Interim (21 page)

She pushed past him and strolled away without a second glance in his direction. The euphoria started in her feet—those feet that didn’t fail her! It shot up her legs and burst in her heart, forcing her hands to the sky and a triumphant “YES!” from her lips. She yelled it over and over, a new firework exploding in her heart each time she proclaimed the word. She walked all the way to her mother’s car with her hands stretched above her head, feeling the feather-light high-fives from all the angels in heaven.

That night the music permeated every square inch of the Walters home. No one made her turn it down because they knew she deserved it—loud, fist-pumping melodies that signaled her victory on the field and her bigger victory of the heart.

“Should we be worried?” Mr. Walters asked, watching his daughter bounce up and down spastically, completely oblivious to her parents’ presence in her open bedroom doorway. Caroline was there, too, trying hard to match her sister’s moves.

“I’ll let you know if and when I find her stash of furry leg warmers and glow sticks,” Mrs. Walters replied.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “and I don’t wanna know.”

Mrs. Walters smiled. “Better you don’t.”

She knew Regan’s euphoria wasn’t solely the aftereffect of a soccer victory, no matter her performance. And it was one hell of a kickass performance. Nope, this wasn’t all about soccer. This was about a girl who finally made a decision. A girl who stood up for herself.

The melody built to a fantastic explosion, and the girls yelled at the tops of their lungs, pumping their fists in halftime to the downbeat.

“Must we deal with the screaming, too?” Mr. Walters asked.

“For tonight? Yes,” Mrs. Walters replied. She took her husband’s hand and led him down the hall. “I’ll explain,” she said softly.

She glanced back to see Regan facing her direction, smiling brightly as she nodded her head to the music. Her mother nodded back—the unspoken understanding between them. And then she lifted her hand to her hip discreetly and curled it into a fist: the devil’s sign.

Rock on, baby. Rock on
.

~

The scariest part of my plan is the realization that I’ll be caught. There’s no other way. I’ll be caught, arrested, tried for murder, convicted, and jailed. I know this, and it’s something I’ve been preparing myself for ever since I devised the plan. Sure, there are outs. 1. I could kill myself, but I’ve no reason to do that. Haven’t done anything wrong. Killing the bad guys is what’s saving my life, so why on earth would I turn around and take it? Makes no sense. 2. I could have a shootout with the police. But I don’t wanna do that either. I don’t want to risk an innocent person becoming a victim. Not trying to sound like a badass or anything, but I’m a pretty fucking good shot. If they kill me, that’s fine. I understand they can’t see me as anything other than the perpetrator. The bad guy. It’s not their fault. So dying that way is okay. I wouldn’t blame them for doing what they thought was right. 3. I could give someone inside the building the opportunity to kill me. That could work, too. An altercation. They magically get the gun somehow. Maybe I can even help them sort of pull the trigger. They end up being the hero! Who doesn’t want to be the hero? Although, maybe they don’t want to be that kind of hero. People are weird about self-defense. Even justified, if they’re defending themselves with a gun, they still believe they did something wrong. I can’t have that on an innocent person’s conscience.

I guess that leaves me with surrendering. I’ll kill the bad ones, put down my guns, and wait for my justice.

~

“Are you seeing this?” Hannah asked, standing next to Jeremy at his locker.

He nodded.

“I mean, not like I really care or anything, but man. She’s getting hit pretty hard.”

He said nothing, watching in silence as Regan called out to Casey, who ignored her and walked away.

“She’ll go cry about it and then, in a week or so, wanna hang with us,” Hannah joked.

“Would that be bad?” Jeremy asked.

“Considering she’s dating my mortal enemy, uh, yeah. That would be bad.”

Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe she’s changed.”

“Putting shiny stickers on your face does not mean you’ve changed,” Hannah replied. She paused, thinking. “She must have broken some popular kid code, and they’re punishing her for it. I’m sure everything will be better tomorrow.” Her sarcasm-laced words instantly irritated him.

“Maybe,” Jeremy said.

He wanted to approach Regan, but it still didn’t feel safe to speak to her at school. He wasn’t afraid of Brandon anymore, but he also wasn’t searching for a fight. Not yet, anyway.

Regan stood fixed to her spot, staring down the hallway. Confusion twisted her face, and he thought she momentarily forgot where she was. Forgot where to go. Forgot her name. She lifted her hand to her cheek and picked off a jewel with her fingernail. He watched it fall to the floor. And then another. And then another until they all disappeared from her face. Her sparkle, gone.

