“Fine, fine,” he says, putting his hands up in mock defense as you start walking away. “Sooo…if she’s
You glance over at him and you’re thinking:
Wrong.
She wouldn’t talk to you.
She wouldn’t have anything to do with someone like you.
You don’t even know what she’s like.
You wouldn’t treat her right.
You’re not her type.
Don’t.
You start back down the hallway toward the stairs and foreign-language classrooms and over your shoulder you say:
“Do whatever you want.”
You hear a chuckle. “I always do.”
HOW YOU GOT THAT SCAR ON THE BACK OF YOUR HAND PART 3: WHAT YOU TOLD ASHLEY IN HOMEROOM ON MONDAY
Yeah, you
Last year, in March.
Yeah, on the bus.
I told you before.
You sure?
Oh.
I don’t like to talk about it.
I just don’t.
I don’t know.
Okay, but don’t tell anybody I told you.
Just because, okay?
Do you want to hear or not?
Promise?
All right, so some asshole was making fun of this retarded kid-
I don’t know, just some asshole.
I think he transferred or something.
He was saying crap, you know, about the retard.
Sorry.
Anyway, I’m sitting across from him and I go, shut the hell up-
Yeah, more than that, of course.
Well, because you don’t like when people swear.
Yeah, real frickin’ sweet.
So anyway, he keeps it up and I’m like, shut the hell up, and he’s like, what are you gonna do, so I stand up and go to punch him in the head-
I don’t know, tenth grade maybe.
About my size, maybe bigger.
No, he was bigger than that.
I didn’t care, he was making fun of the retard.
Sorry.
So I stand up and just as I’m swinging, the bus swerves and I go flying and put my hand through the window.
Yeah, blood everywhere.
He freaked.
Naw, didn’t hurt.
Twelve stitches.
I told them I slipped.
He was too scared to say anything.
The retarded kid?
I guess he still goes here, I don’t know.
Back in March.
A couple days after your birthday.
Yeah, I heard it was a good time.
No, I wasn’t there.
I’m sure.
I was probably busy anyway.
Yeah, that happens with emails sometimes.
No, it’s cool.
Why would I have been pissed?
It was just a party.
Yeah, this year for sure.
You turn the corner to walk down the hall-
Well, not
And there’s Jake, jacking some freshman up against the wall with one hand. His signature move. It’s a small crowd, their freakish size making it look bigger, and you keep walking right toward it.
“Why you laughing, huh? What’s so funny, huh?” It’s Jake, making a new friend.
“I-I-I didn’t…I don’t…I-I…” says the freshman.
“You think it’s
Jake’s friends definitely think it is. They’re laughing so hard that no teacher would ever think that in the middle of that beefy crowd some poor freshman is about to have his nose broken. Even the students walking by smile, the laughter infectious. You’d smile, too, if you weren’t fighting to keep a straight face.
“I said, you think it’s funny?”
Then somebody says, “Leave him alone, he didn’t do anything.”
Surprise.
It’s you.
Jake turns, releasing his death grip on the anonymous freshman, who slips out from under Jake’s thigh-size arm. Jake looks at you and blinks, either trying to place the face or imagine what kind of idiot would tell him what to do.
Probably both.
His friends are still bent over laughing as he takes a half step toward you.
“You do this?” he says, pointing back at the open locker door. The sweater is on the floor, but the books are still stacked inside, the curled edges looking like a dried-up waterfall. And there’s the smell.
“Do what?” You can still sound innocent when you have to.
His eyes widen and he jabs his finger a second time. “Did you piss in my locker?”
You’re sure he didn’t mean to do it, but Jake reduces his friends to tears, two of them actually on the floor, holding their sides, all of them crying now, gasping between howls of laughter.
And here’s where you have to think.
Too much smart-ass in your voice and you are dead, right here, in front of everybody. And too little backbone in your answer and you might as well die, right here in front of everybody.
You choose the sarcastic but still friendly voice. It’s a safe choice.
