The Tear Collector Page 9

  “Okay, but it’s complicated,” he says, showing he is open, but just needs a little prodding.

  So I say, “Maybe you don’t want to speak badly of the undead.” He doesn’t laugh.

  “I guess I understand people like her,” Scott says, then sighs. “They’re afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of being themselves,” he says. “That’s why they adopt poses or join cliques.”

  “I don’t know her that well,” I say, although that might be changing. After the big door slam in the library and the eye knives in biology class, she’s toned it down. I think her new thing is to act all mature, like she’s above it. She surprised me by finally adding me as a MySpace friend, then also asking if she could interview me for the school paper about the peer counseling service. Samantha thinks she’ll be asking the questions; she obviously doesn’t know me at all.

  “I knew girls like her at Powers.” He says the name of his old school with a wince, like a bad memory. Not bad because it was scary, but awful because it was good and now is gone.

  “Well, there are a lot of them at Lapeer as well,” I add. “I try to avoid all the groups.”

  “I noticed,” he says, almost whispering.

  “I think she’s like all of us, just trying to figure out who we are,” I say very casually.

  “Well, she’s got a lot more thinking to do,” he says. “Like the whole God thing.”

  “Not everyone believes in God like you and me.”

  He flashes a second of anger, but it melts when I offer my best smile in return. This conversation is like a swimming meet and I need to push ahead to the finish line.

  “She does believe in God, she just hasn’t put it all together.”

  “Scott, what do you mean?”

  “Here’s the story,” he says, and I lean forward as if I’m expecting a kiss. “An angel once found a demon broken and nearly dead. The angel held out his arms to help the demon. The demon looked at the angel and asked, ‘Why would you save an evil demon like me?’ The angel answered, ‘Because without you, there is no me.’”

  I’m smart, but I play dumb. “What do you mean?”

  “If she really believes in vampires, then she believes in evil. If she believes in evil, then she believes in demons. If she believes in demons, she must believe in angels. If she believes in angels, then she believes in God,” he says. “You don’t get good without evil. They coexist.”

  “That’s a rational explanation for the irrational, don’t you think?”

  “There’s an order to things in the universe,” Scott says, then finishes his pop.

  “So do you believe in demons and vampires?” I ask, almost amused.

  He lets out a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “Not like Samantha does, but, I guess I do.”

  “You’re one interesting man, Scott Gerard,” I say. My arms stretch out like I am trying to touch the wall of the pool. I can’t reach out any farther to him; he’s got to reach back.

  “You too,” he says, then touches me. “I mean, you’re interesting, not an interesting man.”

  I think he’s blushing, but I can’t see all of his face. Instead, I feel his skin. “Thanks.”

  The moment’s ruined by more yelps from Cody’s table and another incoming bread bomb. I stare back at Cody, but he’s not looking at me. They’re too busy now throwing food at each other. I see the server walk by the table again, but that just sets off another laugh riot.

  “I’m sorry, we should—,” I start.

  “I wanted to get to know you for some time,” he says. “But I’d have to break my rule.”

  “Your rule?”

  “Since pretty girls don’t usually talk to me, I don’t talk to them,” he says as he blushes. “By talking to you, I’m breaking my rule. I wonder what other trouble you’ll get me into?”

  “Really?” I lean in. I want to push the hair out of his face; I want to see his eyes.

  “I watched you, how you interacted with everybody at school,” he says.

  “Well, Robyn taught me that,” I say.

  “No, it was different,” he says. “People clung to Robyn because it made them feel popular too, like they were part of something. But I think people hang around you because you make them feel better. I see how people talk to you when they’re upset or crying.”

  “I try to be there for my friends.”

  “Robyn gave people what they wanted, you give people what they need,” he says without a single pause, like he’s been rehearsing this little speech for some time. “People worshipped Robyn, but people like you. I think that’s probably better for everyone.”

  “Everyone except you liked me, I guess,” I say, teasingly.

