by Ashley Love
I know this isn't about the shirt. It's just a shirt, a plain black T-shirt. This has nothing to do with a shirt. This has to do with power. And maybe from the outside, listening to this conversation is borderline humorous. All this over a shirt. But it's not about that. This is all about the Cancers showing me that they're stronger than me, that they're better, that I don't own this school, that they do.
I say nothing, gritting my teeth, my jaw aching where Slate is holding a bit too tightly. When they realize I'm not going to say anything, Zane chuckles a little, and my eyes snap to his face.
"Have it your way," he says, and suddenly Gordon and Slate both let go of me, at the same time that Zane's hands shoot out and connect with my chest, sending me flying backwards. I topple to the ground, and before I can ponder to myself what the point of pushing me was, I land in a massive puddle of mud, feeling it immediately begin to soak into the back of my shirt where I landed. Not only is it soaking the entire backside of my shirt, it's also seeping into my hair and the seat of my pants.
Great.
The three Cancers walk away laughing, Gordon "accidentally" tripping over me as they do, kicking me hard in the ribs and leaving a wet boot print. "I guess she chose option two. That is one ugly ass shirt now," I hear him say as they walk away, disappearing seconds later inside the school just as the five minute warning bell rings.
I groan, cradling my ribs in one hand and grimacing as I feel mud dripping down the back of my neck. I only allow myself to lay there for a few seconds before forcing myself to stand. I have to go get cleaned up if I want to make it to my first class on time. So I stand shakily, knowing there's worse to come from the Cancers in the future, knowing that this will only escalate. It always does.
I get some weird stares as I make my way into the school, my backpack dangling from one hand so it doesn't get it all muddy like the rest of me. It's not a particularly large school, so I've had a chance in the past week to orient myself enough to find the restroom closest to the front entrance. When I push through the bathroom door, there are two other girls already in there, who stare at me as I make my way dejectedly to the sinks, dropping my bag on the ground.
The two girls leave without a word, and I pull in a deep breath, holding it for a moment and releasing slowly, ignoring the throb in my ribs where Gordon kicked me. Gripping the edges of the sink, I raise my eyes and look at my reflection in the mirror.
I have to look away almost as soon as I see myself. I'm pathetic. And I know I shouldn't be letting a group of bullies make me feel this way, but it's not just that. I know I'm pathetic. Because I won't ever fight back. Never. It's not in me to fight. I let people hurt me like this, and do nothing about it. Because it's wrong to hurt people. That's what I tell myself. Even if they're hurting me.
Shaking my head in disgust with myself, I twist on the faucet, pulling my shirt off and laying it out on the counter, wiping as much of the mud away as I can with a wet paper towel. It doesn't do much good, and the mud on my pants is already drying, stiff and uncomfortable. I give up on trying to clean the shirt off, pushing it aside and tilting my head forward, dunking it underneath the running water and getting as much of the mud out of my hair as possible. When I put my shirt back on, I have to suppress a shiver. It's wet and cold and slimy against my skin.
And then I just stand there.
Even when I hear the bell ring, signaling that class has begun, I just stand there.
For some reason, I can't bring my feet to move. I can't go out there and go to class like this. I'll be laughed at and it's never fun to be the butt of the jokes. Trust me, I know.
I don't have long to ponder what I'm going to do though, because the bathroom door swings open no more than ten minutes later, and by some hilarious twist of fate, it's Charlie that walks through the door. She's whistling to herself and swinging her hall pass around by its string.
When she spots me, she throws her arms up with a huge smile on her face. "Ariel!" she greets excitedly. "Fancy seeing you here!"
I give her a halfhearted smile, hugging myself and rocking from one foot to the other, unsure what to do. My skin is prickling with goose bumps from my wet clothing.
"Whoa, what happened?" she asks, her eyes taking in my muddy clothes and sopping hair sticking up in clumps from my head.
I shrug a little. "I suppose I'm their favorite new toy."
