“I didn’t hear anything,” he says.
“Oh. Well, the noise you didn’t hear was me, falling.”
Of course, there was no noise, and it’s getting harder to look at him, so I instead concentrate all my attention on the fruit bowl, studying each fruit in turn and at last, picking out an apple with as much care as I usually choose the next book I’ll read. All the while, I can feel Dad’s eyes on me, and red splotches of heat bloom on my nose and cheeks.
“You need to be more careful,” he says at last, and I exhale. I guess I was worrying for nothing. He’s just as naive as he is gentle. I could probably get my cherry popped right in front of him and he wouldn’t be any wiser. Not thatthat’sgoing to happen anytime in the near future. There isn’t a single person who can even stand to be near me these days, and the only boy I might once have daydreamed about is the one mainly responsible for making my life in high school hell.
Quill Nelson.
My stomach clenches nervously when I realize today is Monday, which means I’m going to spend much of the day in the same room with him. If there is a God, he sure must hate me. The only person who is in literally all of my classes—except the Friday ones—is none other than my bully number one.
And the worst thing about having Quill Nelson as your bully is that you can’t possibly hope to get revenge. You’re basically screwed when you’ve been chosen as his target.
The one tiny consolation is that the other bullies have mostly backed off. Though clearly, not entirely.
Sighing, I swallow some of the porridge that Dad has ladled out in bowls, then nearly choke when he says, “Maybe I should take you to the emergency room. Huh, Pumpkin?”
Uhm, no.
If Dad is late to work, he’ll lose his job, and that’s the last thing we need. He has no job protection, and without that income, I don’t even know what we’ll do. His asshole boss just happening to be Quill’s dad is the cherry on top, because it ensures that everyone would know the second he was fired. Going from Piper the janitor’s daughter to Piper the fired guy’s daughter is not a prospect I look forward to. Though I guess, in the eyes of snobby Astley, it’s not a major demotion.
More importantly, though, if we go to the emergency room, I’m pretty sure my story about falling down the stairs won’t hold.
“It’s fine, Dad, honestly,” I try to reassure him. “I just have a few bruises.”
“But maybe you’re injured worse than you think,” worries the family worrier-in-chief. “Maybe you have a concussion.”
“The first few hours are most important when it comes to concussions,” I tell him. I’ve read enough crime novels to know. “By now, there’s no more risk. I promise. It’s fine.”
Before he can argue more, I stand up, kiss him on the forehead and give him a hug, and hurry out.
“Let me drive you to school, at least!” he calls after me.
I yell back the words it feels like I’ve repeated a dozen times this morning. “It’s fine!”
_
By the time I’m sitting down in first period English, I’m definitely not feeling all that fine. Not because of the pain—I’ve gotten used to the dull throbbing sensation by now—but because of all the stares and whispers. Sometimes, I wonder if I prefer getting bullied or passing unnoticed. Obviously, the formeris upsetting, but the latter feels pretty soul-crushing. Today, though, there’s no question about it: Ireallywish I wasn’t the center of attention right now. Every time someone points to me or whispers something to their neighbor, I want to disappear five feet underground.
Life was so much better back before we moved here in fifth grade. Back in California. I actually had friends, we weren’tthatpoor, and no one cared, anyway. I wish Mom hadn’t pressured Dad into moving back to her hometown. I wish Dad hadn’t given in.
Still, even after three full years of high school, old habits die hard. Before Astley, I was an irrepressibly cheerful optimist. And now, although my skin throbs, although I feel humiliated and angry, I’m still searching for the silver lining, as I’ve always done. And I find it in Quill’s absence.
Thank God. He’s never late, so the fact that he isn’t here means he must be sick. I hope he has something really bad like mono that will keep him out for weeks or even months. Though a small part of me feels weird about that prospect. The strange, incomprehensible truth is that as much as I dread seeing him, a tiny pinprick inside me looks forward to it.
He’s spent the past three years making my life hell, but I guess old habits really do die hard. The first time I saw him in fifth grade, he beat up my bully. We went to different middle schools after that, so I barely saw him for a few years, and during that time, I created quite the fantasy. He was my silent protector, my white knight who’d come save me and take me away from this awful place.
I filled up notebook upon notebook of Quill and Piper Nelson scribbles. All for my illusions to shatter when his murderous gaze landed on me on the first day of high school.
Yet even now, although he’s become my worst tormentor, some small part of me still hangs onto the idea of what he oncewas. Or at least, what I once imagined him to be.
Today, though, there’s no part of me that doesn’t feel relieved that I don’t have to deal with him. I actually pay attention to Mrs. Gayle’s lecture about Jane Austen, and I feel vaguely interested, even though my usual rule when it comes to books is that if it doesn’t have a mystery in it, it isn’t worth reading.
But then, halfway through class, there’s a sudden knock on the door. I startle up in my chair, goosebumps pebbling down my back. The knob seems to turn in slow motion as my stomach just as slowly turns to lead. Somehow I just know it’s him. I can feel it. It’s like I have a sixth sense where assholes are concerned. Even before his left combat boot makes its appearance in the room, I’m already bracing for the moment when the rest of him follows.
He walks in, looking very unapologetic for someone who just missed half of class. His curly black hair tumbles over his eyes, framed by his usual black hoodie, but his skin is looking a lot paler than usual, like he hasn’t slept well. His eyes rake around the class as though he’s searching for an empty seat, even though no one would ever dare occupy the one that he usually sits in, at the very back of the room.
Then his eyes land on me, and the usual murderous expression in them somehow seems… even more murderous today. I’m used to his inexplicable, psychotic anger, but today, its seething intensity makes me shiver. I actually lean back against my chair, as if I can possibly hope to put meaningful distance between us. He doesn’t move for a beat, his eyes fixed on mine—no, not on mine. On the bruises decorating my face.