  “I saw you with guys like Cody and couldn’t figure you out,” he says, pointing in their direction. I won’t turn around. Not only because I don’t want to look at Cody again, but also because I can’t take my eyes off Scott. He’s pushed his hair aside. If he blushes any more, there’ll be no more blood left in the rest of his body, which would be disappointing for both of us later.

  “Figure out what?” I ask. I’m fingering my trinity of necklaces with my left hand. My right hand flicks Scott’s fingers. He looks up again. I throw back my hair and smile.

  “Never mind,” he says. Scott seems to be a mostly dormant volcano; he lets off a little steam, a little emotion, but I sense deep down there’s more brewing and an explosion waiting.

  “Scott, maybe you figured out that we belong together,” I say as I lean closer.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I say, then squeeze his hand. “I think we can help each other.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks as our fingers awkwardly intertwine.

  “My grandmother is head nurse at Avalon, this nursing home,” I offer. “Let me talk with her, see what she can do to help your grandma. I’m sure she could pull some strings.”

  “You would do that?”

  “Scott, of course I would,” I say. “We have a lot in common.”

  “You think so?”

  “You said how other people need me, but that’s true of you too, Scott,” I say, grasping his hand a little tighter. “Your family needs you.”

  “It’s a lot to carry,” he admits, but there’s no way he could understand the cross I bear.

  “Let me help you,” I say, then let go of his hand. He looks surprised. I get up and move over to the seat next to him. “The first thing you should know is that we all need somebody to lean on.”

  He doesn’t say anything as I whisper, “And the second thing I learned from Robyn. Maybe it’s the last thing I learned from her.”

  “What’s that?” he asks nervously.

  I run my fingers gently but playfully through his hair. “You can’t try to act strong all the time. It is too hard.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but he turns to look at me. His green eyes flash “go.”

  “If you need to unload, if you need to cry or scream or shout…,” I say, then push against him. I take his hand from the table and put it near my waist. He clumsily wraps his arm around me while my body cries out silently for him to pull me closer. “If you need me, then I’m there.”

  He doesn’t say anything because he’s lost in my inviting eyes. “Scott, you didn’t come to Robyn’s memorial because you wanted to be strong.” I gently tip his head against me. “You didn’t want to cry, but you’ll have to let it out. And when that time comes, I’ll be there.”

  He stays silent, soaking it all in, and I wait to soak in his tears, but a laughter train headed our way breaks the silence. When Cody and his crew walk by our table, they laugh loudly as they knock over Scott’s pop glass. It’s empty, so only ice spills on the table.

  “Just had to cool things off,” Cody says as he walks past. Cody’s crew cracks up.

  “Apologize,” Scott says as he stands.

  Cody stops, turns around, and looks at Scott with disdain and shock. “What did you
say?”

  “I said, say you’re sorry,” Scott repeats. Cody, with Tyler at his side, walks back toward the table. Cody’s got his varsity jacket on his shoulders and his jock pride on his sleeve.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Cody sneers. They’re nose to nose.

  “Nothing,” Scott says. It looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Nothing, for now.”

  “Weirdo,” Cody says. Tyler shakes his head in agreement, and they walk away.

  “Scott, what are you doing?” I ask. “Do you know martial arts or something?”

  “No,” he says, sitting back down at the table. “No doubt, Cody would kick my ass.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Because you can’t allow that kind of behavior,” Scott says, then rubs his forehead.

  “But Cody and Tyler—”

  “Brawn wins some battles,” Scott says. “But in the end, brains always wins the wars.”

  I’m silent as Scott sits down next to me, and I wrap my arms around him. He leans into me, and after an awkward moment, I kiss him. I can tell he’ll need lots of practice.

  Scott breaks our awkward first real kiss quickly, then says, “We should go.”

  I’m confused, yet compliant. “Okay.”

  “The waitress needs this table,” he says, then motions toward the server’s area.

  A tired-looking waitress comes over. Not our server, but the one who served Cody’s table. Before she can say anything, Scott asks her, “They stiffed you, didn’t they?”