"Who?"
I pick at my wet clothes. "Zane and his friends," I tell her. "I'm not sure I can go to class like this."
"Damn, I was worried this might happen," Charlie says, eyeing me up and down. "Are you alright? You should go to the principal or something. They're bad news, Ariel."
I huff a small laugh, raising my eyebrow. "Do you really think a guy like Principal Roman is going to care about something like this? I mean, I've only been here a week and I can already tell he doesn't know any of our names."
Charlie purses her lips. "Okay, yeah, you got me there."
I give her a small smile, looking back down at my clothes. I don't really want to leave school, but I can't go to class like this either. "I think I'm going to head home for the day," I mutter. "I can't stay here like this."
When I try to step past her, Charlie holds up her hands. "No, no, no, wait," she says. "You can't just leave. Come on, they have costume clothes in the theatre. We'll find you something to wear."
"Charlie—" I start to protest.
"No, Ariel, look," she says, taking my shoulders in hand and shaking me. "You can't let these douchebags get to you, alright? I want you to do something for me."
I cock my head to the side. "What?"
"I want you to not give them the satisfaction of thinking they've won, okay?"
My eyebrows press together. "What do you mean?"
"You can't let them get to you," she repeats. "So next time they start messing with you, I want you to promise me something."
"Okay?" I agree hesitantly.
"I want you to promise me that you're going to act like it doesn't bother you at all," Charlie says firmly, and it's almost laughable how serious she sounds. "Just take it in stride and don't give them the satisfaction of thinking they've gotten under your skin."
I look at her for a moment, and I'm surprised to find that I actually feel better. "Alright," I tell her with a small hesitant smile. "I promise."
I'm used to bullies. I'm used to dealing with bad people. I'm used to feeling dejected and lonely. What I'm not used to is having someone like Charlie there to say things like this. To pick me up when I'm down. This is new. Everything is new.
"Good," she says, patting me once on the shoulder. "Now, I'm gonna take a leak and then we can go find you some clothes."
I nod and turn to pick up my backpack. I eye myself in the mirror, feeling a little less pathetic than before, running my hand through my wet hair and smoothing down the flyaways that stick up every which way. There's no taming it today. I sigh and hug my backpack to my chest, trying to warm myself up as much as possible.
When Charlie is finished, she leads me out of the bathroom and across the school, into the green room of the theater and back into the costume closet. It's an impressive collection for a small town high school, but most of it is sequined and ruffled and not appropriate to be wearing around school for the day. But Charlie pulls out a large gray plastic bin full of less-ridiculous looking costume clothes and begins rifling through them.
"We did The Crucible a couple years ago for the winter play," she explains, holding up a dark gray button-down shirt to my torso, measuring it out. "We have these left over from the women's costumes, just in case we need peasant clothes or something."
Charlie slings the shirt over my shoulder once she decides that it will fit, and dives back in to find a pair of pants I can wear. I let my fingers run over the cheap material, and then remove my T-shirt, pulling the costume shirt over my head. It's a bit big, but it's dry and warm and smells like dust. I roll up the sleeves so they'
re not hanging over my hands.
"Charlie?" I say.
"Hm?"
I hesitate. "Why are you helping me?"
She glances up at me. "Why wouldn't I?"
I shrug. "It's just...not normal, I guess. People aren't this nice."
Charlie chuckles, straightening up, holding two pairs of pants, one in each hand. "Actually, Ariel, people are this nice. I just don't think you've ever been around good people. And I'm fucking awesome."
I chuckle a little and lower my eyes, scratching the back of my neck.
Charlie studies me for a moment, and then sighs. "Look, I get the vibe from you that you haven't had many friends. Am I right?"
I look up at her, flushing red a bit in embarrassment. I nod my head.
Charlie smiles a little. "Well then you're just gonna have to get used to the fact that I'm your friend, okay? Friends help each other. That's why we're here."
I stare at her with round eyes. "But why me? Why do you want to be my friend?"
