by Kyla Stone
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Mrs. Rittenburg says something too softly for me to hear, something about “your responsibility.”
Mr. Cole slams open the door and storms out. It’s been four years since I last saw him, since I hung out with his stepdaughter and my ex-best friend, Jasmine Cole. He looks at me and curls his upper lip in a snarl of rage, but he keeps on walking.
Mrs. Rittenburg calls me in. She stands behind her massive desk, all five feet and two inches of her, hands fisted on her hips. Vice Principal Adeyemi towers next to her.
“Sidney, I’m sure we don’t need to tell you how upset Mr. Cole is,” Mrs. Rittenburg proceeds to lecture me, her voice grating my ears. “We have a zero-tolerance bullying policy. Do you understand? You need to seriously consider your future, young lady.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I nod, acting concerned and adequately contrite. My pulse pounds in my ears. The lights are too bright. I’m dizzy and sick to my stomach.
Then it comes.
They’re not going to expel me.
Relief floods through me, almost enough to wash the nausea away. Almost.
I murmur “Yes, ma’am” whenever the principal pauses, keeping my gaze glued to the faded orange carpet. If I let myself meet her gaze, she’ll realize I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry at all.
Dr. Yang taps my shoulder. “My office. Now.”
I follow him out of the principal’s office and down the hall without speaking. The counseling office is small and crowded with a laminate desk, some puke-green file cabinets, and a bulletin board stuffed with inspirational clichés like “Genius is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration” and “Everyone is a Winner.” There’s a photo on his desk of a pretty Asian lady with a wide, laughing smile.
I sink into the navy La-Z-Boy across from his desk and cross my arms over my chest. "That guy has a major case of male PMS. Am I right?"
Dr. Yang clears his throat and smooths his slightly rumpled gray suit. He’s Korean and somewhere north of forty, the first strands of gray threading through the black hair combed across his forehead. He rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers under his chin. One finger taps against his jaw. “Are you ready to talk?”
“What for?”
“You do realize you’re teetering on the edge, don’t you?” He pauses as if I’m supposed to reply. “You were almost expelled today. Mr. Cole wanted to file an assault report. He still might.”
My breath hitches in my throat. “Yeah, I got that.”
He adjusts his glasses, squinting at me like he’s trying to analyze some foreign object for the first time. “Sidney. What in the world were you thinking, beating up a twelve-year-old boy?”
“I didn’t beat him up. We were clearing up a misunderstanding.”
“You still have blood on your rings!”
I glance down at my hands, surprised he’s noticed. “Okay, fine. I might have hit him.”
“Whatever for?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a demon’s spawn out to steal the souls of the impressionable young students of Brokewater Elementary.”
“And I’m pretty sure he’s not. Try again.”
I twirl my plastic ring with the blue flower around my middle finger. “Okay, fine. He’s an alien in child-form sent to earth to gather intelligence on us. He must be destroyed before the mothership returns.”
“Sidney, I’m on your side. When are you going to start believing that?”
I snort. No one’s on my side. I’m on my own. Always have been, always will be. “I couldn’t help myself. He has a punchable face.”
Dr. Yang’s finger keeps tapping his jaw. “What do you have to lose by telling me the truth?”
That one gets me. I don’t have anything to lose. And Dr. Yang saved my ass just now, whether I want to admit it or not. He’s been trying to save me for over a year. The fact that I’m beyond saving hasn’t registered on his radar yet. “Okay, fine. Look, this isn’t some adorable little kid we’re talking about here, okay? That prick is a sociopath in training. He torments my little brother constantly.”
Every day since school started two weeks ago, eight-year-old Aaron has come home with red finger marks on his arms, bruised knees, rips in his shirt, and tiny pinpricks in his skin from the sharp jab of a mechanical pencil. Yesterday, a deep purple bruise pooled around his right eye.
He finally admitted the bully was Jackson Cole, Jasmine’s younger brother. When he spoke Jackson’s name, something cold and dark slithered into my brain. There was no way in hell I was letting another Cole mess with this family. Not again.
