dozen butterfly cocoons burst somewhere deep inside her stomach.
She’d seen a shoe just like that months ago, back in the bathroom at Boston Jefferson. That last beating could have killed her, had the girls not been interrupted so suddenly. Someone had made them scurry away like frightened rabbits, and then they’d rushed to Meg and swept her up into their arms. They had been masculine arms, she was sure of it. Thin but strong. The sneakers had been new then. Spotless. Until she bled on them.
She took a deep breath, and the cold air rushed into her lungs and formed ice crystals. She fought the urge to cough and instead stared back at him in the dim light. His eyes were almond shaped, and a tawny amber color. His hair was flyaway and light brown, flopping to his shoulders, in desperate need of a trim. The pale, freckled skin had to be Irish. She was no stranger to that sort of complexion, having to face it every morning when she looked in the mirror. The odd combination of features, on any other person, would be a genetic blunder of great enormity, but on him, they worked. Did they work.
“You should get down from there. You’ll fall and break your neck.”
“I haven’t fallen yet,” he said and grinned at her. “I’m safer up here than I’d be a bus.” He pointed to the school. “Safer than you’d be in there.”
“Jefferson?” The butterflies were on a rampage somewhere in her esophagus.
“Yes, Jefferson. Is that your school?”
“No. Well, it used to be. I go to a different school now. It’s a Catholic school. All girls. Uniforms. It’s pretty terrible, actually.”
“A Catholic school girl! So, are all the stories I’ve heard true? Are you all a bunch of heartbreakers or harlots?”
“Yes. We’re all trained in harlotry. It’s a very specific skill-set.”
He laughed, delighted.
“I’m Meg.”
“Nice to meet you, Meg. I’m Ian.”
“Have we met before?” she asked, whipping her head up. He was staring at her, his head cocked, that light smile twisting the corner of his lips.
“Before the bus? I don’t think so, but maybe we have mutual friends.”
“Who?” Meg demanded. Did he mean Danny’s thugs? He just smiled and continued walking along the wall.
“I never got the hang of school. But I have friends who go here. I was hoping to bump into them. Instead, I bumped into you.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not. You’ve reminded me to be vigilant and stay clear of two very real, very dangerous threats.”
“Buses and Catholic school girls?”
“I fear both may be my undoing.”