“I’m not going to blackmail her over some video. I was just asking.” My eyes meet his for a moment while my frown deepens. “If you have anything, I’d appreciate if you could wipe it. I’ll ask Trent, too.”
“Good.” He looks relieved as though he’s wanted to say something for a while and finally got it off his chest. Ridiculous. If we’re facing off on a harm-to-Em scale, it would tip firmly in his direction.
I get in the car, heading towards home, trying to think through the implications. The bullying isn’t working but I’ll take one more try and step it up. There are people at school grateful for the opportunity to pay her back without repercussion. Grateful to torment their tormentor.
Mostly, there are just sheeple who’ll fall into line behind anyone strong enough to vocalise a plan.
Close to home, I pull over to the side, turn off the engine, and shut my eyes. Images from the afternoon recur to me, the interactions, the sudden closeness.
Maybe I’m not meant to have that with Em, maybe it’s foolish to even think about, but I want it. I want to wake up with her on a Saturday morning and make love to her, shower with her, cook breakfast for her, not necessarily in that order. Grumble over our toast as we prioritise our weekend chores. Curl up on the couch together, falling asleep as we watch a movie, waking long enough to carry her to bed, knowing the next day we can do it all again.
I ache for that closeness, that ease, that familiarity. The way we joked with each other at the party but extending it, adding more, turning it into a narrative that lasts all day long. Falling into step with each other, getting out of each other’s way when our paths diverge, knowing later we’ll come back together.
Getting to know each other inside and out.
Finally, when the ache retreats, I start the car again, pulling into the street and steering towards home.
If the escalation doesn’t work, I really will have to formulate another plan. Maybe I can try harder outside of school. Get some information on where she goes, who she hangs out with. Bump into her by accident, when we’re far from any school classroom, and see where that gets me.
Taking care of her posted request will help. It never hurts to have another aim of attack. Trent will give me the video if he still has it. I could be her hero by giving it to her to destroy.
Sticks and carrots both have their place.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
EM
The shoulder bumps have become so routine that by the Monday morning, I barely notice them. My eyes still scan the corridors for signs of Dee, still hoping to get her alone, but I don’t put in too much effort.
Every message I type that goes unanswered strips away a sliver of my value, my self-respect. It’s not working, and I don’t have enough stock to keep handing it out for free.
It’s been a week. Time to call it.
I’ve lost her.
Eighteen texts sit unanswered. I sent a few DMs over the weekend but stopped when she blocked me off one app. I’m sure if I tried again, she’d happily block me from more.
At morning tea, I still check my messages, hating myself for holding onto a scrap of hope. To my surprise, there’s one there from a potential client. She’s wondering what happens if she’s not happy with the results. I quickly send her a reply stating that if she doesn’t like it, she doesn’t have to pay.
Not the best business practice but having one happy customer will put me a lot further ahead than a missed opportunity.
Ten minutes later, it looks like it was the right tactic because she sends me a time on Saturday with a string of excited emojis as a chaser.
My first client.
My first honest-to-god client.
I clench my hands, closing my eyes and trying to squeal without making an actual sound. The happiness abates a bit when I realise I want to tell Dee all about it but can’t.
Never mind. Having a business is a better fit for me right now than having a friend. Especially one who chooses not to listen to my side.
I like to think I would, but of course Dee would never give me the reason to doubt her in the first place. She’s not the one who refused to explain where she’d gone when she had the chance.
The explanation would have taken an age, considering the four years of abuse that preceded it, but maybe I should have tried.
Maybe I’ll tell the next girl stupid enough to get close to me. It’ll be amusing to see her expression disintegrate as she runs away.
“Ready to give up yet?” Caylon asks, appearing beside my locker like a cartoon villain.
