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no thanks.”
    A sigh escapes Alex, accompanied by a shake of his head. I can’t stop from watching the sunlight slide over his brown hair, and set alight his coppery highlights.
    “Y’know, there’s not much difference between stubborn and persistent,” he says, hooking his hood with a finger and pulling it back up. The motion exposes a scar running from his wrist, down his forearm. I blink, and falter a moment, my mind stuck on the white track in his skin.
    “True.” Then I shake my head and come back with, “But stubborn sounds so negative, and I don’t know you that well. Thanks for the offer, Alex.”
    The hood slips over his eyebrows and buries his eyes in shade when he gives me a mock bow. “Another time then?”
    “Possibly.”
    “Then I’ll see you at your equally stubborn locker tomorrow.” He winks. “Bye, Emma.”
    “Later, Alex.”
    I slump against the cool brick half-wall running the length of the gymnasium. Alex shouldn’t look back—it would be better for both of us—but he casts me a brief glance once he reaches the corner. He lifts his hand in a hesitant wave. I return it and a smile warms the inside of his cowl. The image of his scar slashes through my mind, cutting open veins of questions. What happened? Was that from surgery? Did he do it? Are the rumors right? Why does he do things like Daniel?
    Why does he wake up my broken heart?Chapter Five
     
     
    Once Alex’s car, a black electric/fuel hybrid, pulls into the flow of traffic fleeing the school, I use my left hand to claw my cell phone from my backpack pocket. Alex’s warning that something’s already broken in my right hand keeps me from using it. Still, I can’t resist compounding the pain, and give Josh a heartfelt middle finger salute when he roars past in his rusty Z-28.
    Weak sun glints from the display screen as I turn the phone on and press 1 for Home. One ring, then two. A third before Mom picks up the other end of the line. Dishes clatter in the background when she says, “Hello?”
    “Hi, Mom.” I fight the urge to cry. “Can you come get me? I hurt my hand today and I think it might be broken.”
    “Broken?” Her tone rings with surprise. “I’ll be right there.”
    “Right there,” ends up being long enough for me to stuff my phone away, regret not wearing a warmer jacket, and wish Daniel was here instead of the non-existent jacket.
    As Mom’s faded gold sedan pulls to the curb, she reaches through the car and opens the passenger side door for me. Her face is a frowning, furrowed mask of concern. Internally I cringe, bracing for the bitch-out I know is coming. Mom’s best vent for worry is yelling, usually at who she’s worried about. As expected, when I drop my butt into the front seat she throws a proper fit, wanting to know how it happened, why I wasn’t more careful, blah blah blah.
    I’m too far gone into the pain, and don’t want to admit I punched my locker in frustration. She’d just yell more, tell me I should’ve seen the counselor when they offered it. And maybe she’s right. A lump forms in my throat and tears burn their way over my lashes. Her tizzy fizzles. Underneath the stoplight a few blocks from the med clinic, she reaches across the gulf of the empty seat between us and pats my leg.
    A wall had appeared between us after Daniel died. I’d hoarded my hurt and loss, and wouldn’t let her fix it. I’d slammed my door more times than I ever should’ve. Mom was always there, waiting, ready to put me back together if I fell apart.
    I never crumbled where she could see.
    Now, the pain grinds in my knuckles and undercuts my grasp on control. I loosen my crossed arms, and thread my fingers in Mom’s. Her gentle Mom sounds bring me to my sniveling weakest. My will disintegrates. The smell of cookies rises from her sleeve when I put my head on her shoulder.
    Somehow she knows these tears aren’t just over my hand. Mom presses her cheek to the top of my head, silken rustles following