Interim (11 page)

“Why?” she asked.

“Because that girl has been bullying my brother for years, and it was time she got a taste of her own medicine,” Brandon replied.

Regan furrowed her brows. “Huh?”

That made absolutely no sense. She’d never once seen Hannah even look at Jarrod.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m that same jackass from middle school. That I haven’t changed at all. You know, Regan, it really hurts my feelings that after three years of dating, you have no idea who I am. Have you not seen the changes? Do you not know me? Have I not shown you exactly the type of stand-up guy I am? Apparently not. Apparently you think I’m an asshole for sticking up for my little brother. Well, that’s fine then. I’ll just have to keep on being an asshole because no one’s gonna intimidate and humiliate my family. No one.”

Brandon climbed out of his seat even as his friends urged him to stay.

“Nah, man, I’m outta here,” he mumbled to Ethan, who shot Regan a nasty look.

They watched Brandon toss his lunch tray on the top of a trashcan at the cafeteria exit and disappear through the door.

“Nice,” Ethan said.

“Ethan, stop,” Casey replied.

“What is your problem?” Ethan directed the question to Regan.

“I . . . I know what I heard,” she faltered.

“Yeah. You heard a guy defending his brother. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Ethan demanded.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Regan snapped.

“Get all the information first before you start passing judgment,” Ethan said.

He, too, left the table in a huff, and Regan was left alone with Casey and Brandon’s other friends—the ones she never talked to. They stared at her for a moment before resuming their conversations.

“Are you okay?” Casey asked.

“I know what I heard,” Regan repeated.

“I don’t doubt it,” Casey replied. “But maybe there was a reason. You know, like he said.”

“He was awful, Casey,” Regan said. “I mean, he asked her if she was a girl or a guy.”

Casey stifled a giggle.

“Seriously?” Regan asked.

“I’m sorry, but it’s kinda funny. I mean, I’ve been wondering that for the longest time.” Casey crinkled her brow. “Never occurred to me to just ask her.”

Regan sat stunned, staring at her best friend, wondering how she’d come this far—how she went from being Hannah to this abhorrent human being.
Why am I friends with this chick?

She jumped up from the table then leaned over Casey’s shoulder, her lips millimeters from Casey’s ear.

“Have a little compassion.” Her voice was low and threatening. “You used to be her. Remember? You were an outcast, too. People picked on you constantly. People made you cry. Like, a lot. I remember. And so should you.”

She walked away, leaving Casey to sit alone and digest her words. The truth, whether she fucking liked it or not.

~

I hate my life. I wanna know how people survive this. They go on to have jobs—careers, even—families, houses, friends. Lives. How do they do it? How do they experience what I experience daily and move on? Are they robots? Do they lack feelings? Maybe they have a reset button. Maybe they push it every morning before they get out of bed. Where the fuck is my reset button? I just have a trigger, and every day I’m tightening the grip. If I pull back all the way, can that count as my reset?

~

“Regan?”

She huffed and puffed. “Yeah?”

“What’s going on?” her dad asked.

He stood hunched over, cradling the soccer ball in the crook of his sore arm.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, something tells me you’re pretending this is someone’s head,” her dad replied, holding up the ball. He tossed it to her.

She dribbled in a wide circle, then lined up for the kill shot. He could see it on her face: Fuck everyone.

“Oh, God,” Mr. Walters breathed.

Smack!

“Ouch! Okay! Enough!” he bellowed, dropping the ball and holding up his fiery red palms. “Look at these!”

Regan rolled her eyes. “Where’s Caroline? Caroline can be the goalie.”

“The hell she can!” he cried. “You’ll sever her arms!”

“Dad, I told you to wear gloves.”

“Regan, I appreciate your skill. I do. I just don’t think anyone in your immediate family is in a position to help you practice it.”

Regan stared.

“I want you to take those feet all the way to the top. I do. Especially since you have no college fund.”

She smirked.

“But I can’t have you taking me out in the process.”

“Understood.”

“Or your sister. Or mom.”

Regan said nothing. She simply held out her hands.

“We’re done here,” Mr. Walters said, throwing her the ball a final time.

She nodded and popped it in the air, passing it to herself. Her dad watched as she bounced the ball from foot to foot, every now and then catching it behind her back. She paused.

“What’s up with the no college fund thing, anyway?” she asked.

