The whole class erupts in laughter, and my stomach sinks.
I catch sight of Masen out of the corner of my eye, leaning his desk forward, closer to mine, and whispering, “But he was hot, so I guess that’s all that’s important, right?”
I keep staring ahead, the knots in my stomach pulling tighter and tighter. Sure, Edward was decades older than Bella. But the fact that he was good looking had nothing to do with her loving him anyway.
Masen continues his attack. “Now if he looked like most hundred-year-old men looked,” he calls out, and I see him stand up, “it wouldn’t have been romantic, would it? There would be no Bella and Edward.” He walks up to the front of the class and rounds the teacher’s desk, gesturing to the laptop. “May I?”
The teacher nods, looking wary but allowing it.
Masen leans down, and I refuse to look as he types something into the search engine. But when more laughter breaks out, louder this time, I can’t help myself.
I glance up at the screen and instantly feel anger curl my fingers into a fist.
A huge image of an old man, withered with wrinkles, missing teeth, and bald but with wiry, silver hairs sprouting from the top of his nose smiles back at us, and I glare at Masen, who grins back.
“Old geezer Edward is a happy guy,” he gloats, “because he’s about to get naked with Bel-la.”
“Aw, yeah!” J.D. hollers, and everyone loses control. Students double over laughing, and their amusement surrounds me like a wall closing in. Everything is getting smaller, and I start to feel the space in my lungs shrink as I pull harder to take in air.
I clench my teeth together. Motherfucker.
Masen crosses his arms over his chest, looking at me like a meal he can’t wait to eat again. “Shake your pompoms, Rocks,” he says. “You just reminded all of us that love is truly only skin deep.”
I walk as quickly as I can, a cool sweat spreading down my neck and back as I dive into the girls’ locker room. The weight on my chest gets heavier, and I pass girls undressing for P.E. as I slip into one of the shower stalls, draw the curtain closed, and turn on the water.
I step to the left so I don’t get hit with the spray. The white noise of the water shields me from listening ears, and I grab my inhaler from my pocket, taking two quick pumps and leaning back against the shower wall, closing my eyes.
Four years. I haven’t had a fucking attack triggered by panic in four years. It’s always exercise-induced. My lungs start to open up, and I slowly breathe in and out, forcing myself to calm down.
What the hell is wrong with me? The guy’s not a threat. I can handle this. So he was challenging me. So what? Am I going to flip out every time that happens? Sooner or later I’ll leave safe Falcon’s Well, and I’ll no longer be Queen Bee. I’m acting like a baby.
But for a moment, everything went dark. Slowly the world in my vision got smaller and smaller like I was in a tunnel going backward. The light ahead of me—Masen, Mr. Foster, the other students—became tiny as the darkness ate up the room, and I felt completely alone.
Just like before.
“Alright, everyone!” Ms. Wilkens, my fourth grade teacher, calls as we line up at the door inside the classroom. “If you’re staying in for recess, there’s no talking. You’re working.” Then she looks up to us. “The rest of you…walk, please.”
The line leader pushes through the door and everyone bolts, running outside to the playground. Some students dash for the tetherballs, others for the bars, and some stroll around the blacktop, figuring out what they want to do.
Everyone passes me by, and I slow to a walk, fidgeting and watching them as they find their groups and begin playing. The sun is hot, and I slowly step into the chaos, looking around and not sure where to go or who to talk to.
This happens every day.
Girls run up to other girls, smiling and talking. Boys play with other boys, tossing balls back and forth and climbing the equipment. Some of my classmates sit on the grass and play with little things they snuck into school, and everyone has found each other, pairing off.
But no one’s looking for me.
I shuffle my feet, feeling my stomach twist into knots. I hate recess. I should’ve just stayed in the classroom and colored or wrote in my journal or something.
I want them to know I’m here, though. I want them to see me.
I don’t like being forgotten.
I look over at Shannon Bell and a few other girls from class, their hair and clothes always so cool and pretty. Why can’t I ever look like that? I run my hands down my knee-length skirt and Polo shirt, looking like such a good girl. My mom always pulls my hair back in a ponytail, but I want to curl it like them.
I lick my lips, swallow the big lump in my throat, and walk over to them.
“Hi,” I say, feeling like I can’t breathe.
They stop talking and look at me, not smiling. I gesture to Shannon’s hand. “I like your nail polish.”
Actually, I don’t. Yellow grosses me out, but my mom said complimenting people is a good way to make friends, so…
Shannon lets out a little scoff, looking embarrassed that her friends see me talking to her. She shoots a look to them.
I feel an invisible hand pushing me away from them. They want me gone, don’t they?
But I force a smile and try harder. “Hey,” I tell another girl, seeing her Mary Janes. “We have the same shoes.” And I look down at mine, showing her.
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Ew.”
“You guys,” another girl chides her friends, but they don’t stop laughing.
“What’s that?” Shannon points to the bulge in the pocket of my skirt.
My heart sinks a little. No one else in my class has an inhaler, and now it makes me even more different. “It’s just my inhaler,” I reply, speaking low. “I have allergies and asthma and stuff. It’s no big deal.”
