by Kyla Stone
“She was an actress, or at least, she desperately wanted to be. She did some plays, a few commercials in Orlando when I was young. But the industry wasn’t ready for diverse leading ladies back then, I guess. They always cast her as a maid or a waitress. The failure of her career made her a bitter woman. Or so my dad says. Whatever her reasons, she’s one of the saddest people I know.”
I’m angry on his behalf. “That really sucks.”
He nods. “I’m coming to terms with it, in my own way.”
I want to call BS again, but I don’t. The words stick in my throat. He doesn’t want to talk about it. I know exactly how that feels.
“There’s a link between creativity and mental illness,” Lucas continues. “Creative people feel more, think more. They’re more sensitive. Most people try to skim over the painful stuff, artists dwell on it. Dad always says Mom thinks too much. Too much brewing spoils the pot. Or something like that.”
We keep walking, and I listen to him talk. He sounds so much like a normal human being, nothing like the shallow jerks that surround us. I haven’t had a conversation like this in years. Scratch that. I haven’t had a conversation with anyone, period. My heart contracts.
A gust of wind kicks up, whipping strands of hair across my face. I shiver.
“You’re cold. I mean, it’s the middle of October in Michigan. I shouldn’t have brought you out here.”
“First of all, you didn’t ‘bring’ me anywhere. And second, I’m fine.”
“No, it’s true. It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra out here.” He turns around and shields his eyes with his hand, as if that’s going to help him see further in the dark. The bonfire is just a glimmer on the horizon.
“I know how to get warm, if you want,” he says.
I flinch away from him, my hands already clenching into fists. How stupid was I to think he was any different from the rest of them? He read the words scrawled on the bathroom tile over the boys’ john, and now he thinks he’s going to get some. He thought wrong. And so did I. I messed up, again. “Screw you, jerkwad. If you think—”
“Hey. Hey.” He raises his hands again, the lighter clutched in one hand. “Slow down. I was going to ask you if you wanted to run.”
I stare at him stupidly. “Run?”
The corner of his mouth crinkles up. “Yeah, like moving your legs really fast? It raises your core body temperature.”
Now I really do feel like an idiot. But also, wildly, stupidly relieved. I let myself breathe again. “Oh. I mean, okay. I thought—”
He waves his hand. “No worries. I run track. That’s my thing. At my old school, I won regionals and placed second at state. I even won third in the 1600 meters in the USATF Junior Olympics. I like to run. What about you?”
“I hate running. I almost always skip running laps and when I do bother to show up, I walk, no matter how much Coach Taylor screams at me.”
“That’s different. You want to try? You’ve even got sneakers on already.”
“And jeans,” I point out.
He just grins, his face silvery in the moonlight. His features are handsome, his dark eyes warm and intense. His gaze sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the weather. “I’ll go slow.”
So we run. Or jog. Or whatever. My feet pound the damp, packed sand. I try to time my breathing with his. But he’s long, lanky, and trained. He pulls ahead of me almost immediately, loping across the sand like an antelope, easy, graceful. I keep my eyes trained on his back, but no matter how fast I run, I can’t keep up. My side aches. My jeans scratch and rub my fresh-cut thighs with each stride. Still, everything fades away but the night sky studded with stars, the silver waves, the pulse of the tide, and the rhythm of my own ragged breath.
We get back too soon.
I bend over and grab my side, gasping for air.
“Too much?” Lucas asks, jogging back to me. He’s not even winded.
I’m fine,” I wheeze. “Or, I will be in a minute.”
The music is pounding again. Couples are dancing or cuddling on the blankets. Girls are wrapped in cute cardigans or their boyfriends’ hoodies. Eli and a bunch of guys are throwing footballs down the beach, yelling and whooping as they tackle each other.
“Wanna go swimming?”
“And freeze to death?”
“Okay, stupid question. That sounded much better in my head.” He runs his fingers through his hair, which just makes it stand up more. “To be honest, I’m just trying to find ways to spend more time with you.”
My blood turns to ice in my veins. “Whatever for?”
