Bully Me: Class of 2020

by Shantel Tessier

  “Hi, Phil.” Madison’s voice was so close I almost flinched, but I somehow managed to calmly put my books away and close my locker, revealing her pretty, made-up face as she leaned on the lockers next to mine. Kelsey was behind her, on her phone; the others milled about nearby, mostly ignoring me.

  I turned to leave, but Steph and Bonnie blocked my path. Clearly they were paying more attention than I thought. I sighed and waited. The corridor was packed. They weren’t above doing something mean to me in front of other people, but even they weren’t stupid enough to pull a stunt as bad as the bathroom incident when teachers were close by.

  “Where are you going? I’m just trying to say hi.” Madison stepped around her friends to stand in front of me.

  I kept my gaze on her purple kicks and said nothing.

  After an extended silence, she leaned in and spoke low, close to my ear. “How was your summer?”

  I kept my mouth shut. There was no right answer. If I replied, it would be thrown back in my face. If I tried to defend myself and was as much of a bitch to her as she was to literally everyone else . . . I shuddered to think.

  “Nothing to say?” Madison tapped her foot as I remained still. “Good. We don’t want a repeat of last year, do we? That bleach really fucked with my nails.”

  With a snicker, she led her sheep away, and I walked off in the opposite direction. At least we agreed on one thing—I didn’t want a repeat of last year either.

  I spent lunch in a back corner of the library. Food wasn’t technically allowed in there, but if I was quiet enough between the bookshelves, no one noticed. I ate my sandwich as I scrolled through my Instagram feed, which was mostly filled with makeup pics and baby animals. I followed every person doing makeup I could find, but I never posted anything, and I had no followers. I was a lurker, too scared to post any of the hundreds of pics of my own makeup I had hidden on my phone.

  Despite the horrible thing Madison and her friends had done to me, I hadn’t abandoned my makeup hobby. There was something cathartic about focusing on a single task and being able to see the finished product—about pretending to be someone else for the few minutes before I wiped it all off again.

  On my way out of the library, I heard that confident tone, the ocean-deep quality that wrapped around the smooth timbre of his words. For the first time that day, I lifted my head and looked for the guy I’d spent hours talking to on my balcony. The hallway was packed with students making their way to class, and I couldn’t see him anywhere.

  Then I rolled my eyes and remembered I had no idea what he looked like.

  It was just my pathetic heart hoping against hope that I might have something positive at school for a change. I didn’t even know if he went to school. He was probably older and way out of my league.

  I dropped my gaze again and wished for a hoodie for the millionth time that day.

  As I settled into my seat for my last class, I heard it again.

  I was just reaching into my bag to grab my English textbook when that voice made me pause, hunched over, my hand tightening around the book’s spine.

  “Yeah, we moved to Devilbend last week,” he said. There was no mistaking it this time. It was definitely Turner, and he was definitely walking right past my desk.

  “Yeah, nice.”

  I clenched my teeth. Jayden. The only person who made my life hell as much as Madison.

  “You gonna try out for the team?” Jayden asked.

  “Which team?”

  The two chairs in front of me scraped, and they sat down. I straightened and placed the book gently in front of me, keeping my eyes on the desk but straining to listen.

  “Oh, yeah.” Jayden laughed. “The football team.”

  “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” Turner sounded friendly, pleasant, like any guy having a normal conversation with a new person.

  I chewed my lip to hold in the sigh, fighting to keep the scowl off my face.

  Mr. Chen came in, demanding the class’s attention, and Turner and Jayden stopped talking. When I was certain everyone’s focus was on the front of the room, I slowly raised my eyes.

  My heart thudded in my chest. He sat directly in front of me, Jayden on his left. There were those broad shoulders I’d seen only in silhouette, the white cotton of a collared T-shirt stretched over them. He had dark blond hair, cropped short at the base of his neck but wavy and growing just past his ears on the sides. He needed a haircut.

