Chapter 15: None Of My Business

I toy with my pen and examine the newest doodle I've created on the inside cover of my notebook. I'm not completely satisfied with the equation, though it does, in fact, create a heart when inputted on a computer. I was hoping to contrive a curly tail for more panache, but I just can't seem to find the right algorithm.

I let the tip settle on the page and sigh, listless as Mrs. Malcolm drones on about medieval history. While normally I would find the Dark Ages fascinating, there's a certain spark of interest gone from my life these past couple of weeks I can't manage to fire up again.

It's been a struggle to drag myself to school every day, to feign interest, even to muster Kitalia and her typically fascinating world of espionage and psychic assassination. Mom and Dad have noticed, both mentioning I seem down with that pinched expression on their faces. Like matching mannequins of some kind of impending doom.

"Are you okay, Kit?" Dad, just this morning, green eyes watching me over his cup of coffee.

Mom: "You're sure you're feeling all right?" She even felt my forehead. Just in case my lack of energy was some kind of bug. I can't exactly tell them the reason for my lack of excitement these days is my own failure to step up and do the right thing.

The right thing, in this case, seems to lure me into trouble either way. The worst part of all, though it's terribly materialistic of me to think so, is my still missing boots. Mom refused to replace the ones Tom stole and destroyed. Maybe if I told her the truth, that someone at school vandalized them, she'd be more amendable to helping a girl out. But, when I lamely explained I'd lost them, her disappointment in my lack of attention was almost as bad as the loss itself.

"Really, Kit," she'd said as she turned away, pointing at the scuffed and forlorn pair of ankle boots I'd preferred last year. "If you can't take care of your new things, you'll have to make do with what you already have."

I scuff the toe of my old boots on the tile floor under my desk and sigh at the sight. They pinch my feet, slightly too small, now, but it's the worn brown surface that makes me saddest. I tested some of Dad's shoe polish on the inside, but they aren't real leather, so they won't take the stain. I've considered a thick, black marker, even while pondering if Mom would yell at me for "destroying" the boots for the sake of appearances.

I know better than to beg, though. Mom's favorite saying these days is, "Money doesn't grow on trees," and other such dogma meant to inspire me to be frugal, I guess. I know having both of my older siblings in college has to be expensive, and I don't begrudge them their education. But, my boots...

Maybe they'll finally let me get a job. I perk at that thought before sagging again while Mrs. Malcolm's tone turns even more bland.

"Anyone?" I glance up to see her poised at the blackboard, textbook in her hands. She looks about as bored as the rest of us feel. The old me would have shot her hand into the air and made a guess at the answer from the jotted dates and keynotes she'd already written down. But, I just can't seem to bring myself to care.

A job would be great, but Mom and Dad don't believe in kids working before college. I think it's silly. Sure, they want us to focus on school work, but the education I could get working would far outweigh any grade point average. I know they both had to work when they were my age, their families not as well-off as we seem to be. But that doesn't mean a job is a bad thing.

And I could make enough to replace my boots. Maybe even trick them out with those cool silver chains I saw in the biker shop the day I talked Mom into buying them for me.

"Seriously, no one has the answer?" Mrs. Malcolm meets my eyes and I feel myself cringe. Fear, a faint and unhappy emotion, stirs in my stomach. Don't draw attention to yourself. There was a time I would have pushed back and grinned in the face of such a whisper in my head. But, I catch myself looking down, shaking off her gaze even as she says my name.

It's easy enough to suss the answer from her notes. "King Richard left for the Crusades," I say. "Leaving his brother, Prince John, on the throne."

"And giving rise to the Robin Hood stories." Mrs. Malcolm sounds tired. I know how she feels. "You've all heard of Robin Hood?"

Crickets. Absolute and utter silence. I feel terrible for her suddenly, stirring the old Kit to action.

"He was a myth, wasn't he?" I know he was, though highwaymen in that era were as common as rats. That's pretty common, in case you missed your own medieval history class.

She seems a bit more relaxed, not as desperate to get our attention and I smile faintly at her before sinking down to doodle yet again.

Boots appear, filled in with black ink. My kingdom for a new pair of boots. And, as the bell rings and I rise, stuffing my books into my messenger bag, hanging back so I don't get in anyone's way, my courage. I'm the cowardly lion who's lost her roar, a fraud, a faker, weak and pathetic.

Where did the Kit MacLean I love and adore go, anyway? She was murdered. I choke on that. By Tom Brown with the death of her boots.

Okay, so that makes me grin to myself a little. So melodramatic, I could try out for drama club. And, maybe I should. I know the auditions are happening next week. Might be fun for something new to do. A small warmth wakes in my heart, perking my step despite my pinched toes in my ugly brown boots.

There's hope for me yet.

I hesitate as I turn the corner and spot Tate by my locker. She's talking with Donnelly and she looks extremely unhappy. None of my business, none of my business, none of my-

I hate this so much I'm ready to cry. They finally walk away, going in opposite directions. It's humiliating to duck my head to avoid her eyes as she slips past, cheeks pink with whatever emotion she's lost in. I can't help but catch the flicker of her gaze as it flashes to me on her way by. I turn my head, watch her go, before gulping at the blunder, immediately scurrying off so she won't think I'm being nosy.

So Tom won't notice. He's made it clear to me these last few weeks even looking at Tate is worthy of his attention.

None. Of. My. Business.

My new mantra. And yet, it kills me a little inside every day, every time I see her and her unhappiness. My locker door clangs as I pull it open a little too forcefully. And cringe from the new picture plastered to the inside of it, my fresh torture. I never know when it's going to show up, or how. As a photo, a text, a public humiliation in front of class when one of my tests was switched out for a romance novel.

Image this time. They aren't so bad, really. They got the cat right, though they managed to photoshop my face onto the rear end of it, as though the poor kitty is passing me out of his unmentionables. My fingers rise, snatch it from the metal, crumpling the page. But not before I read the black lettering on the bottom.

Your daily reminder. In case you ever forget.

There is a tiny bit of satisfaction from crushing the page in my hand, but not enough. Still, the rage I remembered from the day I confronted Tom in the computer lab is nowhere to be found. Just a dull, uneasy feeling, wretched with failure, remains. I jam the page into my bag and trade off books before slamming the door shut again.

Home isn't any more fulfilling as I step off the bus at the end of the day. Jimmy's silence feels less like companionable good nature these days and more like he's-no, don't say it, Kit, it's not true-ignoring me. The terrible fear maybe he's been-stop it right now!-purposely shutting me out since we'd met crosses my mind a time or two and I struggle with tears as I stare at the toes of my scuffed boots while I close the distance over the cracked sidewalk to my front door.

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