by Beth Reekles
I look up, my head turning slowly from side to side. Then I see him: Dwight pulls the photo taped to his locker off, and his face pales, and I see him gulp. Then it scrunches up as he closes his fist around it. He turns and catches my eye immediately.
I look back at my locker, lowering my hand with the photograph. And, oh look, it only gets better—of course it does.
There are letters scratched into my locker. Not spray painted. Nothing that could be removed or cleaned off or even covered over. The letters are actually carved into my locker, jagged silver scratches that stand out against the colored door.
B—I—T—C—H.
Bitch.
The word pinballs riotously through my head, bouncing around, echoing.
Then I remember I need to breathe, and I take in a shallow, trembling breath. And another. And another and another. Breathe out. Breathe in again. And breathe out. Yeah. That’ll do. That’s good enough.
The photo in my hand falls slowly to the floor. I stumble back a step from my abused locker. I can’t hear anything but whispers and my own hollow, shallow breathing.
“Slut,” someone calls out. And the words don’t stop, coming at me from every angle, a verbal attack. “Oh my God how dare she poor Bryce I don’t understand what happened she always seemed so nice I heard she got with that Justin guy you know the one Tiffany brought to the dance poor Bryce I knew she was a bitch freak slut freak—”
And with that, the whispers are suddenly too loud and the words all mash together in my head and I can’t handle it anymore.
This is so much worse than what I’d dreaded happening.
I’d never wanted anybody here to find out about the old me. I didn’t want Fatty Maddie coming back to haunt me, to ruin the life I’ve made for myself. I’ve stayed awake into the early hours more than once, letting various nightmarish scenarios play out in my mind where everybody found out what I used to be like.
But this …
This is so, so much worse than I could have ever imagined.
It’s not my past coming back to haunt me. This is my present, and it’s tearing down everything I’ve built for myself here. The new Madison’s life is crumbling to pieces. And the old Madison has nothing to hide behind now.
I resurrect the walls I spent so long constructing back in Pineford; they’re not going to see me cry. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing that they’ve got to me, that they’ve broken me.
I put my other earphone in and whatever music that’s playing fills my ears. I hitch my bag up a little higher on my shoulder. And I turn around and walk away.
I don’t bother trying to look like I’m trying to keep my dignity, like I don’t give a dime what they say or think about me. I keep my eyes focused on my feet as they move steadily, one in front of the other in front of the other, my head down. I just wish I hadn’t cut my hair so short; now I have nothing to hide behind.
I feel like I’m growing smaller and smaller inside. I feel as though I’m constricting and hiding away in the most distant recesses of my mind until I’m just a shell moving step by step down the corridor.
This isn’t like Pineford all over again.
This isn’t like Fatty Maddie, who they wouldn’t let be invisible.
This is far worse.
Distantly, I hear people talking, gossiping—shouting names at me.
Someone steps in front of me; I see sneakers and the frayed hems of jeans. I stop in my tracks and follow the legs up the torso to their face.
Bryce. My lips form his name but my voice isn’t working.
He’s saying something to me. I can see his lips moving. I can hear his voice. But my brain’s not making the connection between his voice and his words. It’s as though I’ve shut down completely. My mind is too loud, and the rest of me is just—just there.
So I look back at the floor and step around him, and keep moving.
Eventually I end up walking into a music room. There’s nobody here. Just instruments and music stands and chairs arranged in curves around the conductor’s stand. I pull out my earphones, and then I remember exactly why I became so attached to my music in the first place—it helped drown out all my thoughts when it was so dreadfully quiet, like it is now.
Slowly I wrap my earphones around my iPod and set it on the desk at the front of the room. I drop my satchel on the floor, and I’m still standing awkwardly when the door opens.
“Madison, are you …?” Dwight trails off, and I turn to look at him. His eyes are on me, and they’re so full of sadness. He walks closer to me—slowly, cautiously—like I’m some kind of feral animal that might rip his head off at any moment. “Madison …” He regards me warily. “It’s going to be okay.”
Is he serious?
He reaches up to put his hands on my shoulders and I can see he’s about to say something—and I just lose it completely. I knock his arms away and shove him back, snapping at him, “How can you even say that? You have no idea. How is it going to be okay?”
He catches my hands in his and pins them against his chest, immobilizing my pathetically weak arms. I thrash and twist, trying to break free even though I know it’s not going to do any good.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I’m gulping down air into my lungs but it’s not working. I’m no longer fighting him; I’m fighting because I’m struggling to breathe properly. Dwight notices something’s wrong because he lets go—but barely. His hands never leave me. He just lowers me to the ground and moves me so my head is between my knees.
Then he says three words.
To anyone else, they might not mean much at all, but to me they mean everything and more, and that’s all it takes. His voice is soft and calm, totally collected, and I can practically feel his hushed words brushing against my skin.
“Dice, I’m listening.”
And only then do I stop struggling.
In that moment, I just give up trying to fight.
