Chapter Four

A smell as sour as rotting fruit wakes me up in a panic. The school nurse is staring down at me. "How are you doing honey?" Nurse Callie asks.

We've become familiar with each other since my incident last year. Her nose, coated in freckles, scrunches up with concern. In her hands is a jar of something pungent. She tucks the nasty gel into a drawer.

"I'm okay," I sigh. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize! We're glad that you're okay."

We?That's when I spot Elliott beside her. Embarrassment flushes my face. He must have called the nurse when I ran into the bathroom.

Once again, I owe him for helping me.

"Your father didn't answer when I called. Is there someone else you want me to contact to come get you?" asks Nurse Callie.

"No. I can walk home."

I press my fingers against my throbbing forehead. At first, the pressure worsens the pain, but then the aching stops. A migraine, not a concussion.

To my surprise, Elliott says, "I'll drive her."

Nurse Callie, confused, considers his suggestion. She turns to me.

"Is that okay with you?" She draws out her words as if to say, blink twice if you need help.

"Sure," I respond with a shrug. I don't want to be alone with him, but it might be my only opportunity to talk about Midtown Ring.

As I place my feet on the floor, Elliott rests his hand on the back of my shoulder to keep me balanced. My muscles tense as he does. Harris made the same move. Fortunately, Elliott notices my discomfort and pulls his hand away before the feeling of his skin against mine fully registers. I exhale my nerves away and regain my composure.

The parking lot is empty. School must have already ended. How long was I out for?

Sunlight illuminates Elliott's face, exposing the shadow of a bruise around his eye. He walks me to the black convertible that I've been seeing way too much of lately. As I open the passenger door the scent of air freshener mixed with tobacco worsens my headache.

"I'm sorry about all of this," I say, slipping into the passenger's seat.

"It's cool. Not like you live far away."

Placing my bag beneath my feet, something catches on my shoe—a lime green thong. I hold it up to Elliott.

"Shit," he grumbles, grabbing the thin piece of cloth from my hand. He chucks it into the back seat. A moment of awkward silence falls between us. Then, I burst out laughing.

"You should really clean your car."

Elliott smirks mischievously. He turns the keys into the ignition. Music blasts through the speakers, vibrating the seats and the dashboard. Elliott quickly turns the volume down, chuckling at the startled look on my face.

He passes me a half empty bottle of water from the cupholder. "Drink."

I untwist the lid. Suddenly, Elliott grabs the bottle back, holds it up to his nose and sniffs. He nods approvingly.

"Not vodka?"

"Nope," he confirms.

The water is warm and stale, but I ignore the bad taste and chug most of it down. Elliott pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the glove box and lights one. Smoke travels from his lips to my lungs. Much to his amusement, I roll down the window and cough.

"Sorry," he says, but I know he doesn't mean it.

I narrow my gaze on the destroyed skin beneath his eye. "What happened?"

"Sparring after practice yesterday. Andre got me."

I'm almost positive Elliott and I left Midtown at the same time, but I let it go. Ever since that day in calculus, my memory has been nothing short of useless. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the main road. As he does, I ask the question that I've been avoiding.

"Are you okay with me taking classes at Midtown?"

Yesterday was the best I've felt in a while, but if Elliott doesn't approve, I can't keep going. He was there first, and I already owe him enough favors.

He shrugs. "I don't own the place."

It's not exactly the enthusiastic yesI was hoping for, but it's good enough. Elliott parks his convertible in my driveway. My father's car isn't there. Good. He doesn't need to know that our friendly neighborhood alcoholic gave me a ride home.

"Thanks for driving me," I say, reaching for the door handle.

"Sure. See you."

I'm desperate to ask if he's heard anything about Harris's plan to blab about what happened at his party, but the question sits like a rock in my throat. Saying Harris's name out loud will open up a can of worms I'm not ready to face.

Without another word, I climb out of the car and shut the door behind me.

Elliott parks in his driveway. Despite us being neighbors, we've spoken more in the last few days than throughout our entire lives. His family never once showed up to any of the neighborhood block parties.

Inside, my house is eerily quiet. It always is these days. I go straight upstairs to lie down, letting the darkness of my bedroom ease my migraine.

"Hey."

My father's voice wakes me. I glance at the clock: 9:00 p.m. My nap may as well have been a full night's sleep.