  He reached up to scratch the back of his neck, and I nearly jumped as I looked away. But not before I noticed how long and strong his fingers looked, his nails square, the muscles in his arms flexing from the movement.

  I made sure to look only directly at my desk and the teacher for the rest of the class, as I usually did. All I needed was for someone to notice me staring at the new guy.

  It was lucky it was only the first day and we spent most of the class going over the syllabus, because I hardly heard a word Mr. Chen said.

  I was in so much trouble.

  Chapter 4

  I WENT STRAIGHT to the balcony after school, but he never showed up. It was probably for the best—I had no idea what to say. I just had an irresistible urge to speak to him.

  I couldn’t do it at school though—they’d find a way to ruin it. Of course, once he realized who I was, what I looked like, the flirting would stop, but I wanted to at least stay friends. That meant ignoring the fuck out of him at school and staying out of his way.

  I still caught glimpses though. Anytime I heard his voice in the halls, I couldn’t help looking up. He was friendly, talkative; I saw him chatting to several seniors and even a few juniors, but I never hung around long enough to hear the conversations.

  He didn’t come to the balcony for several nights, and I started to think maybe he’d already realized who I was. But that wasn’t possible.

  I was so determined to avoid him at school I didn’t get a proper look at his face until my shift at the diner on Wednesday night.

  He came in with his dad—a taller, frownier version of Turner with gray hair at his temples. They sat in a booth, thankfully not in my section.

  Chelsea took their order while I stared at the beautiful boy so clearly out of my league. He had that defined jaw—not square exactly, but strong—and a heavy brow. Gone was the smiling, open guy who talked to everyone at school. This Turner matched his dad’s posture, leaning forward on the table with his shoulders hunched, his brow furrowed. I couldn’t even tell what color his eyes were.

  As soon as Chelsea walked away, they leaned back into each other, but not before Turner cast those dark eyes about the diner, as if checking for anyone listening in, or maybe looking for someone.

  I turned away to clear a table.

  “Philly, can you pour table three’s coffees for me?” Chelsea caught me just as I unloaded a tray of dirty dishes. “I’m busting for the toilet.”

  She ran off without waiting for a response.

  Shit. I picked up the coffee pot and swallowed around the ball of anxiety lodged in my throat. My gaze stayed on the ground as I approached their table.

  “. . . you sure?” Turner’s dad’s voice was as deep and gruff as it had been on the balcony the other night.

  “Yeah, Dad. But it hasn’t even been a week. I’m still learning the layout—” Turner cut himself off as I poured the coffee. He glanced up at me, my every nerve aware of him in my periphery as I hoped like hell my hand wouldn’t shake and spill coffee all over them.

  “Thank you, miss.” His dad gave me a small smile. I smiled back and nodded, the effort not to look at Turner directly almost crushing.

  Then I walked away and avoided Chelsea until they left.

  On Friday night, I walked out onto the balcony hardly even expecting him to be there. Maybe the feet smell had come back and they’d moved.

  “Hello?”

  His voice made me jump, my hand flying to my chest. “Fuck. You scared the crap out of me.”

  He chuckled. “Hey, n
eighbor.”

  I drew my cardigan closer, hunching against the light breeze, and smiled. “Hey, stranger.”

  “How was work?”

  “How’d you know I was at work?” Had he seen me? Maybe heard me talking to another customer? Fuck!

  “Uh . . . lucky guess? It’s late and . . . I swear I’m not an axe murderer, Mena.”

  Oh god—my name on his lips, uttered so casually and confidently. I wanted him to end every sentence he spoke to me with my name.

  “No, you’re just a stalker, Turner.”

  He laughed lightly and shifted, knocking the bamboo screen. It was getting a little cold, but I moved the chair out of the way and sat next to him, against the wall.

  “So? How was work?” he asked again. His light was off, and I couldn’t even see his silhouette. I reached up and flicked my light off too. For some reason, it felt easier to say what I wanted to say in the dark.

