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“It’s okay,” I whispered, brushing my skirt down. “I’m okay.”
“Are you?”
I nodded but kept my gaze down. I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want him to see me.
Not like this.
“Shannon?”
“I need to go,” I croaked out, and then stepped around him, moving for the main building.
With my head down, I hurried into the main building and straight to the third-year locker area.
Breathe.
Stop panicking.
Just breathe.
When I reached the locker area, which was thankfully empty, I let my schoolbag fall from my shoulders and pressed my forehead against the cool, hard metal, inhaling sharp, audible breaths.
Trembling, I leaned my forearms against the locker and just held my head, desperately trying to get a handle on this ridiculous terror threatening to possess me and to stop my body from going into vomit mode.
My legs were shaking so badly I knew I wouldn’t make it to the bathroom in time, so my only hope was to calm myself down before I threw up. Too late, I thought to myself just as my legs buckled beneath me.
I dropped to the floor on my hands and knees, as my stomach emptied itself right there in the middle of school. I didn’t have much in my stomach to begin with, I never usually had, but the water and half bar of chocolate I had at lunch made a reappearance in glorious fashion.
The sound of footsteps pounding down the corridor filled my ears and I groaned to myself, knowing that I would never in a million years live this one down.
Moments later, I felt a hand on my back as someone knelt down beside me and pulled my hair back from my face.
“It’s okay.” Johnny’s voice filled my ears as he rubbed soothing circles over my spine with his big hand. “Shh, you’re okay.”
Oh god, no.
Why did he do that? Why did he follow me?
He wasn’t supposed to talk to me.
That was the plan.
I dry heaved for a solid two minutes longer before my stomach finally settled, and all the while he knelt beside me, holding my hair out of my vomit and rubbing my back.
“Are you okay?” Johnny asked when I was breathing again and not gawking.
I nodded weakly and then felt his hand still on my back. I coiled tight on instinct.
“What’s this?” I heard him ask moments before his fingertips grazed my neck, right above the collar of my school shirt. “Your neck is bruised.”
Panic seized my heart as I felt him shift more of my hair aside and touch my neck again.
“Shannon?” Johnny repeated. “How’d you get this?”
“It’s old,” I croaked out, still gasping for air.
“Doesn’t look old,” he replied, touching my neck.
“Well, it is,” I strangled out, shaking off his touch.
