“No, it’s more like because you were all over Josh in the den last night,” Anna says. “Kara told me she saw you together.”
My jaw drops. Kara grins, daring me to deny it.
“I don’t get it, Regina. Did you just give up? A final ‘fuck you’? You knew how I felt about—” She crosses her arms. “You knew.”
“Yeah,” I say, resigned. “I knew.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
I nod. Kara nudges Anna, who takes a few uncertain steps forward.
Kara nods at her encouragingly and says, “Just don’t forget to tuck your thumb in, okay? In.”
Anna nods and brings her arm back.
Oh, wait.
“Anna, Anna, Anna—Anna, don’t—”
Her fist connects awkwardly with my jaw, because Anna’s never punched anyone before. She doesn’t know how. Still, I’ve been punched. My knees give a little at the shock of it, but Marta and Jeanette keep me upright. It’s dead silence and then—
Anna starts to laugh.
“Shit!” she cries, clutching her hand. An achy warmth spreads across my jaw. No, not warmth. Pain. “Shit, you guys—that kind of hurt! Shit.”
Marta and Jeanette laugh with her. Kara grabs Anna’s hand and runs her thumb over it, smiling. Anna keeps giggling, lost to the thrill of punching me in the face.
“You’re okay,” Kara tells her. “Want to go again?”
Marta and Jeanette tighten their grip on my arms. They want her to. I can feel it. Anna rubs her wrists, chuckling, until she looks at me. My heart stops while she sizes me up. I don’t want her to go again. She can only get better at this.
“No,” she finally says.
“Oh, come on,” Kara says. “We’ve got her. We can fuck her up. You can’t just bring her out this far and punch her once. “
“Fuck off, Kara,” I say. Kara turns to me. “What did you say?”
“I said ‘Fuck off.’”
She walks over. “You know you have your arms held behind your back, right?”
“You know you’ll never have this chance again,” I say. “Right?”
She doesn’t even prep. She draws her arm back and her fist connects with my stomach, and she hits harder than Anna. I can see the hit. It’s in front of me—light, everywhere. If Jeanette and Marta weren’t holding me up, I’m sure I’d be on my ass. The lights fade and the scene comes back. Before I can get a handle on it, Kara drives her fist into my stomach again and I crumple, my eyes watering. Jeanette and Marta drop me, because even they aren’t expecting that second hit.
I can’t breathe. I put my hand to the pavement. Get up. Kara’s foot connects with my abdomen. My insides explode, and then it happens again: She kicks me again. I gag. Anna makes noise somewhere nearby. Jeanette and Marta move away. Kara’s foot goes for my shoulder, and my brain sends frantic messages to my body saying Get up, move, so I roll onto my side and cover my head, leaving my back exposed, which is exactly where she gets me next. Hard. I roll onto my back, gasping, drowning. Kara kneels over me and covers my face with her hand, presses her palm over my mouth, my nose.
Our eyes meet.
There’s nothing between us.
Nothing.
I claw at her arms, digging my nails into the bits of flesh her sweater doesn’t cover. She winces and her hand is off my mouth. The air is razor sharp. I’ve barely tasted it when she grabs me by the shoulders and forces me into the ground. My head hits the road. The ocean is in my ears.
My hands drop.
Kara straightens and gets one last kick in. My side. I go in on myself and the adrenaline leaves me again and again and again, leaves me with this unbearable clarity where I know my feet are cold and my body is screaming and I can’t move.
“You were just going to waste it,” Kara yells at Anna. “You were just going to fucking waste it! That’s what we came out here for!”
“Jesus, Kara,” Jeanette breathes. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No, I’m good.” She shakes her hand, glaring at me. “I’m good now.”
I listen to the gravel-crunch of footsteps making their way back to the car, car doors opening and closing shut, and then quiet, and I’m alone.
“Get up.” I’m not alone.
“Regina, get up.” No. Anna’s breathing heavily, charged from the electricity of this. “Regina, get up” I don’t say anything. “I just want to know why,” she says.
I roll onto my back and lick my lips. Dirty gray clouds move across the sky, white sunlight filtering in through the breaks. And the sky looks so great from here, I start to laugh. It hurts, but I do it anyway.
I laugh so hard I cry.
“Kara got you again”
“She didn’t.”
“She did” I say, laughing. “She totally did. She got you again—”
“She didn’t—”
“Yes—”
“Kara’s not that smart.”
