Then The Incident happened, and all her teenage worries and dreams—small and large—disintegrated, blown away like wisps of smoke on the wind.
“Don’t do it,” Sam said to her friend Amy Chan over lunch one day in the cafeteria.
“What, are you kidding, Sam?” Jess chimed in. “She has no choice.”
The CCs, The Country Clubbers, as they called themselves, the most popular, beautiful kids—and also the cruelest—were causing trouble. Monique Martin, the head of the pack, was all long, gorgeous hair and thick lashes and a pretty smile—attributes wasted on a mean girl. She asked Amy to a) do their calculus homework and b) let them cheat off of her on the upcoming test. Or else.
“Or else what?” Sam asked.
“Or else they’ll get to my sister in Special Ed,” Amy said. “They can make her life hell. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Turn them in,” Sam said.
Amy shook her head, no doubt remembering that another one of their friends, Pete Rosenblum, had found his dad’s pickup keyed all down the side and his tires slashed last month after he refused a similar demand about physics. “I’m just going to do it.” Amy was terrified to tell Mr. Malone, their principal, for fear of the repercussions if she turned them in. It was the perfect bullying scenario, and Sam had no clue how to help.
Sam worried about Amy, but she had her own problems. It was fall of senior year, and she was applying to art schools, working at the craft store, and polishing her portfolio. She was putting the final touches on a portrait project she’d been working on for weeks, which she’d planned to enter as part of a scholarship competition to help her get into her dream school, RISD. She had a great shot. Her art teacher, Mrs. Kissinger, said she did.
She’d applied for every art scholarship she could find, because on the wild chance she got in someplace fancy like that, her family wouldn’t have the money to send her. She hadn’t even told them she was applying to art school. Her brother Brad didn’t want her to be an artist. There was no money in it, he said. She had to be practical. Get a business or teaching degree, something useful. He’d always thought health care was a great profession.
After all, Effie was a nurse and her Grandpa Rushford had been a beloved town doc. But ever since Sam had passed out after seeing her brother Ben get hit in the head with a soccer ball (so that both of them landed in the hospital at the same time), she’d crossed that off her list.
As fate would have it, Monique was in her advanced art class. Not because she was any good at art but because she said she needed a “relaxation course” to help offset all the pressure she felt from applying to Ivy League schools. One day, Monique passed by the art table where Sam was working on her portrait project.
“Wow, he’s hot,” she said. “Who is that guy?”
The grays and blacks of a solitary figure emerging from the shadows were offset by a bright red background. There, captured on the canvas, was the sexy, leaning silhouette, one Converse shoe propped carelessly against the bright door.
Sam had been obsessed with capturing his face. Not so much its beautiful oval shape, or the curve of his cheekbones, or the thickly curved brows, but she’d somehow managed to capture a certain . . . moment.
It was the way the Clinker’s boy looked at her. Or how she imagined he did. Those mysterious eyes, full of secrets, his gaze turned on her as if he’d just been surprised, just turned his head, maybe because she’d called out his name. And upon discovering her there, he liked what he saw. A lot.
It was her best work, and it was turning out well. She could feel it. This painting was speaking to her in a way unlike all her other pieces had, and she knew it was good. Really good.
“You’re an amazing artist,” Monique said. Sam’s gaze flicked up briefly, then she went back to work, praying Monique would go away. She wanted nothing to do with the Clubbers. Even Reggie, her quarterback crush, was starting to hang out with them, and they were turning him to the dark side. Monique cleared her throat. She was still staring at the portrait, and it was making Sam nervous. “Your friend Amy’s really good at calculus,” she said at last.
Sam bit her lip. Don’t engage, she told herself. She didn’t need trouble right now, and she was no fool.
Sam grabbed a few brushes and left her seat to wash them out, anything to get away. But Monique followed. “Maybe you can help me get a couple projects done. Like how Amy’s helping us. Because, you know, it would be a shame for me to ruin a 4.0 GPA with a stupid art class.”
