Page 143 of Mad Girl

“Don’t pull that daddy shit on me,” Nic said, jamming his finger at me again. “You hurt that girl, Elliot. You’re not supposed to hurt people.”

“But she’s a bitch,” I said.

“I don’t care what she is. It’s never okay to deliberately hurt a person. There is never an excuse. You could’ve caused permanent damage to her eye. You’ll go to Dr. Goldstein, you’ll write the letter, and you’ll apologize to her.”

“No.” I frantically shook my head. “I won’t.”

“You will, Elliot.”

“I won’t do it,” I said shakily. “You can’t make me. I refuse.”

“You will,” Nic said, in a voice that was the total opposite of mine: eerily calm and steady. “Or I’ll admit you to a psychiatric hospital, where you’ll complete a treatment program for teens who like to hurt themselves and others.”

“What?” I cried. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“I’ve had the paperwork sitting in my desk at work for quite a while now. Fucking try me.”

While I stared at him in shock, Michael clutched his forehead. “Nic,” he said, “I take full responsibility for this. It’s my fault.”

“Oh, really? Are you the one who hurt Sienna?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have started bringing her back here. She’s mean to Elliot. She says shit to mess with her. She is a bitch.”

“So you’re saying she deserved it?”

“Well, no. Of course not. But⁠—”

“You’re not taking responsibility for this, Michael.”

“But I want to,” Michael said. “Please, Nic. Punish me instead.”

Nic peered at him. “Punish you how exactly?”

“Tell my parents what I did to those guys. Tell them the police had to get involved. Forbid me to hang out over here. I don’t know.”

Nic shook his head. “Elliot did this, and Elliot will pay the consequences. Tell you what, though, Michael. She owes you an apology, too—for hurting your girlfriend. So you’ll also need to be here when it’s time for her to apologize.”

You drew back at the panic on Michael’s face. The question written all over yours was: What the hell is going on?

“Upstairs,” Nic ordered. “I’ll text you when it’s time for dinner.”

“Let me apologize to her the normal way,” I begged.

“Upstairs,” Nic repeated, still clutching his phone. “Right now. I’ve got a call to make.”

You asked if I felt remorse, Casey? Well, right then, at that very moment, I did. With the painful certainty of what was to come, I wished I’d never messed with that bitch.

“I’ll be good from now on,” I said to my dad. “I promise I’ll be good. Please.”

Nic rounded the island, slammed my English books shut, and shoved them into my bag. “I’ve heard it all before,” he said, yanking out my stool, then thrusting my backpack at me. “Get upstairs.”

“Daddy.”

“Hurting people is never okay!” he yelled—so loud all three of us jumped. “Hurting people is wrong, and there must be real consequences. You are not crying your way out of this, Elliot. Upstairs. Now.”

At dinner that night, I pushed food around my plate, avoiding your gaze, unable to bear the questions—or the disappointment—on your face. The entire meal dragged, painfully quiet and awkward. Until the considerably more awkward moment when my dad said, “Casey, where were you while Elliot spent time at Michael’s apartment yesterday?”

You shifted uneasily in your chair. “Here,” you told him. “With Michael.”