Charlie laughs. "Because that was one sick ass origami beetle you were making the other day," she says. "And because you're cool. Now try these on and see if they fit." She tosses a pair of brown pants at me, and I fumble to catch them. She turns and begins throwing the clothes back into the plastic bin, and as I change out of my muddy pants, I can't help the tiny smile that pulls at the corners of my lips. I could get used to this "having friends" thing.
I don't stop smiling for the rest of the day. Because even if I have to deal with the Cancers, I have Charlie, and I have Mason, and that seems worth it to me. I don't even stop smiling when I walk into the math class I share with Zane, and we lock eyes briefly. I see him look me up and down, taking in my new clothes, and then giving me an odd look when he sees that I look happy.
And I don't blame him. A smile must look kind of weird when I'm wearing it.
6
The sky is clear blue and cold when Noah leads Zane to Ghost Town two weeks later in early October. It's not unusual for them to skip school to come out here and do whatever it is that they do with their free time.
There are only about seven or eight old train cars abandoned out here right on the edge of town, in a clearing in the forest, but Zane and his friends always meet in the same one. It's red and rusted and filled with old lumber, and it's the perfect place for five troublemakers to come and avoid responsibility. And today, it seems that Slate has some different plans for them.
Zane plunks down in his usual spot, leaning back against a stack of wood in the train car, making some room for Noah beside him so that Slate doesn't come sit with him. He hates when Slate sits with him, because the guy doesn't know the fucking definition of personal space. Zane's skin crawls at every "accidental" touch.
"We thought you guys weren't coming," Ryker says when Zane and Noah arrive, and it's evident by the cigarette butts littering the floor of the train car that Slate, Ryker, and Gordon have all been here a while waiting.
"Apologies gentlemen," Noah says, pulling his gloves off his hands. "Zane here took his sweet time getting ready this morning. I thought it best to wait for him."
Zane rolls his eyes. "I had to get my little brother to school. He woke up late. Sue me."
"Ah, and how is little Liam?" Slate asks on a hiss, smiling as he pulls out a plastic baggie from his pocket filled with some sort of white powder.
"None of your damn business, that's how he is," Zane replies with a glare, eyeing the bag in the Slate's hands. Zane will put up with a lot from Slate, but he will not talk about his brother. In fact, he won't talk about Liam with any of these guys. He'd rather Liam not end up like him, thank you very much.
Gordon raises his eyebrows. "Touchy," he says, taking one last drag on his cigarette before grinding it out on the floor.
Zane just shifts and pulls his leather jacket a little tighter around himself, glaring at the floor.
"What the hell is that stuff?" Ryker asks, nodding towards the bag of powder in Slate's hands.
Slate grins and holds it up, presenting it to all of them like it's the most amazing thing they've ever seen. "This, my friends, is what I like to call cocaine," he announces, grinning at them.
They all stare at Slate, waiting for him to say something more. When he doesn't, Noah clears his throat.
"And, are we, uh, expected to ingest said cocaine on this fine morning?" he asks, shifting a little. Zane eyes the bag skeptically. He's never been that into drugs. But something about it sounds really good right about now.
"No, I brought it here so we could all stare at it," Slate replies dryly, opening the bag and licking his finger, sticking the wet tip into the powder and then rubbing the white substance across his lower gums where one would store chewing tobacco. He smacks his lips a couple times and then hums appreciatively, like he's just tried a delicious piece of chocolate instead of some powerful drug. He raises his eyebrows, offering the baggie up.
"Any takers?" he questions. "There's plenty to go around."
Slate makes it a point to lock eyes with Zane as he asks, challenging him. Zane hates that he can't say no. And what's even worse: he doesn't want to say no, even though it's Slate who's offering the coke. Because sometimes it's just easier to go along with his friends. And it's easier to pump yourself full of mind-bending chemicals than deal with life. No matter how disgusting it is, he'd rather be here than at school, even if he'd have a chance of spotting Ariel Riley's beautiful face once or twice in the halls.
