Broken by C.J. Lyons Read Free Book Online Page B

filled with blood and guts and screams when the characters turn their backs on the killer hiding behind the curtain.
    Or maybe it’s the silence of the Serengeti on a nature documentary…right before the stalking hyena pounces on the baby gazelle or giraffe or girl…I look up, half expecting to see one of the Wildcats leap from a varsity jacket onto our table.
    Instead, I’m pelted by a tampon. Still wrapped, thank you, God.
    “Not again,” Nessa groans as the barrage of feminine hygiene products continue.
    No one hears her over the chants of “freak, freak” and catcalls swelling through the room. Jordan springs to his feet and leaps to the front of the table—Errol Flynn had nothing on his moves; too bad Jordan didn’t have a sword—placing his body between us and the rest of crowd. Pizza crusts and partially eaten hamburger rolls and banana peels fly through the air.
    “Leave them alone,” he shouts. His voice goes nowhere, bouncing off the noise of feet stamping and fists pounding tables. “They didn’t do anything.”
    “Whatcha gonna do about it, lover boy?” The largest Wildcat from the next table stands face to face with Jordan. It’s Mitch Kowlaski. Great. Of course he had the same lunch as I did, because the universe—well, my universe—always works that way.
    Jordan’s just as tall as him but Mitch is twice as wide. He leans closer, spittle flying into Jordan’s face with every word. “You gonna hit me, Summers? I’m just exercising my free speech. You can’t do anything about that—unless you want to fight like a man. Go on, hit me!”
    The chants morph from “freak” to “fight.” Mr. Thorne and another male teacher push through the doors, shoving their way through the crowd toward us. Mitch spots them and pivots to grab his tray.
    “Looks like lover boy doesn’t have the guts to defend his ladies.” He says the last with a sneer directed at us.
    Nessa is holding one of Jordan’s arms with both her hands. I can’t tell if she’s holding on because she’s scared or if she’s holding him back. Celina has closed down, hoodie up to shield her face, ponytail fallen into her tray and she doesn’t notice, fingers clenched into fists as she rocks slightly, like she’s being buffeted by a storm.
    And me? I have no idea what to do. I’m as frozen as that baby bird trapped by the hyena’s paw. The other football players stand up, grabbing their trays as well. I see what they’re going to do. It’s all so clear from the grins they exchange and their body language. If they could communicate as well on the playing field, maybe we’d have won a game already.
    Jordan has his back to our table, focusing on Mitch and the rest of the crowd. He doesn’t see what’s coming. But I do.
    I know I should just run and hide, let the events play out. Stay out of the spotlight, not draw attention and put myself in the predator’s line of sight.
    That would be the smart thing to do. The way to survive.
    It’s what a normal girl would do.
    Just as Mitch is getting ready to swing back around with his tray, dumping it all over Jordan and giving the signal for his comrades to do the same with their trays, I roll Phil between his feet.
    He’s caught off balance and trips, jostling his tray. Instead of landing on Jordan or Celina who are in the line of fire, it dumps into his chest, smearing an open packet of ketchup and fries over the virgin white wool of his jacket.
    He howls in fury as his teammates chortle. We’re forgotten—except for me. I now stand alone in the spotlight.
    Laughter crescendos around me, but for once it’s not aimed at me. Rather at Mitch as he turns and drops his tray on the other table.
    “Way to go, Kowlaski,” one of his teammates sings out just as Mr. Thorne arrives at our little soiree.
    “Problem here, gentlemen?” he asks. “Mr. Summers, care to explain?”
    “It’s my fault,” I pipe up, trying to deflect attention from Jordan. “My backpack got in his way.