Marcella is right, after all: Withdrawal is a bitch.
“Did I miss anything in first period?” Lindsay asks Marcella, trying to turn the conversation around. They slip into a discussion about biology and I slip into blissful self-meditation, ignoring them completely.
After lunch I head out to the parking lot toward my car, eager to find a little bit of peace and quiet away from all the drama. The whole parking lot is slippery, in desperate need of salt. I slip and fall twice before I get to my car, but it’s so cold I give up after fifteen minutes and head back inside.
I take my sweet time heading to the library, finally forcing myself to push open the door and walk inside. The scene in front of me doesn’t disappoint. T.K. is seated at his usual table, his face nuzzling the neck of his Barbie doll. He must hear the door click open, because the second I step through the threshold, his head lifts and his eyes find mine. I give him my most disdainful glare before I find a seat as far from him as possible.
“Hey.” Mitch slides into the seat across from me, much to my annoyance. “How’s it going?”
“What do you want, Mitch?” I’m not in the mood to bother with niceties. I got his grade up in English. What more does he want?
“I thought I would say hi.” I hold my glare as he holds his hands up in surrender. “I never see you in here anymore. Where have you been going?”
“How is that any of your business?”
“God, Raye, I’m trying to be nice to you. You don’t have to be such a bitch all the time.”
“We both know you deserve every bit of attitude I throw at you, Mitch, so you can go straight to hell.” I’m not in the mood to deal with him today, especially not if he’s going to act like a victim.
“What’s the problem, buddy?” Derek, a chubby meathead of a boy says, coming to stand behind Mitch. Our voices have attracted the attention of some of his football teammates sitting at the next table.
Lovely.
“There’s no problem, D. I’m wasting my time, apparently.” Mitch stands, his chair vibrating along the rough carpet as he slides it under the table with more force than required. “Don’t worry, Raye, it won’t happen again.”
“Great! Problem solved!” I cheer. “Go away now.” I make a dismissive gesture with my hand, waving them away.
“What the hell’s your problem? I’m sorry I cheated on you three fucking years ago, after you went nuts, swallowed a shit-ton of pills, and threw yourself at me. Sorry if I couldn’t handle all your crap when I was thirteen. It’s not my problem your dad went and drove himself off a fucking bridge.”
I lose it.
One moment, I’m a composed statute of indifference, the next I’m smashing my fist into Mitch’s face, clawing at Derek’s arms as he tries to swat me off, and screaming profanities at the pair of them as someone shouts for help. I land another clean hit to Mitch’s nose before a pair of steel arms wrap around my waist, lift me off the ground, and pull me away.
I kick out in anger, trying to fight my way back to Mitch and his bloodied face.
Not bloodied enough!
“You son of a bitch!” I yell, as the arms wrapped around my waist carry me from the library. I don’t stop fighting until I’m sitting on a bench outside the school, freezing to death in my thin sweater. Mitch’s blood clings to my knuckles.
“Here,” T.K. says, unzipping his hoodie and wrapping it around my shoulders.
I swat it off, enjoying the sound of the zipper hitting the concrete below. “I didn’t ask for your help,” I snap at him, angry and embarrassed that after nearly two years of remaining calm and collected, I finally lost it.
Over Mitchel fucking Wright of all people.
“I don’t think you were the one who needed my help back there. You hit that guy pretty hard. You may have even broken his nose.” If I didn’t know better, I would think there’s a hint of pride in his voice.
“Yeah, well, he deserved it.” I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. T.K. puts the sweater back around me. I let him only because I’m suddenly too exhausted to fight.
“What was all that stuff he said about your dad? About cheating on you? You don’t seem like the kind of girl who gets cheated on. You know, unless the guy has a death wish.”
“More like the other way around,” I laugh bitterly. I take a breath in and rest my head in my hands. My fist is throbbing.
T.K. pries my hand away from my face, examining it. I rip it away, which causes a sharp pain to shoot up my arm. A broken hand would be my luck.
“Let me look at it,” he says, reaching for the hand again. He moves my fingers around and rubs his thumb along my knuckles, wiping off some of the blood. I hate how good it feels to have him touch me.
I hate him, I remind myself.
Wrapping a ball of snow in a glove from his pocket, T.K. holds it to my hand. It doesn’t stop the throbbing, but it does lessen it a little.
“When I was thirteen, my dad drove his car off a bridge,” I say, focusing on the glove. I feel T.K.’s hand tighten briefly under mine.
“He did it on purpose?” His voice is low, trying not to scare the truth from seeping out.
“Yeah, there was a note.”
“I’m sorry, Raye. I didn’t know.” T.K.’s voice is softer than I’ve heard it in months, possibly ever. It makes the anger bubble inside me, but my throbbing hand holds me back.
“Why would you?” My voice is harsh. I need to calm down. “After everything, I kind of lost it. My mom started working a lot, and I was always alone. Mitch and I had been dating for a while at that point. We grew up together,” I laugh bitterly, remembering what once was. “I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Lindsay. So it just happened, you know? Once we started junior high, I mean. One minute we were friends, the next we were dating.
