Take Me With You

by Melyssa Winchester

  “Yes.”

  Amelia

  I’m such an idiot.

  This guy is friends with Isabelle. The minute I pull the lighter from my pocket and he sees it, of course he’s gonna jump up and halfway across the sidewalk. He’s going to see it the only way he knows and think I’m gonna burn him.

  That’s not the only reason I’m an idiot though. It’s because I showed it at all. No one knows my secret, even though I know he caught the way my arms look when he bumped into me last week. Other than pulling it on the girls at school though, no one else knows what it means to me.

  If Tim, Charlotte and Eve caught me talking to him right now, they’d be relentless in their teasing. I’m basically committing social suicide even being seen in the same area as him, let alone beside him having a conversation. It should keep me away from him, the risk I’m taking, people seeing us, but it doesn’t.

  Seeing his picture earlier, the emptiness in his eyes, maybe even a little sadness, it was too much for me. It was like looking into a fucking mirror. So despite knowing what I’m risking being around him at all, I’m gonna do it. I want him to say something funny again the way he did two days ago, so I can laugh. I don’t care how selfish it is.

  I thought about lying to him when he asked me if I was calmed by burning other people, but at the last second I chose not to. As far as I can tell, he’s been pretty up front with me since we came across each other last week. I feel like maybe I should do the same for him even though I don’t have the first clue why.

  Eric Carmen is supposed to be nothing more than a stain on humanity. The big red mark on a test when the rest is written in black. He’s everything that’s wrong with the world, the byproduct of two morons choosing to reproduce.

  He’s also the first person to make me genuinely laugh in years and the one that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

  “Why does that calm you?”

  His question, I can’t answer it. It’s too personal. If I tell him the reason that hurting other people brings me calm, it’s gonna make whatever this is between us, the bond we somehow have being here and not wanting the rest of the world to know, disappear. There is no way he could hear it and not be sickened by it.

  “Why do you ask so many questions?”

  “I’m curious?”

  “Like the monkey?”

  He laughs and there’s something about the way his cheeks lift as he’s doing it that makes me happy. Spending as much time as I have making sure the last thing he does is smile or even laugh, I forgot that he was even capable of it. It’s boisterous yet shaky, which just proves there’s nothing fake about it. It’s a genuine laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s it. I’m Curious George. So—uh, where’s your yellow hat?”

  “Left it at home under my bed.” I say, choking down the laugh that’s threatening to escape any second.

  “You should never leave home without it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Have you seen it? It looks like a gigantic dick.”

  All hopes I had of keeping the laugh down are gone now as it falls easily, my cheeks heating up at the same time, another reaction that I never expected him to cause. Is Eric really making me blush?

  “Wow, tell me how you really feel.” I manage to get out once I’m finally able to contain the laughter.

  “Okay.” He says and before I can question what he means, he speaks again. “You have a really nice laugh. You should do it more.”

  If I thought my cheeks were on fire before, it’s even worse now, but one look at him and I see I’m not the only one. His eyes go wide first and then once he realizes what he just blurted out, his cheeks turn the same shade that I’m sure mine are. As wrong as it should feel, reacting to someone like him, it just doesn’t.

  It feels right. Normal.

  “Um…”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s time for me to head in now. So—uh, I’m just gonna go do that.”

  Before I can react, say goodbye, see you around or whatever else might have fallen out, he’s running off and his body is disappearing behind the door, leaving me completely alone out in the street, wondering what the hell just happened.

  What the hell is going on with me? It’s bad enough that I didn’t have to leave my house early, doing it because I wanted to see if he was going to be here, but to actually search him out, admit things to him and then laugh and blush because of things he said back to me? This isn’t like me at all.

  I hate this guy. He means absolutely nothing to me. He’s a joke, a pathetic waste of space that up until a few days ago I got pleasure out of torturing and scaring.

  Is this because of what happened with Dillon? Am I somehow searching out someone just like the stupid bitch he left me for so that I can get revenge?

  No; see that’s not right. For the first time since everything went down last week, the last thing on my mind is making someone else hurt. Revenge; I don’t want it, especially not with the only person in days that’s been able to break through my defenses even if he has no idea he’s doing it.

  Whatever’s going on, I need to get control of it because if it gets out that I actually enjoy hanging out with one of the special needs kids, it will mean the end of everything. Popularity at school, the way the other kids look at me when I make my way down the hall, the respect I command because of the fear I instill. All of it will just be gone and I’ll be left with nothing.

  I’ll end up completely alone.

  Eric

  My entire session with Dr. Thompson flew by a whole lot quicker than I expected it to and for some reason, about halfway through, watching him move the pen across the paper, it made me stop talking long enough to ask him for a pen and paper so I could write too.

  Here he was asking me about my day, how I was feeling and every other mundane thing he could possibly think of and all I was focused on was getting that little scrap of paper in my hand and doing the craziest thing with it.

