The hallway is just big enough for two people to walk, side by side, arm in arm. But, we are four, so we walk two by two; straight lines, like in that children's book about the cheerful orphanage run by nuns in Paris - BrookeBevin in front, PeytonHaley in back, and on some days we switch it up, make it interesting, and Peyton'll walk by me. I'm always at the front. Everyone knows this. It's because I'm the most easily identified, I attract attention, I'm pretty and loud and my clothes catch the light just so. I'm the mascot, I'm the First, and everyone knows me.
That day last year, I walked by myself.
Bevin was sick, she had the measles. Haley was with her, we don't get sick alone. They spent two weeks with their redredred spots and their insanely high fevers and every day after school, me and Peyton went to their houses in shifts, we sat with them and we gave them their homework, and we recounted the fantastic tales of high school life in vibrant, thrilling detail. But, in any case, BevinHaley was out of the picture, for those two whole weeks, and Peyton had her job at the record store. She was getting sick; too, I could see it in her kelly-green tinged face, her pale cheeks, the way she broke into cold sweat for no reason whatsoever. I told her, she doesn't have to come to dance with me today; I'd be okay, no big deal. And then I kissed her cheek, picked up her germs, and my perfect attendance record fractured five days later.
I was alone, sitting on the steps of Madame Lisa's house of dance, and I hadn't done that in the seven years I'd been Four, not since that first day of third grade when I moved in next door to Bevin A, when Peyton and Haley chased a kitten into my yard and asked me why I sounded like a cowboy. Being four means you aren't ever supposed to be one, because there's always someone else, and you know that you're a part of something bigger. Four. Everyone thought we'd had a fight. I was off balance, I wasn't used to not having my support on the side, my second line behind me, I wasn't used to being seen.
It scared me, and I almost fell over the crumbling, tagged-and-spray-painted front steps on my way out of dance. Almost, but I managed, and my shoes were the good kind with the rubber treads on the bottom for extra traction. Before I started dance, I fell a lot. On everything. It was cold, that day, and it was September. There was frost on the scrubby trees in the front lawn, and Peyton had had to use the lock deicer that morning to get the vans doors to open, so we'd stood around in thirty degree weather, watching our breath and huddling together for warmth in the driveway. It was September, so I hadn't gotten any substantial, warm clothes, and Peyton wasn't there, so I couldn't borrow her fleecy jacket thing like always.
It was just so cold.
Peyton wasn't with me, so I couldn't get my lighter to work. I, stupid, stupid, smoker, since me and Bevin switched and I started going with Peyton for her cigarette across the street from the school after fifth, had never learned to work a Bic damn Peyton. The little metal wheel just didn't click for me the way it did for Peyton, it didn't make the soft snapping sound under my thumb and produce the thin flash of flame I needed to get the cigarette to burn. It scraped my fingers, thin trails of pinkish-red blood streaming down over the creases and wrinkles of my palm.
God, it was cold. My breath was white vapor; my skin was blue, purple, white; I could feel my nose getting red. Too cold, and Bevin wasn't there to make me warm, and Peyton wasn't there to light the fire, and Haley wasn't there to be Haley, to sit at my feet and sing the Starbucks commercial song at the top of her lungs. My hand hurt, I could feel the sting of flint on my knuckles, and God, why was I so bad at being alone, I managed it for years, why can't I -
Warm, soft fingers closed over my lighter, a shadow falling across my face. Someone was blotting out my pale sun. Heat pressed against my side, the snapping of popping joints as someone sat down next to me, unfolding long legs in faded jeans, double cuffed about battered brown Nikes.
"Here, see, the thing you've gotta do is -"This kid, the sun thief, his voice was calm and husky; hot whiskey on the rocks, on an August night in someone's backyard. He was clicking the lighter, and it almost sounded like it did when Peyton did it, only softer. Like mini, muted atom bombs exploding, the metal hitting the flint and the sparks crackling to life. He took the cigarette out of my mouth, fingertips brushing my lips. He wasn't cold.
Peyton was at work, right now. She's standing behind the counter assisting people with their buys. And I'm here, I'm on the steps, and there's a guy taking my hand, passing the Marlboro back to me, and he's noticing the blood on my fingers. His voice in my ear, and I realized that I haven't looked at him yet.