“Anyway, I figured he would be there, you know? He always was before. I didn’t see why that would be any different. But like I said, I sort of lost it. An older guy gave me some weed one day after I cut class, and it dulled everything. So it became a thing. Eventually I found other things that worked even better.” I shrug, unable to stop myself from talking. The words are pouring out of me. I will them back in, but out they come.
“One night a kid from school threw a party, and Mitch and I were invited. He had been so distant, so when he suggested we go together, I became excited. After we arrived, he brought me to this room and said Sydney, the girl hosting, told him we could use it.
“We–well, we didn’t…you know, but we came close enough,” I say, glancing up at T.K.’s eyes. He’s watching me intently, barely breathing. I don’t see any point in stopping. My life is out there now, may as well let the word vomit flow. “The next day at school, someone told me he did the same thing with another girl later the same night, after I passed out. When I confronted him about it, he broke up with me.” A small laugh escapes my throat. Better than tears.
“I mean, we were kids. Way too young for sex, or cheating, or even dating.”
T.K. waits a few beats, making sure I’m done. “That explains a lot.” He turns over the glove to press the colder side to my hand.
“I’m not telling you to explain myself,” I snap, looking up at him.
“Why are you telling me?”
“To prove he deserved it,” I say lamely, realizing how bad that sounds.
Why did I tell him?
T.K. laughs, the sound as warm as ever. “I never doubted he did.”
His laugh reminds me I hate him, and he’s the last person I should be sitting out here with, baring my soul to. I tug my hand out from under his and stand, letting his sweater fall to the ground. “Your Barbie must be looking for you,” I say, my voice arctic. “You should go back now.”
“Raye, I’m not leaving you when you’re like this.” His voice is still soft and consoling.
For some reason, that bothers me more than when it is indifferent. I don’t want his sympathy. “I’m fine. Run along now.” I cross my arms over my chest,
raising my eyebrows in wait. Run along now, I beg silently.
T.K. looks at me for a long moment before he throws his hands up. “I don’t know why I bother.” I watch, still as stone, as he picks up his sweater and walks away.
“Neither do I!” I yell as the front doors slams shut behind him.
Once again, I’m left all alone.
Stupid, idiotic girl.
CHAPTER 9
“They don’t mean anything, you know,” T.K. says, focused intently on his hands. His bronze skin is twinkling in the last remains of the sunset.
“I never thought they did.” I don’t want him to look at me and see how upset I still am. Everything is wrong when we meet here. I can’t control my emotions. I can’t even control them enough to care that I can’t control them. Yet, as hard as I try to be elsewhere, his call always drags me in.
T.K. looks up at me, a touch of his old tenderness returning. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”
“Isn’t that the point?” I struggle to free myself from his presence–I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to be here at all.
Out, out, out.
I want out!
I wake up suddenly, sheets tangled around my limbs, my hair matted to my sweaty face.
I’m getting a little sick of the dreams. It’s bad enough I have to see T.K. while at school–does he need to haunt my dreams as well? At least the death ones would bring me a little satisfaction. I have no use for a remorseful T.K., dreaming or otherwise.
To make matters worse, the dreams usually end in a less than G-rated scenario, which always, without fail, makes me hate myself. T.K. makes me feel vulnerable, and even in a dream that is unacceptable. How am I supposed to forget about someone who is drilled into my unconscious? I’ve contemplated taking some of my mom’s old sleeping pills to prevent the dreams, but my sobriety is the only thing I have going for me at this point, and watching Shawn suffer through his withdrawal doesn’t make me want to relive my own. When you’re an addict, everything is a gateway drug.
Frustrated with the bird nest that is my hair, I twist it into a knot on the top of my head and throw on my favourite ripped jeans and a red button-up blouse.
“Morning, honey,” Mom calls as I enter the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom.” I reach for my mug.
“Will you be home after school?”
“Yes, Mom.” I toss a granola bar into my bag.
“Do you feel like cooking, or should I pick something up?”
“I’ll cook, Mom.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”
As I step out the door, I notice our driveway and front steps have been freshly salted, saving me from what promised to be a slippery walk to the car. I guess Mom finally tossed some money at the snowplow guys, encouraging some extra effort on their part. It’s about time.
I’m not so lucky at school. I slide at least a dozen times on my walk up to the front doors, finally falling flat on my ass right before I reach the safety of the carpet. I look up to see T.K. standing against the wall with the Barbie doll snuggled up to his side, trying to contain a laugh.
“Bite me,” I grumble, lifting myself up.
“Don’t tempt me,” he calls back, earning himself an impressively enraged look from his doll. He rolls his eyes at her, mumbles something, and pushes off the wall, walking away.
I guess it is time for a replacement.
“Would Raye McKenna please report to the Principal’s office,” the loudspeaker announces overhead.
I cringe. I’ve been expecting a summoning; I was naïve to hope it would take place a little later in the day. I stop at my locker for a moment before making my way to the office, shoulders straight as though I’ve done nothing wrong.
Aren’t right and wrong subjective, anyway?
