Fall to Pieces by Vahini Naidoo Page A

asks.
    “No.” I check the time—ten minutes before the last class lets out. “But Mark will be here soon, and he may want you to get the fuck out of his car. No guarantees that you can actually come along for this ride.”
    “I’d better make the best of my time here, then,” E says, nodding. He leans back, folding his arms behind his head. Then he kicks up his feet, draping them over the front seat. He drums his muddy feet against Cherry Bomb’s already-ruined leather and gives me an angelic smile.
    I snort. “Mature. Wasn’t punching the guy enough?”
    “Let’s see,” Explosive Boy says, squinting as if he’s thinking real hard. “He pushed me off a bridge and nearly killed me. I punched him and messed up his car a little. We’re
totally
even.”
    That shocks a laugh out of me. Yes, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit—but it’s still a form of wit. I wasn’texpecting much wit from E. Just endless brooding and gunpowder cologne.
    “So you are pissed off about that?” I ask him.
    His jaw tightens. “Pissed off is the tip of the fucking iceberg,” he says. “But short of punching you, I’m not sure how to deal with that emotion. And I don’t hit girls.”
    “You sexist pig.”
    He raises an eyebrow. “You’re impossible to please, aren’t you?”
    “Basically.”
    He shakes his head and pulls an iPod from the pocket of his tatty jacket. “Want to listen?” he asks, holding out an earbud to me.
    I take it because there’s nothing else to do. But when I put it into my ear, when I hear the song he’s listening to, I wish that I hadn’t. “This was Amy’s favorite song,” I say, swallowing hard.
    “Little Wing,” Jimi Hendrix. She always said she could hear velvet in this music. Rich, purple velvet and sex.
    “Your friend, right?” he says. “The one who died? I’m sorry.”
    I pick at the foam spilling from Cherry Bomb’s ruptured upholstery. I can feel his eyes on me. In my peripheral vision, I watch his lips part. But before he can say anything else, the car door swings open.
    Mark. Today’s scarf is highlighter yellow, and he’s gota lollipop in his mouth again. He raises his eyebrows at E. “Comfortable?” he asks in a tone that implies he’s once more on the brink of committing an act of lollipop violence.
    E removes his feet from the front seat and slings an arm around me. “Oh,” he says, shuffling slightly closer to me, bringing the smell of gunpowder with him, “very.”
    “Ha. Ha. Ha. Just hilarious,” I say, putting the distance back between us, letting the smell of gunpowder fade away.
    E drops his arm from my shoulder and smiles sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says as Mark starts up Cherry Bomb’s engine.
    Mark ignores him. “Petal’s meeting us there,” he says.
    We don’t speak on the way to the barn, but E keeps “Little Wing” on repeat. And Jimi Hendrix croons and croons and croons in my ear about a girl with a circus mind and a thousand free smiles.
    When we enter the barn, Petal waves to us from the third floor. Maybe watching me jump off a bridge has emboldened her.
    I climb the stairs, ignoring the looks Mark and E give me. On the second floor, I turn back to them. “Coming?” I ask.
    They follow, grumbling.
    “This is not a good idea.” Mark’s lost the lollipop, but he hasn’t yet managed to find a convincingly serious expression. I doubt that day will ever come.
    “Well,” I say, “as the inventor of Pick Me Ups, you, my dear Marcus, are not allowed to comment on what is and isn’t a bad idea.”
    I reach the third floor ahead of Mark and E, and Petal immediately points to a space in the middle of the barn. I follow her finger. The gnome’s glossy ceramic coat winks up at me from the bales of hay.
    I smile to thank her for bringing my ref as Mark and E join us.
    Mark takes a look over the edge, and his face pales. It’s a long way to fall. He steps back from the edge and starts yammering about plans to get a gun so we can play Russian