  The server isn’t some high school girl; this is her job and her hard middle-aged life. She sighs, then says, “Yeah, and they left a mess too.”

  “Figures,” he says. “On behalf of all Lapeer High School students, I apologize.”

  The server laughs, then says, “Thanks, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” Scott says, not angrily, but with force. He reaches into his pocket, then pulls out a ten-dollar bill. He hands it to the server, then says, “Here’s the tip they didn’t leave.”

  “Are you for real?” the waitress asks.

  Scott smiles his answer, but it looks like he wants to say something more. I want him to say, “I’m just falling in love,” but he’s not ready to admit that aloud, at least not yet. Not yet.

  Scott leans over to kiss me, but instead I rush out the door. Like fire, I’m sucking all the air; as if human, I’m grasping for love. Scott comes up behind me and asks softly, “Cassandra, what’s wrong?” then gently places his hand on my shoulder.

  “Nothing,” I say, knowing it is a total lie. For so long, I’ve told myself that if you can’t feel love and don’t mind being alone, then high school isn’t that difficult. As I fall into Scott’s open arms and his soft, loving glance, I sense that high school is about to become very, very hard.

  CHAPTER 12

  TUESDAY, MARCH 24

  What do you want?”

  My sneer is aimed at Kelsey, Brittney, and Cody’s new squeeze, Bethany, all surrounding me at my locker. It’s as if three Gap mannequins have cornered me.

  “Do you have Robyn’s Facebook password?” Kelsey asks. She’s chewing her gum so hard and loud she looks like a cow with her cud. “It needs to go away.”

  “Why?” is my less-than-helpful response.

  “Tomorrow will have been a week,” Kelsey says. “Her Facebook profile reminds people...”

  “So,” I answer. I realize we’ll all be counting weeks, not like most juniors who count the days until the end of the school year, but weeks since Robyn died. Tomorrow is week one.

  “You took her boyfriend, now you want her life?” I ask Brittney. It seems Kelsey’s the gum-filled mouthpiece. Brittney’s silence indicates she’s supervising this operation. Bethany’s here just to gloat as if blond-haired, empty-headed Cody were a prize deserving of bragging rights.

  “It’s not about that,” Brittney finally speaks. “It’s about healing, and all that other stuff.”

  “I have to go,” I say. “School’s over for the day, and I’m done with the three of you.”

  “I didn’t steal Craig,” Brittney says, which stops my quick exit. “Craig dumped Robyn.”

  “If there’s an unguarded vault and you take the money, it’s still stealing,” I counter. It’s not my best argument, but I can’t waste energy on them. “Especially, if you unlocked the door.”

  Kelsey steps forward, like the toady she is, in defense of Brittney. “It was bound to happen. Somebody was spreading rumors about Craig and Brittney. I wonder who did that?”

  “I wonder. Perhaps, Kelsey, you should look beside you,” I say. “Not in front of you.”

  “What do you mean?” Kelsey asks.

  “Kelsey, don’t act so dumb,” I say. “It was Brittney who started the rumors herself.” I have no idea if that’s true or not. I’m throwing bread on the water to see if it floats her way.

  Brittney grows quiet while Kelsey looks confused, so I’m probably right. “You ever heard of self-fulfilling prophecy?” I ask; she doesn’t answer. “It was a sweet plan, actually.”

  “Shut up!” Brittney says.

  “Brittney spreads the rumor. It drives a wedge between Craig and Robyn. Craig denies it, but Robyn doesn’t believe it. They fight, break up, and Brittney slips into Robyn’s place.” I point a finger at Brittney’s smug tanned face. “Also, Robyn dies. You didn’t count on that, did you?”

  “You coldhearted bitch,” Brittney says. “How did Robyn ever hang out with you?”

  “Because I cared about her,” I say. “I didn’t just use her.”

  “She just pretended to like you because of Becca,” Brittney says. “I was her best friend.”