It comes out of her mouth so vehemently, but so sincerely, I finally understand why I never, ever had a chance. “You’re so stupid, Anna.”
She moves her foot like she’s going to kick me like Kara’s kicked me, and the laughter dies instantly. I raise my hands and cover my face. Nothing happens. She savors this victory in quiet, until the car starts up and the horn blares.
“Well, it’s been really interesting, but I’ve got to go,” she says. “You know. Get destroying your boyfriend underway. Monday’s going to be great. Have a nice walk.”
Michael. She gets in the car and they head down the road. Michael. I curl into the ground until I can feel it’s cold everywhere and I know I have to move. I push myself up on my elbows, my knees, Stand. Stand, Regina. It’s easy. Stand.
You do it every day.
I walk the entire way back to Hallowell on feet so cold I don’t even
notice when they step through broken glass, until my sock starts sticking to my heel and gravel starts sticking to my sock and I look down and there’s blood. I don’t know how long it takes me to get into town, but every second settles into my screaming bones. My stomach aches. My back aches. My jaw aches. My feet are numb. All I can think is Michael.
Michael. Michael. Michael. The thought of him drags me to Hallowell, drags me down the back streets, past my empty house, and all the way to the school, because I have to tell him. He has to know what’s coming.
I limp across the parking lot and yank the front doors open. I step inside. The place is quiet. Distant class noises float down the hall—the illusion of another ordinary day. The warm air levels me, makes me feel instantly stupid-headed and dull.
My stomach lurches.
I’m going to be sick.
I fumble down the hall, keeping one hand against the wall and the other over my mouth, trying to make my way unobtrusively to the girls’ room. I know I can’t be seen.
After forever, the pale blue door reveals itself. I pull it open and stumble in.
Charie Andrews is standing at the mirrors, fussing with her hair.
She stops when she sees me. Her eyes go wide as saucers. I lean against the door and close my eyes for a minute.
When I open them, she’s looking at my feet. I breathe in and walk stiffly over to the sink. I tell myself there’s nothing here to look at. The smell of the soap makes me even more nauseous, and she’s barely stepped away from me when I throw up—nothing.
“Jesus,” she mutters. I spit and then I rest my palms on the sink and try to get my bearings. I end up with my forehead against the mirror, staring down the drain, vaguely realizing this is not acting like there’s nothing to look at.
Get it together, Regina.
I take one deep breath and then another. On the walk back, I could do this. I could see myself doing this, but now I think maybe I need to sit down.
I sit on the floor, my back against the wall, and close my eyes, waiting for every broken part of me to piece itself together enough to tell Michael what’s coming, and I feel Charie’s eyes on me that whole time, and I don’t even have the energy to tell her to go to hell. And then the washroom door swings shut and she’s gone.
My toes are thawing, prickling uncomfortably. I open my eyes. I need to wedge the garbage can under the door so no one can come and see me like this. No one else. I press my palms against the floor and try to get to my feet and—
I can’t.
I move and every kicked part of me protests, so I wrap my arms around myself and listen to the slow, steady sound of the faucet dripping water into the sink, and it goes deep. For a second, I’m in my bed again. This morning hasn’t started.
Everything is…fine.
The washroom door flies open. My heart stops and my head jerks up. When my eyes focus on the halo of blond hair set around a pale face, I just—Liz. Always here. No matter what I do, she’s always going to be here. This suicide blonde, haunting me for the rest of my life, following me from one awful moment to the next.
“Oh, my God,” she says. “Charie said you—”
She stops. We stare at each other, but I can’t hold her gaze, and I feel her looking at me long after I look away. I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes.
“Regina,” Liz says sharply, like I’m dying right in front of her. I open my eyes and laugh a little at that thought. I realize I’m not cold anymore, I’m warm. Hot. My shirt is clinging to every bit of skin there is to cling to. My hair is stuck to my neck and my face.
“Go away,” I say. Wait. No. I need her. Take it back. “Get Michael for me. I need to tell him something—”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” she says.
“Liz, please—”
“No.”
Frustrated tears spring to my eyes. “Fuck you, Liz. You don’t even know—”
“You got your ass kicked,” she says, “finally, and you want Michael to come pick up the pieces. I know what they did to you. I was in that stall—” She points. “And Anna and Jeanette came in here, giggling about it. I knew you were out on that road.”