"I got a voicemail from the nurse," he continues. "What happened?"

Crap. I should have known that she would get a hold of him eventually. He'll freak out if I tell him the truth, but I'm too exhausted to come up with a convincing lie.

"Panic attack," I admit. "I'm okay now."

His eyebrows crease with concern. He brushes his hand over mine and squeezes.

"Do you want me to call Dr. Taylor?"

"No! I'm okay. I promise. I just got overwhelmed with school stuff," I say. "Like any other teenager would."

I emphasize the last bit, but my dad still doesn't appear convinced. I keep talking.

"I never got to tell you the rest of the story about boxing. Two people from my class tried sparring, and we all got to watch. I think I want to get good enough to try that."

"You do?"

"Boxing is a test of physical and mental control. If I can do that, I can do anything. Right?"

"Alright," my dad replies, sounding both confused and relieved. "Why don't you stay home from school tomorrow? You can catch up on your work."

"Sounds good."

My father refills my glass of water and tells me to go back to sleep. When he leaves, I take out my phone and scroll through Instagram.

The first picture on my feed is a group of sophomore girls posing together in front of a restaurant. In the middle, dressed in his football jersey, is Harris Price. Morbid curiosity gets the best of me. I click on his profile. He has hundreds of pictures; most of them feature him posing shirtless in a mirror. One in particular stands out from the rest. Harris is holding a solo cup in one hand and snapping the photo with the other. Behind him, Elliott King lights a cigarette. His profile is tagged, and I click before I can stop myself.

Elliott's only posted three pictures: one showing off a lion tattoo on his ribs, one of him standing in a crowded room at a party, and one from when he first got his car. Nothing worth commenting on, but there are compliments from random girls on each one. Gemma will flip when she learns he drove me home.

Gemma. I never responded about meeting her for coffee. I text her an apology.

GEMMA: WTF happened?ROSE: Long story. Please don't be mad.GEMMA: I'll forgive you if you go shopping with me.ROSE: Fine.

We chat about our plans for the rest of the week until I can't stay awake any longer.

*

My dad wakes me up before my alarm with a plate full of breakfast. I shove a spoonful of scrambled eggs into my mouth, taming some of the hunger pains in my stomach.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Much better." I'm grateful he's letting me stay home today. "Do you have work?"

"Tonight."

He works at a call center downtown. He makes nothing compared to what he used to as an accountant, before he quit to take care of my mother. He tells me he likes his colleagues at the call center more than anyone he met in finance, so I've never commented on the pay.

"I have boxing later. Could you give me a ride?"

He nods. Although the thought of seeing Elliott makes me want to run away screaming, I need to go to practice. I have to give Dr. Taylor's suggestion a fair chance; otherwise, my dad putting half of his savings into therapy appointments was for nothing.

Mr. Ruse's poetry assignment takes up most of my afternoon. Inspired by our class discussion of Annabel Lee, I select another Poe poem, Alone. My essay is half-assed, but it's enough to get by with a passing grade.

Before that day of junior year in calculus—one of the worst days of my life, second only to my mother's funeral—a project like this would've excited me. But I'm tired and eager to be done with an essay that I'm not at all proud of.

Around three, my dad knocks on my bedroom door.

"Work wants me early. Do you want me to take you to the gym now?"

Boxing isn't until five, but I agree. Throwing my hair into a high ponytail, I slip on my pair of black and white Converse, which press uncomfortably against my toes. I need to get some real sneakers if I'm going to keep this up.

Skyscrapers on both sides of the road pass us by in a blur. On the rooftop of one is a billboard featuring a familiar face: Damon King, Elliott's father. He's posed with his hands on his sides on a black velvet couch. The words "King Law Firm" are printed underneath the photograph. I snicker. Ever since the billboard went up, the creepy expression on Elliott's dad's face has been a running joke at school.

A train briefly exits the underground before dipping back below the street. Atlanta's public transportation, MARTA, runs on an unpredictable schedule and only reaches a few destinations (Gemma and I call it the Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Asshole), but I can't complain. The subway is the reason why I've been able to survive life without a driver's license. I've been meaning to get it for a year now, but every time my dad tries to teach me, I end up having a panic attack at the wheel.

