“ALL RIGHT, EVERYONE,” Miss Ives says as she stands in front of the class the next day. “We’re going to take a look at the next novel we’ll be reading.”
She walks around passing out books.
Owen is sitting across from me, and she hands him two copies of the book.
Please let it be a book I’ve already read.
Owen gives me a paperback, and the moment I see the cover my mood instantly changes.
The cover depicts a row of silhouettes, each carrying a large pack.
My gut wrenches as I read the title, hoping I’m wrong about the subject matter—and, at the same time, knowing I’m not.
The Things They Carried.
They. The soldiers on the cover.
With a trembling hand, I turn it over and skim the description on the back.
Groundbreaking.
War.
Memory.
Choppers.
Vietnam.
Bile rises in the back of my throat, and a firestorm of images from my nightmares rains down on me.
Dad sinking in the water—his heavy pack dragging him down. Water swallowing him as he thrashes. His hand raised, reaching for someone to pull him out, until he loses the battle and the water closes over him, as if he were never there at all.
Dad, hanging from a wire below a helicopter, focused and calm. The sound of automatic weapons firing, round after round. The helicopter jerking to the side as it is engulfed by billows of black smoke. The wire swinging, with Dad clinging to it. He’s reaching again, but there’s nobody left to help him.
I’ve had nightmares about those scenarios and all the other ways Dad could’ve died during a Recon mission. The nightmares started the day I found out my father was dead and I’ve been having them ever since.
But one nightmare haunts me more than the others, because it’s the closest to what really happened that day, at least according to Mom. She knows the whole story—all the details I’m too terrified to hear. The part she told me is awful enough.
Dad and two of his Recon “brothers,” on his fire team, moving silently through a crude stone tunnel, underneath a hotel in Fallujah. Darkness and the sound of their breathing, each time they inhale and exhale. In and out. In and out. The sound of the explosion inside the tunnel. He looks up when he hears an avalanche of rock sliding and cracking, just in time to catch a glimpse of the tunnel coiling before it collapses on them.
“Peyton?” Owen’s voice shatters the images.
I focus on his face—worried brown eyes searching mine—his forehead furrowed and lips parted. I drop the book like it’s radioactive.
Owen watches me for a moment without saying a word. In the background, Miss Ives drones on about the Pulitzer Prize and the canon of American literature.
“Peyton?” he tries again.
Say something.
But I can’t find the right words. Or any words.
“Do you feel sick?” Owen puts his hand on my wrist, and the weight of it combined with the roughness of his fingertips calms me.
“I’m fine,” I mumble. “I got light-headed.”
His hand is still on my wrist, and I let the soft pressure of his fingers moving back and forth over my pulse point drag me out of what’s left of the tunnel.
“You should go to the health room. I’ll take you.” Owen’s hand slips from my wrist and moves to the back of his chair as he turns toward the front of the room. He’s trying to get Miss Ives’ attention.
“Please don’t,” I whisper.
He leans over the desk, keeping his voice low. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m okay. I swear.” I’m not and he knows it.
Miss Ives scrawls a name on the board. “The author, Tim O’Brien, was the only member of his unit to survive the Vietnam War.”
Like Hawk.
“In his novel, he tells stories and anecdotes about the soldiers who died—the men he never forgot.”
Like Dad, Rudy, Ghost, and Big John—the recon operators who died in the tunnel.
“O’Brien tells us about the things the soldiers carried with them—the physical mementos and reminders of home, like photographs and letters.” Miss Ives continues talking, but I can’t make sense of the words.
What did Dad carry with him?
Owen’s eyes dart to the worn paperback. “It’s because of the book, isn’t it?” he whispers, leaning closer. “That’s why you’re so pale. Is it your dad?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I let my dark waves fall over my shoulder to hide my face.
“But he died in combat?”
“On a mission.” I touch the spot on my shirt where Dad’s dog tags rest close to my heart, under the fabric.
“You should tell Miss Ives. She’ll assign you another book.”
“I’m not telling her.” I can’t.
Owen rakes his hands through his hair. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He’s either worried or freaked out. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
The details I just shared with Owen are more than I tell most people.
The rest of the period passes in a blur of discussion about the author, the significance of the novel, and other things I tune out. When the bell rings, Owen follows me out of the classroom and we walk down the hall together. He doesn’t ask questions or make small talk to fill the silence. He just stays beside me, angling his body toward the hallway traffic so no one bumps into me.
“I’ll catch up with you,” Owen says as we pass the boys’ bathroom.
I keep walking. “I’ll be at my locker.” Burying this novel under whatever I can find.
I’m not paying attention when I get there.
April and Madison are a few lockers away, laughing and whispering. They’re probably talking about me. But then again, they seem to talk about everyone so who knows?
I turn the combination on the lock, watching them.
April gives me an icy stare, her long auburn hair pulled up in a tight ponytail with the front hair-sprayed halfway to heaven. It’s getting colder outside, and they’ve swapped their jean skirts for skintight jeans. They look like they escaped from a Barbie Dreamhouse.
I pop the lock and open my locker.
The door flies open, and suddenly everything is falling out. I cover my head. Objects just keep falling and falling. I don’t even have that much stuff in my locker. I try to back up and I stumble.
I hit the floor and my butt breaks my fall.
Suddenly, I realize what’s tumbling out of my locker, and the familiar shapes and the sound they make when they bounce on the floor.
