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Well, maybe their parents had been hippies and taught at Berkeley, but that didn’t stop their children from being nightmares.
They were not glad to have a weird goth girl show up in their class at the very end of their high school experience. I was a very unwelcome addition. They did not hesitate in letting me know their feelings on the subject.
I thought some of the petty bullshit they pulled was only the kind of thing you saw on TV. Some of the boys actually dunked one of the other scholarship kids in the trash can. Like, completely upside down in the trash can, his scrawny leg sticking out. Then they’d knocked the trashcan over.
They hadn’t bothered with me too much until I ran over and helped him out. The boy didn’t thank me. He just scurried away and then their wrath turned to me.
I spent the rest of the three months with Trailer Trash Slut painted on the inside of my locker, because they wanted to show they had all the power. Even the power to access my things. I finally stopped leaving things in my locker and just hefted around all my books with me all day long. My back hurt by the end of each day, but at least they couldn’t fuck with my things.
Not engaging with them didn’t make it better, though. They just found new ways to torture me. One girl especially, Becca, really hated me. Her father was the president of the school’s Board of Governors, their fancy name for a School Board. She could get away with murder at that school and no one would ever say a thing.
She emptied about twenty pudding cups into my locker and when it all started to smell and drip out, I was the one who got in trouble for it. There were constant comments about my hygiene, as if just because I was poor, I must not know how to shower regularly even though I was always hyper conscious of it.
The boys would touch me in the hallway as they passed me, sometimes approaching in a giant group I couldn’t escape. One of them was Becca’s boyfriend.
So, I got further punished by her for her boyfriend’s casual daily assaults.
Part of me was just like, seriously? Who even had such time for such petty bullshit? Becca Whitley did. She fucking delighted in it.
“So…” Rafe finally broke into the silence, setting me on my feet. Instantly, I hated the cold. It was fairly balmy for a spring night, and still—
All I wanted was to be in his arms again.
“God, Fall. I’ve missed you.”
My nose stung at his admission. No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t go and be all sweet when my shields were down like this. Because the truth was, they were down. After tonight, after all the emotional energy even just being in this place took out of me, I couldn’t hold them up any longer. Not when I was with Rafe.
I just nodded in return, swallowing hard. I didn’t trust my voice, and I wasn’t sure I could have admitted that I missed him even if my throat was working.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
I nodded again. I might survive this evening if only he didn’t require any actual human words from me. He took my hand and pulled me towards the lake. I was too busy reveling in the place where his skin made contact with mine to resist. Even through the paint, I could feel the tingles lighting me up like a sparkler in my hand.
The water was cold, it felt freezing even though I knew it was far from it. It was mild out, maybe seventy degrees. Rafe was still gentle as he pulled me into the lake after him, walking in first like he always liked to do so he could make sure the ground was steady for me.
What he didn’t know was that the ground was always unsteady when he was around.
Especially now, considering that we used to—
“Remember when we used to do this?” Rafe asked, echoing the same thought I’d been having.
“Yes,” I managed to squeak out. Did he think I could forget? We’d only gone out to the lake a few times. Not this particular lake, but one just outside Darlington.
It was secluded, on some land adjacent to the acreage Rafe’s family owned. We had to jump a fence to get to it, but the trespassing only added to the excitement. Every moment with Rafe felt like an adventure, something out of a storybook.
Especially the night he’d first stripped off his shirt and then run down the dock and dived into the lake. He’d disappeared underneath the water, black in the night with only the moon overhead. He disappeared under so long I’d started to get worried.
But then he popped back up, his shorts in hand. He tossed them back up on the dock and then swam backwards, taunting me.