“Retirement,” he replied.

She nodded. “Makes sense. I’d pick my own retirement over my kid’s education any day.”

“You’re skilled
and
smart,” Mr. Walters noted, and she laughed.

She continued juggling the ball on the tops of her feet and thighs, knocking it a few times against her chest and head. She caught it on the top of her left foot and froze at the sound of her father’s question.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Regan. I’m not dumb. You’re happy when you practice. Today, you’re not happy.”

She rolled her ankle and let the ball plop on the ground.

“What do you think about a person who sees something unjust happening and does nothing to stop it?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t think much of that person,” her dad responded.

“What if the person’s scared?”

“Of what?”

“Of the person who’s doing the unjust thing,” she said.

Her father narrowed his eyes. “Is the person doing the unjust thing in a position of power?”

She thought a moment. “Yes.”

“As in adult power?”

She shook her head.

“Then perhaps an adult should be brought into the picture,” her dad said.

“Isn’t that like tattling?”

“Is the unjust action a major threat to someone else?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, it’s not tattling. It’s called doing what’s right.”

Regan picked up the ball with her foot. She juggled a few times, but her heart wasn’t in it. She tossed the ball to her right where it rolled out of range.

“What if the person’s afraid of retaliation?” she asked.

“Regan, what’s going on?”

“Dad, it’s all just hypothetical. We’re discussing this stuff in Journalism. You know, ethics and all that.”

Mr. Walters chewed his lip. “Well, there’s always a chance for retaliation. That’s the nature of our world. We can’t lock ourselves away from evil. It’ll eventually find us. What matters is justice. Doing what’s right no matter the consequences. Because if we don’t do what’s right, how can we live with ourselves? How can we ask our children to do what’s right?”

She nodded.

“I hope my daughters do what’s right every single day of their lives,” he said softly.

“That’s a tall order, Dad,” Regan replied.

“I know, but that’s still my hope. And I can hope whatever I want.”

Regan grinned. “Let’s aim for ninety percent of the time.”

Mr. Walters shook his head. “Nope. I wanna be one of those overbearing parents. One hundred percent, all the way.”

“I fail,” she said flippantly, tossing her hands.

She walked to the back door. Her dad followed. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she paused in the doorway.

“Never be afraid to do what’s right,” he said behind her, like her conscience was emerging from the back of her brain.

The words “I won’t” stuck in her throat. She couldn’t say them yet because she didn’t believe them.

Later that night, she stared at the blinking cursor, fingers poised above the keys. She knew what she wanted to type. She just needed the courage to do it.

I’m a coward.

She watched the cursor flicker beside the word “coward,” emphasizing it—growing it bigger in her brain.

A fucking coward.

She wanted to be cruel to herself.

And I need to lose weight in my gigantic boobs. Who has boobs like these? And any girl who’s like, “Oh my God, I’d kill for your boobs” is a fucking dumbass. She has no idea the shit I have to go through to get ready for a match. For practice, too! Taping them down. What the fuck? Who the fuck has to tape down her fucking boobs in order to kick a fucking ball around?

Oh my God, I’m so fucking angry. I hate my body. I hate my cowardice. I know Brandon is lying to me! There. I said it. Happy?? I know he’s lying to me about Hannah, and I’m letting him. I’m letting him lie and get away with it. Why?

Now the word “why” was emphasized by the flashing cursor. She stared at it—through it—typing the answer.

Because I’m a coward.

***

For an entire week she avoided him. And he avoided her, too. So this was how it would be. She thought the journal might force a friendship between them, but it did nothing except grow hostility. She couldn’t shake his words:
“Tell me your secrets! I have a right to know!”
He did have a right. If she really thought about it, which she did constantly, he had every right to know her most private thoughts. After all, she violated his.

What bothered her most was the fact that daily life at school continued as before. She hoped for a significant shift. There was none of that. There were the same old faces, the same old conversations, the same old lame ass boyfriend she was too afraid to dump. She actually apologized to Casey even though she knew she said nothing wrong. She just wanted to smooth things over. She couldn’t make sense of her warring spirits—the bullheaded fighter and the pathetic pleaser. The pleaser kept winning! She frowned every time she thought of that conversation with her dad. She wanted to be a better person, a stronger person. She wanted to do the right thing. But she wasn’t doing anything except improving her soccer game.

