Breakable

She would tell a friend what happened. A roommate, maybe. Someone known and trusted. I couldn’t be her confidant and I knew it. I’d served my purpose, and I only wished I’d served it better. Faster. I’d be pissed off at myself forever for my initial hesitation in following her out tonight.

I asked if I could call someone for her, and she shook her head no, skirting round me, careful to avoid any physical contact – even a brush of fabric. Further evidence of my anonymous status.

I watched her walk to the stairs, the heels of her shoes tapping against the tile floor, the glittered, forked tail swaying absurdly behind her, no matter how stiffly she moved now. Her costume’s horns were long gone.

‘Jackie?’ I said, carefully, not wanting to startle her. She pivoted, her hand on the rail, waiting. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

She bit her lip, holding herself together, nodding once before gripping the rail and running up the stairs. I turned and left, certain those four words would be the last thing I’d ever say to Jackie Wallace.

It was a good last thing to say.

7

Landon

Boyce Wynn, previous fellow occupant of the middle-school outcast table, had become my nemesis. If I’d have called him that, he’d have had no clue what I meant and would have called me a pu**y and/or threatened to kick my ass. In other words, the same as what happened when I said nothing to him.

Contrary to some things adults like to say, responding to bullies – if you can’t beat them – gives them power, because then they know you care. I didn’t intend to do that. Principal Ingram had threatened me with her zero tolerance, and Wynn probably could kick my ass in addition to getting me expelled. He was big and mean, clomping around like one of the upperclassmen, who put up with him because he was rumoured to have access to drugs, alcohol and stolen car parts. Also, he didn’t threaten them. He only screwed with those he perceived as smaller or weaker.

Which meant me.

There wasn’t an outcast table in the high-school lunchroom, so choosing where to sit required an impromptu decision, two seconds after paying. A wrong move could be fatal.

On crap days, social lepers ate outside in the quad, but when it was nice out we stayed in, relinquishing the quad’s sunny tables and benches to guys like Clark Richards, the youngest son of a developer my grandfather hated, and girls like Melody Dover, Clark’s popular blonde girlfriend.

There weren’t many crap days here, weather-wise – rain or high winds, the occasional hail and tornado threat. Otherwise it was warm and sunny, even in the winter … which meant I spent most lunch periods inside. The safest spots were at vacant ends of tables where no one semi-popular or Wynn-like sat.

But that didn’t stop them from finding you when they went looking for entertainment.

Example 1: It’s surprisingly easy for someone to propel a lunch tray across a cafeteria table – sending it crashing to the floor and launching food in every direction – without slowing his stride or acting as if he had anything to do with it.

I began grabbing a foil-wrapped, suspiciously preserved sandwich and bottle of water in the line instead of a tray of hot food.

Example 2: Whoever invented locker rooms – where several rows of solid metal and concrete block whatever happens in the back from the coach’s sight – was a dick. Thanks to an ambush, I lost a pair of secondhand Chucks and my vintage camo cargo pants. Because I wasn’t mental enough to ID the ass**les, the coach’s remedy was to have me choose something to wear from the lost-and-found barrel – which gave off an odour suggesting something had died at the bottom and was currently decomposing.

I smelled like literal shit during last period, every girl nearby wrinkling their noses and scooting their desks as far from me as possible, while guys made brilliant observations like, ‘You reek, Maxfield. Try telling your handler to hose you off occasionally.’ Et cetera.

I tugged it all off as soon as I got home and threw it all in the burn pile out back after taking a scalding shower.

I borrowed five bucks from Dad and asked Grandpa to take me back to the Thrifty Sense, where I unearthed a pair of like-new Vans in my size. They were marked seven dollars.

‘I know where ya live,’ Grandpa said, passing me the additional two bucks.

I stopped changing clothes for PE, which earned me demerits every day until Coach Peterson realized that penalizing me wasn’t having any effect.

But I had three classes with Wynn – PE, world geography, and auto shop.

‘Wash up!’ Mr Silva called, his thunderous voice booming over the noise of operational motors, machine tools, country music and conversations about cars and car parts, girls and girl parts.

Most of the stuff guys said was harmless. Even if the entire town full of moms threatened to wash our mouths with the abrasive Lava soap we used to get the clingy streaks of oil and grease off our hands and arms, it was usually just talk.

Sometimes those words didn’t feel like just phrases or expressions, though. They felt like memories and nightmares, when I was doing my best to avoid both. My hands closed into greasy fists as I stood in line for the sinks, captive to the exchange going on behind me, in which Boyce Wynn played a major part.

‘Dude, her tits are like two juicy watermelons.’ His drawl crept up the back of my neck and I imagined the hand gestures I knew he was making.

‘Yeah, I’d do her,’ his friend said, and they both laughed. ‘She doesn’t put out, though.’

‘Yet, Thompson. Yet. I’d teach her to put out.’