by Ann Aguirre
“Oh my God,” he whispers.
“I was eleven when I broke. Three years of this shit. We were renting this hellhole … and she couldn’t come up with the money. So she gets this idea—” I break off. Wow, this is harder than I expected. And I knew it would suck. “To use me. To pay. So she invites the landlord over.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“They drank a lot that night. And passed out before he could … you know. Then I set fire to the place. And I went outside.”
The memory surges to the front of my brain, how calm I felt, sitting on the curb across the street. It was summertime, and I was in my pajamas, too small since my mother hadn’t bought me any clothes in a couple of years. They had SpongeBob on them—funny I remember that. I watched the house burn for twenty minutes before a crackhead neighbor called the fire department.
The police found me, an hour later. At first they dubbed me a survivor, until I admitted to setting the fire. Stupid kid; I should’ve lied. After that, the nightmare didn’t end for years. They catalogued abuse: scars and malnutrition and had a doctor examine me down below. No sign of sexual assault. Then they put me where you stick broken people, ones who can’t be trusted around normal ones. I tell Shane all of that; there’s no point in hiding it now.
“I was in the group home for two years, where I went to a special school. They found Aunt Gabby when I was twelve, but I wasn’t released until I was thirteen. Then I had more counseling and medication … she took me home with her and I started junior high here.”
Why isn’t he talking? I risk a look at Shane’s face and he’s blank, like he can’t process it all. Welcome to my world. I try to pull back then, but he doesn’t let go. His hands move over mine in gentle motions, as if I’m a song he can’t remember how to play.
“Look, you were a kid,” he finally says. “Is burning down your house the best defensive strategy? No, but what options did you have? That asshole was going to…” Yeah, he can’t even say it. That’s how ugly the truth is.
But I get to live with knowing that’s how much my mom valued me. First, she left me, then she hurt me, then she was going to use me as currency. To her, I was nothing, and she got me to the point where I didn’t care what happened to me, as long as she was gone, too. The rage washes over me all over again. And now everyone at school knows. Somehow.
Dylan Smith.
Everything I’ve built over the last three years is gone. Now I’m back to being a freak show. I can expect more whispers, more people rushing to avoid me, refusing to make eye contact. All the projects I’ve planned, including the town garden, will probably fail. Who wants to help a crazy girl?
“Sage, look at me.” I do, mostly because his fingers are on my chin.
I feel numb. I should cry. I can’t. My whole body’s iced over.
“It’s gonna be okay. People talk shit, then they get bored. Something stupid will happen and they’ll forget.”
The numbness gives way to pain and shame, oceans of it. I might cry after all. Determined to avoid that, I bite my lip. I close my eyes.
“You really think so? I guess you’ve never lived in a town this small before.” To shock him, make him realize how insurmountable this is, I add, “They told me she died of smoke inhalation. It’s supposed to be fast.”
“What about the asshole?”
“He stumbled out the back. Some burns, but he lived.”
“But he didn’t try to help your mom?”
“He was drunk. I doubt it even occurred to him.” I pull away from him, then. “You should go. Don’t you have to work?” He’s already late.
“I’ll call in,” Shane offers.
“No, don’t. You still need the money. My shitty past doesn’t change your shitty present.”
“But it’s not,” he tells me. “And you’re the reason why. Promise me you’ll be at school tomorrow. The longer you hide, the worse it’ll be. Remember, you’re the one who says life doesn’t get better if you look away.”
“That is so unfair, using my own words against me.”
“Promise, Sage.”
“I’ll talk to my aunt,” I mumble. “If she agrees with you, then I’ll go.”
“Okay.” He pushes off the bed, then leans down to kiss me good-bye.
I can’t believe he still wants to. He knows everything about me now, that I’ve done the worst possible thing a human can do, and he’s still my boyfriend? Is he nuts? But maybe I’ve tapped into the gallant part of him that couldn’t leave his mother alone, no matter what it cost. “I don’t understand why you’re not already walking.”
