Page 48 of The Way I Used to Be
The human brain is a truly amazing organ because, despite all the nauseous thoughts electrifying my neurons at that moment, somewhere in the dark folds and recesses I was genuinely impressed that he used the word “genre” correctly.
“You’ll be happy to know you have excellent references,” Pretty Boy adds quickly before spitting his laughter all over me.
I walk faster, as the fear sinks in, as fast as I can without running, my feet getting heavier with every step. They follow behind, cackling and wheezing.
“Wait, is this you doing hard to get? Because word is that you’re actually pretty easy.” Jock Guy laughs, catching right up with me. Pretty Boy gets on the other side. “Come on,” Jock Guy continues, “don’t you wanna be a star? Get paid for what you do? You’d make a killing.”
Where the hell is a janitor when you need one, damn it?
“No, we’re just kidding, there’s no movie. But you know,” Pretty Boy says, putting his arm around my shoulder, his fingers coiling around a strand of my hair, his mouth close to my ear, “if you let me fuck you, I’ll be real gentle, I promise.”
And then they crack up.
All I can hear is Caelin’s voice in my head:They’ll just chew you up and spit you out. Girls like me. Girls like me, he said. And then Pretty Boy licks his lips like he might just devour me. Why am I not screaming? Why am I not screaming-running-fighting for my life? They wouldn’t do anything, not in school, not in a public place. There could be people around, not any that I can see or hear, but there has to be someone somewhere, right? Right? My heart is about to explode—about to implode. I feel that bullet buried deep, dig in, piercing through some fresh warm meat inside of me. How could this possibly be happening?
“Stop, okay? Don’t touch me!” I finally shout, trying to pry his fingers out of my hair. My voice echoes through the hall, mingling with the sound of their laughter.
“?‘Don’t touch me,’?” Pretty Boy mimics. “That’s not what you said to Josh.”
I break into a jog but only make a few strides before he’s caught up with me again. “Get away from me!” I finally yell.
“Or what, you’ll get your big bad brother to come and beat me up too?” Pretty Boy says. “I don’t think so.” He grabs my backpack and it stops me dead in my tracks.
“Dude. Come on,” Jock Guy subtly reprimands.
All the feeling just drains out of my body, like slowly being novocained from head to toe, so much that I feel like I’m about to pass out. He spins me around, holding on to my arms so tightly, pulling me in so close, I’m afraid he might kiss me. I try to break out of his clutch, but I can’t move an inch.
“Relax, she loves it,” he tells him. “Don’t you?”
“Come on, bro,” he calls out, stepping closer. “We gotta go, come on! Let’s get outta here, all right?”
Pretty Boy’s evil grin fades and he allows some distance, and then hesitantly, he finally lets go. I stumble away from him, backing myself right up against the lockers, and I see something like remorse flicker in his eye, like a neurological twitch. I guess even a psychotic asshole can see I’m terrified.
“Come on, McSlutty”—he claps me on the shoulder—“we’re just fucking with you,” he says casually, glancing over at Jock Guy.
“Yeah, just fucking around,” Jock Guy echoes, reassuring Pretty Boy, or himself maybe, but not me.
“Take a joke,” Pretty Boy adds, instantly resuming his phony bravado, running a hand through his perfect hair.
“Leave me alone,” I try to say as firmly as possible despite the fact that I’m shaking uncontrollably and my voice is scarcely above a whisper.
“You can’t have your brother fight all your battles for you,” Jock Guy says, smiling as he hitches my chin up with his knuckle. I want to spit in his face.
They shuffle down the hall, snickering and high-fiving their job well done.
I practically run all the way home. I slip on the ice at least a dozen times because I’m not being careful at all. My brain is like scrambled eggs. Josh wouldn’t have told them to do that, I know he wouldn’t have.
Caelin was still home on vacation from school, and I was going to get answers out of him if I had to hold a knife to his throat. He obviously did something to make things worse. I throw the front door open and he flinches, slouched on the couch, watching some ridiculous reality TV show.
“What the hell, Edy?” he whines.
“What did you do?” I demand, rushing toward him, not bothering to take my boots off, dragging dirty wet slush in on the carpet.
“Edy, take your fucking shoes off—you’re ruining the rug!”
“What did you do?” I repeat, snatching the remote out of his hand. I almost throw it right at his face, but I stop myself at the last second and throw it on the floor instead. It cracks open and the batteries go flying out in opposite directions.
He’s on his feet, just needing to show me how much bigger and stronger he is than me. As if I could ever forget. As if the entire world wasn’t organized just to make sure I never forget, even for a second, that any boy, anywhere, even my brother, could take me. “What the hell is with you?” he finally shouts, looking down at me.