She passed the foreclosed house, then stopped. She wasn’t ready to go home. She turned around instead and headed for the oak tree. She sat behind it, safely hidden from the street view, and pulled her knees to her chest.

“It’s okay,” she said, hugging Casey close to her breast.

Casey cried unabashedly. Regan could feel the black paint seep between the fibers of her friend’s sweater to soak her own, but she didn’t care.

“Mom’s gonna kill me!” Casey wailed.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Regan replied.

“It . . . it’s a brand-new sweater.” Casey hiccupped. “I . . . I should have walked h-home the other way.”

“Are you crazy?” Regan asked, pulling away from her friend. “You can walk wherever you want!”

Casey shook her head. “No. I should have gone down Sumter. He said he’d be waiting.”

Regan growled. “I’ll get him. And her.”

“No, Regan! Just don’t do anything! You’ll make it worse.”

“No, I won’t. Once I’m done with them, they’ll never bother you again,” Regan promised.

She took off, ignoring her best friend’s pleas as she tore down the street. She knew where Alexia lived. She knew where Ethan lived. Side-by-side. Double whammy.

“Alexia!” she screamed from the sidewalk. “Get out here!”

No one emerged.

“Hey, Ethan! Get out here, or are you too chicken?!”

A door opened.

“Get real,” Ethan said, popping his head out. “I’m not scared of anything.”

“Well, come down here and tell that to my fist,” Regan replied, balling her hands and lifting them beside her face. She noticed Alexia in her periphery.

Ethan threw his head back and laughed.

“I mean it!” Regan cried.

“I don’t fistfight with girls,” Ethan replied.

“No, you just throw black paint all over them for no good reason. You’re a fucking jerk!”

And that was the first time she ever said the f-word. Twelve years old. Seventh grade. Four thirteen in the afternoon on October 26.

“Fuck off, Regan,” Ethan replied.

“What? You scared? You scared of a girl?” she taunted.

That was the ticket. He sauntered down the front steps and stood directly in front of her.

“Take your best shot, little girl,” he sneered.

Open invitation. She couldn’t refuse. She aimed for his eye. Her fist made contact with his nose instead. Sickening crunch! Instant blood. Blood everywhere. Ethan wailed for his mother, who wasn’t home from work. He lurched toward Alexia whose terrified face disappeared behind her front door. Regan moaned at the shooting sparks lighting up her knuckles. What the hell? The punch was only supposed to hurt the other guy, right?

She burst out laughing even as the tears coursed her cheeks. She instinctively rubbed her knuckles, erasing the ghost pain that returned with the memory.
Ohhh
to sock Ethan in the face once more. She’d give anything. She’d take anything, including expulsion. But then where would that leave her future soccer career?

“Nowhere,” she admitted aloud.

She fell silent at the sound of crunching leaves directly behind her. She held her breath, hoping the intruder would carry on and leave her in peace. She wasn’t afraid. She was annoyed at the bother.

“Hey,” Jeremy said.

She wiped surreptitiously at her face, but he knew she’d been crying. Crying
and
laughing at the same time—a trick only a girl could pull off.

She didn’t answer. He sat beside her, knowing he was unwelcomed. He took the chance anyway, hoping she wouldn’t leave. She didn’t. She didn’t acknowledge his presence either.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged. “For what?”

“For what I said about the sex being worth it,” he replied.

She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. “That happened, like, a week ago. Who cares?”

It was dismissive and passive aggressive and everything he knew would be her response.

“You do,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I do, too. It was wrong, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

“I don’t care.”

But he was right. She did care. She cared very much. And not even a return to her style roots could clothe the embarrassment she felt at being a spineless girlfriend to a bully.

“You don’t have to care,” Jeremy replied. “But I wanted you to know that I’m genuinely sorry. You’re right: I am the good guy here. I should be acting like it.”

His words did nothing but fuel her anger.

“I don’t care about your fucking journal,” she spat. “I know that’s why you really came here. I’m not saying anything about it. You hear? I don’t give a shit. I have my own problems.”

“I came here to apologize,” Jeremy said.

Regan jumped up. “I don’t need your apology! I don’t care about it! You don’t know anything about me! How about this: I’m a virgin, asshole!”

She grabbed her bag and stormed off. Jeremy followed.