Don't Breathe a Word Holly Cupala

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.I would buy the boy shorts, knowing only one person would see them besides me.I remembered the last time we’d gone there—Neeta and I were looking for Asher’s Christmas present, one of the few times we’d been out since I started seeing him.“Do you think he’d like this one?” Neeta had said, holding up an ancient-looking leather jacket with crackling brown texture.She was trying, I knew.But she didn’t know what Asher could be like.He was brutal about things not fitting into his aesthetic.My clothes, for instance.In the six months since we’d been dating, the color had drained from my wardrobe.Shapes went from loose to sleek, even though I was always pulling at my hemlines—alien to me but beautiful to him.It had gotten even worse since my dad started working at Valen.“He’s not going to like it,” I said.Neeta sighed.“Well, what is he going to like?”“Forget it,” I said, then smiled like an offering.“He’s impossible.We should just go to Trophy Cupcakes and be done with it.I’ll find something for him later.”“You sure?” I could tell she was teetering.The force of cupcakes was strong with this one.“Yeah,” I said.“I’m sure.”In the end, I gave him the latest cell phone from one of my mom’s clients.“Ah.Personal,” he said, then handed me a tiny box, the exact shade of Tiffany blue that could be mistaken for nothing else.I opened the box carefully, cautiously.It was too big to be a ring box, too small to be a porcelain vase or lamp.It was exactly the right size for an ID bracelet, white gold, its flat plate engraved with his pet name for me.Little bird.A charm dangled from the side, a bird with red ruby eyes.When I looked closer, it was unmistakably a crow.“Charm bracelets originated with the ancient Egyptians,” he said.“They acted as identification to the gods of the underworld—who you were, your status, who you belonged to.”I stared at the bracelet, a half-smile frozen on my face.Everything Asher did had a meaning.This was his way of marking me.If it hadn’t been smooth metal, I would suspect it had a homing signal so he’d always know where to find me.The bracelet still jangled on my wrist, tucked up under my sleeve.If I’d left it, they would know immediately.I never took the bracelet off, even to sleep.I would have to escape its hold some other way.A bird’s savage caw startled me.The Rite Aid girl finished putting the money into the register and came to unlock the glass doors.She watched as I entered and made my way past the row of candy bars, magazines, and makeup.I looked over my shoulder to see her eyes follow me while she spoke into the phone in a low voice.Whatever.I wouldn’t take long.I turned back around and nearly collided with a blue-vested chest.“What do you think you’re doing in here?” It was a tall, balding man in his forties who looked like he might play Scrabble when he wasn’t harassing teens.“I uh.uh.”“Well?”“I just.had to use the bathroom.” What does anybody do in a Rite Aid?“Right,” he said.“After you pocket some Max Factor and cough syrup.”“Huh?” I backed away.“What have you got in your backpack?” He started to reach for me.“Hey! Don’t touch me!” I spun around, and the girl was reaching for the phone again.Were they calling the police on me? “You don’t have to—I’m not doing anything, I swear!”Mr.Scrabble Bouncer was still coming after me, towering over me like a shadow.“No, you’re not doing anything, because you’re going to leave.” I bumped into a tangle of bells at the door and practically fell through it.“And tell your friends to quit coming in and stealing everything!”When I was back on the street again, my hands were shaking and my bladder near bursting.If I was addicted to anything, it was my stupid water bottle.Starbucks, Neeta would say, you’re my only hope.I trudged back to the café.I could swallow my pride.I could ask for the key and hope for the best.The place spilled out with students and hipsters with laptops, crushing into the communal warmth and smell of roasted coffee beans.I stood in line sandwiched between a guy texting and a woman listening to voice mail with a scowl on her face.Everyone in the café seemed to be umbilically connected to some form of technology.The hum was more from the collective tapping of keys than from any kind of verbal communication.When I got to the counter, the barista gave me the onceover—appreciatively, I thought.He was tallish and golden brown, with auburn hair flying every which way and matching the frayed shirt on his narrow frame.He looked like an art student, maybe, over at Cornish.His name tag, slightly askew, read BACH.“What can I get for you?”“Uh.just the bathroom key.”His face darkened, a weird contrast to his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down.“Oh [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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