“You’ll do as you’re told—”
“She’s smart.” The words come out sharp and defiant. “And she’s kind. She’s never done anything to deserve being spoken about that way. She’s worked hard her whole life. She’s—” He stops. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “You have no right to talk about her like that.”
My hands slowly draw away from my face. My heart is swelling. Aching. Beating too fast.
The sound of a slap echoes down the hallway.
I clap my hand over my mouth to stop the gasp.
Mr. Montoni’s roar is like a dragon breathing fire. “You will not speak to me that way. You will not question my authority. Do I make myself clear?”
I picture Mr. Montoni brandishing a forefinger in Cristiano’s face while he holds his hand to his stinging cheek.
Hehithim.
Tears fill my eyes. To hit his own son merely for saying something kind ismonstrous.
In that flat, dead voice, Cristiano says, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
Footsteps. Heavy ones as Mr. Montoni goes deeper into the house, and faster ones, moving toward the stairs.
I stay frozen against the wall, my hand still pressed to my mouth, my heart pounding so hard I think I might be sick.
He stood up to his father for me, and his father hit him.
Because of me.
I’m causing problems just by existing near Cristiano.
I press my back harder against the wall and try to breathe. The warmth is still there, glowing softly in the center of my chest. Something precious and fragile that I want to protect.
He thinks I’m smart.
He thinks I’m kind.
I push off the wall and head to the kitchen on shaking legs, my hand pressed to my pounding chest. Part of me is glowing. Part of me wants to cry. I’ve never felt so valued in my life, and I’ve never felt so guilty.
The next fewdays pass in a strange haze. I see Cristiano at school pickup like always. He waits by the gates, takes my bag, and walks me home. We talk about homework and teachers and the book I’m reading. Normal things. Safe things.
But something has shifted.
I catch myself watching him differently. Noticing the way his muscles flex when he’s moving. The way his hands look when he’s carrying my backpack, strong and capable. The way his eyes soften when he looks at me.
I don’t tell him I overheard what he said and what his father did to him. I don’t know how to bring it up without admitting I was eavesdropping, and without making him relive the humiliation and pain of being hit. Mom has warned me not to breathe a word to anyone about the fights we hear between Mr. and Mrs. Montoni, because men like Mr. Montoni are above the law, and we mind our own business to stay safe. I don’t know what that means,above the law, but it makes it sound as though Mr. Montoni is superhuman. Almost godlike.
On Thursday, I’m in a stall in the girls’ restroom between classes when I overhear a group of girls come in.
“—don’t understand what he sees in Mina.”
I freeze, my hand on the stall door I was about to open.
It’s my classmate, Elaine, and she must be with her friends. The same girls who circle Cristiano at the gates every afternoon, hoping he’ll notice them.
“She’s not even pretty,” Amber says. I recognize her voice. “Like, she’s fine, but she’s notprettypretty.”
“Maybe she’s easy,” Trina suggests, and they all giggle.