Gordon reaches out and takes the bag before Zane has a chance to, lifting it up high to inspect the white powder from below. "Aren't you supposed to snort this stuff?" he asks.
Slate shrugs. "You can. Just lay out a line on that board over there. And here," he says, fishing in his pocket and pulling out a receipt, "Roll this up and use this to snort it. It's easier."
Gordon takes the paper from him. "You done this stuff before?" he asks.
Slate just grins. "Maybe," he responds. "Don't worry about it."
Gordon eyes him for a moment, and then shakes his head, turning and pouring a small amount of the cocaine onto a cleaner-looking board in the car. He whips out his plastic school ID and uses it to make a neat line of the coke, and then he rolls up the receipt and leans down, hesitating briefly before snorting the entire line.
Zane watches as Gordon twitches a little, sniffing hard and rubbing at his nose, blinking his eyes a few times and pinching his brow.
"Wow, that's unpleasant," Gordon grumbles, handing off the rolled up receipt to Zane. Zane takes it instinctively and stares at it for a second.
"Well?" Noah says, giving him a nudge. "Have at it."
Zane swallows and glances around briefly before shifting forward and scooting up to the board with the coke on it, very deliberately not looking at Slate because he doesn't want to see the smug satisfaction on the bastard's face. He copies what Gordon did, fashioning a neat line and leaning down, snorting it all up through the rolled up receipt before he can stop himself.
It feels like someone punched him in the nose, an entire tightening of his sinus. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, swallowing down the urge to sneeze and handing off the receipt to Noah.
The effects of the cocaine hit him much faster than he expects them to. As he crawls back to where he'd been sitting in the train car, his fingertips start to tingle like he's just chugged a pot of coffee. The tingling moves up his arms, across his chest, down his legs, and out his toes. His ears are ringing, and he barely notices Ryker, Noah, and Slate all taking their hits next to him, because suddenly, he's flying.
It feels simultaneously awful and like the best feeling in the world. He considers that perhaps this is stupid, but then Noah cracks a funny joke (that's really not that funny at all) and suddenly they're all doubled over and laughing, rolling around on the floor of the train car.
He has no idea how much time passes, but suddenly he wants to do everything. He wants to get his h
omework done, and clean his house, and get Mike into rehab, and eat everything in his kitchen, and not eat anything at all, and catch up on all the TV shows he's missed, and do his laundry, and get a dog. He wants to do it all, right now, right here, all at once.
He wants to run up to Ariel Riley and punch her in the face because she's better than him, and everyone knows it, and it sucks. Then he wants to kiss her. But he can't do that. Only right now, he can. Because he can do anything.
The feeling doesn't last though. The effects of the cocaine wear off no more than half an hour later, and all five of them are left slumped on the floor in the train car, breathing heavily from laughing so much at absolutely nothing. Ryker's knee is bleeding, and Zane remembers a dizzying moment somewhere in the last thirty minutes where Ryker thought he could walk on air and had walked right out of the train car and fallen the five or so feet to the hard rocky ground, busting open his leg.
Zane looks over at Noah, who is sweaty and red and smiling.
"Not bad," Noah says to him.
"Doesn't last very long," Zane replies. "But I agree. Not bad."
Slate chuckles a little from the other side of the car. They all look over at him where he's holding up the still-full bag of coke. "Anybody up for round two?"
Zane has had a lot of time to think today. One good thing about drugs is that they shut his friends up. That, or it makes it so that he doesn't have the ability to listen to whatever useless thing it is they're saying. Either way, it gives him time to think.
And he's spent the whole day thinking about Ariel.
They're not good thoughts. He'd started the day thinking about her eyes, those crystalline blue eyes. It's easy to think about someone's eyes when you're high. It almost makes it better actually.
But that thought process quickly evolves into something else.
Zane has a realization.
Ariel Riley is better than him.