“Because you’re smart. You’re not like the rest of these sheeple. I like you.”
I shake my head. Why’d he have to go and ruin it? “No one likes me, okay? Not unless they want something. So what exactly do you want? What’s your angle?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t have an angle. I just thought you were interesting.”
“Well, I’m not.”
His smile fades. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“And yet you succeeded.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to be friendly.”
I stare out at the shimmering waves. My heart is a pellet of ice. “Did I ask for a friend?”
His body shifts beside me. His voice changes, takes on a harder edge. “Holy hell, Sidney. You don’t have to be mean, you know. I have feelings too.”
Guilt stabs me, but I can’t help it. “I never asked you to talk to me.”
“Look, if that’s what you want, I’ll leave you alone.”
Some part of me whispers, please don’t. And, I don’t want to be alone. But it’s the other, stronger part in control: the hard, spiky part of me that keeps out everyone and everything. “It is.”
“Okay, fine.”
I nearly choke on the word. “Fine.”
Xavier saunters up then, grinning with his glow-in-the-dark teeth. “Helluva party, isn’t it, Shaw?”
“It’s ass-tastic.”
“Thanks.”
“Not a compliment, dude,” Lucas says.
Xavier just grunts and turns to Lucas. “Pizza boy!” he crows like they’re best buds. “I need your help. We need more sustenance, more thirst-quenchers. There’s no way I’m letting any of these losers up in my Nan’s house. I trust you, man.”
“What do you need?”
“Didn’t I just say? There’s eight more six-packs in the fridge. Bring ‘em down for me. And don’t step on the white carpet. Nan’ll kill me. Eli! We’re ready to grab the drinks!”
Eli lopes over and fist bumps Lucas’ shoulder. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Not much.”
Xavier hands Eli the house keys. “I gotta keep an eye on things down here, if you know what I mean.” He winks as Nyah slips under his arm and gives his waist a squeeze.
“Come on,” Eli says to Lucas. “Let’s get this done.”
Lucas glances at me. I see the shadow in his eyes, the thin line of his mouth. He’s upset, and it’s because of me. My stomach cramps. The ache in my chest isn’t just from the run. It’s for the best, anyway. I’m bad news, everybody else just knows it already.
Lucas and Eli jog up the sand path, and I head over to the keg table. I need a drink. I’m reaching for another beer when something knocks my legs out from under me.
I jerk forward, my head smacking into the table, knocking it over. The yellow jugs tumble into the sand. I half-fall on the upturned table. One leg bangs hard against the cooler, splattering ice chunks everywhere. Pain judders up my spine, flashes through my knee.
“What a klutz,” says an all-too-familiar familiar voice.
15
I scramble to my feet, wipe the sand off my shirt and the front of my jeans, and face Jasmine. She’s got Margot, Nyah, Peyton, Xavier, Isabel, and a few others behind her. Icy adrenaline flushes through me. I need to be smart here. I’ve got no exit, no threat of teachers to stop anything. Too cowardly to face a fa
ir fight, they’ve rigged the game. They outnumber me six to one.
“It’s so unfortunate when certain people choose to show up uninvited,” Margot says in her syrupy voice, the one she uses right before she claws your eyes out.
“Get out of my way, you repugnant parasites.” My voice catches. Anger sizzles through me, but also fear. And they know it.
Margot’s lip curls in a vicious smile. She gets right up in my face. This close, I can see the creases in her makeup, the enlarged pores on her nose. “What do you think, girls? Why’s she wasting time with Pizza Face? Does she think he’s really going to take her out on a date?”
“Yeah, to an all-you-can-eat buffet!” Peyton giggles.
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Jasmine says, glancing at Margot.
“Exactly,” Margot says. “She’s just going to give him what she gives all the guys. Why does she play so hard to get when she’s obviously so hard to want?”
My hands clench into fists. “Are you always this stupid or are you making a special effort today? Look, you dingbat from hell. Get out of my face or fight me fair.” I look past Margo and stare at Jasmine. My anger burns white-hot, hotter than the flames of the bonfire licking the sky. “Why don’t you fight your own battles for a change? I’m right here.”
