Page 23 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“Thanks,” I say, willing my voice to sound normal. “You can turn around now.”
He turns slowly. His gaze catches on the blazer where it ends just above the knee, covering up my skirt. A slight movement in his throat, like he’s swallowing something sharp. “You better not lose it,” he says at last. “All my badges are pinned on there, and many of them are limited editions. You couldn’t replace them if you tried.”
Whatever spark of gratitude I felt toward him flickers out. “I’ll give it back to you tomorrow morning, all washed and dried. Happy?”
“You don’t have to wash it,” he says carelessly. Then, as if sensing my surprise, his eyes narrow. “I don’t trust you to. You’ll probably end up shrinking it anyway.”
I would come up with a retort, but it occurs to me that what he said about polyester applies to him too. Now that he’s fully facing me, I realize just how thin the school shirt is. The silvery-white material clings to the narrow curve of his waist, the lean cords of muscle in his arms.
When I speak again, I speak to the wall. “Do you . . . need to change?”
“Oh, good point,” he says. “Let me just find the spare uniform I always keep on hand in the event that my cocaptain attacks me with a hose.”
“Suit yourself,” I grumble, reaching for the brush. “Neither of us is allowed to leave until the job is done.”
This time, he doesn’t protest. He turns the water back on without another word and hoses down the wall to my left. It’s probably less that he concedes I’ll do a better job and more that he’s concerned I’ll spray him again, but at least we’re being efficient. We work in silence, falling into a steady rhythm. He sprays one area, and I scrub it right after, scraping away secrets, names, curses, wishes. My hair has started to stiffen, hanging in thick, heavy clumps over my shoulders, and my shoes squelch unpleasantly every time I shift position. But Julius makes no complaints, so I don’t either.
We’re close to finished when I notice the message scrawled on the corner of a brick.
It’s new, the black marker bold and fresh. Just five words, and my stomach drops out.
Sadie Wen is a bitch.
My ears ring. I blink at it, and the cold seems to congeal over my skin. My clothes are too itchy, my throat too tight; an awful, sick sensation builds inside me, swelling up to my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. I feel nauseous.
“What is it?” Julius asks, coming over.
Dread churns through me. He can’t see. I can’t bear the thought of him reading it, of him laughing at me or agreeing or rubbing it in. It’s too humiliating. I’ll die from it.
“Nothing,” I say. I block it with my hand, but his eyes fall on my face first, and he glimpses something there that changes his demeanor at once. His gaze sharpens. His shoulders tense.
“What is it, Sadie?” he asks again, but in a different way. Lower, more serious. Urgent.
I just shake my head, my fingers splayed over the words. But even with them concealed, I can see them as if they’ve been etched into my own skin.Sadie Wen is a bitch.How long has the message been here? How many people have walked past it already? Did someone write it right after my emails were sent?
“Show me,” Julius says.
“No—” My voice comes out small, shaky. “Don’t—”
His long fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling it down, and then the words are there, exposed, starkly visible to the both of us. Shame stings my skin like acid, roils deep inside my gut.
For a long time, he doesn’t say anything.
The quiet is maddening. I’m too scared to glimpse his face, to see any signs of contempt or glee. “I guess you’re not the only one who hates me now,” I comment, just to fill the silence withsomething, to try and pass it off as a joke. He can’t know how much it hurts me. How easy it is to hurt me.
“That handwriting is hideous,” Julius says finally. His tone is indecipherable. “It must be Danny’s.”
“Who?”
“Danny Yao, from history.”
The name settles in the back of my mind like silt. Danny. I’d written him an angry email as well, even though it was three years ago. He had borrowed my protractor right before a big math test and lost it. He’d only thought to email me and let me know after the test was over, after I’d panicked and begged anyone I could find for a spare protractor. Funnily enough, it was Julius who’d handed one to me in the end—or, more like, he’d thrown it at me.It’s giving me a headache, watching you run up and down the school, he had drawled, barely even looking in my direction.And this way, you won’t be able to make any weak excuses about being unprepared when I beat you.
I wonder if he even remembers. I wonder if he keeps as clear a record of our every exchange as I do.
“Doesn’t matter who did it,” I mumble. “It’s what everyone’s thinking.”
I can sense him watching me. My eyes burn, and I stare up at the violet sky, forcing the tears to recede before they can spill. I haven’t cried since I was seven, since the day my dad left and I found my mom weeping quietly into her hands, curled up on the couch in the empty living room. The air in the house was so heavy it threatened to crush me. I had sworn then that I wouldn’t cry, ever. I wouldn’t add to her sadness, wouldn’t drag her even further down. I would be the good daughter, the strong one, the one who kept everyone afloat.