  There was this moment outside with Amy where she seemed different, more open than I think she’s ever been and even though it’s stupid, it makes me want to do what the doctor said I did with Cadence and reach out of my comfort zone. So armed with the little paper with my number written on it, I’m making my way down the hall, super aware of everything going on around me for the first time in years.

  The closer I get to the waiting room, the faster my heart pounds and I can feel the sweat starting to pool under my arms and on my forehead the minute she comes into view.

  Sitting in the chair closest to the door with her head down, reading some random magazine, completely unaware that in a few seconds she’s gonna have someone standing in front of her, I slow down my pace, taking in things about her that I never noticed when we were talking outside before.

  With the way her head is turned down, it’s impossible to make out her eyes, but I do see the dimples in her cheeks and with the slight raise to her lips, it makes them stand out even more. Whatever she’s reading, it’s obvious that it’s amusing to her if she’s going to smile at it, which just makes me wanna get even closer so I can experience it firsthand.

  The way it sounded when she laughed, it’s the same when she smiles. I noticed it the first day and it’s happening again. It’s something so rare that I just wanna enjoy it while I can. It’s the craziest thing, enjoying anything about Amy, but it’s true.

  Closing in on her, I clear my throat and her head lifts until her eyes land on me. With a tiny wave of her hand and an even higher raise to her lips, I go ahead and sit beside her, hoping that the way she’s acting is an invitation and I’m not reading into it.

  “You ready to get your head shrunk?”

  “I was born ready.”

  Breaking out in laughter at the same time, I see my chance, before Rose call for her and I slip the piece of paper across the table that’s in between us until it’s barely brushing against her arm.

  Noticing it and taking it from my hands her eyes meet mine and her head
tips in confusion.

  “What’s this?”

  “A lifeline. You know, if you ever need it.”

  Sliding up out of the seat, I make my way out the door, not stopping until I’ve escaped the building altogether. As much as I wanted to stick around, see her reaction when she opens the paper and sees my number sitting there, I couldn’t do it.

  It’s already strange enough doing it at all, but doing it for Amy, the girl that up until a week ago had made my life and the lives of my friends a living hell, it was something a whole lot worse than strange. It was downright crazy. I also didn’t want to see her reaction if for some reason the way we were earlier had changed. If giving her my number repulsed her.

  Reaching the bus stop, sitting down on the bench, checking my watch and making sure I didn’t miss the normal one with the extra time I stayed in the office, I lean back and pull the ticket from my jeans at the exact moment that my phone starts vibrating on the other side.

  It’s only when I’ve got my hand back out of my pants, complete with my phone and my ticket now sitting in my teeth that I can finally find out who it is.

  Where I figured Belle was texting me randomly again, it’s not. It’s an unknown number which means it can only be one person.

  Lifeline activated. See you on Friday Curious George.

  Chapter Seven

  Amelia

  Two things happen when I get home from my appointment and neither one of them are things I want to think about, much less deal with.

  By the time the bus picks me up, my mom again bailing on her promise of getting me after work, I’m more than ready to just get home, lock myself away in my room and forget the day even exists. It’s too bad that my mom doesn’t see it the same way.

  Not even in the door two seconds and she drops her first bombshell.

  “I spoke with Principal Daniels and the President of the School Board while you were out.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Her talking to Daniels, it’s not surprising considering she’s been doing everything in her power to get me back in school, more than a little pissed that I’m home alone where she can’t keep her eyes on me. Not that it matters or anything. I actually prefer her not giving a shit.

  “Amy, I’ve been doing all I can to rectify the situation you put us in. Both of them agreed to let you back in, but not before having a sit down with the family of the girl you hurt.”

  Which family? I’ve done the same shit for so long it could be just about anyone. My mind flashes to Isabelle first, but I toss it out because I have a feeling if it was her, Eric would have said something considering they’re close. Cadence is out too, I didn’t get to burn her at all. With those two out, there was still at least six people it could be. None of which I wanted to sit down in front of.

  “So we sit down with them. Then what?”

  “You are to issue a sincere apology to Hannah Michaels and her family and you are expected from that point to attend meetings.”

  “What kind of meetings?”

  There’s no way in hell I’m gonna do what she’s telling me. I’m pretty damn sure even if I did issue a sincere apology for what I did that day in the bathroom, they wouldn’t believe it anyway. I wouldn’t believe it.

  “Counselling meetings, in addition to your sessions with Dr. Thompson. You will be in a support group of sorts, for victims of abuse and bullying.”

  “Is throwing me into that supposed to scare me straight? Come on Mom, you know this is all bullshit. I’m not doing it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Amy. You ARE going to do this and you’re going to be sincere about it. The problems you’ve been causing have finally caught up to you and it’s time that you learn from them. Acting the way you have been is only going to lead to more trouble in the future. It’s time you learn that now before it’s too late and I’m unable to come to your defense.”