Principal Lawrence is waiting for me behind her desk, her fingers laced tightly together and an unhappy expression etched on her face. I slump into my usual chair and cross my arms.
“I have math class,” I say, sticking out my lip in defiance. Childish, yes, but I don’t want detention with Mr. Okar. He likes to assign difficult equations in his detentions; points deducted if you’re wrong, a ripped up answer sheet and a warning if you’re right.
“I was very disappointed to hear about yesterday’s incident,” she tells me, ignoring my comment.
“My heart breaks for you.” My voice is flat, a reflection of my expression.
“What happened, Raye? You were doing so well.”
“I still am. It’s hardly my fault Mitch decided to be a jackass. He deserved to be hit harder, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t. You broke his nose, you know.” I try to hide the smile working its way onto my face. “Yet,” she continues, “I didn’t hear that from Mitchel himself. In fact, Mitchel is saying he walked into a bookshelf.”
“That bookshelf must have one hell of a swing,” I say sweetly, rubbing my bruised hand. Definitely worth it.
“Derek, however, is quite adamant it was you who hit him.”
I shrug.
“So, tell me, why would Mitchel lie?” She raises her eyebrows as though they can intimidate me into a confession. Who does she think she’s dealing with?
It is a good question, though. “I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Could it be he’s scared you’ll do it again?”
“Had I been the one to hit him,” I start, “I probably would have gotten out a fair amount of my aggression with the initial round of nose-breaking.”
Principal Lawrence gives me a first-class glare. I wonder if she’s been practicing in front of the mirror, because it is definitely better than it was a couple of years ago.
“Anything else?” I can hear the anthem playing through the crack in the door. Mr. Okar isn’t going to be impressed I’m missing the first part of his lecture, but I might be able to avoid a detention if I hurry.
“Actually, now that you bring it up,” she begins, her lips curling in satisfaction. My face falls. Detention it is. “The school’s talent show is coming up in a couple of weeks.”
“So? I know this will come as a tremendous shock to you, but I have few exploitable talents.”
“It’s not your talents I wish to make use of.” If not for the nasty gleam in her eyes, I may laugh at the innuendo. It’s not her typical sweet and understanding smile accompanying the gleam, either. No, this smile says she is about to request something unpleasant of me, and I’m not going to be given the option of saying no. I narrow my eyes, waiting for her to continue. “I need a coordinator. Mrs. Aaron was going to arrange the whole thing herself, but as I’m sure you’ve heard, the baby has come early and she started her maternity leave last week.”
“What, and you want me to organize the whole thing? I do not think so. Sorry. Not happening,” I say, my voice getting a little high. Spending the next two weekends trapped at school surrounded by drama queens and wannabe stars sounds like my own personal hell on Earth. Principal Lawrence’s expression says she is perfectly aware. In fact, it seems to be the cherry on top of her punishment sundae.
“Well, Miss McKenna, I’m not giving you a choice. In case you’ve forgotten, I haven’t written you a reference letter yet, and it’s this or suspension.”
We both know she isn’t giving me a choice, because we both know I will choose suspension.
“This wasn’t part of our deal,” I say, teeth clenched.
“Neither was punching Mr. Wright.”
“You know what? Screw the letter. My grades are flawless; I’ll be accepted into any school I want without your stupid reference letter.”
I’m bluffing. With my behavioural record, I need a handful of letters just to be considered at anywhere decent. Principal Lawrence knows that. “You can come back here Saturday morning for rehearsal. All the contestants have already been chosen. Your main job will making sure everyone goes on when they’re supposed to.”
“I hope you get hit by a bus,” I
mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
“I hope the show’s a hit,” I say flatly, getting up to leave. I make a point of slamming the door behind me as I go.
∆∆∆
“This is so exciting!” Lindsay cheers on the way to school Saturday morning. She offered to help me as soon as she learned of my new punishment, promising it would be ‘super fun’ if we did it together.
“How are you even finding the time to do this?” Lindsay is so far behind in her school work; it’ll be a small miracle if she manages to pass all her classes this semester. The horrible purple circles under her eyes and the paleness of her skin only confirm my worry. If she isn’t careful, she’s going to break apart soon, and Lindsay is rarely careful.
“It’s easy, since she’s allowed to bring her hostage with her,” Shawn grumbles from the backseat. I can make out most of what he says from context, but his voice is still choppy and slurred from his mangled tongue. Speech therapy didn’t help the way it should have. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cruz are working, and since he’s still under strict observation, we have the pleasure of dragging him along. To say he’s not great company would be a gross injustice. I never spent time around Shawn sans illicit substances, so I don’t know if he is naturally awful or still going through withdrawal.
“You know,” he says, kicking Lindsay’s seat, “when you fail all your classes and have to stay back a year, you’re going to need to find new friends. May I suggest some who are a little less damaged?”
I know he’s trying to bait me into snapping, probably in hopes it’ll result in him getting kicked out of the car. Unlucky for Shawn, after the Mitch incident, my emotions are under strict lock and key. I’m not going to snap any time soon. I hold in the comment about his personal extended stay in high school, keeping my eyes focused on the road.
BONDED Page 10
