by Patty Blount
I just watch. What the hell is wrong with me?
He gets closer and closer still, and I’m still watching, paralyzed by the knowledge. I know what you did. You fooled everyone else, but you don’t fool me.
“Well, well, isn’t this cozy?” Zac stops a few feet away, smirking at the rags and the cleanser and the lockers. My hands clench on the cleanser. I’ll aim it right in his eyes if he steps toward me. “Let’s go, Russell. You’ve been at this long enough.”
Ian shakes his head, I think. “Can’t, bro. Here until four.”
Zac rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. That’s not even an hour. So what if you ditch early? Who’s gonna squeal? Not the collie, right, girl?” He’s trying to bait me, but I don’t say a word.
We stare each other down, neither of us showing our hand. Suddenly Zac feints and shouts, “Boo!”
I jerk and drop my can of cleanser, my only defense. Damn it. Goddamn it, I can’t let him see I’m afraid. Beside me, Ian picks up the rolling can, puts it back on the cart, and Zac laughs, big loud obnoxious sounds that echo off the lockers.
I want to press my hands to my ears, but I can’t let him see my fear.
He takes another step closer, and I finally remember how to move. I snap up a hand. “Far enough.”
His eyes narrow, and he angles his head. “That sounds like a threat, Collier. Did that sound like a threat to you, Russell?”
“Zac, man, leave it alone. Just go. I’ll meet you later.”
“No, no, I think the collie just threatened me.” He takes another step toward me. “What are you gonna do now? Tell the whole school I invaded your personal space?”
More obnoxious laughing that grinds my teeth and reddens my vision. Deep inside my body, heat is building. White hot and bubbling, it’s nearly ready to blow, but I hold it down, hold it back. I’m not ready yet. This hot fury is the only thing that’s keeping me from curling into a ball with my thumb in my mouth. I will not let him see my fear. I will not.
I find my voice, and thank God it doesn’t crack or tremble. “We’re here until four, Zac. You trying to get Ian into trouble too?”
A spark of anger lights his eyes. “Ian’s a big boy, Collier. He doesn’t need a slut like you looking out for him.”
My knees are shaking, but I don’t back down. “I’m only a slut because you got everybody in this school fooled, McMahon. I know what you really are.”
He paces back and forth, clutching his hands together, and I know I’m getting under his skin. “You’d better shut your mouth, whore, before I—”
“Before you what, McMahon? Think carefully because I’m not drunk or unconscious this time.” I can’t feel my legs, but I force them into a fight stance because I am not backing down now.
“Okay, okay, cool it, Zac. Just go. I’ll meet you in an hour.” Ian steps between us, and inside I’m cheering because this means even he’s convinced I’m not a quivering mass of Jell-O.
Zac glares at me for a long moment and then nods once. “Fine. But this isn’t over. I hear you calling me a rapist again, I’m coming for you, Collier.”
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, God. “Bring it, McMahon.”
Ian tosses an arm around Zac’s shoulders, leads him down the corridor, murmuring platitudes under his breath.
“Dick.”
“Bitch,” Zac tosses over his shoulder.
I’m cheering, flipping a few mental cartwheels because I didn’t back down. I’m openly watching them and not even bothering to pretend to clean lockers. I am not taking my eyes off Zac McMahon for a minute.
“Enough!” Ian shoves Zac into the lockers. “Will you cool it already?”
“Dude, you did not just do that.” He shoves Ian back.
“I did, and I’ll do it again if you don’t take your head out of your ass. Anything happens to her, if she gets so much as a broken nail, who do you think everyone is gonna blame? Huh, smart guy?”
I watch Zac’s shoulders sag. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Why are you here? You know I’m scrubbing until four. Did you come just to bust balls?”
Zac glares at me while he answers Ian. “Come on, Russell. It’s like three thirty. Who cares if you bounce early?”
