Split by Swati Avasthi Page B

She passes by me without a glance, her ponytail bouncing. And I think, See, there you go, just when you have a girl painted in black and white, she goes and does something unpredictable and, you know, decent . She breaks up a fight by simply stepping on a field, undoes the rivalry she started by not looking at me as she passes by.
    “Eric,” her voice changes, softer than I’ve heard it before, as if this conversation isn’t happening with a circle of guys around them listening to every cadence, as if her words are just for him. “Heather is … Well, she’s a bitch. Can you take me home after practice?”
    “Um, sure.” He keeps his eyes on me, lifting his eyebrows, which makes me want to land one on him.
    “Good.” She kisses her finger and puts it on his chest. Her red nail flashes. “You’re such a good friend.” She barely hits the f-word, glancing off it before picking her way to the sidelines.
    I’m surprised she didn’t dig her nails into his chest and pry out his heart. But no, that would have been too direct. Just a little bit of flesh at a time. Makes the fun last longer.
    When she passes by me, she winks. Worst part is, I wait until Eric can see me, and then I wink back. I’m not doing very well on my bastard-no-more pledge.
    Truth is, I just miss Lauren.

chapter 11
    a fter working an extra shift at the bookstore, where Dakota wasn’t, I pull into the parking lot at Christian’s and turn off the headlights. As I’m clicking them off, I realize that it’s eleven-thirty, and I didn’t call. Crap. My boss asked me to come in on my night off, and I said yes without thinking about Christian.
    I clench the steering wheel. Gotta face the music.
    I walk into the foyer and hit the buzzer, wishing I had a key and could slink in. The landlord is out of town for a week, and Christian couldn’t get an extra. Damn landlord. Doesn’t he appreciate the importance of his job? I mean, people rely on him.
    Christian’s voice comes through, “Jace?”
    He sounds out of breath. I. Am. Screwed.
    I trudge up the stairs. For two flights, I wonder just how pissed he’s going to be, and my throat is tight with anticipation. On the third flight, I remember his damn ground rules. And by the time I’ve reached the fourth, I’m spoiling for the fight.
    I push open Christian’s door. He is sitting at his computer, the chair turned to face the doorway as I enter. His legs are crossed, and his hands are crossed. Crap.
    Fightology Lesson #4: Holding it in is the ammunition-building phase of a fight.
    Now who resembles my dad?
    Mirriam is standing behind him with her hand resting on his shoulder. Her fingers work at his muscles, the end of a back rub.
    “Where have you been?” he asks, his voice quiet.
    “Work.”
    “You don’t work late on Monday nights,” Mirriam says, smirking; she thinks she’s caught me in a lie.
    She puts a hand on her hip, and I glare at her.
    Christian swivels toward her. “Thanks, hon,” he says. “I’ve got it from here.”
    She lifts her eyebrows, her forehead erupting into waves. “Okay. But tell him what a problem this is. You know, because I wanted to call the police. He needs to—”
    “Mirriam,” he says, without even a hint of the irritation I’m feeling. “Thanks for waiting with me.”
    She sighs and kisses him on the cheek. She looks me over and shakes her head before she goes. I swallow down the bitter invective that threatens to leap through my teeth. When she leaves, she takes the heat out of the room, and I’m back to the cold, knotted-stomach phase. “I’m sorry, Christian; I didn’t mean to make you worry, but, I didn’t know the phone number here; I forgot it, which is funny considering how many times I wrote it down on all those forms, but I couldn’t remember it, and then—” I can’t believe I’m doing this. I sound like a regular kid. I’m not standing silently without an explanation, knowing anything I say can and will be used against me when