“Okay.” Dr. Yang nods emphatically. “I think I get it, but there are other ways to handle bullying.”
“You don’t understand. Aaron is … different. He can’t defend himself. Someone has to.” I tried to get Aaron to stand up for himself, but he couldn’t. He’s weak, soft in all the wrong places. He never fights back. Never. The world stomps all over him, and he just lets it happen. He’s going to be someone’s prey his entire life. I can’t let that happen. I won’t. He’s good—innocent and pure in a way no one else is. I want him to stay that way.
“If bullying is an issue, one of your parents should contact the teacher or the elementary school administration.”
I snort again. In what fantasy world would that ever happen? Ma and Frank don’t even put food on the table half the time. They’re either drunk or fighting or gone. It’s my job to protect my brothers. No one else will. “Are you serious right now?”
He sighs. “I do realize your parents aren’t the most . . . reliable, but you can’t just—”
“I had to take care of it myself, okay?”
And I did take care of it, just like I'd promised Aaron. The thought of Jasmine Cole’s brother hurting him burned like a white flame in the center of my skull. I needed to make sure Jackson regretted ever messing with my family, just like I made Jasmine regret messing with me.
I skipped first period this morning and waited at the bus stop on the corner of Elm and Broadview in the only upscale neighborhood in Brokewater. Jackson rode the 709 bus, the same one Jasmine used to take before her step-daddy bought her a new Camaro in junior year. A few younger kids milled around on the sidewalk, untucking their designer T-shirts and kicking at stray pebbles with their $80 shoes.
Jackson Cole slouched up to the bus stop in skater jeans and an over-sized orange shirt emblazoned, “Skate. Eat. Repeat.” He high-fived a couple of lookalike twerps. Before he could do anything else, I was on him.
I spun him around and got right up in his face. His eyes widened.
“Look, you ferret-faced little monster. I’m going to say this once, and only once. You lay a hand on Aaron, or even look at him sideways, and I will come after you with a chainsaw and chop off those fancy shoes of yours. We clear?”
His surprise faded quickly. “Get your hands off me. My dad’s a lawyer.”
“That’s a big fat lie. I happen to know he’s a dentist. And a lousy one at that. Stay away from Aaron.”
“And what if I don’t?” He tossed his head, a fringe of highlighted blonde hair falling into his eyes.
I’d planned on just scaring some sense into him, not actually hurting him. But anger zapped through me like an electrical current. I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Don’t test me. I will rip your insides out and feed your entrails to you, piece by piece. Do you hear me? Leave. Him. Alone.”
“Get off me!”
I gritted my teeth. Where was the shy kid who used to spy on me and Jasmine through her bedroom door, who used to do cannon-balls into the pool right next to our lounge chairs? I pushed the images out of my mind. That boy was long gone.
The bus pulled up next to us. He glared at me in disgust. “That gay prick gets everything he’s got coming to him.”
That’s when I punched Jackson Cole right in his smug little face.
He dropped to the pavement, grabbing his nose with both han
ds, blood spurting between his fingers. The rest of the kids stared at me in shock, like I’d just transformed into a wild grizzly bear before their very eyes. The bus driver yelled, “Hey! Hey, you! Get back here!”
I walked away, knuckles stinging. A fat, satisfied grin spread across my face.
I grin again, just thinking about it.
“Sidney, you have to understand,” Dr. Yang says. “One more situation involving violence, and we’re beyond expulsion. We’ll be having a conversation about arrest warrants and police records. Scratch that. You’ll be having the conversation—or worse—with cops, lawyers, and judges. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” And I do. Dread scrabbles up and down my spine. My knee starts shaking again, and I push it down with my hands. “Can I go now?”
Dr. Yang watches me for a long moment. “Sidney, your potential, your obvious intelligence—no one wants to see that go to waste. Your PSAT scores were quite good. You could easily get into a decent college. It would make us all very happy to see you pursue your higher education.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll definitely consider it.”
“You have to turn things around, clean up your record. This is your senior year.”