I collapse against him, and finally, finally my lungs accept the oxygen and I can breathe. Dwight topples a little with my dead weight against him, and twists around so he can sit down with me rather than balancing on the balls of his feet. His arms wrap around me, holding me close.
My body is racked with sobs that don’t quite come out. There are no tears running down my face. I wonder why I’m not crying. If ever there was a time for crying, this is it. But there are no tears now.
For once, I find myself wishing I would cry. After you cry, your head aches and your mouth feels gross and your throat hurts, but despite all that, you feel so much better for it—clearer. Back in Pineford, I didn’t cry over any of it; at least, I did my best not to. Now, I want to—and I can’t.
“Dice,” he breathes in my ear. It’s a prompt, to get me to talk to him, to tell him, but it’s not just that. It’s the way his voice sounds—so comforting, so reassuring—that tells me it’s also him letting me know he’s there. And despite the fact that I’m crumpled in a shaking heap against him, the verbal assurance that he’s there calms me slightly.
“Nobody ever—” My breath hitches and I can’t finish the sentence. “Nobody ever … ever told me … how hard this was going to be,” I stammer. My voice sounds so broken and hopeless. I feel so utterly and completely pathetic right now.
I still don’t cry.
“How hard what was going to be?” Dwight asks me softly, reminding me that I said something.
“This. Life. It’s …”
“Hard?”
Anger threatens to boil up inside me again; I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. But it doesn’t come to anything—the hurt is enough to blot it out. So I sound very halfhearted when I tell him, “Don’t patronize me.”
“I didn’t mean—sorry. Go ahead.”
It takes me another minute—or maybe a bit longer, I don’t know. It would be better if I were crying, I think. Just to make me feel less empty.
I pull at Dwight’s arms and he gets the message, squeezing me closer. I put my a
rms around him now, because I need to know he’s not going anywhere. Maybe, if I can stay like this long enough, it will stop me from falling apart.
“I’ve tried,” I tell him, whispering because I’m afraid to speak too loudly. “I’ve tried so hard to make it work, and it just … didn’t. I tried hiding and being invisible, and that didn’t work; so I tried—tried it the other way around. Tried not being invisible. And it didn’t work.”
Dwight doesn’t respond. He doesn’t offer any helpful advice; nor does he try to understand. Which is good. He just rocks me and holds me, and he’s there, and that’s the best he can do right at this moment.
I stare blankly at the logo on his T-shirt, looking at the tiny stitches holding it in place. I trace it with my finger, and take another deep, shaky breath, which I let out in a rush.
Then I say, “I’m such a fuck-up.”
The hand that’s rubbing soothing circles on my back stills. In fact, Dwight’s entire body is motionless for just a moment.
I don’t look up, but I feel his jaw moving against my head and I know he’s about to say something. And I have a pretty good idea of what it is.
“Save it. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m not asking you to tell me I’m wrong. I’m a mess. I’m not smart or pretty or talented, and—”
I don’t want to sound stupid, like I’m wallowing in self-pity; but I think I’ll forgive myself, just this once. But he interrupts me before I can carry on.
“Would you stop talking like that?”
Dwight actually sounds … angry. As in really, genuinely angry. And I know that every ounce of that anger is directed right at me, for whatever bizarre reason. He pushes me into a sitting position, his hands gripping my shoulders. His fingers dig into my skin; he’s desperate.
“For God’s sake, Dice, listen to yourself! You can’t just—”
“You’re hurting me.”
He drops his hands in an instant. Then his arms are around me again, and the way he pulls me close is almost desperate.
“Listen to me.” His voice is rough and low, and there’s an edge to it that makes me listen. “I know it’s hard. And you’ve had it harder than a lot of people. But just because there are people out there who can’t see what it’s doing to you does not make you a bad person.”
I begin to protest, but he carries on before I can utter a single syllable.
“So people picked on you in Maine and made your life hell. So people ripped down the life you built here and tore you to pieces for kicks. That doesn’t mean you don’t matter. It just makes you one hell of a fighter for not breaking down before.”
I snort. A fighter?
Yeah, right.
A runner, maybe.
I don’t realize I said that one aloud until he says, “Maybe.” All I need to do is try again, I think to myself.
“That’s all we ever do, though, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“We try. And try and try and try and we hope it works out the next time, and just when we think we’ve got the hang of things and we’ve done it right … everything falls to pieces again. And you know what, Dwight?”
“What?”
“I’m tired of it.”
It’s a while before he responds.
I’m crying now. Silently. The tears trickle down my cheeks, down my neck. My limbs feel heavy. And inside, everything hurts.
I let out a sob and cling to Dwight. “Just … don’t go anywhere. Please. Just hold me.”
And he does. He kisses my forehead, leaving his lips there, pressed hard against my skin, and his arms are so tight around me it might hurt if I didn’t feel so numb on the outside.
It feels like forever later that he speaks.
“Dice, listen. I know it’s hard, okay, I know. And I know that people haven’t made it any easier for you. And I know it might seem impossible to keep trying, but I know you; I know that you won’t let them win, and you’ll keep trying. And …” He trails off. This time it’s my turn to wait and hear what he has to say.