He couldn’t stand it and headed toward her. He heard Hannah’s voice behind him, her words tinged with disbelief and bitterness: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Hey,” he said tentatively, standing close to Regan.

She looked up at him, brows knitted close together, like she was trying to remember who he was.

“You okay?” Jeremy asked.

“They’re ignoring me,” she replied. A faint whisper he couldn’t hear.

He bent his head closer and asked again.

“They’re ignoring me!” she screamed, and he reared back, shocked.

He shook his head. “Who’s ignoring you?”

“My friends! All my friends!” She looked back, staring down the hallway and whispered, “Casey.”

“Why?”

Regan whipped her head around, lips drawn in a thin line, eyes narrowed. The words were fighting to break through, and she clamped her mouth tighter.

“Just say it,” Jeremy said. He had an idea. He wanted her to confirm it.

Her breathing came faster as the anger rose—an emotional locomotive building steam at dangerously swift speeds. She knew she was about to derail, and she was taking him with her.

“You,” she said low and threateningly.

Jeremy scowled.

“You,” she repeated with more conviction.

He thrust his face in hers. “Me what?” he dared her. “Me what, Regan? What about me?”

The first period bell clanged above their heads, but neither moved. Neither so much as flinched at its shrill scream. No teachers in the hallway. No principal shouting for tardy students to move faster. They were quite alone.

“You did this to me,” she said.

And then her face registered the revelation, like she’d finally discovered the answer to a problem she’d been tackling for years. Years! Just like that, her brain understood. A connection made, and with it came a sort of twisted comfort in being able to legitimately lay blame on someone else. Not my fault but yours. Yours yours yours.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jeremy spat.

“It’s all your fault!” she screamed. “You did this to me! You rejected me! You forced me to go to them! I never wanted to go to them—to be friends with them! But you made me! And now look what you’ve done! I have NO ONE!!”

She’s crazy
, he thought.
She’s fucking crazy
.

“Why did you do it?” she shouted.

She tasted the salt of her tears at the corners of her lips and cursed herself for crying in front of him—for letting him see how much he hurt her.

“I don’t know what I did!” he fired back. “I have no idea what the hell you’re screaming about!”

“You rejected me!”

“I never rejected you!”

“YES, YOU DID!” And she came at him, fists balled tightly with purpose. She slammed them into his chest over and over, trying to expunge her pain with every punch.

Jeremy grabbed her wrists. “Stop it!”

She fought and twisted against him, trying desperately to free her hands for another assault.

“I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU . . . !”

“Regan and Jeremy!” Mr. Armstrong bellowed. “What the hell is going on here?”

He rushed over and thrust his Marine body between them.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Regan hissed, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Please move, Mr. Armstrong, so I can kill him.”

Mr. Armstrong’s eyes went wide. “Regan?”

She sewed her mouth together once more, breathing heavily through her nose like a bull about to charge. She balled her tiny fists, squeezing hard, making her arms quiver.

“Regan,” Mr. Armstrong said softly, “calm down.”

The tears traversed her bright red cheeks. She was the humiliated child who could no longer handle the anger—the first grader who didn’t possess the emotional maturity to cope with unjust conflict. All she knew to do was throw a punch—to inflict physical pain as the problem solver.

“My heart,” she cried softly, and Jeremy flinched, remembering uttering those exact words a few days ago when he panicked under the truck, thinking he’d killed the most important person in his life.

“I don’t know what I did,” Jeremy said, his words the lyrics that complemented the mournful tune of her crying.

The men stood awkwardly, listening to Regan’s hysterical cries, unable to think of a way to comfort her. Unsure if she should even be comforted, as she was the aggressor.

Mr. Armstrong turned to Jeremy. “Technically she could be in huge trouble for this—for hitting you. For threatening your life. Technically I’m required to bring in an officer.”

Jeremy gasped. “What?”

“I’m just saying technically,” Mr. Armstrong said.

“Look at me,” Jeremy said quickly. “Do I look hurt? Scared? She might as well have been a stuffed doll going at me. I’m fine. Truly. Please, don’t punish her.”

Mr. Armstrong nodded. Jeremy wasn’t sure what his nod meant: “No, she won’t get in trouble,” or “I’m acknowledging what you’re saying, but she still has to be punished.” He hopped from foot to foot, impatient for an explanation.

Mr. Armstrong turned back to Regan. “Regan, you can’t hit people.”

Regan swiped her eyes, smearing her mascara Swan Lake-style.

“And you can’t threaten to kill people either,” Mr. Armstrong continued. “This behavior is completely uncharacteristic of you. I confess I’m at a loss as to how to proceed—how to deal with you.”

