Shrinking back in my chair, I keep my eyes trained ahead as Paige and two of her friends continue to whisper and giggle.
By the time class is over, my insides are shaking with anger and humiliation, and there’s a burning feeling radiating from my stomach up to my throat.
I fish the bottle of chewable DGL licorice tablets out of my bag and pop two into my mouth. They’re supposed to help calm the acid bubbling in my throat, but I honestly don’t even know if they do.
How am I ever supposed to get healthy if every time I start to feel better, these bitches start in on me and get my anxiety all ramped up again? My therapist tells me to ignore them, but how am I supposed to do that when they’re right here in my space, and the teachers don’t do anything about it? Paige and her friends are relentless with their nasty comments all day, every day. As luck would have it, they’re in every one of my classes this semester, so there’s no escape.
I leave school two hours early, biting back tears as I walk to the parking lot, and then sit in my car for twenty minutes, hoping the panic attack will subside before I drive home. My mind is spinning and dizzy with horrible thoughts, my heart is racing and pounding, my stomach is burning and rumbling.
Taking deep breaths, I rub my fingertips back and forth over my jeans.
He had girls lining up giving him blowjobs.
Your own parents didn’t want you.
Are you depressed, little baby?
Some guy adopted you.
You dirty slut.
Nausea rises up to my throat in waves and I swallow it back down. I hate this so much—this shaky, overwhelming feeling of being stuck in my own head, feeling like I can’t escape the terrible things people are saying about me and Jude. The more I think about it, the worse the acidic burn in my stomach and the throbbing in my head persists.
After a few minutes of internal debating, I pull my phone out of my purse and call Jude.
“Hey,” he says when he answers. “You okay?”
The tone of his voice is immediately concerned, because he knows I should be in school right now, and he also knows I never call unless it’s important.
“I-I’m having a panic attack.”
“Oh, shit. Where are you?”
“Sitting in my car. In the parking lot.”
“I’ll be right th—”
“No,” I say, quickly regretting calling him. “Just talk to me for a few minutes. You don’t have to come.”
“Skylar, I don’t want you to be alone. I’m only two minutes away.”
The last thing I need is anyone seeing him coming to my car during school hours. It will only fuel Paige and her posse.
“Please, Lucky, I just want to hear your voice. If we talk for a few minutes, it’ll pass.”
“Okay,” he says, then I hear him talk to one of his crew. “I gotta take this. I’ll be back in a few.” A few seconds filled with the sound of footsteps go by, then a car door opening and closing. “I’m here, baby,” he finally says. “Are you okay?”
Baby. A slip of the tongue that makes my heart jump around in a totally different way.
“I feel really dizzy and shaky. And my stomach is burning really bad.”
“Take some deep breaths. What are you wearing?”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “Um, are we going there with this call?”
“I meant for your texture touching.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid.
“But if you want to describe your outfit to me in detail, I’m not opposed,” he jokes.
I let out a little laugh. “Are you in your truck?”
“Yeah, I wanted some privacy. Did something happen today?”
“Kind of…”
“Was it one of those asshole stuck-up bitches again?”
“Of course. They’re so nasty. Usually I can ignore them, but some days…” I can’t even finish my sentence because I can feel the tears coming on again.
“You want me to talk to the principal? And the parents of these little spoiled douchebags? I’ll fix this shit right now.”
“No… I don’t want you to do that. We can’t have you ending up in jail.”
“I’ll do it for you, Sparkles. As long as you promise to visit me and give me some conjunctival visits.”
I burst out laughing. “It’s conjugal.”
I know he’s trying to make me laugh, and it’s working. I miss our playful teasing so much.
“Whatever it is, I’d have to have it.” I hear the sound of his lighter snapping open, then closed. “Did you take your pills?”
“Just the ones for my stomach. I don’t want to take the anxiety pills. They make me spacey.”
“I hear ya.” He exhales, and I can picture smoke blowing out his window. I wish he’d quit smoking. “Are you feeling better?”
“I am now. Talking to you helps. You always make me feel better. And you make me laugh.”