“You don’t know everything about me,” he says quietly. “You think you’re the only one who glossed over stuff you didn’t want to think about? But I’ll tell you more tomorrow. If you’re brave enough to show up.”
Somehow, he’s done the impossible. I’m actually smiling. Maybe I’ll live through this after all, as long as Ryan, Lila, and Shane stand by me. That’s how true friends respond to trouble, I guess. They rally around you and keep the vultures away.
“We’ll see,” I mutter.
“I’ll call you on my break, okay?”
“If you want.”
It’s because of Shane that I’m not a total basket case when my aunt gets home. I don’t try to sugarcoat it; I tell her that I cut school … and why. She pales, reaching out to hold the wall for a few seconds, and then she hugs me.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. People can be such shitheads.” Since my aunt almost never cusses, this makes me laugh. “You seem to be handling it, though?” It’s a question. I’m sure she has my former therapist standing by on speed dial, ready with prescriptions and to resume our weekly sessions.
“I’m upset that they know. But … I can deal, I think. It can’t be worse than what I’ve already gone through, right?”
Aunt Gabby hugs me tighter. “I’m sorry, baby. Do you have any clue how the story got out?”
There’s no way I’m telling her; I’d have to confess my part in escalating the drama, and I can’t stand her disappointed face. Plus, what does it matter? It’s not like the school will do anything to Dylan for telling the truth about me. Football players get away with much worse on a regular basis. So I just shake my head. “It’s just one of those things.”
“You’ll be okay,” she promises me. “And if school is really bad, we can look into online classes.”
I love how she doesn’t promise the impossible. She doesn’t claim she’ll sell the house and move or transfer me to a different school. The options she offers are the ones we can manage. It’s depressing to think of taking all my classes online, but I know people with emotional problems do that sometimes. I’m sure my friends would still come see me. Right? Anyway, we’re not there yet.
“Shane says I should go tomorrow, show them I don’t care. What do you think?”
My aunt nods. “Absolutely. If you can manage it, that would be best. If anyone gives you a hard time, contact one of your teachers … or the counselor. I’m sure if you explain your circumstances—”
“I can tough it out.”
The surprise was awful, earlier today. I got comfortable. If I’m watching for the punches, then they can’t knock me out. I tell myself I’m past the worst. I’ll hang out with the friends I have left and ignore the people who give me shit. Maybe I can acquire a reputation as a badass, and then they’ll be scared to mess with me.
My aunt throws healthy cooking out the window and we have giant ice cream sundaes with homemade hot fudge for dinner. “I’m not advocating this as a replacement for better coping mechanisms,” she tells me, gesturing with a spoon. “But tonight calls for special measures.”
“No argument from me.”
A few minutes later, I hear my aunt on the phone with Joe. “No, this isn’t the right time. I’ll tell her later. And I have to cancel tonight. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Sage needs me.”
I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t true. I’m coping, but it’s a t
hin veneer. I waver between fury and sadness, then I get distracted and it settles down for a while. Half an hour into my favorite movie—Pitch Perfect—Ryan messages me. U ok?
I’m glad he’s checking it. Lila probably told him some of what I said this afternoon since I didn’t say it was top secret. Likely, she’s also still working on the best and most evil way to get revenge on Dylan. It won’t change anything, though.
Me: Watching Pitch Perfect.
Ryan: Again?
Me: Shut up.
Ryan: Can I do anything? Beat someone up for u?
This is especially hilarious because Ryan is the last person in the world who could pull that off. He would probably hit himself in the face and pass out. I smile as he intended.
Me: Nah. Just be there tomorrow?
It’s a short version of what I’m actually asking.
Ryan: Try and stop me.
Me: Thanks. You’re awesome.
Ryan: so im told by legions of screaming fans.
Me: Whatever. Movie. TTYL.
