“I am incredibly mean and offensive. Always have been.”
“I don’t –”
He digs his fingertips into my flesh. “Start talking, Blue.”
“Do you, uh, remember the first time we met?”
My ankles are crossed at his back again, and I tighten them when he frowns. “What about it?”
My fingers begin to move and I curl the soft strands of his hair at his neck. His nostrils flare and my mouth dries out.
I clear my throat. “I don’t… expect you to remember the whole thing, of course. It was a long time ago but, uh, we met on my first day at St. Patrick’s. And we both were in detention. The teacher asked us to do lines, I think. I can’t remember what we were supposed to write, though. Anyway, we were sitting like, two seats over or something because I could see your –”
“One.”
“What?”
“One seat over.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And we were supposed to write I’m sorry for being bad about a hundred times. Fucking Mrs. Pennyweather.”
Right.
It’s very old-fashioned and outdated. But now I remember that the teacher, Mrs. Pennyweather, assigned to us was older than dirt. And she’d make us do lines every time we ended up with her.
I move my body even closer, my thighs and my ankles cinching up around him.
“What else do you remember?” I whisper.
Zach practically lifts me up and forward, until my breasts are plastered to his chest. “Everything.”
I shudder against him. “You remember everything?”
“Why don’t you just get to the point?”
The point.
Um, okay.
Drawing up all my courage, I look into his eyes. “I didn’t remember it until last night and I…” I bite my lip before blurting out, “Zach, I’ve always wondered why you picked me of all the people at school. I thought that it was because I’m from the other side of town and I was new and because we didn’t have anything in common and I didn’t belong with you guys. And because people like you, you know, rich and rolling in money, think they can do whatever they want. But now I’m… I’m wondering something else.”
I can’t feel him breathing. His chest isn’t moving and his lack of air is making me dizzy. As if even his organs are connected to mine. His lungs don’t breathe so mine don’t either.
“Zach?”
“What happened last night?” he asks, his grip increasing on my waist.
“Huh?”
“You said you didn’t remember but now you do. What happened to make you remember?”
I can’t possibly entwine myself around him any further, but I try as I answer him, “You don’t remember, do you? About last night?”
“Tell me.”
“I saw something.”
“What?”
“I was going… I know you told me to stay away from you but I was going to your room anyway. Because I…” I swallow. “I just had to. But then, I saw you outside my window. You were drunk and you fell. I ran to you and, uh, we talked. And then, I helped you up to your room. When I was tucking you in, I saw your book.”
His hold on me is punishing and I know later when I look in the mirror, I’ll find the red prints of his hands. I also know I’ll touch those fingerprints with my own.
“And?”
His words have a dare.
He’s provoking me to say it.
“Why did you refuse to read the story, Zach?” I whisper, grasping his neck, touching his taut vein, crackling with electricity. “Why’d you lie about it?”
He remains silent. Not that I was expecting him to say anything. But his silence is answer enough.
Zach is dyslexic.
And from what I saw, he also suffers from dysgraphia. Meaning he has difficulty reading and writing. It’s pretty common for people with dyslexia to struggle with their writing as well.
I know very little about it but my mom used to tutor a few kids who suffered from it. She’d say that suffering from a learning disability almost always comes with a certain type of stigma. A certain type of shame.
She’d say that such kids are always more sensitive than the rest. Even if they do work hard and learn how to read and write, they always have this little part in them that makes them doubt themselves. They might not always show it but every little failure cuts them deep.
If it’s true, then I’ve cut Zach, slashed him, made him bleed as many times as he’s done me. All without knowing.
“For years, I’ve been… I’ve been saying all those things to you. All those barbs and insulting comments and I had no idea,” I say, my voice laden with guilt, my fingers caressing the dark stubble on his jaw. “I can’t stop hearing my own voice. All the things that came out of my mouth. All the hate and I always thought you deserved it and it was your fault. But maybe, I’m not so pure and good as I thought I was. I was cruel to you too. And I’ve been wondering if all of this could’ve been avoided –”