His Broken Angel's Dying Secret

The heavy rubber doors of the yellow school bus folded open with a loud hiss.

Claire Hansen stepped down onto the concrete of the Port Sterling High parking lot.

The crisp autumn wind hit her instantly. She shivered and pulled the edges of her oversized knit sweater tightly across her chest.

She used the motion of adjusting her heavy backpack to press the heel of her hand hard against her stomach.

A dull, throbbing ache radiated behind her ribs.

She swallowed hard. The metallic taste of the anti-cancer medication she took that morning rose in the back of her throat.

She forced the nausea down. She could not throw up on her first day.

Claire caught her reflection in the dark glass of the bus window. She paused.

She checked her cheeks in the reflection. She had carefully blended a soft, subtle layer of peach blush across her cheekbones. It was just enough artificial color to successfully hide the dead, translucent pallor of her skin without drawing any unwanted attention to her face.

She took a slow, shallow breath. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a sweet, harmless smile.

She turned and walked toward the loud, crowded brick building.

The main hallway was a chaotic tunnel of slamming metal locker doors and shouting teenagers.

Claire kept her head down and her smile fixed. She pushed through the crowd until she found the main office.

The secretary behind the desk took one look at her transfer papers and smiled warmly.

"Straight A's across the board," the secretary said, handing over a printed schedule and a locker combination. "We love having model students like you at Port Sterling, Claire."

"Thank you," Claire said softly.

She turned to leave. A sudden wave of dizziness hit the back of her skull.

Her vision blurred for a fraction of a second. She reached out and gripped the wooden doorframe to steady herself.

She waited for the hallway to stop spinning. Then she let go and walked to her locker.

Her fingers trembled slightly from weakness as she spun the metal dial. The lock clicked, but the old door stuck.

A girl with bright blonde hair leaned over and smacked the top of the locker with the base of her palm. The door popped open.

"You have to hit it right on the hinge," the girl said. "I'm Willow Carpenter."

"Claire," she replied, placing her notebooks inside.

Willow immediately launched into a rapid-fire breakdown of the school's social hierarchy. She pointed out the football players, the cheerleaders, and the kids to avoid.

The loud, shrill sound of the warning bell cut Willow off mid-sentence.

"I have to get to AP Literature," Claire said.

She navigated the crowded halls until she found room 204.

Claire pushed the wooden door open. The loud chatter inside the classroom died instantly.

Every head turned to look at her.

Mr. Cecil York, an older man with a gray beard, stood at the front of the room. He motioned for her to stand next to his podium.

"Class, this is our new transfer student, Claire Hansen," Mr. York announced.

The boys stared at her with obvious interest. The girls looked her up and down with sharp, calculating eyes.

Claire kept her hands folded in front of her. She maintained her perfect, quiet smile.

Mr. York scanned the room for an empty desk. His eyes landed on the very back corner of the classroom.

A boy in a black leather jacket sat there. He was slumped forward, his head resting on his crossed arms on the desk.

He radiated a dark, hostile energy. The desks immediately surrounding him were pushed slightly away, creating a visible dead zone.

Mr. York cleared his throat. He pointed to the single empty chair right next to the boy.

"Take the seat next to Mr. Dalton," York instructed.

A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the room.

A few rows away, Willow caught Claire's eye. Willow shook her head frantically and mouthed the word 'no'.

Claire pretended not to see her. She kept her steps even and steady as she walked down the aisle toward the back corner.

She pulled the metal chair out. She tried to be quiet, but the legs scraped against the linoleum floor.

She sat down and placed her heavy backpack on the floor.

The slight noise was enough. The boy slowly lifted his head from his arms.

Bishop Dalton turned his face toward her.

His jaw was clenched tight. His dark eyes were cold, sharp, and filled with a violent irritation at being disturbed.

He stared at her like she was a disease.

Claire did not look away. She met his brutal gaze head-on.

"Hi," she whispered.

Bishop blinked. A flicker of surprise crossed his features. No one ever looked him directly in the eye.

A boy sitting in the row ahead of them, Jax Adler, turned around.

"Hey, new girl," Jax whispered harshly. "Stay away from the psycho."

Bishop let out a low, humorless scoff. He didn't say a word to Claire.