I keep my eyes down, because I don’t want to see the looks they give each other. I twist my lips to the side, feeling tears creep up. Why can’t I be cool?
“So do you think Cory Schultz is cute?” Shannon speaks up.
I blink, my guard going up. “No,” I answer quickly.
Cory Shultz is in our class, and he’s really cute, but I don’t want anyone to know I think that.
“Well, I think he’s cute,” she says. “We all do. You got a problem with him?”
I look up, shaking my head. “No. I just…yeah, I guess he’s kind of cute.”
A girl behind Shannon breaks into laughter, and Shannon suddenly walks away, toward the basketball court.
My heart starts racing. She walks up to Cory and whispers something in his ear, and he turns to look at me, scrunching up his face in disgust.
No.
Everyone starts laughing, and I turn and run away, hearing behind me, “Ryen likes Cory. Ryen likes Cory.”
I start crying, tears streaming down my face and shaking with sobs. I run behind the wall of the building and hide myself as I break down.
“What’s wrong with you now?” my sister, who’s in fifth grade, asks as she charges over to my side. She must’ve seen me running away.
“Nothing,” I cry. “Just go.”
She growls under her breath, sounding mad at me. “Just find some friends, so I can play with mine, and Mom stops making me play with you. Can’t you do that?”
I cry harder as she storms away. She’s embarrassed by me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I dry my tears and walk to my classroom. I’m sure my face is all red, but I can just hide behind my folders and put my head down on my desk.
I quietly step into the classroom, seeing a few students sitting at their desks who wanted to get work on their projects done, while Ms. Wilkens sits at her computer with her back to me. I slide into my desk and take out two folders, standing them up to make a fence around me. I put my head down and hide.
“Wanna help me?” a voice says.
I look to my right and see D
elilah working on a piece of butcher paper on the floor. She holds out a marker, her fingernails dirty and her blonde bangs hanging in her eyes. She always stays in for recess. Unlike me, she stopped trying to fit in a long time ago.
I take the marker, coming down to the floor with her.
“Thanks,” I say, looking at her hand-drawn Eiffel Tower that’s almost as tall as me.
She smiles, and we begin working, coloring it in as the weight starts to lift from my chest.
She’s always nice. Why do I care so much what the other girls think? Why do I want to be friends with them?
I try to be nice, but it’s never good enough.
But they’re mean and everyone loves them.
Why is that?
I bend over in the shower stall, resting my hands on my knees and pushing the memory away. That’s not me anymore. I’m fine. I’ve got this. He pushed, they laughed, and I choked. I got complacent. I just have to push back next time. I’m good at that.
Or just ignore him. This was no big deal anyway. None of these people will be a big deal in a couple months.
Damn Twilight. How could he possibly have guessed that? I breathe in and out, my muscles finally relaxing. Masen Laurent is consistently a step ahead.
I slip the inhaler back into my pocket, shut off the water, and exit the stall, leaving the locker room. I’m late for Math, but I push forward and act like the episode in English never happened.
No one’s talking about it. No one’s texting about it. Masen Laurent is still far off anyone’s radar, and no one believes I’m the superficial brat he’s making me out to be.
Absolutely no one.
The rest of the school day passes mercilessly slow as I brave lunch and every single class, feeling like another shoe is going to drop at any second. But as soon as the final bell rings, I drop off my books at my locker and grab my duffel for cheer and swim, hurrying out of the school and
to the side parking lot.
“Ryen?” I hear Lyla yell behind me.
But I just keep going. “I’ll be back!” I call over my shoulder.
She knows we have practice and is probably wondering why I’m leaving the school.
Making my way through the parking lot, seeing students piling into cars and hearing engines fire up, I scan the crowd for the new guy. I finally see him, stepping up to a black truck and not carrying a single thing. No books, no folders, nothing.
As I walk toward him, I notice a couple of guys greeting him while my friend Katelyn approaches him, coyly grazing her hand along the side of his truck and acting all shy and shit.
My hopes are dashed. He’s definitely on peoples’ radar.
I hesitate, watching her hug her books and talk, giggling at something she said, while he stares down at her, calm and cool, looking no friendlier than he did with me.
Why does that please me?
I guess it’s a relief to know that maybe I’m not special. He’s rude to everyone, except the guys who came up to him just a moment ago.
Or maybe I wouldn’t have liked seeing him smile at her and not at me or…
I take in a deep breath, growing impatient. I don’t want her to see me talking to him, but I need that notebook.
I walk over to them, tipping my chin up and nodding once at Katelyn. “I’ll see you at practice.”
She pauses, looking taken aback. I hold the strap of my duffel hanging on my shoulder and stare at her, waiting for her to leave.
She eventually gives a little eye roll and walks off, leaving us alone.
No doubt to tattle to Lyla.
I dig in the pocket of my bag, pulling out the locket and handing it to him.
He takes the necklace, almost gently, and stares at it for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket. He raises his eyes to me, and something gives. For a split-second I see something different. Like he’s…disappointed or something.
“Now give me the book,” I demand.