Regan shrugged, eyes glued to the floor.

“It’s my fault,” Jeremy lied. “I provoked her.”

Mr. Armstrong snorted. “I’m provoked every day I step foot in this building, Jeremy. Doesn’t mean I’m going to fistfight with my students.”

Point taken.

Mr. Armstrong expelled a slow, slightly-louder-than-necessary sigh. “Jeremy, go to class.” He shoved his hand in his pocket and handed Jeremy a late slip. “Regan, come with me.”

“Please, Mr. Armstrong, don’t call the police,” Jeremy begged.

“I’m not. Now go to class.”

Regan fell in step with the assistant principal. Jeremy followed.

“Then what are you going to do to her?” he asked.

“Go to class.”

“Please, tell me!”

“It’s none of your business,” Mr. Armstrong snapped. “Why do you care at this point? I told you I’m not calling the police. She won’t be expelled either. Okay? That’s all you need to know. Why are you so insistent on details?”

Because I love her! I fucking love her, and I don’t want anything to happen to her! I don’t care that she hit me! She can hit me a thousand times over. I don’t care, you see? Because I win! I win because she touched me. Do you understand? I’m the winner!

“Stop staring at me, and go to class before I take back that late pass,” Mr. Armstrong demanded.

Jeremy hesitated, glancing at Regan one last time before he turned on his heel reluctantly and headed to math. He wouldn’t see her at school again that day.

***

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but the doorbell was already rung, the final
dong!
still echoing in his ear. His feet were cemented in the concrete of resolve, so there was no bolting from the porch. His heart hammered behind his scar, rattling his piercing, betraying his secret fear.

“Yes?” Mrs. Walters asked, standing in the middle of the open doorway. Her eyes moved over Jeremy’s piercings. “We already bought one of those coupon booklets from a basketball player last week,” she said apologetically.

“I’m Jeremy.”

Mrs. Walters’ lips parted. Her eyebrows shot up.

“Oh?” she said faintly, and then she shoved her head farther out, looking side to side. “Your parents here? I suppose they’d like to talk to us.”

It was all Jeremy could do to keep from laughing. “Uh, no.”

“Do they know about today? Should you even be here?” Mrs. Walters asked.

How much truth should he share?

“Um, my parents are dead. I live with my employer.” Eh.

Mrs. Walters gasped. “Oh, honey!”

Jeremy shifted uncomfortably. “It’s okay. Happened years ago,” he said quickly. “I really just want to talk to Regan. If she’ll talk to me.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“I’m not upset about this morning. I mean, I’m not, like, hurt or anything. And I didn’t want her to get in trouble. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She hit you,” Mrs. Walters pointed out.

Not like it hasn’t happened before.

When Jeremy didn’t respond, she continued, “And threatened your life.”

“I know she doesn’t want to kill me.”

Mrs. Walters fidgeted with her fingers. “Jeremy, I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be here.”

“I really need to talk to her,” he insisted.

“Mom,” he heard in the foyer. Mrs. Walters turned around.

“Honey, maybe you should go watch TV or something.”

“I want to talk to him.”

Mrs. Walters didn’t move.

“Alone,” Regan clarified.

“No.”

“Yes, Mom. It’s fine. I’m calm. Please, let me.”

Jeremy moved his head right to left trying to get a glimpse of her. When Mrs. Walters finally stepped aside, he took in the view of a mock mental patient. Regan was dressed in a long white sleep shirt that stopped just short of her knees. The words “I Really Don’t Care” were printed on the front in a messy scripted font. Her feet sported white tube socks and pink slippers, and her hair was pulled high atop her head in a haphazard bun.

Jeremy couldn’t contain it. The smile spread across his face, and the words fell out.

“Are they treating you okay?”

She furrowed her brows.

“Well, are they at least giving you pudding after your electroshock therapy sessions?”

The side of her mouth quirked up. She dipped her face and studied her outfit. And then she burst out laughing.

Mrs. Walters nodded to herself. All’s fine, and she left them alone, though she didn’t go too far. She disappeared to the next room over, just to be on the safe side.

“Come in,” Regan said.

Jeremy thought he’d never step foot in Regan Walters’ house. He figured such an event would be accompanied by loud fireworks, parades, and TV news anchors fighting for exclusive rights to the story. He braced himself for the emotional high, but when he stepped over the threshold, nothing exploded inside of him. It was just an ordinary home. Yes, it did house an extraordinary girl, but her freak-out this morning tempered his melodramatic perception of her. Actually, her freak-out downright scared the shit out of him.