Silence as I understand what they must be assuming—that somehow our brains are the bond between us, but what they don’t understand is that I don’t hold a candle to Breanna.
“Yeah,” I answer. “She is.”
“See,” Pigpen says. “The boy does have brains.”
“Not like hers.” Before they can argue, I jack my thumb over my shoulder. “Breanna’s freaked enough about being here, so I’m going to find her.”
“She under eighteen?” Eli asks, and I nod. “Then she’s out of here by eight. A few other chapters are riding in later tonight in your honor. Shit’s going to get crazy.”
I’ll be expected to show later, and maybe I will after I get Breanna safely home, but right now, my focus is her. All on her. I nod again to let him know I heard and leave to find my girl.
Breanna
PAPER PLATES WITH the remnants of our dinner are stacked at the end of the picnic table, and there are enough red plastic cups on the table that I’ve lost track of which one is mine. I’m drinking water. Emily is drinking a diet soda. Oz and Chevy are drinking beer. They’ve had multiple cups and, when they first sat at the table, Razor had a beer, too.
He drank one and after that he’s stuck to my water. It’s intimate that we share the same cup and it’s odd to watch people my age drink so freely with so many adults around. What’s crazy—no one, not a single adult, cares.
“Tell me more!” Emily’s grin grows. In a lawn chair, Emily sits on the lap of Oz—a guy who graduated from my high school last year and scared the crap out of me when he walked by, but he’s hard to find intimidating as he watches Emily as if the sun rises and sets by her.
The other guy from our school—Chevy—shakes his head. “You’re killing us, Breanna. Razor, ask your girl for some mercy.”
We’re all smiles: me, Razor, Chevy, Emily, Oz and this other guy from school they call Stone. He’s a couple of years younger than us and he’s the kind of guy your soul hurts to look at because people at school torture him. My soul withers further as I realize that could be me.
Razor moves beside me to straddle the bench seat. He hooks an arm around my waist and glances down at my legs as a silent request for me to do what he’s done. I also straddle the bench and end up with my back flush to him. I wait for everyone to whisper about us sitting so cozily, but like with the beer, no one cares.
“Breanna’s lying.” Oz runs his finger along Emily’s knee and it’s the type of touch that suggests they share very personal secrets. “I was a Boy Scout at school.”
Ha. That’s a lie. “So you’re saying during my freshman year you didn’t punch Adam Jones in the face, causing him to spew blood in my direction?”
“In my defense, it was your boy that started the fight.” Oz mocks this innocent expression, but there’s no way I’m buying it. “I was helping a brother out.”
Razor makes a disgusted noise. “Guy I hit was already down. You were feeling left out.”
I snap my body around. “I babysat other people’s children for months to earn enough for that sweater and I never got the blood out of it. Anyhow, I don’t remember you there.”
“I was already in the office being suspended. First part of the fight happened in the parking lot. The guy I fought hit me hard, Breanna. So hard my hair moved and then I had to really hit him back. I’m the one who should be getting the sympathy points.” He bats his baby blues at me and I shake my head at him because I’m melting.
“What were you guys fighting about?” Emily asks.
Oz, Chevy and Razor look at each other, then go quiet. I drop my hand to cover Razor’s fingers that are firm against my stomach. I know why they fought. The rumors at school were brutal and guilt consumes me for being the person who brought up the subject.
Adam Jones called the Terror worthless, and when Razor told him to keep his mouth shut, Adam told Razor he must be worthless, too, since his mother preferred death over being with him.
“What was your first impression of me?” Chevy asks, moving the conversation forward. I adore that about him and Oz. They read Razor well and form a protective bubble around him.
“First impression of you,” I repeat. It’s what started my stories. Oz asked point-blank what I thought of him and, through coaxing from Razor and Emily, I gave in. “Eighth grade stands out. That was when you gas-lighted our science teacher into believing he was crazy.”
I look over at Emily. “Chevy stole things from him and then a few days later he’d put it back someplace different, and when our teacher found it, Chevy and Razor would tell him the item had been there the entire time.”
Chevy chuckles. “Fucked-up bastard didn’t have a chance when the rest of the class joined in. The asshole was starting to lose his mind at the end.”
“You didn’t?” Emily’s eyes widen. “I thought you were the good one.”
Oz and Razor bark out a laugh and Chevy flashes a sly one-sided smirk. “I am the good one, but then I hang out with these two. I’m telling you, I’m trying to save their souls, but they keep dragging me down.”
“Seriously,” Emily says. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Chevy shrugs and Oz wraps both his arms around Emily in a hug. “The guy was sick in the head. He used to call girls to his desk, drop his pencil and then look up their skirts or down their shirts when they bent over to pick it up.”
“Why didn’t anyone do anything?” Emily asks. “Tell another teacher. The principal. Somebody.”