“Yeah—?we need to keep an eye out for her.”
“Of course. But what does that have to do with your skirt?”
Her question rankles me. “Everything. I just . . . wanted to wear it, okay? For me. To do something, anything, I don’t know. And maybe if people are looking at me, they won’t look at Hannah as much.”
Charlie tilts her head, considering. Then she slides her eyes up from my feet, up my legs, and to my face again. It’s not really a sexy look, more observation, but a ribbon of heat curls down my center anyway. No one can draw it out of me like Charlie. With her, there’s no hesitation, no wondering if I’m safe, no looking for ways it might all turn ugly and dirty and wrong.
“Well, people are definitely going to look at you,” she says. “That’s not really a gray-area kind of skirt. You’re going to get sent—”
“I know.”
She raises her hands, surrendering. “All right. Fine.”
Instinctively, we move toward the entrance, walking side by side just like normal. Our lockers are next to each other and we make our way through the throng. There are so many kids in the halls before homeroom, my skirt is hidden in the press of bodies.
For now.
I’m just throwing my British lit and music theory books into my bag for first and second periods when a strange hush sweeps through the crowd. I glance at Charlie, meeting her eyes for a split second before looking for the reason for the sudden quiet. Arcing to my tiptoes and craning my neck, I see a swath of strawberry hair weaving through the hall. Students part to let her through and it’s so surreal, like a scene from a movie. Some kids keep walking and talking, oblivious, but most eyes are on Hannah, as though she’s a bomb waiting to go off.
Her posture is a steel rod, her expression unemotional and blank, but her fingers are white around the strap of her bag. She wears gray leggings, a long-sleeved tunic dress in unassuming solid black, and boots. Her hair is soft around her face. Too soft. She looks like Hannah. And she doesn’t look like Hannah at all.
I wave at her, and when she spots us, a small flash of relief flares in her eyes. Her pace quickens and kids start to move again, talk again.
“Hey, slut, welcome back.”
The words slice through the air and Hannah freezes. So does everyone else, a few shocked gasps mingling with the laughs and Oh, damns. Next to me, Charlie springs into action, shouldering her way through the masses to get to Hannah, who’s standing like a hunted animal at the end of the barrel of a gun in the middle of the hallway. I look around for the source of the male voice, but there are too many guys, too many possibilities, as the scene unfreezes.
Charlie returns, her arms hooked through Hannah’s.
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, trying to put her body between Hannah and everyone else. “Are you okay?”
Hannah swallows several times. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to call your mom?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “She didn’t want me to come today. But I . . . I had to. I have to . . . god, I have to get over this.” She rubs both hands over her forehead, sliding them down and pressing them into her eyes.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Charlie says softly. “I don’t . . . I don’t know, but I’m not sure this is something you just get over, honey.”
“But I’m fine,” Hannah says, and she sounds anything but fine. I notice the brace isn’t on her wrist, but a few yellowed bruises still mottle her skin. “I’ve been out of school for almost a week already. That’s long enough—?I’m fine.”
“It’s okay not to be,” Charlie says, but it only makes Hannah more agitated. She shakes her head over and over again. Tears build in her eyes, falling quickly, messily. She slaps them away.
“Hey, slut, welcome back.”
A different male voice, this one quieter. Hannah startles, her back colliding with the metal locker behind her. I whip around, looking for the asshole, but everyone blends together in a mess of color.
“Hey, slut, welcome back.”
Charlie tries to shield Hannah from view, but it’s impossible to cover her completely. She grips Charlie’s arm, clearly about to completely lose it.
“Hey, slut, welcome back.”
The words keep coming, over and over again, different boy voices spitting venom, each verbal slap delivered so carefully I can’t get an ID on the guy attached to it. I hear a few female voices mixed in as well. I spin in circles, my veins boiling, desperate to get a lock on the source, but there are too many people in the hall. Everyone’s mouth is open, laughing or talking or joking around.
Hey, slut, welcome back.
Hey, slut, welcome back.
