Page 24

It’s depressing to be amidst all the excitement but not to be a part of it. I never missed leading a normal life when I was inside my old community because my life was normal there. And maybe we didn’t have football games or drinking parties, but we did get together after school. I had a sleepover at someone’s house almost every Friday. It felt like enough, but if I returned to New Hope now, I’m not sure it would.

I just want to go home when the final bell rings, but I’m tutoring a freshman named Abby, so I trudge to the library instead.

It’s probably the loudest place on campus today, as everyone chats over iced coffees they had delivered, because so many kids are just remaining at school until the game starts. Abby shows up but spends half the session pretending she’s not on her phone.

I head to my locker afterward because the book Kappy bequeathed me this morning, the second in the Outlander series, is still there.

Something dark and sticky coats the locker’s exterior, but I learned my lesson after the shaving cream incident and lined the interior with a plastic bag, so everything is dry. I grab the book and am just about to turn around when I hear a noise. Before I can react, someone flies into my back, hitting me so hard that my face slams against the locker beside mine. For a moment I wonder if I’ve been hit by a car, as impossible as that is. The pain staggers me and I fall to my knees while a male in a football jersey whoops as he runs away.

My entire face hurts and my glasses are gone. My face is wet and when I look down, I see that my shirt is covered with blood. I feel across the floor for my glasses and discover them divided in half, one lens smashed. Finally, after this lonely, difficult day, I start to cry.

“Fuck you, Ford,” I say into my hands, my shoulders shaking. I did something decent for him—heaven knows why—but he won’t be decent back. All he had to do was ask them to stop.

I can’t walk three miles home without my glasses, and my father will be staying until the game ends tonight. I slide to the floor and call my mother’s number. “Mom, I need a ride.”

“Well, honey, you’re going to have to walk,” she begins. “I’m working at the book fair and⁠—”

“Someone just slammed me into a locker.” I begin to cry again. “My glasses are destroyed, and I can’t even see. I hate it here. I hate that you made me come here. I hate that I’ve got to tutor almost every afternoon and then walk three miles home because my bike is destroyed. I hate that I can’t ever complain to you about any of this without being scolded.”

I hate that coming here has broken me in a way I don’t think I’ll be able to fix. I wish I could add that, but I’ve already said too much.

I don’t even care that I’ve said too much. What is she going to take away from me? My bike is gone. I’m barely allowed to do anything.

What is even left to be removed?

There is a heavy moment of silence. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t tell your father.”

Right. Heaven forbid that my father, who took this job without asking any of us how we felt about it, should be bothered. Heaven forbid that my father, who has everyone patting him on the back for how giving he is, be forced to see what any of us have had to give up for him.

I climb to my feet slowly—when I wipe my tears with my sleeve, my shirt comes away blood-stained—and begin to trudge toward the exit. I’m nearly there when Ford comes around the corner. He’s blurry, but I’d know the shape of him anywhere.

“What the fuck?” he demands. “What happened?”

I hate that I’m crying in front of him. I hate that he’s finally getting to see the degree to which he’s won. “I got slammed into a locker.”

He moves closer, and his hand wraps around my arm. “Who did it?”

“Someone on the team,” I reply, jerking my arm away and turning for the exit. “I know you hate me and you blame me for your sister leaving, but are we even yet? I’m terrified every morning when I walk into this school. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I don’t hate you,” he says when I’m nearly to the door.

“If that was true,” I reply, walking outside, “you’d tell them to stop.”

My mother shows up at the school ten minutes later. Hope is wide-eyed at the sight of me, which warns that I must look pretty bad. I can tell that my lip is swollen and blood is trickling from my nose. I choose not to look in the mirror.

My mother reaches across the console and squeezes my hand. “Oh honey,” she says. There’s a quaver in her voice. “It’ll get better.”

No, actually, it won’t. She knows it won’t, and she won’t lift a finger to change that fact. She’ll protect my father from the information. She won’t fix my bike. All she can offer are promises we both know she doesn’t mean.

“I need new glasses now,” I tell her. “No, scratch that. I need contacts.”

“Contacts?” she asks, her brows shooting skyward. I’ve never asked for them before. They cost more than glasses, and I knew I’d be told they were vain. “I don’t think⁠—”

“I get hit every single day,” I tell her between my teeth. “There’s no point in getting another pair of glasses. They’re just going to get broken again.”

Her mouth opens to argue, but even someone with the most basic grasp of statistics would agree that I’m right.

“Okay,” she says. “We’ll tell your dad it’s a birthday present.”