By the time Shane calls, I’m ready to face the assholes at school. I’ve done my time, so to speak, and the court decided, in conjunction with my therapist, that it was safe for me to leave the group home. Therefore, I can handle anything. Even this.
Right?
Right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The next day, Shane’s waiting for me at the bike rack when I arrive.
Bravado has carried me this far, but I’m shaking. I remember all the unfriendly eyes, the people who can’t understand, the ones who judge, and those who might even be scared of me. Deliberately he laces our fingers together, a show of solidarity.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
He nods. “I have some experience with this. It’s best to get it over with.”
I’m distracted by the reference to his secrets. While I’m considering what they could be, he opens the front door and we step inside. It’s like yesterday, only worse, because it feels like everyone is staring. I put on a smile, but it must not look normal because people quickly look away. They’re giving Shane and me a wide berth in the halls. He goes with me to our locker; Lila’s waiting nearby.
“You look better,” she says, linking arms with me.
I appreciate it so much that I feel like hugging her, so I do. She looks a little surprised, but she doesn’t pull away. She falls in on my left, Shane on my right, and the two of them escort me to my first class, and though I always thought of him as gentle, he’s got a hard edge today, a set to his jaw that dares anyone to say a word. They drop me off and run to make their classes before the last bell.
Nobody talks to me, but I can deal with isolation. I pay attention to my teachers, though I’m not delighted when Mr. Mackiewicz asks me to stay after. I don’t need this today. I’m doing better. But I present myself before his desk as the other students file out. Shane glances at me, but I wave him on.
“Miss Czinski, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve registered your extra effort this semester. Did you find a tutor?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s certainly reflected in your work. You’ve shown the most improvement of anyone in class, and I wanted to say good job.”
Wow, really?
“Thanks,” I manage to say, surprised.
“That’s all. Enjoy your lunch.”
That’s the least painful conversation I’ve ever had with Mackiewicz. I’m actually feeling … not horrible when I step out into the hall. Most people have already headed to the cafeteria—or wherever they eat—so it’s just Shane waiting for me. He raises a brow in question.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah, he just wanted to praise me, if you can believe it. Thanks to you, I’m most improved in geometry.”
“Secret one: I’ve taken geometry before. I should be a senior this year.” He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I missed more school than I should, taking care of my mom.”
“So you’re seventeen?”
“Eighteen in July.”
Whoa, so he’ll be within a few months of nineteen by the time he finishes school. I’m impressed that he hasn’t just said screw it and gotten his GED. He’s had more reason than most to quit. I take heart in his determination. If he didn’t give up, I won’t either.
But just as I think that, I glance down the hall because there’s a bunch of people milling around my locker. They give way as I approach, and what I see freezes my heart in my chest. So that’s how he knew. My case files were confidential, so he went looking through old newspapers. And sure enough, he struck gold. For a few seconds I can’t get my breath. There’s a pink Post-it note, just like the ones I use, and the two words are written in purple glitter pen, just like mine. But I’d never write PSYCHO KILLER and stick it on someone’s locker. Taped beneath, there’s a copy of the news article, covering the fire. The headline reads, CHILD STARTS HOUSE FIRE, 1 FATALITY.
I feel sick again.
Shane grabs the papers, tears them down, and crumples them in his fist. “Who posted this?”
Silence.
So he grabs the nearest guy by the shirt, shakes him hard, then slams him against the locker. “Tell me, or I assume you did it and beat the shit out of you.”
“It-it was Dylan and his crew,” the freshman gasps.
Someone else says, “Yeah, they just ran by, laughing their asses off.”
Shane lets go of the kid and takes off running. During lunch, Dylan and his cronies can usually be found in the gym, shooting hoops. Alarmed, I race after him. For me, yesterday was the worst; now I’m braced and I can take whatever they throw at me.
I call, “Shane, wait! It’s okay. I don’t care.”
