Wicked Restless

I hate them all. They pretend like they’re teaching us lessons, reforming us to become better men. We go to these sermons, and there’s an old man who gives us these long stories that we’re supposed to identify with and recognize our weaknesses so we can improve. Nobody listens. I tried to last week, but the longer he spoke, the more I focused on the lack of passion in his voice, the way he really didn’t care if he made a difference, or if we changed—just as long as he got a paycheck.

I looked around at the room of these forgotten kids. That’s why we’re here, because we’re still kids according to the state. Worth saving. Our offenses forgivable. I was a better person three months ago, before I got here. Whatever I am now, I’m not so sure it’s good.

I’ve had a few fights. Nobody knows except my brother’s girlfriend. She knows. She visits. She convinced everyone that she’s family. She threw around stories about my grandfather. Everyone bought it. I like it when Kensi comes. Sometimes we just sit without talking. It’s nice. And when I have things I need to hide, like bruises or…other things…Kensi helps. She doesn’t like it; I can tell. But she understands.

I think she tells Owen. But I also don’t think she tells him exactly how bad it is. I begged her not to.

My family can’t see me this way. They won’t like what I am becoming.

At first, the fights came out of nowhere—guys who have been here for months, or almost a year for some, would just kick me and beat the shit out of me to prove they could. The longer I’ve been here, the less initiating I get.

Thing is, though…the fights…they give me something to do. I’ve started instigating. I don’t mean to, and every night, I tell myself I’m going to stop. But I can’t. I don’t do it without cause, really. Usually, someone newer than me is getting picked on, so I open my mouth and say shit to get people to stop. And when they turn their attention to me, every other thought and feeling I have goes away. It’s nothing but fighting for survival in this place.

I guess I’m surviving.

When I fight, I forget about you. I didn’t want to tell you that part, but now that I’ve written it…I think I’ll leave it.

I hope you’ll write back.

Andrew

Chapter 10

Emma

“Are you sure you can’t come…just for the first period. Look…see what I just did there? I called it a period. I’m learning my hockey lingo,” Lindsey says, holding her fist out for me to pound. I do it slowly, my lips in a tight smile as we touch. This faking and pretending thing…I’m not sure how long I can keep it up.

“Yeah, they should totally let you in the booth to call the game,” I tease, pushing myself to be light and funny despite how sick I really feel. She scrunches her face at me as she continues putting on her boots and wrapping her knit scarf around her neck. I haven’t been able to make eye contact with her for longer than a few seconds at a time. Lindsey and I have never been big on swapping stories about our intimate moments. She’s only slept with a few guys, and my list is still at zero, so I guess there isn’t much to share. I hope we don’t start with this one.

“Very funny,” she says with a grunt as she finally gets her boot snug on her foot. “Seriously, though…I’m going to be sitting there alone. Can’t you come for…like…just a little bit?”

I could come. I have some time before Miranda’s presentation. But I managed to hide myself in the library on campus until the morning, and I snuck in here at five, exhausted enough that I didn’t have to hear Andrew leave for his place. I know he was still here when I came home, because his wallet and keys were on the counter when I came in. I touched them. I wanted to flip his wallet open, look at it. But I didn’t. I can’t actively go see him play hockey—not now that I’ve done such a bang-up job of avoiding his face for almost a full afternoon. And seeing him on the ice? I just…I can’t do that. I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

“I’m just really stressed. I’m introducing her, and they want the usual speech—you know…about me? Anyway, I really want to get there early. I’m so sorry; don’t hate me,” I say, biting my lip, my inner voice begging her not to guilt me anymore. I can’t handle any more guilt.

“I get it,” she sighs. I sigh in response when I turn away from her, about eleven hundred tons of pressure fleeing my shoulders all at once. “At least…tell me, how do I look?”

“You look nice,” I smile at her, taking her full outfit in. She’s dressed like she’s ready for a ski trip. It’s not that cold at the rink. But I don’t want to burst her bubble. And there’s probably also a part of me that likes that she won’t have to borrow something warm from Andrew.