Their Broken Pieces by Jessica Gomez

Chapter Thirteen

Alex

 

 

I’m leaving third period when I catch my first glimpse of her. Her face is swollen and bruised, and small cuts adorn her arm, the same arm that she’s sporting a brace. Even her ocean eyes are empty and lifeless.

What the hell happened to her?

A thought crosses my mind that has me instantly searching the halls. If Jose touched her after I laid his ass out, he’s in for a world of hurt. He’s leaving gym class when I track his ass down, about to enter the main building, which is the perfect spot to confront him—nice and secluded. He’s a super senior, meaning this is his second go-round to graduate, which makes his schedule predictable.

“Culero!” I grab his shirt and slam him against the brick wall. “Did you touch her?” I demand.

“Que?” What? He asks, looking scared shitless.

“No te metas conmigo!” I warn him not to mess with me. I’m vibrating with anger at the possibility that he touched her. Someone did, and I’ll burn this town down to find them.

“I’m not jefe.” His posture is cowardly. He’d submit on his knees if I wasn’t holding him up by his shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she’s your novia.”

A shard of ice breaks away from my frozen heart. “She’s not my girlfriend.” As the retort leaves my lips, I realize how much I wish she was my girl. Her mom, my mom, or hell… even I wouldn’t allow it. However, that doesn’t explain why I’m about to kick Jose’s ass for the second time this week.

“Really, Alex.” He pleads, “I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

I loosen my grip on his shirt. “Go.” I flick my head to the side, dismissing him.

He slides partway down the wall in surrender before ducking out and running away, leaving me to wonder if none of my people messed with her, who did? Either way, when I find out who it is, they’ll regret they ever laid a hand on her.

I meander my way through the day, and yes, I watch her from a distance. No, I’m not a stalker.

I would’ve spoken to her, but every time I thought of approaching, Andrew was there, coddling her.

Fucking Andrew!

By lunchtime, the rumor is that she fell down the stairs in her house, and right away, I know to dismiss them. The injuries she has decorating her are not the kind you receive from falling down the stairs, but not only that, something’s off. She’s… depressed, drifting around in a fog, void of any empathy.

During lunch, I eat outside at one of the school’s many provided tables. My gang eats out of paper sacks around me. Putting down my drink, I ask Carlos, “What have you heard about Jasmine?”

“Same as you, I guess. She fell down her stairs. If you ask me though, those are loco cuts for falling down stairs, not to mention her swollen face.” He’s nodding as he takes a bite of his lunch, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. If anyone knows what abuse looks like, Carlos is your guy. His mom left long ago, and his alcoholic father reminds him it’s his fault every day.

I nod, taking a bite of my food. “You think that pendejo had anything to do with it?”

“Pendejo being…?”

He understands exactly who I’m referring to. I’ve mentioned Andrew, and he’s hanging around her like a lost dog. My glare says to cut the shit and answer.

“No sé. He could have, but she left your house late last night, right?”

“Sí”

“Was she supposed to go straight home?”

“Sí I made her promise because of what happened.” As my imagination runs wild, I fight to control my temper. Overreacting solves nothing. Only exposes my weakness. If lashing out were the plan, I’d have beaten Andrew’s ass, whether he had anything to do with her injuries or not. Just the fact that it crossed my mind is enough for me to act.

Carlos’s eyebrows knit together as though he’s deep in thought. “I don’t know. Why don’t you just ask her?”

“I don’t care. I’m just curious, that’s all.” If word got around that I’m going soft for some girl, she’d never be safe. I’d place a permanent target on her back.

“Yeah, okay, Alejo.” Carlos laughs.

I give him a death glare that only subsides the laughter, but does nothing for the grin plastered on his face. Perhaps I’ve let one person get too close since the accident.

“Man, whatever.” I toss my food in the garbage, trying to regain my hard-ass composure. “You excited about this trip?” I have to admit, going to Hawaii is a plus in my shitty life.

“Hell yes! When will I ever be able to afford to go to Hawaii?” I laugh at the high-pitched sound of his voice. “Hot summer air, babes in bikinis. It couldn’t get better. You packed and ready?”

“I finished getting things together yesterday. Just have to toss it all in a bag.” I’d gone shopping, bought everything cheap, and still kept two bills in my pocket.

The bell rings, signaling the start of the second part of the day. “Adios,” I call back as I strut away.

The next two classes drag. I’m itching to get to biology. When I arrive, there’re only two minutes left until the tardy bell rings. My anxiety grows the longer I wait for her to show. When she finally does, she has Andrew in tow, handing over her books. He says something to her that makes her smile, but from where I sit I can’t make out the words, only the sweet chime of her laughter.

A growl quietly vibrates my chest, making me grateful our seats are toward the back, avoiding the attention of other students.

When she turns to walk to our table, her face is slightly flushed… embarrassed. Is she dating him? The thought boils my blood, almost causing me to fly down the hall after him to make sure he understands she’s off-limits.

She catches me watching her as she places her books on the table. I couldn’t care less if she sees me—deviating my eyes proves impossible. The bruises are darker up close. She’s taken steps to hide her injuries, using makeup to disguise the worst of them, but the closer I examine her, the more I notice the mark on her face looks like a handprint.

I scrutinize every inch of her and devour every grievance. When she sits down, her shirt rides up, exposing the side of her midsection, revealing more cuts. There is also the brace decorating the same wrist she injured in the accident. My notions of staying out of her business fly right out the window. I have to know. I need to protect her.

“What happened to you?”

My words grate against my throat, exuding my truth. Viewing her like this sets off an aching in my chest. Reactions I thought were dormant—incapable of experiencing again—surge to the forefront. She resembles the same girl I saw after the accident, when I watched her from my window coming home from the hospital, devastated and broken.

Never again. Never again will I allow her to wear that expression.