I shook my head. “Spiders are good. They eat the bad bugs. But like an ant, or a moth. Sometimes I just squash them, and I don’t even know why. Dad says it’s normal.”
She chewed her sleeve, thinking. “My mom says when you kill an ant, all its friends know. They follow the scent and come to get revenge.”
“That’s not true,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. “Maybe that’s why ants never die out. They’re always mad.”
She looked at her feet, then at my hand, the one still bandaged from the fight. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “He would have stopped eventually.”
I shrugged, but this time it wasn’t even on purpose. “It’s better if they’re scared.”
She looked at me hard, like she was trying to figure out if I was serious. I wasn’t sure myself. I liked the way the fight made me feel, but I also hated it a little, like eating too much sugar and wanting to puke after.
She asked, “Does it hurt?” and pointed to my hand.
I shook my head. “Not really. It’s mostly numb.” I pressed on the bruise just to prove it, hoping maybe she’d notice I was tough. But she just frowned, like I’d said something sad instead of something cool.
I wanted to tell her about the time I watched my dad punch a hole in the bathroom door and not even bleed, how after that I spent a whole afternoon poking my own knuckle against the wall to see if I could make it tough enough to break through.
I wanted to say that sometimes, when I was alone, I made lists of things I hated and her name always ended up at the top, but then I’d fold the paper up and hide it in my pillow and feel sick until I fell asleep.
“Thanks anyway,” she said.
I shrugged again. My whole life was one big shrug at this point. “Don’t mention it.”
We didn’t say anything else after that. The bell rang, and everyone poured out of the hallways like soap suds, and I watched her walk away without looking back. Her hair bounced against her shoulders, and the Band-Aid on her finger caught the light.
I didn’t follow her, but I wanted to, which was even worse.
All day I kept thinking about her. Every time I tried to pay attention, I’d see her in the corner of my eye.
I’d catch myself watching her and then hate myself for it.
After school, I caught up to her as she was walking out the front door.
I followed her, even though I didn’t want to look like I was following her, so I kept a few steps behind and kicked at every loose pebble on the sidewalk.
It was cold, the kind of cold that made your eyelashes stick together and your nose run, and the clouds looked like a big dirty sheet balled up over the sun.
Amelia walked like she was late for something, her skinny legs pumping hard, backpack bouncing against her spine.
She didn’t talk to me. I didn’t talk to her. But every block or so she’d glance back, like she was checking to see if I was still there, and when I was, she didn’t speed up or cross the street or yell at me to leave her alone.
She just kept going, and I kept going, and if that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.
It was silent except for the sound of our shoes and breath. I basked in it.
It was silent up until I heard the roar of engine coming from behind me. My body stilled, and I looked at Amelia one last time with panic settling in my blood as I realized whose car it was.
The sound was enough. A shuddery growl, like a dog right before it bites.
It was my dad’s Cutlass, the muffler hanging on by zip ties and hope. The car slammed into the curb, hit the brakes so hard the back end bounced, and for a split second I thought he’d just keep going, tear down the street and never look back.
But he didn’t.
The door flung open, and he was already half out before the car even stopped moving. He had the look, the one where his eyebrows made a straight angry line, and his mouth pulled tight.
I could see the can in his hand, beer foaming out around his knuckles. He saw me, saw Amelia.
“Caiden! The fuck are you doing?” he yelled, voice echoing off the brick and making everyone turn. My heart shrank down to a marble. I wanted to keep walking, to pretend I didn’t hear him, but my legs already knew better.