I know he’s right, and I hate that about him. How often he’s right, and I’m in the wrong. “Okay, fine. Whatever. I got it.”
“And your Phys Ed grade. You have to bring it up. You already have a D in badminton. And it’s only the second week of classes. Really?”
“Coach Taylor hates me.”
“Haven’t you given him good reason? I’m not sure why you signed up for another class with him when Coach Puglisi offers alternative P.E. classes.”
“Because I’m not a Zumba girl, okay? Can you really see me in a ponytail and spandex? And I’m pretty sure Pilates would kill me.” I’m also a glutton for punishment, apparently. “Can I go now?”
“No. Not yet. Did you hear the part about being suspended? You looked like you were doing your zoning out thing in Mrs. Rittenburg’s office.”
He surprises me again. I debate whether to admit it or not, but there’s no harm in coming clean now. I shrug. “I might have missed a few things.”
Dr. Yang nods. He looks tired. “One: three-day suspension. Two: a letter of apology to Jackson Cole. Three: twice-a-week counseling sessions.”
Heat flushes through me. “Why should I apologize to a bully? No thanks. I’ll pass.”
“You can always choose expulsion.”
I feel the walls closing in. I cannot be expelled. Not now, when it’s finally senior year and escape is within sight, the red blinking EXIT sign that is graduation. And not when I know how Frank will react, what he'll do. My mouth goes dry. I hate every word of what I’m about to say. I hate this feeling of capitulation, of defeat, of letting the bad guys win. “Okay, fine. I’ll write the stupid letter, but only under official protest. But why more counseling sessions? You know how much I love these weekly gab fests with you, but they interfere with my studies. It’s my senior year, as you so graciously reminded me.”
Dr. Yang writes something on a notepad. “We’re going to try something a little different. Group counseling.”
“That sounds horrifying. What is it?”
“You will continue to meet with me on Fridays during your free period at 10 a.m. But we’re adding a session on Tuesdays at 9:30 a.m. You and at least one other student will meet with me as part of a small group therapy session.”
I stare at him suspiciously. This really does sound horrifying. “Who?”
“Arianna Torrès, for one.”
I laugh out loud. He’s got to be joking. “No way.”
“Yes.”
“What the hell do I have in common with Miss Beauty Queen? Is she in grief therapy because she broke a nail?”
“We’ll discuss things further at our next meeting. Your suspension is effective immediately. Counting today, tomorrow, and Monday, you’ll be back just in time for Tuesday’s session.”
“Look, Doc. There’s no way. I can’t—”
He stands up and walks around his desk. He opens the office door. “You can, and you will. I happen to have faith in you, Sidney Shaw.”
“Damn it all to hell.” I spit the words out.
Arianna Torrès is one of the most popular girls in school, a firmly entrenched member of Jasmine Cole's platinum-haired Bitch Squad. She’s on the student council, plays the flute, and worse, she’s one of those goody-two-shoe Christians who meet at the flagpole to pray and plaster “Good Clean Fun Bible Study” posters all over the school every month.
Panic lurches through me, like Dr. Yang’s just told me I’ll be locked in a cage with a prowling tiger for an hour every week.
“Please take care of yourself,” he says pleasantly. If there’s one thing I know about Dr. Yang, it’s that he’s solid as a rock once his mind’s made up. There’s no getting through to him.
I grab my backpack and stomp out of his office. I tried to help Aaron and things got more than a little out of control. As usual, all I’ve done is make things worse. How much worse, I’m afraid to even think about.
Two
All around me, students are laughing, shrieking, slamming locker doors, dropping binders and notebooks into backpacks and messenger bags, shoving each other, hugging and flirting. They move like some huge, mindless organism. I ignore them all.
I grab King Lear, my English notebook, and my Spanish III workbook out of my locker and shove them into my backpack. At least I can get some actual homework done during this ridiculous suspension. I shut my locker and turn around, nearly slamming into Jasmine freakin’ Cole.
