“Better than you do.”
“Oh really? Howabout we talk about how you drag me out to beach parties in the middle of winter so you can go mooning after Ben?”
“What?”
“Maybe I don't want to sleep with Jean-Pierre because I don't want it to make me a slave for him like having sex with Ben did to you.”
“What do you even know-”
“Gimme a break. I know you. I saw what happened that one beach party when you came back to the car all in a daze, and how after that he hasn't returned your calls or-”
“Stop it-”
“-your texts, or-”
“Now!” She can't raise her voice, so she grasps my wrist for emphasis instead. “You want to hurt me because I gave you a dose of reality? Fine. Go ahead. It won't change the fact that you're a pathetic baby when it comes to dating. Oh wait, you haven't even done any dating, have you?”
I wince. It's one thing to endure Kailie's anger when it comes out of nowhere, but when it's my fault? That's a real nightmare. “Sorry. I was out of line.”
Kailie doesn't argue. She scarfs the rest of her burrito down, slurps her Coke until only air comes up the straw, then says, “I gotta sleep. You good to get home?”
“Yeah.” I take her garbage with me as I climb out the window. She'd get in serious trouble if her parents found it.
As I hop down off the roof, shame settles like a fist-sized rock in my chest. Here I came to ask Kailie for advice, and I end up insulting her. Way to go, Madison.
The wind is a lot worse now, and my phone says it's 1:37 a.m. I duck my head and walk as fast as I can, eyes on the path in front of me. Wilkstone Road is empty, save for a housecat that stalks along the other side of the street. It pauses to glare at me, eyes green and eerie.
I head for the crosswalk, even though there's no traffic, and nearly run smack into Alex. My scream chokes off at a squeak.
He stares down at me, disgusted. From the slight weave in his stance, I can tell he's drunk. On a Monday night.
“Could you get any creepier?” I snap.
He arches an eyebrow.
“The no talking thing? Pair it with a maniacal laugh and you could totally be a supervillain.”
He chuckles.
“Not quite maniacal, but if you follow me home, I am so calling the police.”
“Got a switchblade? I could chase you with it if you prefer.”
The sound of his voice is shocking, but what he says isn't. It's exactly what I'd expect. “So you can talk.”
He shrugs.
“And you're still a creep. Get out of my way.”
He steps aside and I dart past and across the street. A glance over my shoulder lets me know that he's continued on his way without a second glance at me. That's when I realize how upset I am. I just took on Alex by myself. I'm lucky he didn't really pull a knife and chase me. Ryan, I can believe, is all talk. Alex, not so much.
The next day, Kailie isn't at the corner for our usual walk to school. I wait until five minutes before the bell, and then run. It seems, as I dodge the crowd up the steps and weave my way to my locker that I see more heads turning my direction than usual, but I ignore it.
The sound of someone saying my name and a burst of giggles does get my attention, though, but when I look to see who it was, everyone in the crowd around me is smirking.
I toss my books into my locker, grab my things for homeroom, and focus on getting to class on time.
But even in homeroom, everyone turns to look at me when I walk in. I stop in the doorway, only to have someone smack into me from behind.
“Oh, sorry,” the person says. A look over my shoulder tells me it's Claire Chung, who is so short she comes maybe to the middle of my chest. Bullying is not her usual thing.
I look around, confused.
“Maybe you should log onto Facebook more often,” Claire whispers at me, loud enough for the whole class to hear and laugh at.
My cheeks burn so hot that I'm sure I'm red as a tomato. I go slip into my seat and try to ignore everyone's stares. For once, I'm grateful when the teacher walks in, bangs his textbook down on his desk, and starts barking orders for us to get out our homework.
After class, things are worse. Now people are pointing and laughing at me in the hall. I turn the corner and someone grabs my shoulders and slams me into a row of lockers, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I slide down to the floor, push my hair back, look up, and before I can focus, the person kicks my face so hard that I wonder if I've ruptured an eye. My nose feels like it's broken in no less than five places.
“Who do you think you are?” a female voice shouts. “You think you can booty call my man?”
I touch my face gingerly and my fingers come away with a smear of bright red that drips onto the floor. I can barely focus.
“Break it up,” shouts a hall monitor. “What's going on?”
Around me I sense the crowd shift. People who had stopped to watch, start moving again and someone else squats down in front of me. “Madison?”
“Yeah?”
“'Kay, let's get you to the nurse's office.” Firm hands grasp my arm and help me to my feet.
“Here.” Someone stuffs a wad of paper towels into my hands and I instinctively press them to my nose.
“So what did you do to Tatiana?” the hall monitor asks me. Out of the corner of my eye I see that it's Peter Wong, with his round moon glasses and greasy hair parted in the middle.
“That who that was?”
“Yeah.”
“I dunno. You ever check Facebook?”
“I don't have an account.” He steers me down the hall and into the nurse's office where Ms. Rupetha looks up from munching an apple. Her eyes go wide. “What's this?”
“Tatiana DuPré kicked her in the face.”
“I think my nose is broken.”
“Here, let me see. You're going to have two black eyes. Peter, I want you to go tell the principal. Did you witness the attack?”
