Astrid flushed, despite herself. Diana laughed at her.
“Oh, please, that’s obvious. He’s cute. He’s brave. He’s smart, but not as smart as you. He’s perfect.”
“He’s a friend,” Astrid said.
“Uh-huh. Well, we’re about to find out how good a friend he is. He knows we have you. If he doesn’t tell Caine everything Caine wants to know, and do whatever Caine tells him to do, Drake here is going to hurt you.”
Astrid’s insides turned to jelly. “What?”
Diana sighed. “Well, that’s why we keep Drake around. He enjoys hurting people. We don’t keep him around for his conversational skills.”
Drake looked like he’d rather take a shot at Diana. His narrow lizard eyes narrowed further. Diana didn’t miss his expression.
“Go ahead, raise a hand against me, Drake,” Diana taunted. “Caine would kill you.” To Astrid, she said, “Better behave yourself, he’s all riled up now.”
Diana left.
Astrid felt Drake’s eyes on her but she couldn’t look at him. She kept her gaze down on the math book. Then glanced at her brother, who sat playing his stupid game, unable, unwilling, uncaring.
Astrid felt ashamed of her own fear. Ashamed that she couldn’t look at the thug who leaned insouciantly against the wall.
She had no doubt that Sam would do his best to save her. But Caine might ask for something Sam couldn’t give.
She needed to think. She needed to work out a plan. She was scared, she always had been scared of physical violence. She was scared of the emptiness she sensed in Drake Merwin.
She scooted her desk up beside Little Pete’s and put a hand on his shoulder. No reaction. He knew she was there, but he showed nothing, absorbed in his game.
Still not looking at Drake, Astrid said, “Doesn’t it bother you that Diana treats you like some wild animal she keeps on a leash?”
Drake said, “Doesn’t it bother you going around with that retard? Having a little ’tard practically attached to you?”
“He’s not retarded,” Astrid said evenly.
“Oh. Is that the wrong word? ‘Retard’?”
“He’s autistic.”
“Retarded,” Drake insisted.
Astrid looked at him. She willed herself to meet his gaze. “‘Retarded’ is a word people don’t use anymore. When they did use it, they used it to signify an impairment of intelligence. Petey is not intellectually impaired in that way. He has at least normal IQ, and may have a higher than normal IQ. So the word doesn’t apply.”
“Yeah? Huh. Because I like the word ‘retard.’ In fact, I’d like to hear you say it. Retard.”
Astrid felt dread sap her strength. There was not the slightest doubt in her mind that he meant to hurt her. She held his gaze for a while but then looked down.
“Retard,” Drake insisted. “Say it.”
“No,” Astrid whispered.
Drake sauntered across the room. He was not carrying a weapon. He didn’t need to. He placed his fists on her desk and leaned over her.
“Retard,” Drake said. “Say, ‘My brother is a retard.’”
Astrid didn’t trust herself to speak. She was choking back tears. She wanted to believe she was brave, but now, with the thug inches away from her, she knew that she was not.
“My. Brother. Come on, say it with me. My. Say it.”
The slap was so quick, she barely registered his hand moving. Her face burned.