A moment later he breaks eye contact and ducks his head, lowers his voice. I can only hear a word here and there like fault and future and proof. Ian looks upset. The color’s gone from his face, and his body is tight. Zac’s shaking his head violently and says no again and again. I may not be able to hear exactly what they’re saying, but whatever it is, Ian’s nervous about it.
A few minutes later Ian strides back down the corridor toward me, and I wish I didn’t feel safe and happy about that. Ian watches me, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “It’s okay. I’m gonna leave now.”
I look away. “I’m fine. He doesn’t scare me. He’s only dangerous when I’m unconscious.”
Ian opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t. He grabs his stuff, then turns back.
“Grace, I wouldn’t laugh at you for being scared.”
“I said I’m not scared.” I leap to my feet, grab my can of cleanser, and finish the last group of lockers alone.
• • •
I run to the door as it clangs shut, watch Ian hop in Zac’s car with some other guys from the lacrosse team, and sigh heavily. I finish scrubbing out the last run of lockers for the day and text Mom at four o’clock. She can’t leave her office for a while yet, so I can either hang here or start walking. I go back to the cart, wheel it to the corner, and grab my gear. I check the first address Mr. Russell wrote down and realize it’s not far from here. I may as well get started.
Ten minutes later I’m standing in the most beautiful backyard I’ve ever seen. The homeowner, a woman named Cathy, is beyond proud. She’s pointing out all the highlights of the design as I take out the camera, remove the cap, and set up for some shots. I take a wide-angle shot of a gorgeous pool. Tiles made out of irregularly shaped blocks of slate surround the pool and work their way up into a waterfall. It looks like a lake instead of a pool. By the house, a stone patio complete with barbecue grill, fridge, and bar rises out of the rock that surrounds it. I scroll through all the shots I’ve taken and figure Mr. Russell will be thrilled with the haul. I thank Cathy and head out.
Another address is just half a mile from here, so I head in that direction. It’s getting cold now that the sun is setting, and my boots are killing me. I push through the pain, and just as I turn down the street where the second property is located, I hear a squeal of tires and whip around.
“Hey, slut!” someone’s voice shouts. I whip around in time to see a silver object sailing toward my head. My hands automatically come up to protect myself, and I drop to a crouch. The object—a soda can—lands in the grass a few feet away. The car speeds off with laughter—girls’ laughter—trailing behind. I didn’t recognize the car, so it wasn’t Lindsay or Miranda. I didn’t get a good look at the driver or passengers. Hell, I’m not even sure what kind of car it was. I’ll just sit right here on the cold, damp ground until I can breathe normally again. Until the ache in my chest eases a little. Until the fear makes room for rage because I really like the rage. It takes about twenty minutes, but finally I knock on the door to the second property Mr. Russell wants me to shoot.
The door’s answered by a guy named Don Harding, a short, thinks-he’s-a-player guy wearing a T-shirt that’s too tight to be anything but sad. He looks me up and down, smirks a Zac kind of smirk, and invites me in. In my head warning bells sound, sirens wail, and forces are mobilizing for a full-scale attack. Don, the homeowner, looks at me like I’m nuts while I try to convince myself this is safe. But it’s not safe, and I know it. He knows it, and he’s daring me to do it anyway.
“You live here alone?”
“My wife won’t be home for a while yet, sweet thing. You could come in for a while.” Another smirk. Yeah, this is definitely not a good idea.
“When’s your wife home?”
“Six-thirty or so.”
“I’ll come back then, Mr. Harding.”
“Call me Don, honey.”
How about no? “I’ll come back.” With a bodyguard and maybe a weapon.
I head down the walk, so happy not to be trapped in a room with this creep.
“Aw, come on. We’re both here now. Why you gotta be like this?”
Me? Oh, you douche. I whip around, not surprised to find that he followed me down the walk. “You wanna know why I have to be like this? Because you’re a slimy asshole—that’s why. I came here to do a job, but you have to act like a dick and then say it’s me. It’s my fault. It’s my problem.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Jeez, I was just—”
“Oh, you were just what? Playing around?” I wave my hands. “Oh, oh, you were joking and didn’t mean anything? News flash, Don, I don’t find guys like you even a little bit funny. I’m here to take pictures of your new kitchen. Period. I’ll come back when your wife is home, so pray I don’t tell her what you tried to do.” To add more weight to my bluff, I whip my phone out of my pocket and wiggle it in front of his face.