Margot sneers. “Let’s give her what she wants. Drag her to the ground.”
Nyah and Peyton grab my arms. I flail away, but Margot kicks my ankles. I lose my footing in the sand and slam to the ground.
“Take off her shirt. She’s a slut. Let’s make her look like a slut.”
They pin my arms. There are hands on my legs too, pressing me down.
Margot bends over me. “Aww. Look how she insists on making things more difficult than they have to be. Stupid, stupid girl.”
The smart thing is to submit to whatever humiliations they have planned, let them get bored with me like cats with a chipmunk. Then they’ll let me go, and everything will stay the same. That’s what every other cowering, hunch-shouldered freak, nerd, and ugly girl does in this school.
But I’m not them. I’d rather die than let the likes of Margot Hunter get the best of me. Rage blooms inside me and I let it. It crackles through me and explodes into my skull.
I kick as hard as I can and connect with something soft.
Somebody screams. I hope I broke their nose.
I scratch Peyton’s shoulder. I jerk my arm out of her grasp and claw out a handful of sand. I hurl it straight at Margot’s face.
She squeals and stumbles back, wiping furiously at her eyes. “You bitch!”
“Grab her wrists!” Nyah yells.
I scream and twist and writhe, but there’s too many of them. They clamp me down. And that’s it. I’ve lost.
Helplessness wells up, turning my lungs to lead. The music thumps and bang bang bangs through my bones. My nerves are frayed, my brain on fire. The shadows of the crowd fall across my face. Everyone is watching, their phones already out, snapping pics and videoing away.
I catch sight of Arianna. She’s standing a little behind Xavier’s shoulder. Her face is leached of color. Her eyes look panicky. All of her goody two-shoe friends are gaping at the spectacle. I hate her most of all.
“Get her shirt off.” Margot scrapes at her eyelids. Someone hands her a water bottle, and she pours water into her eyes. “I swear, if that slut blinded me . . .”
Nyah sits on my stomach. She’s breathing hard, her chest heaving.
At least they can’t get my shirt off with my arms pinned like this. When they try, I’m gonna claw somebody’s eyeballs out. For real.
Xavier hands Nyah something shiny. She flicks it open. A pocket knife.
My eyes widen. I fight harder, jerking and writhing as hard as I can. Hot tears of humiliation and fear burn my eyes.
“What’re you waiting for?” Margot snarls. “Do it already!”
Nyah grabs a handful of my T-shirt and rips the knife through it. She flips out the two sides of my shirt like she’s flayed me, like it’s my internal organs she’s displaying to the crowd, and not my faded bra and rolls of soft belly.
“She looks like a beached whale.”
“Trash.”
“Um, hello? Disgusting.”
Goosebumps pimple my stomach in the cold air. Shame engulfs me. My throat burns like it’s coated in acid. I’m naked, exposed to all of them. Their contempt and derision pelt me like rocks. Blood pounds in my skull. I want to curl up and die. I want to hurt them as badly as they’re hurting me. “Leave me alone! Let me go, you filthy bitch!”
“What should we do to teach her a lesson, Jazzy?” Margot asks.
Jasmine chews on her lower lip. Her face looks stretched, distorted. “I don’t know.”
Margot rolls her eyes. “Where’s your brains when we need them?” She picks up something from the sand. It’s the black Sharpie from the keg table. “What do you think, Jazzy?"
“I don’t know,” Jasmine says again.
Margot scowls. “I cannot even freaking believe what a pussy you are.” She holds the marker out to Nyah. “Show this ho what she is.”
Nyah hesitates.
“Hurry the hell up,” Margot snaps.
Nyah shakes her head. Her eyes are wide. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Are you even serious right now? I’ll do it myself.” Margot pushes Nyah off and grabs the marker.
She straddles me and writes on my stomach. The marker is cold as she presses it into my skin. I can’t tell what the word is, but I can guess.