But he’s beyond earshot or just not listening. He bangs through the double doors, so hard that one of them hits the wall. Dylan’s on the other side of the court, going up for a layup. Shane charges at him. No conversation, no accusations. And he takes him down in one hit. For a few seconds, I’m frozen. Rage fuels his strikes, and he slams him once, twice, three times in the face. I’m positive Dylan’s never been in a fight like this. He covers his face with his hands and rolls to his side, but Shane doesn’t let up.
“Think you can do whatever you want, you little bitch?” Another blow. “Fight me, asshole. Show your friends how tough you are.” Shane pummels him again. “No? You sure?”
It takes four of Dylan’s buddies to drag him off, and Shane punches two of them before the PE teacher intervenes. He drags Shane out of range and somebody runs for the nurse, because Dylan looks seriously messed up.
He spits a mouthful of blood and says, “Somebody call the cops. I’m pressing charges.”
His friend gets out his phone and dials before the teachers can decide how to handle things. Oh my God, no. I forgot. I forgot what he told me about needing to lay low—that if he gets in trouble again, he’s going to juvie until he’s eighteen.
A huge crowd gathers while the teachers confer. They try to shoo us away, but nobody’s budging. Dylan’s mom comes from the office and puts an arm around him; she glares at Shane, who’s still being restrained by the gym teacher. Eventually the cops show up and they talk quietly with the principal. I wrap my arms around myself because I can’t stop shaking.
This is because of me.
I try to explain that it’s not Shane’s fault, but Mr. Oscar pulls me away. “This doesn’t concern you, Sage. You should go to class.”
Yeah, that’ll happen when half the school’s in the gym or just outside, rubbernecking. My gaze meets Shane’s, but he’s wearing that empty expression, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I feel like I’ve ruined his life when I only wanted to make things better for him. His beautiful musician’s hands are spattered with blood.
“What happened?” Lila asks. I didn’t even notice her arrival.
In a monotone, I tell her.
“Holy shit. I mean, Dylan totally had it coming, but this is bad for Shane.”
“I k
now,” I choke out.
I’m still watching when the cops cuff Shane’s hands behind his back. It feels like the whole world slows down as he passes me. His eyes meet mine, and he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. He mouths the word sorry, and then life snaps back to normal speed when they take him away. I run all the way to the front of the school, keeping far enough back that the cops shouldn’t complain. As I push through the doors, I see them shove Shane into the back of the car. He turns his face away.
Rage boils up inside me then. This is bullshit. After what Dylan’s done, he gets to be the victim? I could do horrible things to him. For a few seconds, I let myself picture them. Then I wrestle the anger into submission. I’ve come too far to fall into the hole and let Shadow Sage out again. I don’t want to be a bad person; I don’t want these pictures in my head. What Lila and I did with the truck, that was as far as I can go.
“Maybe it’ll be okay,” Ryan says, coming up beside me. “The police will call his parents and they’ll work something out. Community service, maybe.”
There are no parents to answer. I imagine Shane sitting in lockup, waiting for them to realize nobody will ever come for him. And my heart’s a white ball of fire in my chest. He threw away his second chance for me, and I’m not worth it. I dissolve in Ryan’s arms, crying for Shane like I never could for myself.
“Hey, we’ll figure something out,” he says, stroking my back.
“It’s not fixable. He’s gone.”
“That’s not like you.”
“And you don’t know the whole story.” With a shuddering breath, I pull back, unwilling to tell Ryan that Shane’s mom passed away and that his dad’s abandoned him.
Eventually, the school staff herds us back to class, though we’ve missed the whole period after lunch. It’s bittersweet but Shane accomplished what he intended. People aren’t looking at me anymore. I’m pretty sure they’ve forgotten the reason he pounded the shit out of Dylan. Now Shane getting arrested is all anyone can talk about. And I wish it wasn’t true.
I’m a zombie in my afternoon classes. For the first time in two years, I leave without putting a Post-it on somebody’s locker. I refuse to believe anyone at JFK’s having a worse day than me anyway.
