He looked down at her, scared by that voice. Even more scared by the expression on her face. She was sort of inward looking, her eyes soft.
“See, my mom got pregnant with me by accident. She was only twenty, a junior in college. She could have had an abortion, but she didn’t.” She stole a look at him. “Your dad doesn’t look like he’s very old, either. How old was he when you were born?”
“Nineteen. He was nineteen,” Trevor answered, feeling hollow.
“See?” Like that said it all.
“But you’re fifteen. You’re not nineteen or twenty. That’s really different. You’re not even close to graduating from high school.”
“I’m not talking about keeping the baby.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore. They’d almost reached the park. “Only…only having it, and giving it a chance. You know?”
“You’d keep going to school? Do you know how everyone would look at you?”
“I could maybe take second semester off. Or go to the alternative school.”
“Everyone would still know.”
She stopped dead and faced him. “So I should kill this baby just to keep people from talking?”
Kill this baby. Oh, man. He was so screwed.
“It’s not a baby yet.”
Cait ducked her head. “I don’t know.”
“We made a mistake. Mostly, I did,” he admitted. “This can ruin our lives. Yours more than mine. No one will ever look at you the same way again.” He paused. This was really crummy of him, but oh, well. “You’ll have to quit dance.”
She jerked, and he saw that it hadn’t occurred to her.
“Going back after a year would be really hard.”
“Not a whole year.”
“Close.”
“Why are you doing this?” Eyes drenched but angry, too, she looked at him. “No, forget it. I know why. It doesn’t feel good.” Her contempt ripped through him. “You didn’t care about me, and now I don’t care about you. So stay away from me.”
She turned back the way they’d come and started walking, faster and faster, finally breaking into an awkward run. Her flip-flops slapped against the sidewalk, her book bag bounced on her back. Feeling like he had a big, jagged rock in his chest, Trevor watched her go.
* * *
MOLLY STOOD IN THE MIDDLE of the restroom, crossed her arms and stared at the two boys. Aaron Latter had a bloody nose, Trevor an eye already swelling and discolored. The opposite one from last time, she noted clinically. Chuck Loomis, football coach, six foot three and beefy, stood between them, a meaty hand locked on each boy’s arm. Trevor at least stood straight. Aaron seemed to hang like a wet noodle. He held wadded toilet paper to his nose and was sniveling. A third student hovered by the urinals. He was a scrawny kid with a huge Adam’s apple, eyes wide and scared. Molly sorted through her mind for his name. She knew he was a freshman. Something Russian, or maybe Ukrainian… Something like Russ…Ruslan. Ruslan Balanchuk. Did he go by Russ? She had never actually spoken to the boy before. Had Chuck bullied him into staying?
“Ruslan…” She hoped she’d gotten the pronunciation right. “I gather you saw this fight.”
The boy bobbed his head, his nervous gaze flicking to the two taller boys. Trevor wasn’t looking at him, but Aaron had turned his head. Molly could imagine what he was trying to convey with his stare.
“Let’s step out in the hall,” she said. “Then you can go back to class. Chuck, if you don’t mind waiting with Trevor and Aaron.”
She escorted Ruslan through the swinging door. The hall, five minutes after the bell had rung, was deserted.
“What did you see?” she asked gently.
“Aaron was bad-mouthing Cait.” A lurid red tide rose from his skinny neck to his face as he likely remembered who Cait’s mother was. His accent was subtle; his family must have been here since he was a little boy. “He called Trevor names and said, um, that he’d done bad things to Cait. And then he punched him.”
“He punched first. You’re sure.”
He nodded hard. “Trevor kept saying, ‘Shut up. Don’t talk about her that way. You don’t know anything.’ He said it over and over. But Aaron was totally in his face.” His voice was gaining enthusiasm and speed. “He never did punch back. He just, kind of, grabbed Aaron and threw him away. He fell against one of the bathroom stalls, you know, face-first. That’s when his nose started gushing. And I opened the bathroom door and yelled, and Coach Loomis was going by.”
“Okay.” Molly smiled at him. “You did right. You might have been hurt if you’d tried to break it up yourself. There’s some hard feelings between those two.”