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So I improvised.
And got caught and sent to detention.
Where I met him.
The guy who’d become my bully for the next however many years I was to go to that stupid school – St. Patrick’s has both middle and high school wings.
When girls my age were falling in love with cute boys, I was falling in hate with Zach. When boys were asking them out on dates, carrying their backpacks, opening their doors, Zach and his minions were pushing me through them.
They were tripping me in the hallways, spilling drinks on my uniform and my homework. They were hiding my blue car and sending me hints on my phone as to where it could be.
Not to mention, they were Photoshopping my face on every cheese commercial that they could find on the internet, and calling me Thunder Thighs, Jiggly Lump, Lard Ass. You know, because I love eating and I’m not exactly a delicate flower when it comes to my body.
And while his minions were doing his dirty work, Zach would simply stand there and stare at me. Sometimes he’d smirk. Especially when I fought back.
Oh yeah, I fought back.
I wasn’t helpless. I was far from it.
In fact, I punched him in the face a day after I met him because they’d slashed my books and scattered the pages all over the hallway.
My dad always taught me to stand up for myself and I did.
Countless times.
I’d break into their lockers and steal their homework. I used to key their cars. One time, I even got into this big fight with one of the girls in his inner circle because she hid my clothes after a gym class and sent boys into the locker room to gawk at me. It became a whole big thing at school.
For years, I’ve plotted ways to murder them.
To murder Zach.
I would have too, if he hadn’t gone away. But now he’s back and I’m acting like I’m in school again.
I’m looking left and right, walking very, very slowly lest I slip on something. Something like a banana peel, deliberately planted so I’d step on it and so people could laugh at my ungainly, curvy, jiggling body.
I’m jumping every time someone calls my name. Someone laughs and I tighten my muscles and narrow my eyes, preparing myself for the punch line, which I definitely think involves me. I’m flexing my fists, remembering the right technique to make one like I’ve been teaching Art. I’m thinking up ways in which I can fight back.
I’m drowning in anger and hate and I haven’t even seen him yet.
Gah.
So in order to regroup and act like an adult, I’ve shut myself up in the service closet by the kitchen. The party’s on and I’m supposed to serve champagne, instead of drinking it myself and sitting on a large mopping bucket.
But whatever.
They’ll survive without me. A lot of the cleaning and cooking staff are serving tonight, including me. I used to be a waitress back on the south side and I need the extra cash, so I always volunteer for such events.
Suddenly, the closet rumbles and shakes, making me yelp. Dust falls from the ceiling and the tray full of champagne flutes set on the floor vibrates.
Someone’s knocking at the door.
“Cleo.”
My tensed shoulders sag at the familiarity of the voice. It’s Tina.
I press a hand to my heaving chest, lean over and unlock the door, letting her enter. In contrast to me, her blonde hair looks put-together and she looks very polished in her uniform. I’m pretty sure my mascara has smudged with the nervous sweat and I’ve already chewed off my lipstick.
“What are you doing in here?” she asks, her expression concerned in the meager light of the yellow bulb.