  “What are you, six years old?” I ask, then shake my head. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Why? You have to go to church with Scott?” Kelsey cracks.

  “What is wrong with you?” Brittney asks. “To go from Cody to a loser like Scott.”

  Kelsey laughs on command. “So, are you going to give Brittney the password?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re dead at this school. We’ll see to that,” Brittney says.

  “I don’t care,” I calmly say. “I have all the friends I need.”

  Brittney laughs, then says, “Scott and Samantha Dracula—some friends.”

  “Her name is Samantha Dressen,” I say. I don’t add that she’s still not a real friend. Yet.

  “It’s a freak show,” Brittney says, and Kelsey and Bethany giggle almost on command.

  “You three are ones to talk about a freak show,” I snap back as Kelsey snaps her gum.

  “What do you mean?” Brittney says.

  “You’re all ridiculous, with your fake orange tans, your slutty tight clothes, and your always-open legs,” I say. I’ve wanted to say these things for a long time, but held my tongue. Robyn counted Brittney as one her best friends for some odd reason. Since Robyn didn’t get a chance to reject her, I’ll do that task with pleasure. “You’re the freaks, not me or Scott.”

  “Hey, maybe if you opened your legs, you’d still have Cody,” Kelsey says. I can’t tell if Bethany looks embarrassed or excited. The only look Cody will ultimately give her is disappointment.

  “Maybe if Robyn didn’t act like a prude, Craig wouldn’t have left her,” Brittney says.

  “Maybe if you had kept you legs shut for Craig, then Robyn would still be alive,” I say, proving I’m as cold as they claim.

  “Bitch,” Brittney says, then pushes me. As I’ve always learned, I turn the other cheek—but not before I laugh.

  “You are so dead,” Brittney says with another push.

  “No, that’s Robyn who is dead,” I say, still stone-cold. “And you pulled the trigger.”

  Out of words, Brittney resorts to violence with another push. I swat her hands away, then stare her down. This isn’t the evil eye of a teacher. I learned this stare not from a Lapeer wigger or wannabe, but from bangers in NOLA. This is a real deal �
��don’t fuck with me” gangsta glare.

  I keep my violet pupils poised like laser beams on Brittney, then whisper, “Just try me.”

  “What makes you think you’re so tough?” Brittney asks, and the question is the answer.

  “I’m not so tough, Brittney,” I say as she blinks. “For all your attention-getting antics, you know what you are?” I don’t give her time to reply. I fix my stare even harder, then say, “You’re a weak, spoiled, selfish little girl.” Brittney quickly focuses on the floor instead of the anger in my eyes and the truth in my words. All three quickly exit. Their high heels click in time.

  “So, Samantha, what do you want to ask us?” I say, and Mr. Abraham marks his approval with a sip from his thermos. He and I are sitting in a small conference room in the library after school. Samantha Dressen in all her human-hating vampire-loving glory sits across from us. Skulls cover her notebooks, red ink covers her hands, and long sleeves cover her arms. Her hair is tinted green, at least for today.

  “I’m writing an article for the school paper on the peer counseling service,” she says, but I sense she’s got another agenda. Just like I do. We have something else, other than Scott, in common it seems. “With recent events—”

  “I love your poems on your MySpace,” I say, cutting her off, not angrily, but faking excitement. I’d printed one earlier and showed it to her. It’s called “I Hurt, Hurt, Hurt” just like her screen name, and I suspect, like her life. In the poem, she writes about having no more tears, but I know that’s a lie.

  “This is just something for the paper,” she mumbles.

  “How long have you been writing?” I ask, then sip from my water bottle.

  “Since I’ve been writing,” she says, then cracks what looks like a smile.

  “I’d like to read more,” I say, then lean toward her. “I really would.”

  She nods, but I think she wants to shout. This is what you do to make friends; you tell people things they want to hear. I really don’t want to read Samantha’s emo-laden odes to her anguish, but I do want to learn about the person behind the words. It’s another of my sacrifices.