Page 100 of Mad Girl

“Oh, come on,” replied Greer. “Why do you give me such a hard time?”

“I’m not sure I like the way you look at me.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Something’s not right about you.”

Greer drew back. “Something’s not right about you, either, Bancroft. What way do I look at you exactly?”

“Like you want to pounce on me or something.”

Greer smiled. “And you wouldn’t like that? Something about the way you look at me makes me think you could handle it.”

“Of course I could handle it. The question is, could you handle it if I were to pounce on you?”

Greer rubbed a hand over his chest and laughed darkly. “Sure. If you show me your crazy, I’ll show you mine.”

“Why don’t I show you on the court?” I suggested, strutting off with my tennis racket.

Greer and I were doubles partners that day, so I served the ball—as hard as I could—right at the back of his shoulder. He swore out loud and twisted around to gape at me.

I served a second time, and did it again, only the ball hit him in the middle of the back. Greer threw his arms out and said, “What the hell, Bancroft?”

The two girls over the net threw their hands up, too, ready to get on with the game.

I backed up, bouncing the ball, shooting Greer a wicked smirk. Just before I served again, you rose from the bench, your body coiled tight, on high alert.

The game went pretty smoothly after that, until it was my turn to serve again, and I served the ball into Greer’s back a third time. He whirled around, fuming, obviously resenting the way I smiled at him, because he threw his racket to the ground and charged at me.

The coach ordered Greer to stop, but he kept charging.

No matter. I didn’t move or flinch or cower one bit. That creep didn’t scare me. In fact, I hoped he would hit me. Knock me down. Do something to bring me pain—pain, but also relief. Physical pain would help dull the clawing pain of hurting Michael. Of damaging his relationship with you. Of losing those pictures of my mom.

Greer stomped so close I had to tilt my head back to look at him. “You little cunt,” he said through his teeth, hands clenched by his side.

I laughed in his face. “See what I mean? If you can’t handle being hit by a little ball a few times, you can’t handle me, asshole.”

That seemed to make Greer even angrier. But then you were there, Casey, nudging him back with a hand to his chest.

“Back away,” you told him—in this quiet, scary voice I’d never heard you use before. You glowered at each other, both of your chests puffed out. I rolled my eyes. Boys.

On the way home, we walked quietly but close, my arm brushing yours. Finally, you said, “You kept hitting the ball at that boy on purpose.”

I shrugged.

“Can we talk about it?”

“Nope,” I said, storming ahead of you.

But over dinner that night, my dad forced the issue. “I heard there was an incident at tennis practice today.”

I shot a glare across the table.

“Wasn’t me who told him,” you said.

Nic leaned back in his chair. “Your coach called me.”

“Of course he did,” I said, dropping my fork. “I can’t do anything without you finding out, can I?”

“No,” Nic said, pointing at me. “And you’d do well to remember that. Did you hurt that boy on purpose?”

I clutched my water glass. “Yes.”