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He looks over. “What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, you said something.”

I swallow anxiously, then repeat, “She tried.”

His mouth twists into a cruel smile. “Clearly not hard enough.”

I force my gaze back to the scratch. I don’t think of hospital lights or pretty pink polish or the pain in my fingers or my body or my heart.

One… two… three… four more poles pass.

Wade cracks his window and flicks his empty can out onto the street.

“You ask me, she should’ve made you play football or something,” he says.

“I’m not good at football.”

“No shit.”

My lips press together.

“You ever been in a fight?” he asks.

I hesitate, then quietly answer, “I don’t like fighting.”

“Everybody fights.”

I get hit, which isn’t the same.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

“You gotta know how to stand your ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fuck,” he suddenly complains. “You always agree with everybody like that?”

“Um, no…? Maybe?”

“Pathetic. Somebody calls you a fag, what’re you gonna do? Cry?”

I press my teeth together until the muscles in my cheeks ache. “No, sir—”

Wade cuts me off. “Hit him.”

I stare ahead. “Okay.”

“You don’t say okay. You fucking do it.”

“Yes, sir…”

“Some guy disrespects you, you put his ass down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Quit acting so fucking gay all the time.”