Karen Rose - Have You Seen Her?

Like me , he thought. "God, I'm such a loser," he muttered, dragging his hands down his unshaven face, the stubble making his palms sting. After that first D , his first D ever in his life, Dr. Marshall had asked him to stay after class. She'd asked him what was wrong, what she could do to help. Reminded him if his grades continued to slip he'd lose the scholarship he'd wanted so much.

Slip? He hadn't slipped. He'd dived straight off a damn cliff. He clenched his fists. She should have told him to stop fucking up. She should have smacked him upside the head. But she hadn't. She'd just looked at him, her eyes so sad. She'd been so careful not to make him feel dumb. His head dropped back and he stared at his ceiling. She'd been so nice to him. He'd wanted to blurt it all out, to tell her what had been eating him alive. He still did. She'd understand. She wouldn't pat him on the head and tell him not to fret, that everything would be okay.

But what could she do? What could anyone do ?

Brad stood up, paced, then turned to stare at his unmade bed, knowing it was there, hidden between his mattress and box springs, fighting the need to drag it out, just to look at it again.

He'd become… obsessed. Disgusted, he squeezed his eyes shut, made himself turn around, made himself stop looking at the line that separated the mattress from box springs. Tried to stop seeing it in his head. He opened his eyes, chanced a glance in the mirror over his dresser. Shuddered at what he saw. His eyes were red, his hair dirty, uncombed. He hadn't shaved in days.

He was a wreck.

"Brad?"

His nerves crashed and he spun around to find Nicky standing in his doorway, his hand on the doorknob. The kid never knocked. No respect for his privacy, not from anybody in the whole damn house. Rage blazed at the intrusion and he took a step forward.

"What do you want?" he snarled, then immediately regretted his words and his tone when Nicky's eyes widened and his baby brother shrank back, half hiding behind the door. Nicky's lower lip trembled and Brad felt lower than shit. He made himself smile, but Nicky didn't smile back. He stepped forward and Nicky stepped back, not taking his wide brown eyes from Brad's face.

"I'm sorry, Nicky." He reached to ruffle Nicky's red hair and hated himself for Nicky's flinch. His brother was just now getting to the point where he tolerated their touch again. Just now getting over the nightmares of guns and monsters stealing him from his bed. Nicky didn't need any anger, least of all from him.

Brad crouched down until he was level with Nicky's freckled face. He slowly extended his hand and touched the tip of

Nicky's nose. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was wrong to yell at you."

Nicky nodded. "Aunt Helen says it's time for dinner," he whispered back, too solemnly for a seven-year-old boy, and Brad hated himself again.

He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

Hating himself. He thought of it again, still hidden between the mattress and box springs. Wishing it weren't there, that he'd never laid eyes on it. Wishing his life was different. Back to the way it was before, but it never would be the same again. It was a hard truth to swallow.

Brad pulled the corners of Nicky's mouth down in an exaggerated frown and found himself smiling at the soft, almost silent giggle that emerged from his baby brother's lips.

Well, they could still smile, he thought.

That was something.

Friday, September 30, 5:00 P.M.

Jenna gripped the railing of the school's front steps, the iron cold against her palm still warm from Steven Thatcher's arm. She watched him walk across the parking lot, his stride long and strong. Even from here she could see the tight fit of his jacket across the breadth of his shoulders and remembered the way those shoulders had sagged as they'd talked about his son, as if the weight of his worry was simply too heavy to bear. Jenna chewed at her lower lip. She'd told him everything would be all right. She hoped she hadn't told the man a lie.

How she wished she could have said, "Oh, no, Mr. Thatcher-there's no way Brad could be involved in drugs!" in a perky little voice that would make the anguish in his eyes disappear. But that wouldn't have been honest. She'd learned a long time ago it was far better to approach a problem with all the facts, even though the facts were often hard to accept when the fear and hurt were fresh. So she'd told him the truth. Good kids can get into trouble. He knew that already. But somehow the truth had seemed to help, making his shoulders relax just a bit.

"Jenna, you're a fool," she muttered. "An optimistic fool."

But she didn't really think that was the case. She hadn't been what anyone could call optimistic in a very long time. No, on some level, she really did believe Brad Thatcher would be all right. Maybe it was just knowing he had a dad that cared so much about him.

That had to be it.

That also had to be the reason for the urge, one she'd just barely managed to fight, to brush her fingertips across Steven Thatcher's brow, to smooth away the deep lines of worry. Because he was a kind father who cared about his son.

Not because he had warm brown eyes that crinkled at the comers when he smiled.

Or because his shoulders were so broad. Or because his upper arm was solid and strong, yet his hands were gentle. Or because his smile over her stupid shoes had simply taken her breath away.

No, she'd had the urge to comfort him because of Brad.

But the other urges were all hers and, quite frankly, surprised the hell out of her. She hadn't felt any stirrings, not even modest ones, since… She sighed, the sound lonely in the quiet night. Not since Adam got sick. Certainly not since he died. See, Casey , she thought . I can say it. Died. D-i-e-d, died. I'm not in denial, for God's sake .

It had been two years since Adam's death, and in that time she hadn't touched a man-not unless you counted that last friend of Casey's boyfriend Ned, the one whose hand she'd needed to firmly remove from her ass.

She tilted her head, considering her reaction should Steven Thatcher try the same thing-she would not be nearly as annoyed. In fact… Just stop , she mentally ordered herself. Just stop that right now .

"Jenna Marshall," she murmured aloud. "Shame on you." She looked out across the parking lot to where Mr. Thatcher stood next to her car, his hands on what probably were very trim hips.

Casey would be amused, both at her noticing Steven Thatcher was indeed a man and at the way she was scolding herself for noticing. Therefore, Casey must never know. That was simple enough. What wasn't as simple was the knowledge her body had emerged from a two-year deep sleep and her hormones were now active again. Well, you are human , she thought. You had to start looking again sometime. Just look, but don't touch .

A cool breeze fluttered and Jenna shivered first, then frowned. Minutes had ticked by as she'd stood here balanced on one foot, woolgathering. Mr. Thatcher should have been here with her car already. In fact, where was he? She lifted herself on her toes and stared off to the edge of the parking lot only to see a gray Volvo station wagon approach, Steven Thatcher at the wheel.

He pulled the car up to the curb next to where she stood, got out, and stood inside the open driver's door with his arms folded across the roof of his car.

"Do you have any enemies?" he demanded with a scowl.

Jenna's heart sank. Adam's XK 150. Then her temper surged. "Only about nine hundred," she answered from behind clenched teeth. Word of Rudy's suspension was out and now she was on the hit list of roughly nine hundred hormon-ally whacked teenagers. She sighed. "How bad is it?"