Wild Reckless

Every now and then, I glance next to her, to Ryan, and he’s chewing on the end of his straw, listening to his girlfriend talk, but looking from me to Owen and back again. I follow my friends from the table, dumping my trash and pulling my backpack over my shoulder, when Ryan stops me last at the door before we leave.

“I know he makes it hard, Kensi. But that guy out there…that’s not really him. O’s better than that,” Ryan says, and I want to believe him. But I also know that men lie, and break promises, and destroy friendships and marriages—and right now that’s the only rationale I can think about.

“Sure he is, Ryan. Sure he is,” I say, patting him on the arm as I muscle past him and let the door close behind me.

Elise distracts me during science. I’m careful to avoid any one-on-one time with Owen during dissections—immediately pairing myself with Elise, who is still obsessively talking about the festival. I’ve never been, and already I hate this festival and what it’s done to my routine. It’s like it’s taken over my friends’ bodies and minds, too. But I’m grateful for Elise’s constant conversation though, and it makes the forty minutes of class fly by.

My next class isn’t going to be so easy. When I enter our English class, Owen is sitting in his seat right behind mine, his smirk in its familiar place.

“Saved your seat for you,” he says, barely looking up. Like I believe he hasn’t orchestrated everything he’s about to do and say.

“Whatever,” I respond; glad I don’t have to push his feet off my chair. I don’t like hot and cold. My dad was always hot and cold, probably because he never really wanted to be there in the first place.

“Wow, someone’s moody,” he says. I know what he’s doing. He’s shifting everything he’s feeling to me; he’s making me the bad guy, because he can’t be mad at an entire town—at everyone in Woodstock—for being excited about an event that to him means nothing but nightmares and the stirring up of old gossip and rumors. Thing is, though, that’s also not very fair to me.

“Someone else is an asshole, so touché,” I say, not even bothering to fully turn around in my seat to acknowledge him. He hates that, because he wants more of a reaction. He wants that push and pull. I hate that I’m goading him as much as I am. I wish I could just keep my mouth shut.

“Awwww, are you…jealous, Kensington?” His lips are at my neck, and his breath is making the tiny hairs on my skin stand to attention. I hate that he called me by my full name, hate that he’s trying to hurt me. But mostly I hate that yes, I’m jealous of some stupid girl of the moment he was just locking lips with at lunch.

I can still feel him there, close enough that I know if I jerked my elbow back hard and fast, I would give him a matching bruise on the other eye. But I fight my newfound instinct for violence, and instead do something far worse.

Turning in my seat, I put both of my palms flat on Owen’s desk and face him, his eyes piercing mine with their coolness. “I’m very sorry, Owen,” I say, and he leans back, folding his arms, his face painted with smugness as he waits for me to take his bait, to go ahead and embarrass myself. No, Owen—not today.

“Did you hear me?” I ask, keeping my voice low, keeping this a conversation for our ears alone. He merely quirks his brow in acknowledgement, but it’s enough. “I know that this apple fest—or whatever the hell this event is—is painful for you. And I know that you’re worried your dad is all people are going to talk about. And some of them probably will. And those people, Owen? Those people fucking suck. But I’m just trying to make new friends at a school I never wanted to come to. At a school I’m at because guess what? My dad fucked my life up too. And my new friends asked me to go to a carnival and eat some pie that’s apparently, like, the greatest goddamned pie on the planet. They want me to stay out late, and ride some questionable rides I probably won’t even really like. And you know what? You, your family, your dad—they haven’t brought it up once. Not. Once. So I’m going to go with them, try to make a good memory, and then I’m going to come home and fall in my bed from exhaustion. I hope I can bring myself to look out my window once before I shut my eyes, but I’m not so sure I care for the view anymore.”

Owen’s face didn’t flinch a single time, and his expression never changed. But I kept my eyes trained on his, looking deep into them, and I think maybe—just maybe—I saw a little crack or two underneath.

I turn back to face the front, pull my notepad from my book bag and spend the next hour ignoring Owen’s breathing. When the bell rings, I’m the first to leave, and I don’t give him another glance.