I turn to leave.
“Aw, baby, come on—”
I flip directions, stride right up to him so that we’re standing toe-to-toe, and grab a fistful of his T-shirt. “My name isn’t honey…or baby…or sweet thing. I am not here to amuse you until your wife gets home. Last chance—are you gonna get out of my way, or do I have to mess you up?”
“Okay! Okay! You on your period or something?”
My vision tunnels, and I want to tie this guy’s tongue in a knot. Before I can do something I’ll have to be bailed out for, I turn on my heel and leave. Don Harding’s new kitchen is not going to make it into Mr. Russell’s new brochures, and I really don’t give a shit.
When I reach the corner, it hits me I’m not scared anymore. Guess I’m too mad to be scared. I call Mr. Russell, tell him word for word what just happened, and apologize.
“Grace, what did Ian do when Mr. Harding got fresh with you?”
“Oh, he’s not here.”
“I see.”
Crap. I think I just got Ian in big trouble. “He got a ride home from one of his friends. I decided to visit the properties near the school after he left.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Russell, please. It’s not his fault, really. Zac was causing trouble, so Ian got him away from me.”
“Well, that’s something. Where are you now?”
“Um, walking to the Millers’ house up on College Drive.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
He ends the call before I can protest. It takes no more than ten minutes to find the third address on Mr. Russell’s list. When I turn up the walk and knock on the door, the homeowner holds up his finger. “Yeah, she’s here right now. Okay. Bye.”
He ends the call and asks, “Are you Grace?” When I nod, he opens the door wide. “Come on in. That was Steve Russell on the phone.”
I hesitate. “Are you Mr. Miller?” The man is tall, with a ton of gray hair streaking the sides of his head. He’s wearing a pair of wire-rim glasses and has a tiny gut hanging over the waistline of his Dockers. When he smiles, he seems friendly, not slimy.
“Yeah, Brett Miller. My wife is outside with our kids.” He holds out a hand to me, but I still hesitate. After a moment he lowers his hand and loses his smile. “Grace, Steve told me what just happened.”
I shut my eyes with a groan.
“It’s okay. Why don’t you walk around the house to the yard, and I’ll stay in the kitchen, okay?”
I look at him sideways. “Really?”
“Really.” He grins again.
I nod and walk around the house. Mrs. Miller is pushing a toddler on a swing set. An older boy is running around with a soccer ball. A door slides open, and Mr. Miller calls out. Mrs. Miller picks up the baby and heads indoors. A few minutes later the little boy follows. The yard is like a park with tons of perfectly clipped grass and curvy flower beds. Mr. Russell designed custom tiles that resemble scales for a large fish at the bottom of the pool. I don’t know why the pool is uncovered in April, but I’m glad it is. The sun’s at the perfect angle to show off those colors. There’s something about framing the perfect shot, something soothing, maybe even cathartic. It’s like your whole world gets reduced to just light and shadow, to whatever fits in the viewfinder. Mr. Russell does beautiful work. The pictures I’m taking will make people want to touch this fish, see if those scales are real.
With a happy sigh, I carefully pack the camera away and turn to wave at the Millers, watching from their kitchen. I wind my way around the house and find Mr. Russell leaning against the white Camry. “How’d it go?”
“Mr. Russell? What are you doing here?”
“Making sure nobody else gives you any trouble.”
I blink. My dad told me the same thing once. It was after my first day of kindergarten. I walked out of the huge steel doors and found him leaning against our car. I ran over to him, and he scooped me up into his arms and asked me if anybody was mean to me. Nobody was until a few weeks later when a little witch named Samantha got me sent to the principal’s office. Strange how after Zac assaults me and everybody’s mean to me, now his response is “What do you expect me to do when you—”
He never finished that sentence. I guess he knew he didn’t really need to.
