Dark Touch Page 2

  The first half of the workroom is set up in rows of work benches. The back half of the room is a maze of machines: band saws, lathes, grinders, table saws. In short, everything you should never put in the hands of a sixteen-year-old boy. A door on the far wall leads to a tiny closet of a room that houses a high-pressure hose for sandblasting glass surfaces.

  “Tully, welcome back!” Mr. Garrison comes over and greets me at the door.

  I force a grin. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Hey, I could use your help again this year for a couple classes. You in?”

  Last year I occasionally assisted Mr. Garrison in the continuing education course he teaches after school. I got paid to work with wood.

  “Sure. Call me when you need me.”

  He grins. “Excellent. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The final rush of bodies in the door slows to a trickle. I clomp down the aisle, past the first few rows of workbenches and my entirely male classmates, who poke at one another with their fists and their words, to the lone bench at the back. I drop my bag on the floor and glance up at Mr. Garrison, who’s watching me with a skeptical expression.

  Please? I mouth. No one’s supposed to sit at this bench. It’s the demonstration bench and it’s set slightly apart from the other work stations, partially hidden by an antique lathe. I need the space.

  Mr. Garrison rolls his eyes, then nods.

  If it weren’t such a lame thing to do, I would fist pump.

  The second bell rings and Mr. Garrison is already at the front, clapping his hands, calling for silence. The murmurs and laughter stop as everyone faces the front, waiting for our assignment. We’re seniors. No more being forced to sit through safety checks and lectures on the different tools, machines, design techniques, and graduation requirements. This year we get straight to the business of working with wood and I am almost bouncing in my seat.

  Then one last student walks in the door.

  Chris. I hadn’t caught sight of him during my morning, had almost forgotten I was looking for him. But here he is, walking up the aisle, raising his chin to one of the other guys. Then he sees me and frowns. He slows for half a step. His eyes widen and his lips part. I see my name on them, a question, as he takes in my outfit.

  Then he smiles.

  His steps pick up as if they never faltered. Without taking his eyes off me, he walks to the other side of my bench, grabs a stool from another table, and sits down. There’s laughter on the edge of his lips, as if I have pulled a prank. He shakes his head a couple of times, then turns himself to face Mr. Garrison. I am floored. And pissed. This is my space.

  “Welcome, everybody, to your senior year!” Mr. Garrison says, clapping. The guys cheer. I roll my eyes. “You get a lot more freedom this year. Which means you’ll have more chances to kill yourselves and each other. So if I see any shenanigans, first offense you’re moving to the front bench. Second strike you’re stuck sanding everybody else’s work for the week. Third time, you’re done. Your report card will read incomplete. Got it?”

  A few guys snort over the word shenanigans, but we’re all here because we want to be. It’s unlikely anyone will get past strike one.

  Mr. Garrison leans against his bench, crossing his legs at the ankle. He always wears shorts and knee socks. Every day. All year. But he’s the coolest teacher in the school and we all know it.

  “So, here it is, guys. This year you have four assignments: a piece of furniture, a solution to a problem, something for use outdoors, and something using dovetail joints. If you use dovetail joints on your piece of furniture the project will be graded on both requirements. But it will need to be pretty spectacular to earn enough points for two grades. Capiche?”

  A hum of assent and something akin to excitement ripples through the room. We’ve never had this much freedom. It’s always been “build a birdhouse” or “create a shelving unit.” I grab my sketchbook from my bag, a couple of soft pencils and an eraser, and get to work.

  At least, I try to.

  I’m not used to having someone else at my bench. Usually, I can tune the guys out. They ignore me, I ignore them. Simple. The problem is, Chris keeps moving in my peripheral vision. Making noises that are too close to be drowned out by the echoing room. He is present. And I find that unnerving. The third time he scratches his neck and the cut of his bicep registers in my line of sight, my pencil slips again. I curse and reach for the eraser.

