The Other Girl

My mentor speculated that I developed a late onset of OLD when my parents’ car accident took them both away very suddenly. My aunt—my mother’s sister—got custody of me, but she was young and not interested in raising a teenager. I was alone, and the loss of both parental figures caused a sort of break in my psyche, where I in turn latched on to the first boy who showed me attention.

That boy happened to be Jeremy Rivers. The bad boy with adoring admirers falling at his feet. He was already a god at school; it wasn’t a stretch that I put him on an altar.

When the world tells you you’re important, you don’t question it. When every girl willingly hands over her body, as a man, you come to expect it.

And when Jeremy told me I was special, I believed him—I believed I was the one girl he could cherish, that he could love.

That wasn’t my role, though. Jeremy had a girl—one he made believe she was special. I was the other girl. The dirty secret. The one he used and discarded.

I look down at my hands. They’re curled into tight balls, nails sinking deep crescents into my palms. I have fine white scars from healed over wounds.

I chase my thoughts until I realize it’s past nine o’clock, and Carter hasn’t arrived for his appointment. I pick up the phone and push the extension for Ms. Jansen and ask if he’s waiting in the office.

When she confirms my fear, I hang up and snatch my bag from the chair to dig out my keys. I won’t allow myself to make any assumptions. Suspicion demands validation.

I lock my office and pocket the keys before passing a curious looking Ms. Jansen as I cross to the glass door. “Can you please hold any appointments?” I ask her. “I won’t be long.”

Truthfully, I have no plan. Only a pang in my chest that needs to be eased. My heart seized the moment I realized Carter wasn’t coming, and I won’t—I will not—accept anything less than an answer from him.

I was the one who ended the sessions. I told him I could no longer see him. But beneath that stubborn attempt to do the responsible thing, I needed Carter to defy rules and convention and chase me as relentlessly as I’m chasing my feelings for him.

Right this second, I need to look into his pale-blue eyes and know the truth—that I’m not crazy. That he does want me. That I’m not just another tawdry thing to be ignored and discarded.

The clack of my heels against linoleum jacks my heart rate. As I pass each classroom, I briefly peek through the slatted window before moving on. Too late, I realize I should’ve had Ms. Jansen call him out of class. As the thought occurs, the bell rings, and the hallway floods with students.

At 5’ 2”, I’m easily mistaken for a student and find myself backed against the wall to escape the rush. Impatience is a red-hot fire poker prodding me off the wall and carving a path through the crush of bodies.

I spot Carter and instinctively move in his direction. He’s cutting a line through the hallway and knocks into a girl.

“Out of my way,” he growls, and shoves the girl against the wall.

A current of anger slams through me at witnessing his violent action, and I push my way toward him.

I grab Carter’s bicep and forcefully tow him to a classroom alcove. He’s much taller than me at nearly six feet, and I stare up at him, trying to make eye contact. “Look at me,” I demand. When he does, a heated blue flame sparks in his gaze. “What was that? How could you callously shove that girl the way you did?”

He huffs a derisive breath. “Everyone else does it. She got in my way.”

I’m still clutched to his arm, my nails digging past the uniform material. My gaze holds his, each of us daring the other to back down first.

This is his response to my abandoning him yesterday. Had it been any other teacher, Carter would be written up, possibly sentenced to detention or worse. He’s pushing me, testing me.

Willfully, I release his arm and step back. “You have my attention,” I say. “Now stop, before the consequences are out of my hands. Go to class.”

With a defiant edge to his words, he says, “Yes, ma’am.”

I release a bated breath as he storms off. The warning bell rings, and I sink against the wall, needing the support. I spot the girl heading down the hallway in a hurry to escape, her chin tucked to her chest, books held high to guard her.

Carter’s words come back to me: Everyone else does it.

“Hey. Wait,” I call out. She doesn’t acknowledge me. I suck in a fortifying breath and start after her.

Her steps pick up pace, but I catch her right before she dips inside a classroom. “Hey, what’s your name?”

Pulling her lip between her teeth, she keeps her gaze aimed at the floor. “Brie,” she says, her voice worn.

Despite not wanting to bring attention to Carter’s behavior, I empathize with this girl. If what Carter said is true, she might be hurting; she might need real help. I know what it’s like to be ridiculed, mocked. Harassed.

I know what it’s like to feel so helpless, you can’t breathe.