"Hey, you've got cuts on your hands . . . you want me to - "
This is where I looked up, hair falling out of my face, lips circling the base of the cigarette, little ashes floating down to where he was holding my wrist, onto the face of his grey and blue watch with the red flashing numbers. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed into a thin line, let go of my wrist, and I knew him from somewhere, knew his name. I just didn't . . . care. I smiled, as best I could, and almost drop the cigarette into my lap. I did that before, burned a whole through Bevin's jeans, the black ones with the red stitching up the left leg, and she was pissed for a while. But. Indivisible. Wrecked pants don't change that.
The guy was still white, like he's stopped breathing, and it's a little bit scarier than it was to be alone. "No, I'm okay. I just had a lighter . . . issue. Thanks. It'll stop after- oh . . . "He blew on my hand, pulling his shirt sleeve down to wipe at the scratches, and his shirt was white.
Oh. That'll leave a stain.
"I. Um. I. You just looked a little. You know? I thought you . . . you needed help? Like . . . sorry . . . you're Brooke." He was an up-talker, everything sounded like a question, and my brother used to do that before Dad got him speech therapy. The blood was cleaned, now, but his shirt was dirty, and I didn't think Tide can get ride of that shade of red.
"Yeah. Brooke. Hi." I waved lamely, waggling my non-mangled fingers weakly, and he smiled. His teeth were crooked, not bad. Absently, I flicked a long, cyndrical ash off to the side, "Who're you?" Smooth. Very, very smooth. And kind. He blushes, purplepinkred.
"I'm Lucas. Scott. Lucas Scott. We have gym together?" Oh. Right. I have a doctor's note that says I'm too frail for team sports. Gym isn't really a thing for me; I just wear the shorts and t-shirt, bang, done. Easy A. Bevin did basketball, last year, but she quit because Peyton hates team spirit.
"Oh. Cool, Lucas Scott." Casual, but to him, it must have meant something. Because he kept talking.
"I. Thanks. So . . . where're your . . . friends?" He didn't like my friends. I could tell. Chances are, he didn't like me either. Chances are, he wanted to burn me to death with my lighter, and I was at the top of his kill list. Probably his friends sat at home every night, planning out ways to turn the world against me, wrest power away from us, take back the school for all the losers out there.
But he helped me with my lighter. For that, I'm. Grateful.
"Peytons at work and Bevin is sick. Haley, too. I'm all alone." That sounds so wrong, coming out of my mouth. I'm all alone. I'm never alone. I'm Four. I cleared my throat and shivered, and his arm was almost around my waist. Like . . . like he was comforting me, like I've lost something. No.
"Oh. That's. You're never alone. You're like. Brooke. You're."
"I'm Brooke. Yeah. Thanks. No identity crises for me." He looked down at his hand, the one that crept up to rest on the small of my back, and it was weird because I was leaning in. He was soft, all over. "So, thanks. Again. I needed that help. Help is good, you're a good guy. And. Uh. I have to go. Now. My ride. It's here. So . . . "His hand rubbed my back, just slightly, and I think I jumped, but maybe not. He must have noticed, because he took the hand away and blushed, harder than before.
"If you have to. I'll see you around. Bye, Brooke." That's the thing, though, I wanted to stay. I really wanted to stay. And I wanted him to talk to me more, and I wanted to talk back and chain smoke. I wanted him to touch me. Again. Because no one else did it like that, like it was a thrill or a privilege. I started walking to the car, and he held up my lighter. It looked so . . . odd . . . bright green and covered in sparkles from when my lip gloss leaked, held in his big hand with the long fingers and rough thumbs. "Do you . . . do you want this back?"
And I shook my head, because hey . . . Peyton hates being late for work, and anyone can work a lighter. Lucas might as well be the one to do it, because I can't. "No, you hold onto it, okay? My friend, Peyton? She does it for me . . . I think she's getting sick, too, so . . . I'll need you. Help. I'll need help. Again. From you. Same time, same place, okay? I like to stay on schedule."
Lucas smiled, and I almost, almost did. He stood up, too, dusting off the seat of his pants, and patted my shoulder lightly. "It's a date." Just as I was about to shake my head, say, no, kid, you're getting confused, I don't date, I don't date people like you, I don't date losers with . . . Keith Scott motors. . . on their vintage tees. I don't talk to them, either, and I sure as Hell don't let them do what you want to do, no, he stepped out of my personal space. He stepped down, onto the curb, and his eyes half-closed when he talked. "Don't worry, Brooke. I won't tell anyone. Cross my heart, hope to die, all that."
I didn't know that I was so easy to read.