Soccer balls.
At least a dozen of them, rolling and bouncing across the scuffed floor of the hallway. Brand-new soccer balls. Someone spent a lot of money to embarrass me.
I sit up, determined to hold on to what little self-respect I have left. April and Madison, along with some of their friends, dissolve into hysterical laughter. They don’t even try to hide it.
Bitches.
Getting up from the floor without putting too much weight on my knee is tricky. I’m still trying to get back on my feet when I feel a strong arm encircle my waist.
“Are you all right?” Owen whispers in my ear. He’s behind me. He pulls me up, then circles around so he’s standing in front of me.
“I’m fine.”
But I’m not. I’m furious and humiliated.
It’s such a juvenile prank, and instead of just laughing it off, I ended up falling on my ass. I want to pick up every single ball and chuck them at April’s head.
I catch a glimpse of Christian charging down the hall, and he looks pissed off. He’s heading straight for us.
“What the hell is going on?” he demands.
“April put a bunch of soccer balls in Peyton’s locker,” Owen says.
Christian picks up a soccer ball and walks over to April. “If you think screwing with Peyton is gonna get me to come back, you’re wrong.”
She knocks the ball out of his hand. “No one wants you back, and I’m not the one who did this.”
Madison moves closer to April and crosses her arms. “She was with me in class the entire time. We have more important things to do than make a fool of your cousin.”
Christian slaps his forehead. “Oh, well, if you say April was with you, that changes everything. Because you’d never lie for her.”
I slip past Owen and push Christian out of the way so that I’m nose-to-nose with April. “Your little prank was funny. I would’ve done something like that in sixth or seventh grade.”
April narrows her eyes. “Then you should tell the person who did it, because it wasn’t me.”
I square my shoulders. “I hope not, because I won’t be in this brace forever. And I’m pretty sure I could still kick your ass with it on.”
“Are you threatening me?” April sounds shocked. If what I have witnessed over the past week is any indication, I’m probably the first girl who has ever stood up to her.
“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.” I snatch the soccer ball out of Christian’s hand and tap on the side of it. “These are a lot harder than they look. I’ve seen a couple of girls get their noses broken when they’ve taken a ball to the face.”
April shrinks back. “If you throw that at me, you’ll get expelled.”
“Don’t worry. I’d never come after you on campus.” I smile at her, and it’s a real smile. Then I chuck the ball at the locker behind her. It smacks against the metal, inches from April’s ear, and she yelps.
People in the hallway laugh.
“Are you crazy?” she screams at me. “You could’ve hit me with that thing!”
“Exactly.” I turn and walk away, knowing Christian is still standing between the two of us. I wouldn’t put it past April to pick up a ball and chuck it at me when I’m not looking. Everything about her says sore loser.
The drama has attracted a small crowd, and a few people give me a thumbs-up while others laugh at April. It doesn’t make the situation any less embarrassing, and the black-and-white balls rolling around the hallway are a cruel reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve played.
I slam my locker shut as I pass it, kicking aside some soccer balls.
“I don’t know why you’re blaming me,” I hear April say. “I’m glad I’m not with Christian anymore. I traded up.” April looks over Christian’s shoulder and waves to someone behind him.
A good-looking guy with dark hair rushes to April’s side and puts his arm around her. “What’s going on?” He’s wearing a Warriors basketball hoodie, and he’s at least a foot taller than everyone else nearby.
“Christian’s bothering her again,” Madison tells him.
The basketball player tightens his hold on April protectively and turns to Christian. “What’s the deal? Are you bothering my girl?”
“Your girl?” Christian laughs.
“Yeah,” the basketball player says. “You got a problem with that?”
“Seems like you’re the one with the problem now,” Christian says. “She’s all yours.”
Dylan takes a step toward Christian and pushes April behind him. “If you wanna be an asshole, we can go outside and take care of this.”
“You really want to go there?” Christian steps forward. The two of them are only inches apart. “’Cause basketball season is coming up, and your team won’t do very well if you can’t play. I think we both know you can’t take me.”
Owen shoves his way between Christian and Cameron. “Nobody’s going outside. Neither of you can afford to be benched.”
“I don’t have to worry about that,” Dylan says. “Basketball season hasn’t started.”
Owen stares him down. “I said, nobody’s going outside. Unless they’re going with me.”
Dylan backs off. “I don’t have a problem with you, man. Why are you getting in the middle of this?”
“You don’t need to worry about what I’m doing, or why I’m doing it,” Owen warns.
“You’re such a jerk, Owen.” April tries to step out from behind Dylan. “For, like, two years, you haven’t given a shit about anything, and now suddenly you’re playing hall monitor? For the last time, I didn’t put anything in her locker. And if I did, I’d take credit for it.”
What does she mean about Owen not caring?
April turns on her heel and grabs Dylan’s arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here. This conversation is boring.”
When she’s out of earshot, I turn to Christian. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but I don’t need your help with April. She might need a guy to fight her battles, but I’m perfectly capable of handling my own problems.”
Owen rubs the back of his neck and stares at the floor. Christian frowns, looking confused. I turn my back on them and walk to class.
“Peyton, wait,” Owen calls after me.
“I’m going to class.”
As if on cue, the bell rings.
April is looking for attention. Unfortunately for me, Christian and Owen just gave it to her.