“You bitch!” Jasmine’s formerly frizzy, mouse-brown hair is dyed ice blonde and falls sleekly down her back. She’s wearing a white peasant shirt that skims her belly and perfectly frayed skinny jeans. I can barely see the girl I used to know through her contoured blush, heavy cat-eye liner, and spiky layers of mascara.
My hands curl at my sides, my muscles tensing. “Looks like someone forgot to take her happy pills this morning.”
A small crowd forms a ring around me, with Jasmine right in the center. On her left is Margot Hunter, the ultimate Queen Bee of Brokewater High. Margot is tall and slim, perpetually tanned, with honey-blonde locks tumbling down her back in big, bombshell curls.
Though she looks like a cheerleader, she’s into drama and musicals, and lands the starring role in every school play. The teachers worship her. She’s charming on the surface, but nasty in an underhanded, passive, unprovable way. Tearing girls apart is as much a pastime for Margot Hunter as painting her nails.
Jasmine steps into my personal space. “You beat the crap out of my baby brother!”
Peyton Daugherty and Isabel Gutierrez press in around us.
“Ugh. What a lard-ass,” Peyton says with a sniff, flipping her burgundy, chin-length hair.
“If you were any bigger, you’d have moons orbiting you,” Isabel says. She and Peyton are both cheerleaders and rally girls. They bounce into classrooms and remind everyone of this rally or that football game, don’t forget to cheer your heart out and gulp down the school spirit Kool-Aid.
What they don’t understand, what they’ll never understand, is that I don’t care about the weight they seem to find so revolting. I wear my fat like armor. It’s my shield and my weapon, a barricade against their puny barbs and useless arrows. They can’t touch me. I’ll bulldoze them to the ground.
“You’re mental, you know that?” Jasmine jabs her finger at me.
I slap it away. “And your brother’s a douchebag. He got what he had coming to him. If only someone would sucker-punch your whole family, you’d all be better off.”
Margot puts her hand on Jasmine’s arm. “She thinks she can hit a little kid and get away with it. Doesn’t she know we strictly enforce anti-bullying polices?” Margot’s voice is calm and silky.
Her thing is talking about the unpopular girls like they aren’
t even here, like they’re not even worth acknowledging. Either that, or they suddenly get disreputable reputations. They’re sluts. They hooked up with the entire football team. They’re cheaters, liars, freaks, backstabbing losers. The rumors spread through the hallways and classrooms like poison gas. You breathe it in, and supposition, rumor, hearsay, and innuendo harden into concrete truth in your lungs.
I know. She did it to me.
“You might want to step off that pedestal,” I snap. “It’s starting to crack under your weight.”
Jasmine’s upper lip curls. “Why am I even surprised? You’ve always been a freak.”
Pain splinters inside me. I can’t help it. Out of all of them, she’s the only one who can hurt me, whose words still slice to the bone. I pretend I don’t care. I pretend I’m invincible. I clench my teeth and push out everything but my anger. “It must be hard to use your entire vocabulary in one pathetic sentence.”
Jasmine glances at Margot, then steps closer. “Are you even for real right now?”
“Get out of my face. Your breath stinks so bad I don’t know whether to offer you gum or toilet paper.”
Someone in the group snorts. Jasmine’s eyes narrow to slits. “You think this is funny? My dad says you belong in jail.”
“I think it’s freaking hilarious. Now get out of my way.” I glance past the ring of faces. Behind them, Arianna Torrès stands in the hallway, staring at me, one hand pressed against her stomach. Her perfect face is closed, unreadable.
Does she already know about the stupid therapy group? Is she repulsed by the thought of being stuck with a loser like me?
Why should I care? I don’t. I don’t give a rat’s ass about her. I glare at her, and she ducks her head and keeps walking.
“Jazzy, make her apologize to you.” Margot’s voice is syrupy-sweet.
“I’d rather boil myself alive in a vat of oil, Jazzy.”
“That can be arranged.” Isabel crosses her arms over her chest.
Eli Kusuma strolls up with Nyah McNally, a stunning black girl and a card-carrying member of Margot’s squad. She glares at me from beneath a lush cloud of caramel-colored hair.