Margot smirks. “That’s a good start. But it’s not enough.” She reaches out and plucks the pocket knife from Nyah’s hand. “We need to carve it into her. She’s a cutter already. She won’t mind a few more scars on her repulsive body, right Jazzy?”
“Margot.” I recognize Jasmine’s voice, trembling and hesitant. “Haven’t we done enough? Come on.”
Margot whirls on her. “Did I ask for an opinion? No? That’s what I thought. Now shut your ugly mouth or go away.”
From the back of the crowd, I hear several people mutter, “Let’s go.” But the rest, the ones surrounding me, they’re drunk and they’re rabid. They want a show, and Margot’s giving it to them. No one’s yelling, or jeering, or making any noise at all. They just stand there and watch, phones up, eyes glassy.
Bile stings the back of my throat. I gag. I try again to wrestle out of their grasp, but I’m held fast. Terror pulses through me.
Margot’s face contorts in a skull-like mask in the glow and shadow of the firelight. Her eyes are red. “Hold still or this will be worse,” she says in a low, cold voice. She points the knife and holds it against my skin. I suck in my breath, waiting for the pain.
The music stops. Something bangs on one of the tables behind me. A phone rings on speaker. “Hello. This is 911. What is your emergency?” the tinny voice rings out.
“I’m at the beach house at 9775 Beach Grass Dr. in St. Joe,” a girl shouts. “There’s an out-of-control party on the beach with underage drinking. Someone’s being attacked. Please send the police as fast as you can.”
Just like that, the crowd scatters. The hands holding me down disappear. Everybody’s making a mad dash for the path leading to their cars. I roll onto my stomach, gasping and choking for air.
“You’re dead,” Margot says in a voice dripping poison. I hear her footsteps pounding after the rest. It’s not until I pull myself to my feet that I realize she wasn’t talking to me. Arianna stands 20 feet away, her arms hanging loose at her sides, her cell phone in her right hand.
“You?” I force out. My throat is coated in gravel. Why the hell would a card-carrying member of the Bitch Squad call the police on her own best friends? My mind scrambles to comprehend what’s happening. “Why the hell did you just do that?”
She glares at me. Her whole body is shaking. “I couldn’t let them. I’m not a monster, no matter what you think.”
I shake my head, still not believing this is real
.
“I’ll wait with you for the police.”
“Hell, no. I have to get out of here.”
She gives me a sharp look. “That had to be illegal. She basically assaulted you.”
I wrap the jagged sides of my shirt around me. “No cops. I can’t.”
“She crossed a line. You should tell the police.”
I just shake my head harder. “No effing way. Why are you still standing here? Let’s go.”
She follows me up the path. We’re almost halfway up when Lucas meets us on the way down. “What’re you still doing here?”
Lucas makes a gesture with his hands. “I heard the yelling about the cops. I came down to make sure you were all right.”
“Does it look like I’m all right?”
He looks at me and then at Arianna. His gaze drifts down to my shirt. “Wait. What just happened?”
“Nothing gets past you, Sherlock.”
Sirens wail in the distance.
“I gotta go.” Panic grips me. I start running. I run around the house and head down the driveway. I’m past Lucas’s car when he catches up to me.
“I’ll take you home.”
I keep going, breathing hard. “No. I’m not going home. I can’t go home. Not like this. Not tonight.”
“Then where are you going to go?” he asks, bewildered.
“What do you care? I thought we agreed you were gonna leave me the hell alone.”
“I can still make sure you’re okay. Holy hell, Sidney. Take it down a notch.”
I can’t breathe and talk anymore. I stop running. I try to hold the two sides of my shirt together, but my whole body’s shuddering and my fingers are going numb. Post-traumatic stress or something.
Lucas stares at my shirt. “Who did that to you?”
“Who do you think?”
Something sharp and angry flickers across his face. He yanks off his hoodie and hands it to me.
I don’t want to take anything from him, but I don’t have a choice. I tug his sweatshirt over me as fast as I can. He catches a glimpse of the letters on my stomach and sucks in his breath. “Should you tell the cops?”