“And I don’t want you to give up, because I need you around too. You’re like—like a stray dog I’ve grown attached to.”
“Gee, thanks.”
But it makes me almost laugh, and I feel a little more like myself. Not like the old Madison, and not like the new Madison. Like the Madison I am around Jenna, and Dwight—the Madison who doesn’t feel stupid for snorting when she laughs and who openly admits she can be a complete dork and not feel two inches tall by saying so.
“Maybe it’s not the best comparison,” he admits sheepishly. “But it’s true. I do need you around.”
The corners of my mouth twitch with a smile. A few minutes later, the tears dry up. My throat feels sore and my head aches from crying. I feel gross, so I know I must look a dozen times worse.
“Just promise me something,” Dwight says suddenly, his voice quiet and very close to my ear.
“What?” I sit up and turn to see him better, wiping my fingers over my cheeks to get rid of the tear-tracks.
“Promise me,” he says steadily, “you won’t think about yourself like that again.”
One of his hands strokes my arm, from my shoulder to my elbow. He reaches the other hand up to cup my cheek so I can’t avoid his eyes, which are so intense and sincere right now.
And then, very slowly, I nod.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I breathe in reply.
Even though I’m all gross from crying, Dwight leans his head forward. I tilt my face toward his, a subconscious action. I expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Instead, we sit there with our foreheads touching, our noses pressed together. His eyelashes tickle the skin below my eyebrow when he closes his eyes.
And as we just sit there in that odd embrace and in that moment, everything begins to hurt a little less, and my mind doesn’t seem so loud, and that’s when I think that this time when I try, it will be worth trying again.
Epilogue
I spin the tiny silver teaspoon around the mug holding my latte. I still can’t stand them—but I had to order something to stay here, and a latte seemed appropriate.
I’ve been waiting ten minutes for him to come out. I asked the girl behind the counter, and she said he was just clearing up and would be out any minute.
It’s a quiet day here. I don’t know if that’s because it’s a Sunday or because it’s rainy and most people have stayed in. Most likely the latter: it’s that thin, gray, relentless drizzle that just makes it all look so hideous outside.
A door swings open and my head snaps up.
“Yeah! See you Tuesday,” he calls over his shoulder, and then his head turns and his eyes spot me right away, sitting at my little table for two in the middle of the room, away from everyone else.
I can’t quite read his face. Something between shock and a smile. Slowly he comes over and scrapes out the chair opposite me. He spins it around and sits straddling it. “Hey,” he says quietly.
I give him a smile. “Hey, yourself.”
“What … uh …” He trails off and shakes his head slightly.
I take over while he tries to decide which question to ask me first. “How are you?”
“I’m—I’m good. It’s all good. When—when did you get back?”
“Friday night,” I reply quietly, cupping the hot mug in my palms and lacing my fingers together around it. It’s a little too hot for comfort but I don’t really care. “I didn’t know whether to call or not.”
He opens his mouth, but then thinks better of it and closes it again. “How have you been?”
I laugh, but it’s not entirely humorless. “I don’t know. Okay, I guess? I’m better. I think after that—that day in the music room, I got everything out. I’m better.”
“Are you coming back to school?” he asks tentatively.
“My parents thought it would be better to just transfer again, but I told them it’d just disrupt my studies. And I also said that I might end up in AP Geometry
this time, and I don’t know about you, but that sounds even worse than AP Physics. Plus, you wouldn’t be there to drag me through it.”
He laughs.
I missed that laugh.
I missed that lopsided smile too: the way it quirks up higher on the one side; the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins like that.
His hair’s gotten longer. You can see the curls are more defined now. His freckles look just the same as ever, though, and his eyes are just as sea-green, and he’s just as gangly. I don’t think I’ve changed much either, physically. I got my hair cut a week ago. That’s about it.
“That’s good, though, isn’t it? That you’re coming back?”
I nod, looking down at the curls of steam rising from my latte.
It’s January now. After that day back at school, Dwight walked me home, and stayed with me, cutting class all day to keep me company until my parents got in. Then I told them everything.
Mom decided there and then that we all needed a break. So I missed the last days of school, and we went to New York to visit my sister. We got back just after New Year. My parents weren’t sure about sending me back to school, but I want to go back. I feel refreshed. And more than that: I’m determined.
The vacation helped me put things in perspective too. My whole life doesn’t have to revolve around Bryce, Tiffany, and the rest of the popular clique. And I’ll find other friends. People in my classes. The girls on the track team. Dwight and his friends.
Although, that said, I’ve avoided speaking to Dwight, since.
I texted him to explain that I needed space to sort myself out, and he replied Okay, and gave me that space.
I knew who’d defaced my locker and put all those pictures up. I had no proof, of course, but I’d seen that triumphant smirk on Tiffany’s face that day, and I knew it was her. But with Bryce being Principal Peters’s stepson and Tiffany one of his model students, and everybody probably too intimidated by what had happened to me to come forward if they did have evidence, nothing would be done to resolve the situation.
