Page 90 of Mad Girl

“I’m here because I killed a person.” I couldn’t let you say it was your fault.

“But you wouldn’t have stormed off like that if it hadn’t been for me. I was cruel to you.”

“You were angry and hurt, and you had every right to be. Haven’t we been over this a hundred times? Haven’t you told me so yourself? We’re responsible for our own actions. We are not responsible for the choices other people make. The only person responsible for what happened that night is me. None of this is on you.”

You shook your head. “I’m at least partially to blame, and you’ll never convince me otherwise. I shouldn’t have even gone to that party. I never should’ve⁠—”

“Stop it. Okay?” I leaned forward, gripping the table. “I have enough guilt on my conscience. I can’t carry yours, too. So you better figure out a way to live with the choices you made that night—even if you can’t forgive yourself for them.”

You swallowed. “I’m trying. I wake up every day and keep going, even when I don’t want to anymore. When it would be so much easier to quit. You’ve no idea what it’s like out there. You can’t know, because you won’t let me tell you. I have⁠—”

“Tell me about school,” I said, cutting you off. I had to. Not because I didn’t care. Because I can’t carry that, too. I can’t carry whatever’s happening outside these walls. “Tell me about the classes you’re taking this semester.”

It took you a minute to choke back your emotions, but you told me about school. And while you talked, I ached to reach over the table and take your hand, but I’m not allowed. So I nodded and asked questions instead. Right before our time was up, I tearfully said, “I need you to be okay. No matter what happens while I’m in here, I need to know you’ll be okay.”

“I’m not okay,” you admitted, “but the important thing is, I’m not breaking, either—and that’s a promise you can count on.” You leaned as far over the table as the guard would allow, eyes locked on mine. “You don’t need to worry about me. Alright?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

The Monday after I discovered your secret, we started school. You made sure your classes ended before mine, so when I walked out at 2:45, you were waiting across the street in the dappled shade of an elm tree, often greeting me with a smile and a gentle tug of my hair. We made our way home by cutting through the park, and it quickly became my favorite part of the day.

My school required us to play a sport that year, and I chose tennis. It was that or cross country, and I hated running. But anything with balls? I could handle.

My dad wasn’t too sure. Too many opportunities for me to hurt someone else—or to get hurt myself—so he had you sit in on my practices, which were held at the tennis courts that are open to the public in the park three times a week. I don’t know if you noticed, but that first week, you caused a bit of a fuss. Since tennis is a coed sport, you had both girls and a couple of guys checking you out.

That senior—the pretty one named Gwen, with the big doe eyes and perfect shiny hair like something out of a shampoo commercial—kept flirting with you. So when it was our turn to play, I slammed the tennis ball over the net, successfully hitting that doe-eyed bitch in the chest. Gwen yelped in pain, clutching her right boob.

“Sorry,” I called out to her, smiling sweetly. “My bad.”

Gwen shot me a wary look, but as soon as we took a break, she started flirting with you again. So the next time we were up, I called to Gwen over to the net. “Hey, Gwen,” I said, lowering my voice. “You flirt with him again, and the next time? I won’t aim for your chest. I’ll aim for your mouth. I’ll knock those pretty teeth down your throat, and all those years you suffered through braces will have been for nothing. Understand?”

Gwen gaped at me, nodding dumbly as she backed into position. This was the one good thing about my reputation as a stone-cold bitch who stabbed someone once. The girls at my school—if I threatened them, Casey?—they listened. They didn’t take any chances with me.

You should know: I wouldn’t have followed through on my threat to Gwen. At least, I don’t think so. Fortunately for her, she never flirted with you again, and we didn’t have to find out.

Unfortunately for me, Greer Johnson also played tennis. One day, he sidled up to me on the sidelines and said, “Nice earrings, Bancroft.”

I’d paired tiny gold racket studs with tennis ball ones that day, suddenly regretting it. “Thanks,” I said dryly, moving slightly away from him.

But he wasn’t done. “What are the chances you’d ditch the bodyguard sometime and sneak away? Maybe grab a coffee or something?”

I laughed at the bodyguard comment. “Slim to none.”

“You sure about that?” he said with a smile. “We could have a good time together.”

“I’d rather die,” I said over my shoulder, already strutting off with my tennis racket.

I caught Greer watching me sometimes, admiring the way I looked in that short white tennis skirt and the tight red polo with my school’s crest on it. You must’ve noticed, too, because I joined you on the ground that day to drink from my water bottle, and you said, “Who’s the guy with the curly hair?”

“Greer Johnson,” I said, leaning back against the chain-link fence. “He’s a creep.”

“How so?” you said, flinging your gaze in his direction. “What did he say to you earlier?”

“He asked if I could ditch my bodyguard sometime and sneak away with him.”

“Are you serious?” you asked, glaring at him. I couldn’t tell if you were jealous or just peeved about the sneaking away comment.

“Yeah. But see what I mean, Casey? People think you’re my bodyguard.”