Page 15 of Beautiful Scars

The table goes silent. Even the cheerleaders seem to sense the shift, their chatter dying down.

"Oooo, big words from the new guy." Zack leans forward, all pretense of friendliness gone. "You might want to watch yourself. You don't know how things work around here yet."

"Oh, I think I've got a pretty good idea." I stand up, tossing some cash on the table. The rage is building, familiar and dangerous. If I stay, I might do something I can't take back.

"Running away?" he calls after me.

The jab hits hard. Harder than it should. My hands shake as I dig my keys from my pocket, and push through the doors. Memories of midnight escapes and my mother's tears threaten to overwhelm me. It was a mistake to come tonight.

In my truck, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The engine's rumble does nothing to drown out the echo of Zack's words, my father's voice. Three months we've been here. The longest we've stayed anywhere is a year. Just long enough to start feeling normal before something happens and we have to take off again.

I watch through the window as Zack returns to holding court, already acting like nothing happened. He's laughing, surrounded by people who smile and nod while silently cringing. It's disgusting.

As I pull out of the parking lot, my father's words from that day in his study come back to me."Son, you'll learn. The world, and everything and everyone in it belongs to men like us."

I press the accelerator harder, trying to outrun the sick feeling in my gut. The streets blur past as I drive aimlessly, through unfamiliar neighborhoods. My thoughts drift to Sunny, wondering if she's out on her deck tonight. The image of her sitting there is a sharp contrast to the chaos in my head.

I drive aimlessly until I end up parked in the empty school parking lot near the football field. I kill the engine. The silence feels heavy, oppressive. My phone shows three texts from Ryan asking if I'm okay, and one from Coach about tomorrow's practice. I ignore them all, and step out into the cool night air.

The field is quiet. And dark. I hop the fence easily—a talent I’ve gained from years of sneaking into places I shouldn't. I tighten the laces of my sneakers and start stretching. Running has always helped clear my head, and right now my head is a mess.

The first lap is easy. The second is automatic. By the third, the ache starts creeping into my calves, and my lungs burn with every inhale. Good. It needs to hurt.

By the time I hit my tenth lap, my body is screaming at me to stop, but I don’t. I can’t. Pain is good. It’s better than thinking. Better than remembering. Better than the twisted satisfaction I felt when Zack flinched at my words.

I push myself faster, harder, until the edges of my vision blur and my heartbeat drowns out everything else. Until there’s nothing left but the rhythm of my feet. Physical pain is one of the only things that can chase me out of my head when it starts to spiral backwards. The sharpness of it shaves off the hard, brittle edges of memories I wish weren't mine—my mother arms covered in bruises, my father's lessons in being a "real man".

Zack reminds me too much of all the things I want to forget.

Collapsing on the fifty-yard line, I stare up at the stars. The same stars I've seen from a dozen different cities, each time wondering if this place would be different. If this time we'd be able to stay. My phone buzzes—mom checking in. I text back that I'm fine, knowing she'll worry otherwise. She's always worrying about me.

She'd never admit it, but I know she thinks about how much like my father I am. She's always watching me, hoping she didn't stay too long—that he didn’t rub off on me and that I'll turn out different than what he wanted and expected.

The truth is, I worry about that part of me too. It's always there. I can feel it sitting right under my skin. The anger that surged through me at Mario's— that washisanger. The desire to hurt Zack, to make him pay for being all the things I hate the most? Those feelings are tapped straight from my father’s side of my family tree. He’d destroy someone like Zack just to prove he could and never think twice about it. The difference between me and my father is that I can make myself walk away. I’ll never allow myself to become him.

Standing up, I dust off my pants and head back to my truck. Tomorrow I'll have to face them all again—Zack, the team, the expectations. But, for tonight, I'm done.

As I drive home, I take the long way, past Sunny's house. Her light’s still on. We're a lot more alike than she knows. Maybe that's why I can't seem to stay away from her, despite her warnings. Kindred spirits or some bullshit.

I pull into my driveway, finally feeling level enough to think about sleep. I'm still pissed. That never goes away completely. But, it's under control again. For now.

Chapter Nine

Sunny

Standingonthesidewalkat the edge of the school parking lot, I'm trying to talk myself into believing that it's not the real, actual gates of hell I'm trying to work up the guts to go through.

My heart is pounding out of my chest, I can't breathe, and I can feel a headache starting at the back of my skull. Class started almost thirty minutes ago. I showed up late on purpose, trying to postpone the awfulness, and now I'm frozen in place, panicking, and struggling to keep myself from getting sick.

I know I look like a complete idiot standing here. I know I'm only putting off the inevitable and making it harder on myself—confirming my already solid status as a freak in everyone's mind. I thought I'd be more ready for today. But I'm not. Definitely not.

One more year. Just one more year, and I’m out of this place. Once I'm gone, I’m gone for good. I'm never coming back.

It should be exciting to think about. It should give me plenty of motivation to get in there and get after it—mark another day off the calendar. But, all I can think about right now is how much I hate walking through those doors. The thought of facing everyone again makes my skin crawl. All the dirty looks and nasty comments. Judging me, acting like they know me, know my life.

I pull my sweatshirt tight around me, imagining it has the power to make me invisible. That it can somehow protect me against what I know is coming. But, even if it could shield me from the outside judgements there's nothing that can stop the little voice inside my head. No way to get it to stop playing the same old recording it's been stuck on since I woke up this morning.A girl like you doesn't belong with them, Sunny. You know it. They know it. You'll never belong anywhere and everyone knows why.

I should be beyond caring by now. I should've developed some sort of immunity to all of it, but, the truth is, I haven't. Every whisper, every stare, every disgusting little giggle and laugh when I walk by, is a cut. By the time that last bell rings and I’m starting the walk home it feels like I've been bled dry. Over the past five years I’ve learned to fake my way through pretty much anything, but, I don't think I have it in me today. I should just turn around and forget it. Try again tomorrow. Give myself another day to scrape the bottom of the barrel and pull together enough courage to make it inside.

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