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Chapter 11

Ileaned my back against the fence, the ragged metal jarring the bruises on my spine. Still, I did not dare grimace or allow any outward expression of my pain. Ducky didn’t - couldn’t - know the truth.

“Do you have a date yet?” I asked him through the barrier that separated us. He sat directly on the other side of the fence. I could feel the fabric of his shirt against my bare arms.

I was fortunate that his school went up to eighth grade. The only other public school, the high school, was a couple miles away, and I was too lazy to walk that far.

Though, for Ducky, I would’ve.

“Tomorrow,” Ducky answered, touching his cascade of long hair. He constantly grew his hair out, cut it, and then donated it to a foundation that made wigs for cancer patients. His mom had died of the disease when he was a young boy, and this was his way to honor her. Though his foster parents didn’t necessarily agree with his decision (the teasing had escalated from taunts into fights), they left Ducky alone to do as he pleased.

I always envied his hair, both long and short. For years, I wished that my hair would grow as fast as his did. It looked like silk. With a desire that was only slightly irrational, I longed to run my fingers through it.

“So, your thirteenth birthday is coming up,” Ducky said conversationally. He absently scratched a drawing into the sand with a stick. The sun, peeking through the boughs of trees, illuminated his pale hand as he drew.

At his age, they weren’t allowed to have recess anymore (which I found ridiculous), so we were forced to meet up before and after school. It was difficult, what with my parents and his foster parents, but we were able to see each other at least two times a week. I would’ve preferred that number to be higher, but beggars couldn’t be choosers or however that saying went.

“Don’t remind me,” I answered, rolling my eyes to the heavens. While birthdays were grand affairs for some, mine consisted of nothing but formal dinners and the occasional wandering hands of my parents’ “friends”. I had never received any presents from anyone other than Ducky, but I didn’t mind. What could my parents possibly give me? A “I’m sorry I beat the crap out of you” t-shirt? Or a “I’m a sick bastard” coffee mug? They didn’t know me, and they didn’t know what I liked. I had long since accepted the hand I had been dealt.

“Are you doing anything?” he pressed.

“The usual. Dinner at Holt’s, and then a long spiel about how age comes with responsibility and blah blah blah.” I didn’t bother to mention the beating that I was bound to receive. He didn’t need to know that part. It wasn’t his burden to carry.

“What time?”

“Seven.”

I had thought he was only being inquisitive, as was standard with Ducky, but I should’ve known better. He was trying to be my friend, trying to show me something that my parents had neglected to show me for so long. Love.

And it was his love for me that would cost him his life.

* * *

The tornado hit onlymoments before we reached the stairwell.

We were in a small room that had once been a second restaurant. A long bar was against the far wall, glasses piled in shelves behind it. A dozen tables were left abandoned in the center of the room, many collecting dust from years without use.

I remembered this room. My mother had wanted a pub and took it upon herself to hire a designer to recreate a 1930s nightclub. Apparently, Mommy dearest was having an affair with said designer, who mysteriously disappeared. Thus, the bar never came to be, and the basement as a whole had been abandoned for storage. Daddy was a vindictive son of a bitch.

For a moment, I thought that it was another earthquake. The feeling was very similar - the ground almost seemed to vibrate, and glasses from the shelf rained down upon us.

Calax reached for me, but one of the shelves came loose, and it plummeted down, hitting Calax in the head. The giant immediately dropped to the ground, blood pooling from the wound.

Ah. That was what the book was for.

I couldn’t help my slightly incoherent thoughts as panic set in. I knew I couldn’t stay in this room - there was broken glass everywhere, and large objects pelted me like hail. I knew all this, I did, but I couldn’t leave Calax, and it was impossible for me to drag him out. I considered running back towards the guys, but I didn’t want to put them in harm’s way.

I did what instinct demanded: I threw myself on top of Calax. Being careful of the blood gushing from his forehead, I attempted to shield his massive body with my small one. I hoped the effort wouldn’t prove futile.

Spreading my legs and arms further apart, I tucked my head into his hair to avoid the worst of the onslaught. I felt something particularly heavy hit my back, and I let out a whimper.

Breathe, Addie. Breathe.

My therapist always told me that, in any situation, all I had to do was breathe. If I was still breathing, there was a chance that everything would work out.

So I breathed. I breathed through the pain that seemed to almost consume me. I breathed when a shard of glass impaled itself in my arm, eliciting a sob from me. I breathed even when a table landed on my leg, crushing the bone.

I knew, without a doubt, that it was broken.