  “Can’t be that bad,” Chris says. I glance up and find his eyes on me. They are gray, with flecks of gold near the black of his pupil.

  I keep my face blank and turn back to the page in front of me.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you from yesterday, you know,” he says quietly. He folds his arms, the ropes of muscle easily visible under the stretched cotton of his T-shirt.

  The roof of my mouth goes dry.

  “So . . . which one’s real?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  Chris’s expression is somber. “Which Tully is the real one?” he asks.

  “Seriously?” I glare at him, which usually makes people back off.

  “Yes, seriously,” he says, cool gray eyes still locked on mine.

  My skin itches. For a moment I consider touching him, or whatever it takes to get him gone. Then I blurt, “Neither.”

  We blink at each other. I’m pretty sure I shocked us both. Then he smiles a slow smile, and I swear under my breath. This guy is dangerous—to me, at least. Because for a second I want to tell him more, to see that grin again.

  He shifts his weight on his stool and taps his pencil a couple of times. But all he says is, “Figures.”

  He goes back to sketching, and I erase what I’ve drawn so far because it’s something to do. After a minute or so, I can work again. But I’ve only got half my brain on the design. The other half is focused on Chris, on his every little movement. I’m so busy deciding whether I’d be scared to hear him speak again, or wishing for it, that I don’t notice Rudy sauntering up the aisle until he’s at the end of our bench.

  His oversize T-shirt hangs off his lean body. His jeans are ripped, his boots unlaced. He flips his shaggy dark hair back and picks up one of the chisels, pretending to test the edge. When I finally glance up, I realize it’s Chris he’s staring at.

  “Hey,” Rudy says in a tone that’s half bark.

  Chris takes Rudy in from head to toe without a whisper of expression. “Hey.”

  The way they face off, I almost expect them to get into a pissing match on the spot. Guys can be such tools sometimes. Rudy finally turns to me. I’m waiting. I know why he’s here, and it’s fine. But I’m hoping he has the sense to keep his mouth shut in front of Chris.

  “Gotta piece of paper?” He drops the chisel on the bench top while I tear one of the pages out of the back of my book and pass it to him, careful to keep my fingers on the edge farthest from his. He reaches for my spare pencil, then hunches over the paper as if he’s trying to keep Chris from seeing. Idiot. Then he passes it to me and walks away without another word.

  I read it quickly: Friday 8:30 The Barn.

  “What’s the barn?” Chris asks, leaning across the bench. I jerk the note away from him with a glare. He just watches curiously, the light from the high windows illuminating his square jaw.

  “Nothing,” I snap, shoving the note into my pocket and turning back to my notebook.

  “Is it, like, a bar or something?”

  “I told you, it’s nothing.”

  “Can anyone go, or do you have to have a fake ID?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I scowl. “Can’t you take a hint?”

  He blinks, face blank.

  Good. Maybe he’ll decide to find another seat somewhere else.

  Of course, he waits until I’ve gone back to my notebook to speak again.

 
“Leave the barn alone . . . or leave you alone?” he asks softly. He reaches for the chisel that Rudy left on the bench. For some reason this makes me rage.

  “Both,” I snap, reaching for the chisel myself.

  But he doesn’t stop. “Tully—”

  “Leave me and my stuff alone!” I snatch it up before he gets to it, and it all happens at once.

  I know better than to grab a chisel by the blade anytime. Let alone on the first day of school. They were all sharpened over summer. Professionally. The tools shine like diamonds right now, and the edges are razors.

  I know this. But it doesn’t register until my fingers close on the blade, until the blade slides through my skin. On reflex, my hand opens and the chisel clatters to the bench top. Shit. My head starts to swim. I hate blood. I’m rooted to the floor. I know I need to examine my hand, to deal with it. But for a second I’m frozen.

  Then a hand reaches for mine.

  Adrenalin floods my system. But Chris is touching my palm before I can scream.

  “No!”

  It’s too little, too late.