  Bullshit. Everything she’s saying is bullshit. She can believe all she wants that she’s coming to my defense, but I know the truth. She’s going through all of this because she’s covering her own ass. If word gets out that I’ve done the shit I’ve done and she didn’t step in, it makes her look like a bad parent. Something she doesn’t want to be.

  Small towns suck. Word spreads faster than a common cold and in the time it takes you to blink, people have learned all of your secrets and formed their own opinions, something my mother wants no part of.

  Mother of the Year she’s not and I’m not gonna help her obtain the title either. Screw her.

  If she wanted to come to my defense she should have done something years ago with my dad instead of ignoring it and letting it continue right under her nose. We’ve never talked about it, but I’m pretty damn sure she knows what he was doing to me, but like with everything else, she kept her rose colored glasses on and ignored it.

  “I’m eighteen, Mom. You can’t make me do shit.”

  “I can if you want to continue living here.”

  Not the first time she’s threatened me with this either. She’s blowing smoke. She won’t kick me out for the same reason she’s attempting to scare me straight. It would ruin her fucking image.

  “Whatever. It’s an empty threat and you know it.”

  I turn, more than ready now to escape into the comfort of my room, where I can lock the door behind me and block her out completely, but before I can make it two steps away from her, she drops the other bombshell and if I thought the school one was bad enough, I was in for a rude awakening.

  “Your father called, it’s time for your monthly visit.”

  Eric

  Putting the finishing touches on the picture, making sure the shading is perfect, I close the sketch pad and push it across the desk. I’ve been doing the same thing for the last two hours. Picture after picture, so vivid in my mind that I can’t stop until I’ve gotten them down and added color.

  This is another way I’m different. I’m obsessive about my art. What started as these really goofy looking cartoon characters when I was seven has turned into still pictures brought to life. I just put the finishing touches on a butterfly I managed to catch sight of when I got off the bus and before that it was a phoenix.

  My mom says I’ve got a real eye for design but I don’t agree. I just think she’s being a mom. It’s an expected response. The artwork that I do, it could look like total garbage and I’m pretty sure she’d say the same thing to me. It’s her way. I love her for it, but I really can’t trust anything she says that way because of who she is.

  I don’t share this part of me with anyone. She only happened to see it because she came into my room without knocking once when I was in the middle of something. That’s another thing I can’t do. It physically pains me to walk away when something I’m drawing is unfinished. I have to sit in the chair or on my bed until the entire thing is done or it will cause problems for me later.

  I’m also what my dad calls a perfectionist. I will rip paper after paper out of my sketchbook if even one mark doesn’t come out the way I can see it in my head. Visual memory is a good thing to have, but for me and my art, it’s trouble. I’ve actually broken down a whole lot more than anyone knows, hitting myself until I bleed because things haven’t turned out perfectly.

  That’s the reason I keep it to myself. If anyone else found out about it and what happens when things don’t go right, it would just be another thing they’d use against me. I think there’s enough as it is just being in a special class. I’m not looking forward to adding more.

  Stretching in the chair, pushing it away from the desk as I crack not only my back but my fingers, both tense from the focus I put into the last two hours of designing, I look up the minute I hear the vibration and watch my phone move on its own across the desk.

  The familiar sound that signals a text, three low tone beeps in a row repeats consecutively and I reach across and grab it. Unlocking the phone and heading straight into the messages, I’m met by one I never expected to see.

&nb
sp; Can I get that lifeline now?

  Running my fingers over the keys, not wanting to waste a second replying, I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.

  Always. Are you ok?

  The response is almost as quick as the one I sent and despite knowing who it is texting the words, it still hurts to read.

  No.

  What’s wrong?

  My mom told me something and its fucking with me.

  Ignoring the language, I debate whether I should ask her for more information. It’s really none of my business what her mom told her, but if she’s texting me, reaching out and asking for the lifeline, maybe I’m the only one she can tell. Tapping the phone a few times, still not sure what I should do, another text comes through.

  Sorry. Shouldn’t have texted you.

  Her words, the way she’s taking everything back, it’s obvious what I’ve gotta do now. I can’t let her act like what she did is wrong. She might be the world’s worst bully but that doesn’t mean she didn’t deserve to have someone hear her when she needs help.

  At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I type out my response.

  What did she tell you? Do you want to talk? I can call if it’s easier.

  This is the time where I expect her to go back to the way she’s always been and not answer, or better yet, say something mean to end whatever this is right now, but that’s not at all what happens.

  It’s my dad. I can’t talk about it. Like actually talk. It hurts too much.

  Having spent the last year being bullied by this girl and her friends, I’m the first to admit I know nothing about who she is away from school. I’ve always just seen her the one way and it’s hard even now, with the way she’s texting, to see her any other way. I don’t know what it is about her dad that she doesn’t like, but if she needs me, I want to listen and help.