He simply turned his head, dropped his face back onto his arms, and gave her the back of his head.

Claire opened her notebook.

Another sharp, twisting cramp hit her stomach.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She gripped her plastic pen so tightly her knuckles turned bone-white, using all her strength to hide the violent trembling in her hands.

The sharp scratch of Mr. York's chalk against the blackboard snapped Claire's attention away from the dull ache in her abdomen.

"Open your textbooks to page forty-two," Mr. York instructed the class. "We are starting Shakespeare's sonnets."

Claire reached down and pulled the zipper of her backpack open.

She sifted through her notebooks and folders. Her hands suddenly froze.

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

She remembered last night. The stomach pain had flared up so violently she had collapsed at her desk. She had blacked out from the agony before she could pack her bag for today.

The heavy literature textbook was still sitting on her bedroom floor.

Cold sweat instantly broke out across Claire's forehead.

She could not get a detention on her first day. She could not draw that kind of negative attention to herself.

Mr. York stepped away from the chalkboard. He began walking down the narrow aisles, checking the students' desks.

His heavy footsteps grew closer.

Claire kept her head down. Her fingers nervously twisted the loose yarn at the hem of her oversized sweater.

The fabric stretched tight across her knuckles.

Beside her, Bishop had his eyes closed. The frantic rustling of her clothes and her rapid breathing made his dark eyebrows pull together.

He opened his eyes. He glanced at her completely empty desk. He looked down at her white, shaking fingers gripping her sweater.

He understood exactly what was happening.

Mr. York stopped directly in front of Claire's desk.

"Miss Hansen," Mr. York said, his voice stern. "Where is your textbook?"

The entire class turned around in their seats. Some students smirked. Others watched with mild pity.

Claire opened her mouth. Her throat felt completely dry.

"I..." she started, trying to formulate a believable lie.

A heavy, thick textbook suddenly slid across the surface of the desk.

It stopped right in front of Claire's folded hands.

"It's hers," a deep, rough voice said.

Claire snapped her head to the side.

Bishop was leaning back in his chair. His long legs were stretched out under the desk. His face was completely blank.

Mr. York's face darkened with immediate anger. He turned his glare onto Bishop.

"And where is your textbook, Mr. Dalton?" York demanded.

Bishop shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. He tilted his chin up in a blatant display of disrespect.

"Forgot it," Bishop said flatly.

The classroom went dead silent.

Jax Adler sucked in a loud breath through his teeth.

Mr. York's face turned a deep shade of red. He pulled a pink slip of paper from his shirt pocket and slammed it onto Bishop's desk.

"Principal's office. Right now," York snapped, his voice shaking with fury. "I am not dealing with your insolence today."

Bishop didn't even look at the slip. He stood up.

He kicked his chair back so hard it slammed into the desk behind him.

He grabbed his empty black backpack from the floor. He didn't look at Mr. York, and he didn't look at Claire.

He walked straight down the aisle and out the door.

The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang.

Claire stared at the textbook sitting in front of her. The cover was still slightly warm from his hands. Her chest felt incredibly tight.

When the bell finally rang, Claire packed her bag quickly.

She caught up to Willow in the hallway. She casually asked where the lockers for the juniors with the last name Dalton were located.

During the lunch hour, the hallways were packed with students heading to the cafeteria.

Claire slipped away from the crowd. She walked down the quiet north corridor until she found a locker covered in faded black marker tags.

She looked left and right. The hallway was empty.

She reached into the deep pocket of her sweater and pulled out a small, shiny object.

It was a strawberry hard candy wrapped in clear plastic.

It was the candy she sucked on to kill the disgusting chemical taste of her chemotherapy. It was the only thing of value she had on her.

She pulled a yellow sticky note from her bag. She clicked her pen and wrote two words in neat, careful cursive.

Thank you.

Claire folded the sticky note around the candy. She pushed it through the narrow ventilation slits at the top of the metal locker door.

She heard it drop softly onto whatever was inside.

The tight, painful knot in her stomach seemed to loosen just a fraction. A small, genuine smile touched her lips.

She turned and walked back toward the cafeteria, her thin frame disappearing into the sea of students.