“Sorry,” he says, holding my eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have it.”
“Don’t piss me off,” I growl in a hushed tone. “I got what you wanted.”
“What I want…” He laughs quietly to himself as if there’s something I don’t understand.
He opens the driver’s side door and climbs into his truck. But before he can close the door, I reach out and grab it.
“We had a deal.”
He nods. “We did. But right now I’d love nothing better than to piss you off.” And he yanks the door out of my hand, slamming it shut.
Starting it up, he steps on the gas, and I run my hand through my hair, despair curling its way through me. But I hesitate only a moment before I drop my bag and race up to him, jumping up on the cab step.
“You asshole,” I bite out, and he slams on the brakes and glares at me.
I’m probably attracting attention, but I’m not taking any more of his shit.
“Get off the truck.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know who you are or where you come from,” I snarl, “but I don’t get pushed around. In case you haven’t heard.”
He jerks his chin, indicating something behind me as he smiles. “I guess we’ll see.”
I turn and see Lyla and Katelyn sitting on the ledge at the top of the steps, watching us. Great. How am I going to explain this?
“Watch out. You’re being judged,” Masen taunts. “Don’t choke.”
I step down from the cab, and he puts the truck in gear again. But before he can take off, I call out, “You’re living in an abandoned theme park.”
He stops the car again and lifts his chin. I stroll up to his window, feeling a bit of my power return as I give him a small smile.
“I’d only be doing the compassionate thing,” I tell him, “letting a responsible adult know about your homeless situation.”
He stills at my threat, and I offer a sympathetic sigh. “Social services would come in, find out where you come from and if anyone’s looking for you…” I go on, putting my finger on my chin in mock contemplation. “I wonder if Masen Laurent has a criminal record. Maybe that’s why you’re hiding out? You definitely want to stay invisible. I’d bet money on that.”
His scowl is hot, and I can see his jaw flex. Yeah, he might be eighteen and perfectly able to squat wherever he likes, but that doesn’t mean he’s up for any attention, either. Maybe his parents are looking for him. Maybe a foster family.
Maybe the police.
Not many kids transfer schools six weeks before the end of their senior year, after all. He’s running from something.
He shifts the gears again and finally speaks. “I’ll bring it tonight.”
“You’ll bring it now.”
He turns to look at me. “If you have me picked up, you’ll never get it back,” he points out. “I got shit to do. I’ll see you tonight.”
Dear Ryen,
I hold the pen over the paper, frozen, the millions of things I want to say to her every day lost once I sit down to write. What did she always tell me? Just start. Don’t worry about what I’m going to say. Just start, and everything will open up.
I couldn’t write lyrics before Ryen. And now, since that night three months ago, I can’t write anything.
I stare out into the empty warehouse, black soot from past bonfires coating the walls and the warm breeze whipping through the broken windows and hitting my back.
A chain hanging somewhere in the vast space above me blows in the gust and bangs against a rafter while a shiver creeps up my spine.
It feels different here. At night this place is packed, but during the day it’s quiet and empty. My favorite place to come when I need just that.
I stare down at her name, trying to remember how easy it was to always open up to her.
I hate this, I tell her. Everything fucking hurts. They weren’t supposed to bury her. I shouldn’t have let him. She saw a movie when she was a kid, about a woman buried alive, and it scared the shit out of her. She didn’t want to go undergrou
nd, but my father said we needed a place to visit her as if her wishes weren’t the most important thing.
I close my eyes, wetness coating the rims of my lids. Anger churns inside me, and it flows down my arms as I carve the words into the paper.
I can’t write you. And when I can, I can’t send the goddamn letters. I want to hurt you. I don’t know why. Probably because you’re the only person I have left to hurt. Every letter you send that I don’t answer is the only thing that makes me feel good anymore. You want the truth? That’s it. It feels good to play with you like this. It gives me pleasure, knowing you’re thinking about me but wondering if I’m thinking about you.
I’m not. I never do.
I keep writing, letting every ugly thing spill out, because she loves me, she wants me to be happy, and she wants me to smile and do mundane shit like talk about Star Wars and music and what I’m doing for college. Who the hell is she to assume there aren’t more important things than her going on in the world?
All your letters, over all the years, immediately went into the garbage after I read them. Didn’t you see how pathetic you looked? Sending five letters for every one of mine? I’ll bet you deluded yourself, too. Did you fantasize I kept them? Maybe with a little red bow tied neatly around the stack as I jerk off to them, because I love your pretty words so much?
No. Because after I eventually fucked you, I’d get bored. That’s all it was about.
I draw in air through my nose, locking my jaw together as I press the pen into the paper. Guilt creeps in.
Ryen.
The liar. The poser. The superficial bitch who’s no different than all the others.
But then I drop my eyes, remembering...
Ryen.
The kid who slipped five bucks in a letter in fifth grade when I told her my dad took away my allowance.
The girl who makes me smile when she argues about how sausage overpowers the taste of pizza and sent me a Veggie Lovers Pie for my birthday to prove me wrong. She didn’t. Meat Lovers is way better.