long,
detailed outline, my eyes growing wider as I read. When I
get to the bottom, I look at him. “Seriously?”
He nods, staring blankly at the paper I gave him,
and then he looks at me. “There’s no way we can do this
alone,” he says in a low voice.
“I’ve been thinking about that. What about . . . Trey?”
I ask.
He nods again. “I don’t know who else to go to.” His
voice is hollow and his hand drops to his side, like he’s too
tired to hold the paper any longer.
“No, this is good,” I say. “Really. He already knows
something’s up.” I fold the notes he gave me into a tight
square and put them safely in my pocket. “I’ll talk to him
and see if we can figure out a time to meet up so we can
explain—”
Just then Roxie and BFF Sarah come up behind
Sawyer. Roxie slaps Sawyer on the butt, and when he
turns, Sarah grabs the paper from his hand.
“Ooh, a love note!” She laughs.
Sawyer tries to grab it but Sarah hands it off to Roxie.
And because of my paranoia this morning, and because it’s
so stupid rude anyway, I lunge for the paper, grasp Roxie’s
shirt collar with my good hand, and pull the paper from
her with my other hand, leaving only a tiny bit between
her fingers and, unfortunately, a large scratch on her neck
from my fingernail.
“Ow, you bitch!” she shrieks, holding her neck like
it’s way more than just a flesh wound, and then she lunges
back at me, going for my neck rather than the paper,
which I manage to shove into my pocket.
People around us start shouting and I can’t see
anything but Roxie’s flaring nostrils in my face. I think
frantically about how this all will lead to nothing good,
namely parents being called, and I sink to the floor, deadweight, praying that somebody pulls her off me as she follows me to the floor, because I’m not going to fight
back. In an instant, she digs her knee into my stomach
and rakes her fake claws down my neck. I close my eyes
and keep my flinching as invisible as possible, hoping she
doesn’t totally fuck up my innards after they’ve been trying so hard to heal. Instinctively I bring my good arm up to her rib cage to try to lessen the weight she’s putting
on me, and she jabs her elbow into my biceps, giving me
a wicked charley horse.
“Stop!” I hear, and realize it’s my hoarse voice yelling.
The whole thing lasts about five seconds, maybe a few
more than that, but it feels like an hour before her knee
is off my gut. I’m not quite flat on the floor; my head is
against the lockers and my neck is twisted. I open an eye as
Sawyer kneels down to see if I’m okay and help me up, and
I look at Roxie, who is being held back by the guy whose
locker is next to mine. Mr. Polselli stands between us, his
hand on Roxie’s shoulder, his eyes on me.
“Are you okay?” Sawyer asks.
I nod quickly, and scramble to get to my feet, embarrassed. We’re surrounded by students eager for a girl fight. “Sorry to disappoint,” I say to them, catching my
breath. I hold my cast in front of me and my good arm
pressed against my stomach and make a pained face. Hey,
I’m not stupid.
“My classroom,” Mr. Polselli barks at both of us just as
the bell rings. “Everybody else get out of here.”
Sawyer tries to come with me, but Mr. Polselli gives
him the hairy eyeball. Sawyer says how sorry he is with
his eyes, and then he frowns and grabs his books, watching at least until we’re out of sight and inside the psych classroom. Mr. Polselli’s papier mâché bust of Ivan Pavlov
stares at me.
“Roxanne, you start,” Mr. Polselli says.
“She attacked me and cut my neck,” Roxie says. “I can
feel it. See?”
“Why did she attack you?”
“Because she’s a paranoid freak,” she says. “She can’t
stand that I’m friends with her boyfriend.”
“I did not attack you. You took—” I begin, but Mr.
Polselli holds a hand up to me. Students start to come into
the room and they send curious
detailed outline, my eyes growing wider as I read. When I
get to the bottom, I look at him. “Seriously?”
He nods, staring blankly at the paper I gave him,
and then he looks at me. “There’s no way we can do this
alone,” he says in a low voice.
“I’ve been thinking about that. What about . . . Trey?”
I ask.
He nods again. “I don’t know who else to go to.” His
voice is hollow and his hand drops to his side, like he’s too
tired to hold the paper any longer.
“No, this is good,” I say. “Really. He already knows
something’s up.” I fold the notes he gave me into a tight
square and put them safely in my pocket. “I’ll talk to him
and see if we can figure out a time to meet up so we can
explain—”
Just then Roxie and BFF Sarah come up behind
Sawyer. Roxie slaps Sawyer on the butt, and when he
turns, Sarah grabs the paper from his hand.
“Ooh, a love note!” She laughs.
Sawyer tries to grab it but Sarah hands it off to Roxie.
And because of my paranoia this morning, and because it’s
so stupid rude anyway, I lunge for the paper, grasp Roxie’s
shirt collar with my good hand, and pull the paper from
her with my other hand, leaving only a tiny bit between
her fingers and, unfortunately, a large scratch on her neck
from my fingernail.
“Ow, you bitch!” she shrieks, holding her neck like
it’s way more than just a flesh wound, and then she lunges
back at me, going for my neck rather than the paper,
which I manage to shove into my pocket.
People around us start shouting and I can’t see
anything but Roxie’s flaring nostrils in my face. I think
frantically about how this all will lead to nothing good,
namely parents being called, and I sink to the floor, deadweight, praying that somebody pulls her off me as she follows me to the floor, because I’m not going to fight
back. In an instant, she digs her knee into my stomach
and rakes her fake claws down my neck. I close my eyes
and keep my flinching as invisible as possible, hoping she
doesn’t totally fuck up my innards after they’ve been trying so hard to heal. Instinctively I bring my good arm up to her rib cage to try to lessen the weight she’s putting
on me, and she jabs her elbow into my biceps, giving me
a wicked charley horse.
“Stop!” I hear, and realize it’s my hoarse voice yelling.
The whole thing lasts about five seconds, maybe a few
more than that, but it feels like an hour before her knee
is off my gut. I’m not quite flat on the floor; my head is
against the lockers and my neck is twisted. I open an eye as
Sawyer kneels down to see if I’m okay and help me up, and
I look at Roxie, who is being held back by the guy whose
locker is next to mine. Mr. Polselli stands between us, his
hand on Roxie’s shoulder, his eyes on me.
“Are you okay?” Sawyer asks.
I nod quickly, and scramble to get to my feet, embarrassed. We’re surrounded by students eager for a girl fight. “Sorry to disappoint,” I say to them, catching my
breath. I hold my cast in front of me and my good arm
pressed against my stomach and make a pained face. Hey,
I’m not stupid.
“My classroom,” Mr. Polselli barks at both of us just as
the bell rings. “Everybody else get out of here.”
Sawyer tries to come with me, but Mr. Polselli gives
him the hairy eyeball. Sawyer says how sorry he is with
his eyes, and then he frowns and grabs his books, watching at least until we’re out of sight and inside the psych classroom. Mr. Polselli’s papier mâché bust of Ivan Pavlov
stares at me.
“Roxanne, you start,” Mr. Polselli says.
“She attacked me and cut my neck,” Roxie says. “I can
feel it. See?”
“Why did she attack you?”
“Because she’s a paranoid freak,” she says. “She can’t
stand that I’m friends with her boyfriend.”
“I did not attack you. You took—” I begin, but Mr.
Polselli holds a hand up to me. Students start to come into
the room and they send curious
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