“Part of it.”
I zone out as they arrange to bring Tatiana to justice, because I know it won't happen. Peter may be a goody-goody who'll rat on anyone, but no one will back him up. People don't do that at our school.
Ms. Rupetha guides me over to the cot in the corner of her office and looks closely at my nose. With a couple of prods that make me wince she says, “It's not broken, just bruised. Looks like she shoved you in the face with her foot, rather than kicked. And you've cut your lip there. You're going to be black and blue, but it could be worse. I once had a student who ended up with the bully's sneaker treadmarks on his face. You could read the brand name backwards, even.”
I blink and stare at her, not sure if she's being serious.
Her expression gives nothing away. “Let's get some ice on this, see if we can keep the swelling down.”
I miss the rest of my classes that day. Ms. Rupetha gives me some painkillers and instructs me to just lay down with my head slightly elevated. I only leave long enough to get my lunch from my locker, which I eat while sitting on the cot and watching the nurse field phone calls from a parent about how to diagnose meningitis. Every bite of food sends pain lancing through my face, so I eat slowly.
When I get to work that afternoon, Siraj glances up from his desk. “I'm going to ask you how school was,” he says, focusing on his computer, “and if you say 'fine', I will suspect that you are lying.”
“I need to log into Facebook.”
“I wouldn't choose today to upload a new profile picture.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“No worries. There's plenty more where that came from. I'm a giver, you know?” He moves aside as I take my seat. I feel like my sinuses are all stuffed with peanut butter goop and my nose is at least eight times its normal width. Usually I don't notice that I can see it when I look around, but now I've got a blind spot wide enough to hide a car in, if it's right in front of me.
My profile pops up, and the first thing I
see is that my status is changed to, “In a relationship.” The second thing I see is that I've sent Jean-Pierre no less than a hundred requests for an array of sex acts, half of which I've never even heard of.
“Someone hack your account?” asks Siraj.
I spin around, terrified that he's looked over my shoulder. The sudden motion makes me so dizzy I grab the chair arms to right myself.
But Siraj's moved away to the reshelving cart. At seeing me jump, he pauses, his hand on a book. “What's wrong?”
“Yeah, someone hacked my account.”
“Any idea who?”
Unfortunately, I think, yes. The only person who would know my password is Kailie. I pushed it way too far last night, insulting her about Ben. That would explain why she didn't walk to school with me.
“There something you need to go sort out?” he asks.
“Later.”
“You're sure?”
“Just give me some books to shelve.”
“Suit yourself.”
I get to the Inn just before dinner time and Kailie's dad turns me away because, as he explains, the family is about to eat. He stares at my bruised up nose, but doesn’t comment. As usual, I can't reach Kailie on her cellphone. I've cleaned up my Facebook page and changed the password, but the damage is done. While I should have guessed Jean-Pierre was hooking up with other girls, it hurts all the same. I know if he had to choose between me and Tatiana, I would lose.
I head home, where I find Mom already in from the shed, clattering around the kitchen. She takes one look at my face and blanches. “I heard it was bad.”
“I know. I look like a freak. I'm avoiding mirrors.”
“Mhmm.”
“Can I not go to school tomorrow?”
“Honey, I don't care if you go to school at all. You're sixteen, do what you want.”
“Can you call me in sick?”
“Mmmm... Remind me again tomorrow.”
I nod and stay put, hoping that she'll want to talk to me. Ask me what happened maybe, or how I feel.
She yanks open the freezer. “Here. Frozen peas.” She pulls a bag out, crushes it to break the peas apart, and then tosses it to me. “For your nose.”
“Okay, so, um-”
“I'm going to call it a night.” She pushes past me to get to her room.
I stand with the bag of frozen peas and the unspoken comment on the tip of my tongue. After a moment, I put the bag of peas against my nose and sit down, resigned to the situation.
I stay home the next day and in the morning fill the bathtub with a few inches of water and spend hours giving myself a pedicure, then a manicure. My nails look so much better under a layer of opalescent lacquer.
Afterward I pad around the house, walking on my heels so that I don't smudge my toenails, and painstakingly make a sandwich with some cold cuts and bread that Mom got at a deep discount from the local grocer because they're past their sell-by date. It is not easy to make a sandwich with wet nail polish, let alone eat it. Mom bustles in to make her own sandwich and is out again in five minutes, leaving a plate with crumbs in the sink.
That afternoon I get so bored that I pick up The Book of Mormon and start to read. I've never read the Bible before, so I'm not sure how it compares. The story of a family fleeing Jerusalem goes on and on in the same theme. Two sons are good and do what God says, they get blessed. Two sons are evil and rebel, they get cursed. After the third iteration, I feel like I've had the point hammered into my skull, so I put the book down.
It's now two, and I'm bored stiff. The house feels smaller than ever. I go stare out the back windows at our yard, which we just leave to grow wild. A rickety fence does its best to hold out against the forest beyond it, and the dilapidated shed slouches in the corner, the door slightly ajar, the steady hum of Mom's potters wheel inside.