“Um, I’ll pass. Thanks anyway.” Sam headed for the sink.
Monique blocked her path. “Um, I don’t think you have a choice.” She dropped her voice to a sharp whisper. “Bow down and worship, bitch.”
Heat flooded to Sam’s face. Had she heard wrong? Had Monique really said that? Of course she did, because she was mean. But Sam wasn’t a cowering flower. Growing up with all those brothers had made certain of that. She set down her paintbrush. “I don’t bow down and worship anyone in this high school. Especially not you. And leave Amy alone because I have no problem telling Mr. Malone what you’re up to.”
Something flashed in Monique’s eyes. It might have been fear, and for the first time, Sam felt she’d done something positive to stop these cruel, vindictive people who preyed on the weak. She would take a stand. She’d be brave and fight for what was right. She’d get Amy, and together they would march into Malone’s office and set the record straight. The good guys (and girls) would win. Evil would be defeated.
Sam had to paint sets for the play after school that day, and Amy had band practice, so they made a plan to visit the principal after the next morning’s study hall.
Bad move, because the next morning, Sam’s portfolio was gone.
The art closet had been locked all night, Mrs. Kissinger said. There was no sign of anyone breaking in. It had simply disappeared.
That day, Sam approached Monique’s table in the art room. She and three of her cronies were painting pep rally posters. Pint-sized cans of orange and black acrylic paint, Mirror Lake High colors, lay strewn about the table. “Give it back,” she said simply.
“Hey, Sam, did you find your art?” Monique asked, shooting a knowing smile at Reggie. “We feel so bad it was lost.” She punched a few buttons on her phone and held it up to Sam’s face. “Did it look like this?”
The blur of a photo came into focus. It was her precious painting. The Clinker’s boy one. It was lying on asphalt—she could tell by the scattered leaves surrounding it. From off to the side, an arced stream of water was hitting it.
No, it wasn’t water. It was urine, because at the source of the stream was . . . oh, God.
Sam squeezed her eyes shut to block out the vile image. No, no, not her painting, her best work ever. And all her other work, the work that would ensure her a future.
Shock hardened to fury. In one quick movement, Sam grabbed a can of paint and flung the contents at Monique. Bright orange blobs landed in her hair, her face. Dripped down her brand-new blouse and onto the art room floor. “You’re scum,” Sam said.
“At least I’m not a pathetic loser whose family can’t even afford art school.”
Sam lunged, taking her down. She’d never fought anyone before, but she knew how to get into it with her brothers. Hands flew, hair was pulled, and none of it was pretty. Mrs. Kissinger and five other students had to pull Sam off the vile, vile girl.
Sam struggled to pull out of the grasp of the students who held her, her friends who wore looks of shock and concern at the formerly mild-mannered girl who’d gone postal. “She stole my portfolio,” Sam heard herself say in a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice. “Check her phone. There’s a photo of my painting on it.”
Mrs. Kissinger picked up Monique’s phone. Principal Malone came running in. He was usually pretty laid back, but the look on his face was one of pure shock to see her—Samantha Rushford!—at the center of such a disaster.
He’d always seemed like a reasonable man. Su
rely he’d see what they’d done and take her side. She wouldn’t need to say anything about it. The picture would tell the entire story. She was counting on it.
“I’m not seeing it,” he said, flipping through the photos.
“It’s hard to miss a picture of someone’s dick urinating on my painting!” Sam said. Who could make that up? She was crying. The smell of acrylic paint stung her nostrils. Her shirt and jeans were ruined. Monique’s eyeliner was running and between that and the orange color, her face looked like a Halloween nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kissinger said. “There aren’t any photos of—ahem—anyone’s genitalia in here.”
“Let’s continue this in the office,” Principal Malone said.
What had happened to the photo?
She was left to wait side by side with Monique in the two Chairs of Judgment in front of Mr. Malone’s desk. Sam imagined Principal Malone calling Brad at that very moment, and the look on his face when he would walk in and see her like this.
