Paper Hearts by S R Savell

Author:S R Savell
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781605426914
Publisher: Medallion Media Group
Published: 2014-01-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

“All I waited for was a chance to make you understand . . .”

“This is a nice one,” Nate says, nodding at the playing radio.

“They all are.” I stand back, admiring the art before me. “How do my stick figures look?” Red fighters are spread across a bloody landscape. Some have crossbows, others guns, a few energy blasts, but most have swords.

He rolls out the paintbrush in its pan. “Are you sure your mom said—?”

“Yes, yes already! Look. It’s perfect. One wall for each mood.” I point to the wall with the door, covered in harsh slashes of crimson against the white backdrop. “Red for rage.”

He glances where I point.

“Purple for calm,” he says.

“Green for happy feelings.”

“And blue for, well, sad, I guess. Damn cliché.” I grin, soaking my hand and running to the wall, making my mark with a slap of paint on plaster. “Ta-da!”

“The paint won’t come out even if you keep doing that.”

“Lookie here. This is my room, and these are my walls. Walls that I have to stare at every day. As long as it’s not super shitty, I’m happy. Got it?” I jam my hands onto my hips, puffing up to look scarier.

“If you say so.” He grins and goes back to his green.

“So, um”—he clears his throat—“how’s school been?”

I roll the paintbrush up the wall, picturing Allyson under a bulldozer. Or Tanya. I’m not picky.

“Shitty. As normal.”

“Has it—?”

“Gotten worse? Yeah. A lot.”

In the last week alone I’ve been hit by backpacks, grabbed by random guys in the hall, spit on in the locker room, and harassed just about everywhere on campus. I can’t even go to the bathroom without worrying they’ll corner me in the stall.

Neither of us speaks, and I’m regretting the honesty. If it’s just going to make Nate upset, why bother him with it?

“I know it’s hard, having to deal with them every day. At least it’s senior year.”

“Yeah.” I drop the roller into the tin and flop down.

“Stay away from them if you can. It’ll be easier that way.”

“You mean hide.”

“I mean survive.” He sits by me, playing with the paintbrush in the pan.

I blow air between my lips. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“How you could let them hurt you? I know you’re nice, and I know violence isn’t the answer and all that but, Nate, you could’ve done something. I can’t.”

“I know.”

“What?”

He picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans. “I know I could’ve fought back. But I”—his eyes close briefly, then lock with mine—“I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t want to be like them. And because if they were hurting me, at least they weren’t hurting anyone else. Does that make sense?”

There’s no epiphany that brings me to my knees. Nathaniel’s no martyr. But I’m convinced he’s a saint.

“Michelle?”

“Yeah, yeah, it does. Want to go eat?” I’m on my feet, the weight on my heart relentless.

He grabs my hand.

Smiles.

And just like that, it’s weightless.

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