  Chris’s warm, calloused fingers slide into my hand, and at the point where our palms connect, the lines between us blur, then disappear altogether. His entire body jolts like he’s hit electric current.

  In the blink of an eye everything churning inside of me—the river of emotion and sensation, my decaying dark—is sucked out of my skin and forced into his. My pain stabs, my rage punches, my fear licks frigid flames.

  “Tully, what—?” Chris gasps. His pupils shrink as he loses himself in the storm of me. He’s drowning, suffocating under the weight of my darkness and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  Chapter 4

  I remember the first time it happened, though I wish I couldn’t.

  The morning after the worst night of my life I woke up roiling, a ball of blades and fists churning in my stomach, punching for the surface. I stumbled out of my room and down the hall, eyes dry and stinging, bathed in shame. Dad was still sleeping off his hangover. I was relieved. And so angry.

  I decided to make some breakfast to see if it would settle my stomach. I turned on the television in the next room so I could listen to the news, which is probably why I didn’t hear him get up. Didn’t hear his door open, or his footsteps down the hall. It wasn’t until he was right behind me and spoke my name in that gravelly, first-words-of-the-morning voice that I knew he was there. The suddenness of it scared me so badly that I whirled to push him away.

  My hand landed on his bare chest and it hit us both like a jagged electric shock.

  Shame. Regret. Self-loathing. Horror. Fear like a fire. So. Much. Rage.

  Dad made a cry like an animal in pain as he absorbed my every emotion. He staggered backward, out of reach, and we both just stood there, staring at each other, panting. I felt rooted to the worn linoleum, my feelings back to punching at my insides, tearing for freedom.

  He didn’t ask what happened. He just shook his head and put up his hands, like I had him at gunpoint.

  “I’m sorry, Tully. Last night was—”

  “Don’t!” I spat. “Don’t you dare.” His mouth snapped shut so fast I was pretty sure he bit his tongue.

  After a few more seconds, the acid in my stomach gurgled into my throat. I stumbled out of the kitchen and down the hall, one hand on the wall to keep myself from tipping over.

  I left. Didn’t return until sheer hunger drove me back. Dad and I never spoke about it again, at least not when he was sober. But while I was gone he screwed a lock to my door. On the inside.

  I spent the week staring at my hands. Then, one morning in algebra, Derek Lang nudged my arm and asked if he could borrow a pen. He sat next to me in two classes. We talked a lot, flirted occasionally. When I handed him the pen, our fingers brushed, and it happened again.

  Pain. Hope. Fear. You’re cute, but I’m not good enough for you. If only—

  Derek sucked in a breath and recoiled. I jerked my hands into my lap and bit my lip, turning away so I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see the fear in his eyes, the disgust. At the end of the class, he gathered his things so quickly I’d barely put my notebook in my bag before he was out of his seat and tearing down the aisle. I watched as he grabbed Cole Tucker’s shoulder and leaned into his ear. They both glanced back at me. Cole looked skeptical, but Derek kept whispering as they disappeared out the door.

  I’d never been popular, but after that day I became the resident freak. Now I’m regarded with varying degrees of suspicion and the occasional bout of wary prodding from a teacher. I’m used to it. This so-called talent keeps me isolated, keeps me safe.

  Until today. Until a stupid guy with a rescue complex decided to help me.

  Now, Chris’s standing there, shaking, his breath coming in short gasps.

  “You have to let go!” I snap.

  His wild eyes latch onto mine and for a second I see the words rising to the surface, brace for them to come because they always do . . .

  Freak.

  Mutant.

  Whore.

  They always end on that one. As if, by having my heart laid bare, I am inviting them into myself.

  “Mr. Garrison! Some help here, please?” Chris calls over his shoulder, his voice thin.

  There’s a lull in the conversation, then the sound of Mr. Garrison’s hurried footsteps rebound off the ceiling. He reaches us and stops short when he catches sight of our linked hands.

  “She’s cut herself pretty bad,” Chris says through his teeth. “I’m keeping pressure on it.”