“Don’t say anything and you’ll get the portfolio back,” Monique whispered. “I’d really hate for someone innocent and powerless like Amy’s sister to suffer.”
Sam pretended she didn’t hear. Yet the awful truth dawned. If her parents’ dying when she was just five hadn’t already taught Sam that life wasn’t fair, this moment drove that hard lesson home. There would be no justice for the crime. At least not now, and not for her.
The rest of what happened was a blur. Brad showed up, and his concern soon faded to an uneasy disappointment that lingered for months.
When Mr. Malone asked why she did it, she refused to answer. Monique said Sam was jealous about Reggie Reid not wanting to date her, and Sam didn’t bother correcting her.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Principal Malone said, “but the rules are very clear about physical altercations. I’m going to have to suspend you.” He looked over at Monique, who wore a smug grin. “Both of you.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” Brad asked as he drove her home. As predicted, he’d waited until they were in the car to lose his cool. She could tell all through the painful meeting, he looked like he was about to pop a gasket. He’d been called away from one of his three jobs to get her at school and he was royally pissed. “I thought I taught you better.”
Sam had tried her best not to cry, but now she couldn’t seem to stop.
The crying probably made Brad calm down a bit, because his voice took on a gentle edge. “Is there something else going on that you’re not telling me? Does this girl have it out for you? Why would she want your artwork?”
What could she say? Brad would take the truth right back to the principal, and he had no idea how dangerous these people were, that they would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. Better to let him think it was a catfight for now until she could figure out what to do.
One late fall evening, about a month after she’d served her two-day suspension, Sam hadn’t wanted to leave her house. It was cold and cloudy and they were predicting an early November snow, but it had been weeks since she’d gone anywhere and Jess had insisted they meet for ice cream before the Dairy Flip closed for the season. Don’t let them see you defeated, she’d said. Hold your chin high. It had been hard, but she’d gone.
She’d even made it out of the house without Brad seeing her heavy black eyeliner, her big, mean, black ankle boots, and her newly dyed black hair. The new you, Sam had told herself without an inkling of joy, just of irony. She was on her own now, in every way. Even her oldest brother and her grandmother treated her like she was one step away from delinquency, and that hurt more than anything. So she’d reinvented herself. It was either that or be bullied to death, and she would not give the people who enjoyed tormenting her the satisfaction.
Samantha, Badass Version, approached the block that housed the Dairy Flip. She saw a group of kids gathered around the picnic tables. Jess must have invited some of the so-called indie kids—the few people who’d been nice to her since The Incident. They were mostly students in Sam’s advanced art class, all rejects for one reason or another like herself. Kids who wore eccentric clothing, did weird stuff like pierce their noses, and read Keats on their lunch breaks. Melvin Boyd wrote plays. Tonya Simpson and Bette Arnold wrote vampire fiction. And Tommy Alder played the ukulele.
As she got closer, she saw that Jess was nowhere in sight, and the kids were not their friends but the Clubbers. Sam halted at the corner. She would just turn around and head home. Jess must have gotten sidetracked, and there was no way she was going anywhere near them by herself. She might have adopted a brave new persona, but she wasn’t crazy.
“You’re looking very badass, Samantha,” a voice from behind her said. She turned to see the face of her tormentor, who really would be beautiful if she wasn’t the devil incarnate.
“Nice dye job, too,” Monique said, flipping her lustrous hair back in that way she had. A million years ago, Sam had wanted to imitate that, like all the other girls. It seemed the ultimate phony gesture now.
Samantha pretended to be preoccupied with something on her phone, but frankly she only saw her terrified expression reflecting on the surface. Her heart was beating so loud she didn’t even hear what Monique had just said.
Monique was joined by her best friend Loraine, and three big guys. Football players, Reggie leading the pack. Shit. She scanned the city street for her friend. Where was Jess? It was getting late and it wasn’t like her to bail.