My father pulls up in front of the coffee shop next to Midtown Ring. A few adults are seated at the outdoor tables, busy with work and their own private conversations. I order a peach tea and sit in the corner, then pull out my notebook and finish Ruse's poetry assignment.

When I go over to the gym, I see Elliott first. He's dressed in a black T-shirt and dark blue athletic shorts. His hands are already wrapped and ready to hit. The skin around his eye has darkened into a plum color.

"You're back."

The voice comes from Riley, whose mustache is somehow creepier today. "My body feels like it went through a paper shredder," I reply.

"That's a good sign. Means you're getting stronger."

He's one to talk. His arms are three times bigger than mine. Despite his size, he doesn't make me feel small. Compassion radiates from him.

Can't judge a book by its cover.

"How long have you been boxing for?" I ask.

"Here at Midtown, only five months or so. But I went to a gym in Boston for two years."

He tells me that he studied at Boston University and left with a degree in neuroscience before taking a job at Emory, a hospital on the other side of town.

"Alright, everyone, let's get started!" Andre announces.

I jog over to Elliott. "Can I borrow your wraps again?"

"Sure," he replies.

He points to one of the lockers. I manage to wrap my hands without his help, though it's not as neat of a job. The communal gloves are loose around my hands. Turning my nose at the smell of rotting eggs wafting from them, I join the rest of the group in a stretch exercise. A few quiet conversations break out between them. Everyone is so comfortable with each other that it's hard not to feel like an outcast.

An outcast within a group of outcasts. Oh, the irony.

"We're going to begin with a partner activity," says Andre. "Elliott, you'll be with Rose. Max, you're with Sofía. I'll be with Riley."

I exhale a nervous breath as Elliott approaches me. He doesn't seem as bothered as I am by the pairing.

"You weren't at school today," he states.

I didn't think he would notice. "I wasn't feeling well."

"But you're boxing?"

"Yep," I reply.

He doesn't pry any further. Andre goes over the instructions for the exercise: each partner will hit the bag ten times while the other watches their form. I turn to Elliott, hoping he'll lead as an example, but he doesn't make a move. My confidence lacks when I throw my first jab knowing Elliott's watching. I instantly forget everything Andre taught me on Monday.

"Keep your weight on your right foot," Elliott instructs.

Again, I try to punch the bag and lose my balance—one mistake away from falling face-first onto the ground. The image of Harris smirking at me in the hallway burns into my brain every time I make a move.

Focus on the physical. Focus on something you can feel.

Shaking out my hands at my side, I inhale a breath of salty air before trying again. The force of my punch is much stronger this time. By the fifth attempt, I manage to hit the bag without making any major errors.

Elliott applauds. I silently accept the victory before stepping out of the way for him to take my spot. The tattoo on his left arm of a bouquet of flowers bends and curves with each hit, yet the image of the rose in the center remains intact. His knuckles clash against the bag, and the sound is like an earthquake. Anyone watching would know that he was born to do this.

"Any notes?" Elliott asks.

He was flawless, and we both know it. "Your posture needs serious work."

"I'll keep that in mind."

I'm not sure if I'd call him my friend yet, but I'm much more comfortable around Elliott than ever before. He's a lot less intimidating outside of school grounds.

"I saw your dad on my way here," I say.

Elliott pauses. He drops his hands to his side, chest heaving as he catches his breath.

"He was here?"

"On the billboard. He's kind of terrifying with his face scaled so big."

He nods, saying nothing, so I drop the subject. We alternate a few more times before Andre calls the group back to the center of the room. Elliott takes the spot next to me. I still need to thank him for what he did at the party, but talking to him about Harris is ten times scarier than telling Gemma, and I haven't even found the courage to do that yet.

"We're going to do some interval conditioning next. Alternate between hits for two minutes, jump rope, and push-ups," explains Andre.

I groan. I'd rather eat glass than do cardio.

"Rose, I'm going to work with you while they're doing that. I want everyone caught up so we can work on sparring next week."

Score.

I follow him to one of the empty bags. He shows me an example of what he calls the "orthodox stance," with his left foot leading in front of his right. I try to copy him, but my balance is off. He gives the same speech as Elliott about not putting all my weight on my toes.

By the time practice ends, I'm drenched in sweat. Hot blood pumps throughout my body. I'm exhausted, but I'm alive.