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Mr. Russell. Really.”
“So can I see what you’ve got so far?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I unpack the camera, switch to scroll, and hand it to him.
“Grace, these are amazing. Thank you so much. Wait, what’s this?”
I snatch the camera from him when he scrolls too far and sees one of the Zac shots I’d taken. “Nothing. I should go. It’s getting dark.”
“I’ll drop you off.”
“No! I can walk.”
Mr. Russell’s eyes, so much like Ian’s, go hot for a moment. Then he sighs. “Grace, I know you don’t know me, but I promise you this—you’re safe with me. I am so, so sorry about what happened to you.”
My throat closes, and I nod once, then take off. He drives slowly behind me as I walk all the way home. I hate that he knows what happened. I hate that he thinks I’m afraid of him, that I can’t handle myself.
I hate that he’s right.
Chapter 14
Ian
Zac and I cross the deserted parking lot to his Mustang. A stiff breeze rustles the leaves finally growing on the trees that line the school property, and I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. I shut the car door, and we sit in silence for a long moment, fury sweating out of every pore on Zac’s body. I shift in my seat, pick my way over barbed wire words and explosive accusations. One false move and I’m the enemy, and I don’t want that.
“You get that I didn’t ask to work with Grace, right? It was either this or miss the tournament.”
“Yeah.”
“So what are you pissed off about?”
His jaw twitches, and I know he’s clenching his teeth. “I’m pissed because you defended her, man! The girl who’s telling everybody I’m a psycho rapist.”
“Did you see the way she reacted to you up there?” I wave a hand toward the school. “You scared her. On purpose. Seriously uncool, man.”
He starts the car and just stares out the windshield. He pulls the cap off his head, scrubs a hand over his hair once, twice, three times. “Okay. Maybe I did. I just don’t get her, bro! I mean, the first time’s never that great for the girl, big deal. Why is she being such a bitch?”
I stare at him, but he’s serious. “Zac, the thing is…she’s not saying it to get back at you. She really thinks you raped her.” He whips his head around, stares through me with hurt in his eyes, and before he can defend himself, I hold up a hand. “She’s afraid.”
“Afraid?” He looks at me sideways. “Bullshit. She threatened me, Russell. You heard her!”
; “It’s an act,” I wave away his protest. “You strutting down that hall just now? Come on, Zac! You knew she’d be there. You rubbed her face in it.”
Zac’s workout flush drains out of his face, and he shuts his eyes with a groan. “Okay, but come on, man.”
“She said she broke up with you. She told you no.”
“Yeah, she did. But the night of the party she was different, so I just, you know, went for it.” He lifts his hands, palms up.
A blood vessel in my head throbs. “What really happened?” I already heard the version he fed Jeremy and the other guys on the team and saw the visual aids.
He presses his lips together, puts the car in gear, and exits the lot. I figure he’s not going to tell me anything. He doesn’t talk until we stop for a red light near the pizza store where I picked up lunch. “Me, Kyle, Matt, Jeremy—we got there after they did. Miranda, Lindsay, and Grace. I think Sarah was there too. They were already tanked. Grace and Miranda were dancing.” His lip curls. “Together, dude. It was so hot.”
The light turns green, and he drives down Main Street, pulls into the Burger King on the south side, and parks. “She was wearing a short skirt with those boots, the ones she’s wearing today. Her hair’s all loose, and she smelled amazing. Why did she do all that, Russell? Why did she do the hair and the makeup and the outfit and the perfume if she wanted me to keep away?”
That’s a really good question. I don’t have an answer for it either.
“There were six-packs all over the clearing. Grace had a bottle of whiskey. She kept looking over her shoulder at me, so after I had a few beers, I started dancing too. That’s why we were all there, right? To get a little wasted, have a good time?”
I look down at my hands. They’re clenched tight. He’s right. That’s what these parties are all about. Get wasted. Get lucky.