A text lit up her phone. From Jess. Relief doused her fear, knowing she wouldn’t be alone much longer.
My dad’s pissed and says I can’t go anywhere until I clean my room.
Oh, fire truck.
Sam looked around the Dairy Flip. The last customer left with ice cream and the server yanked down the metal roller blind with a train-on-the-tracks clickety-clack. The rest of the shops on Main Street were dim, shut down for the night. A minute later the giant ice cream cone sign out front flickered off, making the immediate area fade into shadow.
They were all looking at her, inching closer. Reggie was conferring with his shorter, stockier friend, Rod Stevens. They were both giving her the eye, looking her up and down like they liked what they saw. Assholes. The prickle at the back of her neck migrated forward to become a throbbing pulse.
Calm down, she told herself. What could they possibly do to her now? They’d taken away everything that had meant anything to her. All she had left was . . . her personal safety.
At least she still had her cell. Surely she’d get a hold of one of her brothers, who could be here in a minute to walk her home. She’d just call . . .
She started to punch in a number, but Rod walked quickly toward her and clipped her shoulder. She fell onto the gravel, her phone clattering into the street, tiny stones piercing the flesh of her palm. The posse moved closer.
Monique walked into the street and kicked her phone further away. “It cost my dad a lot of money to get that suspension erased from my record. Imagine what that would have done for my career. My life,” she said.
Sam stood up. Brushed off her jeans. She had nothing left. They’d taken everything. Still, she wouldn’t let them see her flinch.
Reggie stepped forward. “I changed my mind. You can go out with me after all. How about now?”
“You’re disgusting,” Sam said without thinking. A mistake, because rage lit his too-perfect face, bringing to it an ugliness she’d never seen before. He reached forward and grabbed her purse strap from her shoulder, giving it a strong tug that made her fight to steady herself.
“I don’t think she’s learned her lesson at all, Monique,” Reggie said. “She needs another one.”
He gave the purse strap a harsh yank, catapulting her forward, and planted his slimy lips on hers. She pushed at him with all her might and kneed him in the balls.
Reggie doubled over, letting out a howl. She stared for a moment, stunned at what she’d done. Bad idea, because the two other boys quickly moved forw
ard and grabbed her by the arms.
“Let me go!” she cried. She wriggled her shoulders, but they were big, meaty guys. As she struggled, one of them twisted her arm until she cried out in pain.
“You heard her,” an unfamiliar voice said, deep and low and confident.
She looked up and saw a figure emerge from the shadows. The guy from Clinker’s. He looked twice as tall as he had from across the street.
Relief flooded her system, and she knew at that instant she was safe. He had this . . . presence, and it made the others huddled in their stupid little group visibly cower.
His calm, steady gaze rolled over her. She tried to stand straight and not act frightened but her legs were shaking. Her hands, too. She bit her lip because she refused to break down and cry in front of these idiots. He might have asked her if she was okay, but she was too busy thanking Jesus and all the saints for the intervention.
“Spike. You know her?” Reggie asked.
Spike? That was his name? In all the hours she’d spent imagining it, never had that particular one occurred to her. “Spike” looked calm enough to do neurosurgery as he addressed the crowd. “She’s my girlfriend,” he said. “I want you to leave her—and her friends—alone.” He aimed a spearing glance at Monique and the girls. “That means you, Monique. Time to find somebody else to pick on.”
“Look,” Monique said with her signature head toss. “She’s got it coming to her. My dad grounded me until graduation. I almost lost my Dartmouth admission. She needs to be put in her place.”
“Everything stops now,” Spike said. “You hear?”
Sam’s head was whirling. This commanding, foreboding guy had saved her. Claimed her by stamping her with the word mine. Just like that, her fear broke apart, an ice floe getting crunched by an icebreaker.
Reggie was the first to back off. “Come on, Monique. Let’s go get a burger and forget this. Who needs her anyway?”
This Loving Feeling (A Mirror Lake Novel) Page 4