Around the corner, leaning against the cinderblock wall, Bishop stood perfectly still. He had just walked out of the principal's office after enduring a twenty-minute lecture, deciding to skip the rest of the period and wander the empty halls instead.

His dark eyes tracked Claire's retreating back until she was gone.

The final bell of the day rang, sending a massive wave of students flooding into the hallways.

Bishop walked to his locker. He spun the combination dial with quick, practiced movements.

He yanked the metal door open.

Sitting right on top of his spare black hoodie was a bright pink strawberry candy and a folded yellow sticky note.

He picked up the note.

He stared at the neat, perfect handwriting. Thank you.

An image of Claire's pale, terrified face from this morning flashed in his mind.

The hard, angry line of his mouth twitched. It was the closest thing to a smile he had felt in months.

He unwrapped the candy and tossed it into his mouth.

The cheap, artificial strawberry flavor exploded on his tongue. He hated sweets. But he didn't spit it out.

He folded the yellow sticky note and shoved it deep into his leather wallet.

On the other side of the school, Claire stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

She uncapped a tube of tinted lip balm and rubbed it heavily over her lips. Her natural color was fading faster today.

She walked out the front doors of the school.

Willow jogged up next to her. "Hey, a bunch of us are going to get milkshakes. You want to come?"

"I can't," Claire lied smoothly. "I have a lot of reading to catch up on at home."

She needed to go home and lie down before the pain became unbearable.

To avoid the slow-moving crowds on the main sidewalk, Claire turned down the narrow alleyway that ran behind the school's auto shop.

The alley was dark. It smelled strongly of rotting garbage and stale cigarette smoke.

Claire kept her head down, walking fast.

Suddenly, the loud, wet sound of a fist hitting flesh echoed off the brick walls.

Someone whimpered.

Claire froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She ducked behind a massive green dumpster and peeked around the rusted metal edge.

Three older boys wearing dirty denim jackets had a skinny kid with thick glasses pinned against the brick wall.

They were digging through the kid's pockets.

The leader, a guy named Spike O'Malley, pulled his fist back. He aimed right for the kid's face.

Claire's breath caught in her throat. Her shaking hand reached into her pocket, her fingers blindly searching for her phone to call the police.

Before she could pull it out, a tall, broad figure stepped into the mouth of the alley. It was well-known among the student body that the secluded spot behind the auto shop was Bishop's designated area to smoke between classes, but the three older boys had clearly forgotten. He blocked out the afternoon sun, casting a long, imposing shadow over the concrete.

Bishop stood there. He had an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were dead and cold.

Spike looked up and sneered. "Get lost, Dalton. Mind your own business."

Bishop didn't say a word.

He closed the distance in three long strides. He swung his leg up and kicked Spike squarely in the chest.

Spike flew backward. His back slammed violently into the metal dumpster.

The sheer, brutal speed of the violence made the other two boys drop the skinny kid instantly. They backed away, their eyes wide with fear.

Bishop grabbed Spike by the collar of his jacket. He hauled him up until Spike's toes barely touched the ground.

"If I see you on this block again," Bishop said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble, "I'll break your jaw."

He shoved Spike away.

The three boys scrambled over each other and ran out the opposite end of the alley.

Bishop looked down. He picked up the skinny kid's glasses from the dirt.

He shoved them roughly into the kid's chest. "Get out of here."

The kid stammered a thank you and sprinted away.

Claire stood frozen behind her dumpster. She pressed both hands over her mouth to keep from making a sound.

Everyone said Bishop was a monster. But he just saved that boy.

Bishop turned around. His dark eyes locked exactly on the edge of the dumpster where Claire was hiding.

He spit the unlit cigarette onto the concrete.

"You can come out," Bishop said coldly. "Unless you like the smell of trash."

Claire's face burned with embarrassment. She stepped out into the open.

Her fingers nervously gripped the straps of her backpack. She didn't know what to say.

Bishop walked slowly toward her. He stopped when he was standing right in front of her.

He was so tall she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

He looked down at her. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume mixed with the lingering smell of the strawberry candy he had eaten.

He didn't explain the fight. He didn't justify the violence.

"Don't walk down this alley," Bishop said flatly. "It's not safe."

He stepped around her and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the shadows.