Boom - Sabrina Stark Page 0,41

still finding it hard to breathe. I gave the attic another wary glance before asking, "Do you think we have a mold problem?"

"Probably."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God."

Brody's hand flexed around mine. "What?"

"I just mean, it's good to know." Determined to break the spell, I gave my hand a light tug, which proved to be totally useless. Brody wasn't letting go.

I gave our joined hands another quick glance. "You don't have to hang on," I said. "I'll just um, follow you to the window, and walk where you walk."

He didn't budge. "Forget it."

"Why?"

"Because, if you misstep," he said, "you'll want someone hanging on."

"But aren't you worried you'll misstep?"

"Hasn't happened yet," he said, giving my hand a gentle tug toward the window, where he'd been standing, looking oh-so fine, earlier. "Now come on," he said. "There's something I want you to see."

His ass?

I gave a little gasp. Shit. Where had that thought come from?

Brody paused in mid-tug. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I cleared my throat. "Probably just the spores." I summoned up a little cough, followed by an awkward smile. "Anyway…" I said, putting some extra pep into my voice, "Lead on, Macduff."

It was an old joke.

In high school, Brody and I had taken advanced English together. This included a month of Shakespeare – primarily Macbeth. The line was supposed to be, "Lay on, Macduff," as our English teacher had reminded us repeatedly while ranting about how often it was misquoted.

As far as the play itself, I'd hated it, mostly because nearly everyone died by the end. But Brody? He'd loved it. I could tell. He'd been sitting across from me, and I'd seen with my own eyes how the story had captured his imagination – well, on the days he actually attended class, that is.

Now, as he began leading me toward the window, he replied, "Sure thing, Clara."

At the sound of that name on his lips, my steps faltered.

Brody's grip tightened, and he turned to look. "You okay?"

I was fine, just irritated, that's all.

In high school, he'd called me that name at least fifty times, and not in a good way. This would've been merely annoying if only he hadn't begun that whole "Clara" thing by trying to ruin my grade in English.

Now, years later, he was mocking me again, just like he had back in high school.

It was a good reminder that he'd never liked me, and probably never would. And if I were smart, I'd return the favor.

Chapter 24

Brody

Too late I recalled the full history of that name – Clara Cooper.

During our junior year of high school, Arden and I had the bad luck to be seated next to each other in advanced English.

The seats had been chosen by the teacher, not us, which is how Arden Weathers had found herself stuck in the back row, next to someone like me who preferred to fly under the radar.

But not Arden. No. She liked to sit up front, where the teachers could see when she raised her hand for brownie points or extra credit.

Now in the attic, her hand stiffened in mine as she gave me the same disgruntled look she'd given me back in high school after we'd graded each other's fiction-writing projects.

I said, "Aw come on. You're not still pissed about that, are you?"

From the look on her face, she clearly was. "You tried to flunk me."

"A D-minus?" I scoffed. "That's not flunking. Trust me, I know."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do know," she said, "because you never bothered to try."

"I didn't have to," I said. "You 'tried' enough for both of us."

"Well someone had to," she said. "And I didn't give you a D-minus."

She'd given me a C-plus, which, yeah, was probably more generous than I'd deserved.

The assignment had been to write a fictional story starring a character like ourselves. Me? I'd scribbled out two pages of bullshit, starring a space alien who devoured the world.

But Arden? She'd typed up ten, maybe fifteen pages of lollypops and gumdrops. Not even kidding. Her main character, Clara Cooper, had lived above a candy store, where all the neighborhood kids had come daily to get wise advice from Clara's doting parents.

The whole thing had made me sick.

I said, "Better a D than an F."

"A D-minus," she corrected.

With my free hand, I reached up to rub the back of my neck. At the time, I'd thought the minus was a nice touch. Now, I had to admit, it was a dick move. But hell if I'd admit it to her when