The chanting voices surround me, and I walk as fast as I can to the cafeteria, where I grab an apple and a cup of soup. I ignore them, keeping my nose resolutely buried in my book. I’m used to the bullying. These assholes have been bullying me since fifth grade, and I don’t give a shit.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I push past them angrily, the redness in my cheeks probably matching my red hair, not doing a very good job of proving I don’t care. I’m so focused on getting away from the crowd that I don’t see where I’m going, and I bump into a hard surface that causes me to spill soup all over myself.
Fuck. It’s him. Quill Nelson.
The boy I once saw as my silent protector.
Now he’s joined the ranks of the bullies, and he’s the worst one of all. I can’t pretend I don’t care about him. I look up, tears already gathering in my eyes, doing my best to blink them down, because there’s no way in hell I’ll cry in front of Quill Nelson.
I’d rather die.
Though it feels like part of me died already, the first week of ninth grade, when I saw him across the hallway and smiled cheerfully at him.
He greeted my grin with a murderous expression, and if there’d been any doubt then, it was removed by the time the dayended.
Quill Nelson hated my guts, and he was going to make high school hell.
That evening, when I got home from school, I found all the old notebooks with theQuill and Piperscribbles, and I ripped them apart and threw them out. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like I’m getting stabbed in the lungs every time he proves again how much he hates me.
He’s changed so much since fifth grade. As a kid, he barely spoke. He was a skinny boy always half-hidden in a hoodie from which glinted two piercing blue eyes. Monosyllables and shrugs were all I could get out of him. But whenever I spotted him in a room, I knew no one would hurt me. He protected me.
Now his dark curly hair is cut slightly shorter, he’s packed on a lot of muscle, and his upper body is already decorated with tattoos even though he’s only fifteen. He speaks full sentences, but only ever mocking ones. He was a loner before, but these days he’s always hanging out with two assholes. He still wears a black hoodie at all times, but he doesn’t seem to use it to hide anymore. His piercing blue eyes gaze down at me, and nothing gets in the way of me seeing the utter contempt that swirls in them. No. Not just contempt.Hatred.
I try to steel myself for whatever form of torture is coming, but there’s no steeling myself from him.
He’s looking at me, smirking, and his eyes take in the apple and soup. “Is that all you could afford, insect?”
“Leave me alone,” I spit out.
“Ooh, feisty, are we? You should be licking the floor I walk on, like your dad does.”
“The only thing anyone’s licking is your mom!”
I don’t even understand what I’m saying, just hurling some stupid meme at him. But the insult has an immediate effect on him. Especially as one of his friends, Liam, sniggers. Quill grabsmy cup of soup and splashes the hot contents on me.
I stand there, sputtering, shaking in anger and humiliation.
“C’mon,” he adds, gripping my arm and pulling me so hard it nearly dislocates me. “I’m gonna wash you now.”
I struggle in his grasp, because I know exactly what that means. He’s done it to me before. He ‘washed’ me in front of his friends, and it became a big joke at school. And now, he’s planning to do it again.
It was the worst experience of my life, and I’d do anything other than repeat it. I try to force my arm out of his hold, I plant my feet on the ground and try to refuse to budge. But he merely grips me tighter, fisting my hair with his other hand, pulling hard.
The other asshole, Dane, tries to grab my other arm, but he snarls, “Hands off!” then literally drags me to the boys’ bathroom.
Still my silent protector in some ways, I think with bitter sarcasm. He doesn’t let anyone else bully me. Just him.
But I would rather take all the bullying in the world than even the tiniest insult from him.
Unfortunately, he’s planning far worse than a tiny insult. He slams the first stall door open. I nearly gag as he forces me down, but I remember the last time, and I take the deepest breath I can manage before quickly clamping my mouth shut. It’s not a moment too soon—one second later, he’s dunking me into the fetid water of the toilet bowl.
“That’ll wash you good,” he boasts, pulling me back up just as my breath gives out. “Even toilet water is cleaner than the Days.” He punctuates the sentence by splashing me once more into the bowl, to the shrieks of laughter of the boys behind him. He does it again and again, until the bell rings a warning: two more minutes till class. The boys hurry out, and I’m left alone, trembling in the corner of the stall, my face and shirt soakedwith toilet water and soup.
The second I hear the door slam, I lean over into the toilet I was just submerged in, and dry heave. I wish something would come out, because dry heaving is so much worse than vomiting, the way it twists my innards, the way the acid burns my esophagus. But I slept in too late to eat breakfast, and my soup is currently coating the floor of the hallway.
I’m still clutching the apple absentmindedly in one hand, and when I look at it, I nearly dry heave again.
