one could count on to hide. In the dean’s office she is all dimples and smiles. She makes small chat with the woman at the desk, who’s been talking to middle schoolers all morning and is grateful for the break. My brother forgot his lunch, Zey tells her. Sweet sister, the woman says. What’s your brother’s name?
Rylan, Zey says, and the woman looks up the classroom, tells her she’ll page him to meet her on the way. She starts to tell Zey how to get there, but Zey laughs. I remember, she says.
Out of sight of the woman, Zey drops the lunch sack into the trash, and when she sees Rylan coming toward her—chubby, swaggering—her smile deepens. The boy stops short and stutter-steps, as if about to break and run, before facing her and planting his feet. She asks him, Do you know who I am?
He jams his hands into his pockets and juts his chin. Yeah, so? What you want?
Zey drops one hip, lets him see her teeth. What I hear, you’ve got something for me. She knows what she looks like to this boy, frizzy bangs falling into her eyes, skin au lait—she is Venusian, Aphrodite fresh from the sea. Rylan looks over his shoulder, tongue working inside his cheek. A student on hall pass exits a nearby classroom, but otherwise, they’re alone. Zey can guess his dilemma, his ego warring with his common sense. She sees where she should push. You scared?
Rylan kicks at the ground, and when he speaks his voice is a studied growl, the much lower register of an act. He tells her, I ain’t scared of nothing.
Then come on, she says.
He follows her into a supply closet she remembers from her time here, where students kept their science projects, their volcanoes and model suns. It’s dim inside, and smells of glue and something spilt. Zey pushes the boy up against one of the shelves, spits on her palm, and slides her hand inside his pants. He is hard then soft then hard again, and caught up, stays that way. His unwashed smell joins the other scents; his sigh is sticky against her cheek.
Zey lets him enjoy this a little, her hand slicking slow. And just when the boy thinks this is going to be something else—further clout with his playground friends, fresh material to use beneath the sheets that night—Zey’s hand clamps around him. Don’t move, she whispers into his ear, and the boy goes rigid. Zey squeezes a little harder and stares him in the eyes.
She says, Next time you fuck with my brother, I’ll find you where you sleep and rip it off. There are no shadows under Zey’s words, nothing hidden, and in that openness, the boy opens too, his fear escaping bravado and legacy to surface on his face. Zey studies it; she savors its plainness. So you understand? she says and the boy nods, because even in the dark she’s incandescent.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
