Storm

Chapter Six

CHAPTER 6

Chris wasn't in school on Thursday. He was noticeably absent from Becca's third-period English Lit class, and he wasn't in fourth-period World History, either. He wouldn't be missing much. Mr. Beamis looked like he could have been there when they commissioned the Model T, and his class usually gave her a chance to do a Wite-Out manicure.

But today brought a new student to the front of the room, and Becca raised her eyes from her nails. Old Man Beamis did a clear double take.

Make that a triple take. The teacher put a hand on the edge of his desk.

The new kid was a lot to look at. He'd certainly crossed that line from boy to young man, with a defined jaw, high cheekbones, lean, muscled arms, and not an ounce of baby fat—all pros. Sandy blond hair drifted across his forehead, broken by a clean streak of white, right in the center of his bangs.

Who dyes their hair white? she wondered.

But it didn't stop there: One ear had piercings all the way up. The other only sported two—the same number in his left eyebrow. Green eyes matched the tee shirt he wore, staring unflinchingly at the students watching him. His black jeans hung loose, suspended by a chafed leather belt. About fifteen bracelets encircled one arm, crude loops of twine that each held a small rock of a different color. He had a few small tattoos on his forearms, and one on the side of his neck. They looked like foreign symbols, the kind girls got on spring break, something that was supposed to be meaningful in one word, like peace or wisdom but really said Do me.

Beamis read the note the kid handed him, but didn't bother to introduce him to the class. God forbid someone should interrupt his lecture. He hurriedly shooed him to the empty chair in the middle of the room—Chris's usual seat. It was one row over and two desks down from Becca. The new kid dropped into the chair, and his backpack dropped to the floor beside him. She could see the marking on his neck now—not Asian, but no language she could identify. She could also see a black ring on one finger, a twine ring on another.

Tommy Dunleavy—who sat two rows over and liked to flick suggestive notes onto Becca's desk—coughed, "Fag!"

The boy didn't react, just pulled a blue spiral notebook out of his backpack. Then a pen.

Tommy tried again, his cough a little louder, his epithet a little meaner.

The boy clicked his pen. Beamis, oblivious, picked up his chalk.

Jeremy Blakehurst, Tommy's best friend, picked up the cough. "Fag!" He also flicked a paper clip. It struck the boy's shoulder and pinged off the edge of another desk.

Some people nearby snickered. A few girls near the back corner giggled and whispered.

The boy didn't turn around. But he did set his pen down.

Tommy bent a paper clip so the prongs stuck out, then used a rubber band to fashion a slingshot.

He didn't even bother with the cough this time. "Hey. Fag." Then he drew back the paper clip and let it fly.

The boy whipped around. His hand shot out to snatch the paper clip from the air.

There was a collective gasp from every student who'd been watching—Becca included. Beamis droned on.

The boy's hand had formed a fist around the paper clip, and for a fractured moment, Becca thought he was going to take a swing, that they'd have a throwdown right here in the middle of World History.

But he half rose from his seat and reached across another student's desk to drop the mangled paper clip in front of Tommy.

"Look, dude," he said, his voice low and earnest. "You want to ask me out, you man up and do it proper."