  The rest of the class surrounds us. Whispers and curses and shocked “no ways” drift through the air. Rudy stares, transfixed. He’s the only person who has ever touched me for this long.

  “Quiet!” Mr. Garrison yells at the room, trotting back to his desk, then returning with the first aid kit. But after a moment of shuffling through it, he looks at me apologetically.

  “I’m out of gloves,” he says quietly.

  Gloves. The thing that would save him from feeling me. I will not cry.

  Mr. Garrison takes a depth breath. “Chris, turn her palm up, please.”

  Chris does as he’s told. “I did first aid last year. I know how to dress it. I can do it.” He meets Mr. Garrison’s gaze and something passes between them.

  Mr. Garrison doesn’t want to touch me.

  “I’ve got bandages in here. We’ll get it wrapped and keep pressure on, but you’ll need to go to the hospital, Tully.”

  The word hospital sends a bolt of fear through my chest and into Chris.

  “Tully?” Chris says in confusion as Mr. Garrison hands him a wad of dressing and a bandage. Glancing back at me, Chris takes the dressing and places it over the cuts. As the pressure of his hand abates, blood rushes into my palm and the pain intensifies. I gasp and Chris freezes, just for a second. Then, with trembling fingers, he cradles my hand and winds a bandage firmly, again and again and again, until at some point, he is only touching bandage and I am alone in my skin again.

  Mr. Garrison and Chris usher me through the classroom. “I don’t like the way that’s bleeding, Tully. I’m going to call an ambulance—”

  “No!” I cry.

  “I’ll take her,” Chris pipes up.

  Mr. Garrison looks at him, startled. “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t mind,” Chris says quietly. His hands are still shaking.

  “Straight to the hospital, Chris,” Mr. Garrison says. “Call me with an update after.”

  “Yes, sir.” Then he’s leading me out the door, across campus toward the parking lot. I’m so stunned I don’t regain my wits until we’re weaving between sedans and trucks to a large, blue Jeep in the third row. He opens the passenger door and helps me into the seat.

  As soon as he turns the key I open my mouth. “You can’t t
ake me to the hospital.” He doesn’t answer immediately, so I clear my throat and try again. “You can’t take me—”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Tully,” he says, disengaging the emergency break. “You need help.”

  “I’m not. I’m serious. I have no insurance, and I can’t . . . we can’t . . .” I can’t get the words out. I’m embarrassed, and pissed at myself for being embarrassed. Why do I care what he thinks of me?

  He glances at me sideways as we pull out of the school grounds. “I can pay for it.”

  Heat builds in my cheeks and climbs to my hairline. “I don’t need your money,” I grind out. “There’s a free clinic. Over on Seventh and G.”

  He presses his lips together, so I talk faster. “I know it’s farther than the hospital, but they’re really good about—”

  “It’s okay, Tully. I’ll take you. But if they say you need the hospital we’re going.”

  “Thank you.” The words taste like sawdust in my mouth. I hate owing anyone. But I can’t risk another trip to the hospital.

  And I know the clinic won’t turn me away. They deal with trash worse than me every day. They watch people die of overdoses and hypothermia. If I can walk in and out under my own steam, they won’t care where I’m going, or what put me there.

  I sit back in my seat and watch the town of Riverside roll past. He’ll ask soon, about what happened when we touched. About what it means, and what I am.

  It’s the price I have to pay for a free trip to the clinic. I just wish I knew if it was worth it.

  Chapter 5

  The clinic is a gray box a few blocks from the highway with a small parking lot out front. It’s lined by large waste bins and trash cans on either side. The brown building next door is a family planning clinic and on the other side is a small twenty-four hour store that has a pharmacy and a liquor license.

  We pull into the lot. Chris’s Jeep is the newest vehicle we’ve seen for the past three miles. He’s probably worried someone will steal it. Honestly, I can’t offer him any reassurance there.

  Chris cuts the engine and frowns. “Tully, are you sure—?”