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“No, not like that.”
“Then like what?”
“They told me you were right. Later on, in the hallway as we walked to lunch. They said a girl couldn’t beat Will Lotham. Said I was being stupid for even trying. They told me I talked too much in class.”
“You didn’t.”
“Does it matter? They said I did. And then they told me to give them copies of my study guides.”
“What?” Real outrage flashes in his eyes. “I assume you said no.”
“Of course.” I look over at the pine server, where a pile of Zen stacking stones sits with great anticipation. The expectation of stress release is mocking me, telling me I’m derelict in not doing what I need to relax. Pressured by Zen.
Classic Mallory.
“And?”
“And they got mad.”
“And…?” This time, the word is drawn out in that way people say it when they’re really listening. He’s caught up in my story, half participant, half observer. I’m connecting him to behind-the-scenes events when all he has is the center stage. What’s in front of the backdrop is all Will’s memory has.
“One of them called me a name. It starts with c.”
Will growls.
“He told me I would regret it. He looked at his own hand and curled it into a fist.”
Will’s eyes go wide with astonishment, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out of him. But it’s a low sound, protective, and it’s invoking something dormant in me, a feeling that I can’t fight even if I try.
Leaning closer to me, as if entering my space to keep me safe, Will asks, “He threatened you?”
“It was implied.”
“Did you do anything about it?”
“Like what? Punch a two-hundred-pound freshman football player in the face?”
“No, like tell a teacher.”
“Tell her what? That he looked at his fist? Of course not. Really good bullies know how to skirt the line. He was gifted. If Harmony Hills had a gifted and talented class for bullying, Ramini would have been the teacher’s pet. Osgood could have been an extra on The Sopranos. And Fletch looked like the high school equivalent of a bouncer.”
“So it was Ramini? He could be a jerk sometimes.”
“He could be a jerk all the time, to some of us. But I’m not telling you which one it was.”
“It was Ramini, Osgood, or Fletch, though.”
I shrug.
“I–” Will deflates slightly, a hopelessly confused look on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I know I didn’t do it, but it feels like someone should tell that sensitive fourteen-year-old girl ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I didn’t bring this up to have a pity party.” I stand, thoroughly reeling, turning to leave.
“Mallory,” he says, grabbing my arm, making me stay. He has no idea what he is doing to my pulse. “I don’t think you’re doing that.”
