“Come on, Bernie,” Garrett says. “I know you’re not getting a better offer.”
Her cheeks are glowing red, but she refuses to acknowledge his insults.
“I’ll even let you touch it,” Garrett sings out. And he’s not subtle. He’s loud enough for me to hear several rows back. An older couple sits on the other side of him and his friends. The womanlooks uncomfortable, shifting on the bleacher. But the older guy smiles, amused. He even pats the woman’s leg as if telling her to relax.
“Bernice,” Garrett sings to the girl. “Remember when we hooked up in the art closet in seventh grade? I swear, it’s gotten bigger since then. Just like you.”
His friend tumbles onto the floor of the bleachers laughing dramatically, cruelly, and when I look at the girl, tears are streaming down her cheeks. I can see from here that she’s shivering. She’s … frightened.
Whatever’s going on, this isn’t the first time Garrett has harassed her. He’s most likely been terrorizing her for years.
The woman murmurs something to her husband, but he chuckles. “They’re just boys,” he says. “Lighten up. We did the same shit when we were in school.”
The woman looks past him to Bernie. I tilt my head as I examine the older woman’s expression. And I’m sure she’s thinking,Yes, I remember.Only it’s not fondly. She remembers the terror of boys just being boys.
It seems to be systematic, inherited power. The fathers pass it down to their sons: aggression, entitlement, violence. Coupled with money or influence, these boys are unstoppable. There is no catalyst for change. Their natures are nurtured rather than corrected. Even this mother doesn’t speak up.
“Bernice, come—”
“Leave her alone,” I say loudly enough for him to hear. Bernice turns to me first, shocked. Untrusting. Why should shetrust me? I’m a stranger at a school that’s allowed her to be tortured. She stands up and hurries down the bleachers, fleeing the entire scene.
The older couple glances back at me. The man curls his lip before running his gaze over me. He sniffs a laugh, as if I’m off the hook because I’m pretty, and turns around. The woman, however, doesn’t seem sure what to make of me. Eventually, she looks away too.
Garrett, on the other hand, turns completely in the bleacher so that he’s facing me.
“Well, well,” he calls up to me. “Seems she wants to talk after all.” His friends look from him to me, their eyes glassy with excitement. But I don’t feed into Garrett’s energy. I ignore him and watch the field.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I was scared. Not of his verbal attacks—I was subjected to those daily at the academy. I know a situation can escalate. But I couldn’t let him harass that girl. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen. Girls need to protect each other, especially when adults do nothing but watch.
Garrett turns to his friends, saying something to make them laugh. I pull my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater and watch the players run back and forth on the field. I try to stay focused on my mission, evaluating each of the boys.
I notice Jonah Grant among the players and dissect his mannerisms. His confidence shines far above anyone else on that field. I wonder what makes the other boys afraid of him. What is it about him that they continue to bow to? He haspower here, although I can’t quite figure out why. He seems average in every respect, but there must be something.
There’s a skirmish on the field, and I narrow my eyes as I try to see who’s fighting. There’s also a flash of movement at the end of my aisle, but I’m fascinated by what’s happening in the game.
A ref blows the whistle just as a punch is thrown. The benches empty into a rumble on the sidelines. But Jonah laughs with another player as they watch the others fight.
“A bunch of fucking Neanderthals,” a familiar voice says.
I suck in a startled gasp and turn as Jackson sits next to me with a groan, his crutches awkwardly banging against the metal. He keeps his gaze on the field, his expression weighted and heavy. The smell of him fills my nose, followed by a wave of affection. Trepidation. Guilt.
So much guilt.
His dark hair is messy, stubble grown out on his chin. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a brace on his leg. His crutches lean on the metal seat next to him.
He doesn’t look at me. It hurts how much I want him to look at me.
I’m stunned to see him, and acknowledging that, he nods, continuing to watch the game.
“You didn’t say goodbye,” he says simply, as if that’s the worst of my offenses.
“I had to go,” I respond, and watch as his Adam’s apple bobs.
“Clearly. I mean …” He glances over for the first time and we both pause, our breaths held when his dark eyes meet mine.He abruptly turns away and his voice tightens. “I ended up in the hospital, you know? Q drove me directly there, and once I was admitted, he told me what you said outside the car.”
I close my eyes.
“You didn’t …” He pauses to keep his tone steady. “You didn’t have to tell him all that. He fucking hated me for a minute. So, you know, thanks.”
