Second and third period were a blur. The look on Julianne’s face when Weston told her the latest rumor was the only thing my mind could think about. Weston met me at my locker between classes, waiting for me to speak first. When I didn’t, he let me walk away.
He was at my locker again before lunch, but I went straight to the cafeteria and ate alone. The other students watched my every bite. I couldn’t win. They stared at me when Weston and I were together and when we weren’t. The attention was significantly less negative than before the accident, more of just curiosity, but it was still attention I didn’t want.
By the time I got to health class, the heaviness was too much, and my emotions were getting the better of me.
Coach Morris handed out a word find and sat at his desk, putting his feet up. I got to work, acutely aware that Weston was staring at the back of my head. I could hear him rummaging through his bag and then taking a puff from his inhaler. His desk creaked a few times when he made several attempts to get comfortable.
His warm fingers touched my back between my shoulder blades, so gently I thought maybe I’d imagined it.
He choked out a whisper. “Please talk to me.”
I turned my head toward my shoulder, but didn’t turn around. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say I’m a jerk for talking to your parents without talking to you first, and then say you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
His fingers left my shirt, and I heard him exhale.
I glanced up from under my brow, seeing Coach Morris trying not to stare. After a hasty scan of my peripheral, it was evident that Coach wasn’t the only one who had noticed the quiet exchange between Weston and me.
I felt the pull in my chest. It had been weeks since I’d had to fight the urge to cry, but the walls lifted like old friends, and I turned my thoughts to how many scoops of coconut to put in a Hawaiian Blizzard, and how many boxes of cups, spoons, or napkins we would have to stock once the supply truck came. I imagined folding worn, white rags and counting them as I did so. Being inside the Dairy Queen had always been comforting to me. Not only did the work keep my mind occupied, but it’s also where I spent time with my closest friend, Frankie. And no matter how many people I came face-to-face with, the screen and window were always between us.
The bell rang, but I was lost inside the walls of the DQ. Weston stood and stopped at my desk, but when I didn’t look up, he kept walking. Soon I was the only person left in the room, or so I thought.
“Hey,” a voice said.
I looked up. It was Brady Beck. “Are you really living with the Aldermans now?”
I gathered my things and stood, but Brady stepped in my way. “I bet they worry all the time what you’re stealing. You might be blood, but you were raised by a druggie.”
I just stared at him, refusing to answer.
He gave me a once-over, smug superiority still in his eyes. “Has Weston admitted why he’s suddenly so interested in you?”
I remained silent.
“Maybe you should ask him.” He walked away.
The fake white marbling in the red tile of the hallway looked like tiny albino snakes slithering in different directions, mostly toward the large glass windows that lined the south wall of the commons area. The chairs bordering the dozen-and-a-half lunch tables that filled the commons were empty, and as I passed the round, glass sphere in the center of the high school that was the library, I decided to forgo my locker and go straight to Spanish, my next class.
Miss Alcorn greeted me when I walked in. I was the first student in the classroom, and likely the only one without my textbook.
“I forgot it at home,” I told her, trying to avoid answering later in front of everyone.
“Be sure to bring it tomorrow. You’ll definitely need it.”
I dipped my head once and then tried rubbing out the knots in my neck. Barely ten minutes into class, Micah Norton tore off a tiny piece of notebook paper and threw it onto my bare desk.
“Did Weston dump you already? He’s been attached to your hip, and I haven’t seen you together all day.”
I didn’t turn around.
“Easter,” he whispered.
It was the first time someone had called me that since word got out that I wasn’t Gina’s daughter. It felt derogatory. It always had.
I still didn’t turn around. Micah didn’t have his friends there to encourage him to harass me, so if I ignored him, he usually gave up. There were three types of bullies: those like Sara, who were more passive-aggressive than anything, and usually only when they were having a bad day. Others, like Micah or Andrew, only gave me grief when there were other people to join in, and then there were bullies like Brady and Brendan, who didn’t care who was around. When they decided to target someone, the torment wouldn’t stop until they had somehow broken their prey.
I had read a handful of books and articles on bullying, and how girls usually targeted one another, but in my school, it was the boys who were the worst. They relished the power that came with intimidation. Many times the level and length of cruelty depended on how many others would join in the attack. No one was safe. It was random and always sudden and ruthless. The best protection was to befriend the bullies and join in. The cycle was vicious and predictable, the only cure being graduation, and I knew I was just one of many desperate for the last day of school.
My indifference coupled with Miss Alcorn’s zero-tolerance policy on harassment likely were two factors in Micah giving up quickly. A familiar relief came, but it was also unsettling. I felt out of practice, even after just a few weeks of not having to feel so guarded. Thankfully, Micah left me alone for the remainder of class.
By the time I saw Weston in art class, he was a nervous wreck. He sat on his stool that he’d moved to my table, his knee bobbing up and down in anticipation.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he blurted out.
“I’m not,” I said, keeping my voice down, hoping he would do the same.
Mrs. Cup swept into the room, quick to threaten us if we went anywhere except straight to the old pizza place next to the mural we had been working on.
“Who doesn’t have a ride?” Mrs. Cup asked.
Weston looked at me with worried eyes.
Only two students raised their hands.
“You can ride with me, or you can hitch a ride with someone else. Let me know now,” Mrs. Cup said, waiting for the two students to decide.