Page 24 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“Well,” Julius says from behind me, “it’s a very uninspired choice of words. Such a basic pejorative denotes low intelligence.”
This, of all things, jolts a weak laugh out of me. But I can’t stop myself from glancing at the message again. It’s a masochistic thing to do, foolish, like stretching out a broken leg to test how bad the damage is. My breath lodges in my throat as a fresh wave of pain washes over me.
Sadie Wen is a bitch.
It looks so ugly. Like a bloodstain.
As I stare, my stomach sinking lower and lower, Julius moves closer and loosens the brush from my stiff fingers. Then he brings it down hard over the brick and begins scrubbing, using so much force the muscles in his shoulders flex beneath his damp shirt. Unlike his previous attempt, he erases all the marker in one go.
“Done,” he says, letting his arm fall back to his side. “Simple as that.”
But nothing about this moment feels simple. I open my mouth, though I’m not sure what I plan to tell him.Thanks? Please forget this ever happened? Do you think I’m a bitch too?Before I can make up my mind, he’s walking away. Not with his usual slow leopard’s stride, as if it’s a gift to mankind to simply see him in motion, but with purpose, like there’s somewhere he needs to be. Someone he needs to find.
All throughout the next day, I feel like I’m walking around the school with a huge neon sign on my forehead:SADIE WEN IS A BITCH.
It doesn’t help that other people are acting like it too. When I spot Rosie before history class and catch up to her in the corridors, she whirls around with such a frosty look in her eyes that my insides shrivel.
“What do you want, Sadie?” she asks, her voice tight. I remember how she smiled at me only three days ago, her straight white teeth gleaming. It’s hard to believe she’s the same person.
“I just—” I falter. I had come here prepared. I had a whole script memorized, starting with an elaborate, heartfelt apology and ending with a plea for forgiveness. But the words taste brittle on my tongue, and the longer the silence stretches, the more my courage buckles. “I only wanted— I know you’re still mad— I mean, I would be mad too—” Everything comes out scrambled, in the wrong order.
“Yeah, I’m really pissed at you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
I hadn’t expected her to say it outright. “I’m sorry,” I try. “I really—”
She cuts me off. “Instead of apologizing, why don’t you figure out a way to fix all this, hm? Once everyone’s forgotten about the emails and stopped calling me a cheater, then we can talk.” She doesn’t wait for a response. She simply tidies her books, shoots me another glare that cuts all the way down to the pit of my stomach, and heads into the classroom without me.
Her words clang inside my head.Fix this.
It’s what I’ve always done, or tried to do. Fix the back door in the bakery. Fix the error in the math worksheet. Fix the seating arrangement for student council. Fix the gap in my family, the holes in my life, patch everything up, smooth everything over. She’s right. I just need to fix this too, and it’ll all work out.
But how?
I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts that I’m almost late for history. I’m not the last one through the door, though—Danny Yao is.
My blood freezes as he brushes past me. The image of the bike shed presses against my mind. I imagine him cursing my name, scribbling the words over the wall, laughing about it with his friends. But then my attention goes to his face, and I stifle a gasp. His entire left eye is swollen shut, the skin around it a vivid purplish-blue. The bruise wasn’t there yesterday afternoon.
“What happened to him?” I whisper to Abigail when I sit down.
Everyone else is whispering as well, gazes sliding to and away from him.
“He’s been saying he got it from a motorcycle accident,” Abigail murmurs, her voice thick with disbelief.
I frown. “A motorcycle accident?”
“Yeah. Last time I checked, he doesn’t even know how to ride a bicycle.”
I watch Danny make his way to the front of the classroom. He usually sits right behind Julius, but today he hesitates, then pulls up a chair two rows away. As he dumps his stuff out onto the table, his hair falls over his injured eye, and his features twist into a pronounced wince.
It would be far too arrogant to believe this is some sort of karma, that the universe has kindly overlooked all my mistakes and taken pity on me and stepped in on my behalf. But the timing also seems a little too perfect to be a pure coincidence . . .
“How’s the email thing going?” Abigail asks, breaking through my confused jumble of thoughts.
I scan the seats around us. Most people are too busy filling in yesterday’s worksheet—which I’ve already turned in—to be listening. Still, just to be safe, I tear out a fresh page from my notebook and scribble:Everyone still hates my guts, if that’s what you mean. But I’m planning on changing that. I just need to win them all over.
Abigail reads it, then writes underneath my last sentence in pink gel pen:Win them over?
Yeah. I was thinking cupcakes, but that’s probably insufficient?