It's a relief when someone knocks on the front door. At least, I'm relieved until I open it and see Mr. Beale. He looks me over, his mouth pressed into a thin, puckered line. “I hear someone hacked your Facebook page.”
“Yeah. It's no big deal. It was a joke,” I say.
“Was it Kailie?”
I hate lying to people, but Mr. Beale gives me the jitters. “No. She wouldn't do something like that.”
“You don't think?”
“I'm sure.”
“How sure?”
“I found the person who did it. It's all good.”
He looks me straight in the eye, then looks over the rest of my face. I take a deep breath, hold it, and meet his gaze. Just stare back, I think. Don't think anything. Don't worry about him finding out about Kailie. He won't, not if I just stare.
He looks away first. “You all right, then? Your face?”
“Just looks awful.”
“Looks like it'll clear up in a week or so. You let us know if you need anything, all right?” That's the sort of thing the Beales say all the time, but no one takes them up on.
“Thanks. I'm all right.”
He nods, as if confirming something to himself, and turns to leave.
I go get myself ready for work.
“I didn't think you'd be in,” says Siraj.
“I would've called if I wasn't.”
“Well, you and your exciting life. You sure you can remember to call?”
“Very funny.” Only then do I see Kailie peer out from the shelves.
“My guess that someone is not supposed to be away from her home right now.” He nods in her direction. “I am very insightful, did you know that?”
“Don't tell on her.”
“What makes you think anyone would ask me? When does anyone ask me anything?”
“You're a librarian. People ask you to find books for them all the time.”
“Even that, it's only three books. The dictionary, the thesaurus, and Fifty Shades of Grey.”
I shake my head as I cross over to where Kailie is. “Thank you for not ratting me out,” she says.
“Thanks for trashing my page.”
“I got mad, okay? You were really rude that one night you came by.”
I could point out to her that the last time she came to my house, she dragged me out to one of her parties just so I could drive her home, but the urge passes as quickly as it comes. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure you were too. I gotta sneak back.”
“I'm good. Don't get caught.”
Siraj watches her dart across the room, peer through the glass door, and then dart outside. “It's like an action movie in here.”
“Well, the action sequence is over.”
“I know. They do go fast. The good ones.” He taps away at his computer as if he's just talking about the weather.
I stifle a laugh. Given the way my face is right now, it'd probably just hurt.
My resolve to stay home all week cracks on Wednesday. I don't have work on Wednesdays and the solitude drives me nuts, so on Thursday I head back to class. Everyone turns to look at me when I step onto campus. I ignore the stares and just go to my locker, where I find Kailie trying to jam a folded up piece of paper in through the vent.
“What's that?”
“It's my apology note. It's too fat.” She turns around and hands it to me. “Your face looks all right.”
“Liar.”
“It's not as bad as it was Tuesday. I bet you the black eyes are gone in a week.”
I unfold the paper and spread it out flat against my thigh. “What is this, a news report?”
“Yeah, it's been exciting around here.”
I skim the words. “Carson threatened Jean-Pierre? Greeeeat, and then what? Tatiana and Belinda got into a fight? And then... what?” The page details all kinds of vigilante action against the people who hurt me. Jean-Pierre got his car keyed and Tatiana had her locker vandalized.
“Apparently if you get sweet little Madison kicked in the face, there's hell to pay. Also, I wouldn't recommend trashing her Facebook page.”
�
��Oh whatever.”
“Seriously. I thought I was going to get kicked in the face.”
I look around and then step forward and hug her, publicly. “That should take care of the, like, two people who cared.”
Jean-Pierre walks past then and slows his steps, looking at me.
I look away. Three days with no contact makes me assume we're over. If there ever even was a “we”.
“Hey,” he says.
Kailie ducks her head and darts off.
I avert my gaze from him, his beautiful eyes and lips that I can feel the ghostly memory of pressed against my own. “Hi.”
“Listen, can we talk? After school, maybe?”
“If you want.” I try to keep my voice casual.
“'Kay. I'll come by your house.”
“I've got work.”
“Okay, then can you meet me in the ditch for, like, five minutes?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“See you then.” As if copying Kailie, he also ducks his head and walks off.
The ditch is one of the coolest places to play if you're small enough to fit in the culvert, because that leads to a storm drain that's got little rooms branching off it. Not sure why there are rooms, but they beg to be turned into secret hideouts. The only problem is, if it rains you'll drown, but since that's never happened, generation after generation of elementary schoolers hang out in there.
At the mouth of the culvert are two boulders, just the right height to sit on, facing each other. They allow you to sit low enough that you can't be seen from the sidewalk, and when I get there after school, Jean-Pierre is already sitting on one. I jump down and sit on the other. High pitched kid screams and shouts sound throughout my subdivision. The elementary school kids all got dropped off by the bus half an hour ago, but none are close by.
“How're you feeling?” he asks.
“Been better.”
“Listen, I didn't know whether I should come by or message you on Facebook or what.”
“I think I'm done with Facebook right now.”
“Well, yeah. Look, I knew it wasn't you, okay? I never thought it was you.”
Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand Page 5
