I never admitted that I called him, but he smiles anyway.
“I’ve missed you, Mena,” he adds with a shrug. “It was good to see you again.”
He turns and starts down the aisle, his crutches wobbly as he tries to make his way without knocking into people. I watch until he’s gone from the bleachers. And the minute he is, I squeeze my eyes shut, admonishing myself for how much I’ve missed him, too.
But I did abandon him. I did purposely hurt him to get him away from us. All I’ve done is ruin his life. In return, he shouldn’t care what happens to me. But he does. And my inability to return that kindness is almost as bad as if I’d broken his leg myself.
“Are you trying to make me jealous?”
Startled, I look up and find Garrett walking toward me. I flinch when he sits next to me.
“I have to go,” I say quickly, trying to get up. But he grabs the sleeve of my sweater to drag me down on the bench next to him.
“Don’t be rude,” Garrett says. I look over to where his friends are sitting, but they’re purposely not looking back at us. Everyone else in the crowd is focused on the game.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, yanking my sweater from his grip. He finds my refusal hilarious and tells me so.
“Since you thought it was your place to interrupt me earlier, I figured it’d give me a chance to be just as intrusive.” He looks me over. “Who was the guy? Your boyfriend?”
“It’s none of your business,” I say. “And I spoke up because you were being inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?”He laughs. “What are you, a teacher?”
Annoyed, I start to get up again, but he puts his hand on my thigh to hold me in place. I jump, slapping his hand off me, my eyes wide.
“No!” I insist loudly enough to make the woman in his row look back at us.
Garrett’s expression immediately clouds with embarrassment. He looks around to see if anyone else noticed me reject him. And then suddenly, viciously, he reaches out with both hands and grabs me by the collar of my shirt, his fingernails scratching my neck, and pulls me within inches of his face.
My expression contorts in pain, horror. Absolute terror. Tears spring to my eyes, but I freeze, gasping for breath. For a moment, I don’t see Garrett. I see Guardian Bose threatening me, his sour breath spreading over my face.
“First lesson, Phil-o-mena,” Garrett whispers. “Girls don’t say no to me. They thank me.”
I can’t stand his hands on me. I can’t stand him this close to me. I curl my hand into a fist and punch his arms. He pretends to be shocked and holds up his hands innocently, releasing my shirt.
“Relax,” he says loudly, as if I instigated the violence. He’s the kind of person who’ll punch you, and when you fight back, claim to be the victim.
I can’t catch my breath. I can’t calm my thoughts. He caught me off guard.
Looking around the bleachers, I see several faces watching us curiously. But it all starts to spin.
I have to get out of here. I wrap my arms around myself, protecting myself, and rush off the bleachers as Garrett and his friends catcall after me.
When I get to the bottom landing and turn the corner to exit the bleachers, someone grabs my arm. I yelp and spin around, surprised to find Mr. Marsh. He quickly puts his hands up in apology.
“Philomena,” he says, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I … You seem upset.” He glances back at the bleachers, searching until he spots Garrett and his friends. I’m not imagining that there’s a flash of anger in my teacher’s expression. When he turns to me again, his eyes stray to my neck and his eyes soften.
“You’re hurt,” he says, reaching out.
I touch the area on my neck and realize immediately that I have scratches—sore and raised—from Garrett’s fingernails.
“I have to go,” I say, moving a step back. I don’t want him to see my injuries. I don’t want him to touch me. I just want to escape.
Girls don’t say no to me.
“I have to go,” I repeat louder, and hurry away without looking back.
17