Crashing onto the wooden bench, I peel off the smelly gloves and toss them on the ground. Elliott sits beside me. He's as sweaty as I am, but he belongs in a sporting goods ad while I feel like a wet dog.

"You're better already," he says with a flicker of pride in his crooked smile. "How does it feel?"

"Good, not counting the cramps in my foot."

He chuckles, then tosses his own pair of gloves into his bag. "You going to the party this weekend?"

The question catches me off guard. The only reason I was invited to Elliott's party was because Gemma pulled some strings. Usually, I don't make the guest list. I push a piece of hair out of my face and try not to show how surprised I am by the invitation.

"I didn't know there was a party," I reply, proudly handing him my pile of damp hand wraps. He snickers.

"Alex is hosting."

Alex is another member of the Dekalb football cult. He's less intimidating than Harris Price, but definitely not a friend of mine. I have zero interest in spending any more time with their group.

"Probably not then," I murmur.

He shrugs. "Suit yourself."

He throws his backpack across his shoulder, black boxing gloves peeking out from the open zipper.

"I'll get some of my own gear for next week. I promise."

"Don't worry about it."

Elliott leaves the gym, the light from the doorway illuminating a few scattered bruises across his body. I wait until his car clears the parking lot before leaving myself.

*

I recognize her from behind.

Her dark mess of hair matches mine. A few freckles line the tops of her shoulders. People said we could've been twins. Doris Berman faces me, alive and smiling. She's holding a book with a cover I recognize from my childhood. I used to draw in the margins of the beaten-up pages.

My mother tells me about a princess who doesn't need a knight. When she reads, her voice is soothing, each word flowing from her lips like a music note. I try to memorize the unique way that she pronounces the letters, as if she's speaking in cursive.

But her tone becomes less musical with every sentence. Her pupils expand until her eyes are an all-consuming black. She opens her mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

I beg her to hear me, but she can't.

I'm too late.

Again.

"Rose!"

My father is shaking my shoulders. I shoot up from my bed and gasp for air. Moonlight trickles through my bedroom window. When did I fall asleep? I can't even remember getting home from practice.

"You were screaming," my dad whispers.

He passes me the cup of water from my nightstand. I drink it all in one gulp. My pulse slows to a normal pace.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

All the color in his face has vanished, and I know exactly why. My mother used to wake up the house when she had nightmares. Dr. Taylor told us that her bad dreams were a symptom of her anxiety disorder, a way for her fears to materialize. She tried sleeping pills, exercise, even sound machines, but none of them could rid her of the bad dreams.

"I'm okay," I insist. "I promise."

He glances down at the time on my phone. It's midnight, on the dot. I left Midtown Ring around seven.

Five hours. I can't remember five whole hours.

"What were you dreaming about?" my father asks.

"Ghosts," I lie.

I can tell he wants to believe me, but there's doubt in his eyes as I explain the details. He's been watching me like a hawk ever since my panic attack in calculus, and I hate it. I don't want him to worry; he has enough on his plate as is. When I've convinced him that the nightmare is all my fault for watching The Conjuring again, we go back and forth discussing mind-numbing topics like the weather tomorrow.

"How was boxing?"

I perk up. "Fun. We did partner exercises. Elliott King was mine."

At the sound of Elliott's name, he pauses. My father might be the only person to know any details about Elliott's family having lived right next door for the last nine years.

"Damon King's son?"

I nod. My father tilts his chin, pondering the memories he must have of Elliott.

"Your mom wanted the two of you to get to know each other. Damon was a jerk about it."

"You met him?"

I can't recall ever talking to Elliott's father, though I'm familiar enough with his face from the images plastered all over the city.

"We talked occasionally. He didn't spend much time at the neighborhood barbecues."

"Does he have a wife?"

"Not that I ever met."

My dad stays by my side for a while before heading back to sleep. As he slips out of my bedroom door, I pick up my phone and type Damon King's name into Google. Two hundred results pop up. Most articles are about his successful law practice. A few highlights him giving back to the community, donating part of his vast salary to local charity organizations. Elliott's older brother, Luke, shows up in a couple articles, but Elliott's name is never mentioned.

I finally accept that I'm being a total stalker and put down my phone.