  “Work was fine. Same old.” I chewed on my bottom lip and blurted it before I chickened out. “How was school? It can be hard being the new kid, but I have a feeling you’re handling it just fine.”

  There was a beat of silence. My heart hammered in my chest, my throat, my whole damn body.

  “Now who’s the stalker?” He sounded amused, if a little wary.

  “It’s not stalking if I have a legitimate reason to be there.”

  “So, you go to Devilbend North High? What year are you in? Shit! Are you a teacher? I mean, not that it matters—to me. I wouldn’t care. Although that would be technically illegal, I guess. But I am eighteen, if that makes any difference.” As abruptly as he’d launched into his rambling, he cut himself off.

  My head swam a little, even as the grin spread over my lips.

  He cleared his throat. “Did I just make shit really awkward?”

  “What would technically be illegal, Turner?” I wasn’t sure why I was making this conversation even more awkward for him. Maybe I liked seeing a hint of him being just as nervous about this as me—at least in this moment. He was so damn confident and self-assured the rest of the time.

  He took a deep breath—he was so close, just on the other side of the screen. “It’s illegal for a teacher to have a relationship with a student, isn’t it?”

  “Is that what this is?”

  “Maybe it’s what it could be. Maybe it’s what I’d like it to be.”

  So fucking confident. So not what I was or ever would be. My smile drained away along with any excitement I’d had about this conversation, leeching out of me and into the cold concrete under my ass. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know enough that I want to know more. Can I see you?” The bamboo screen shifted, his perfect fingers gripping the edge.

  “No!” I shot my hand out and covered his, keeping the screen in place.

  “Why?”

  “I . . . I can’t . . . you don’t . . . I’m just not ready, OK?”

  “I don’t understand. Mena, are you OK? I was joking before, but are you actually a teacher at my school?”

  “No. I’m a student.”

  The relief was palpable in his sigh. He released his grip on the screen only to push farther past it and take my hand.

  As his perfect, warm fingers tangled with mine, he asked, “Mena, what’s this about? Why don’t you want me to know who you are?”

  Because you’ll stop talking to me. “It’s complicated. I just want you to know me—the real me—before you know who I am.”

  After a beat of silence, we both chuckled.

  “Yeah, that made more sense in my head than it did coming out of my mouth,” I said, glad that some of the heavy tension had lifted. “Look, this is all pretty new, and I like you . . .”

  I took a deep breath, hardly believing I’d been that honest with a boy about how I felt.

  He jumped in before I could keep speaking. “I like you too. A lot.”

  I squeezed his hand, running my thumb up and down his, taking a moment to get my shit together while I jumped around and screamed on the inside like a fangirl at a BTS concert. “Enough to be patient with me? I know this is weird. I just . . . I think it could be kind of fun?”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being stalked by someone who’s probably in the CIA.”

  I laughed. “I think you mean the FBI. The CIA isn’t supposed to operate on home soil.”

  “Why do you know that? The evidence is mounting.”

  “A friend of mine said it a while back, and it just kind of stuck.” Harlow spent so much time on the internet I wasn’t entirely sure when she slept, but she was full of random-ass facts.

  “Oh? And what—” A low thrumming noise cut Turner off. His hand tensed around mine as all the lights went out. “What the fuck?”

  “Chill. The electricity just went out. Happens about once a month on this side of town—sometimes more often in the summer. The grid is old and unreliable. It’ll be back up in ten minutes.”

  “Seriously? What a pain in the ass.”

  “You get used to it.”

  The sun had gone down an hour ago, and the night was overcast. Without the glow of the moon, it was pretty much pitch black. And I had at least five minutes before the lights came back on.

  I extracted my hand from Turner’s and got to my feet.

  “Wait, Mena—”

  “Shh!” With the electricity out, there was no background noise either. My parents were asleep, but we had to be extra quiet, just in case. “Stand up.”

  “Did you just shush me?” he whispered, sounding amused, but he shuffled and did as I asked.

  I gripped the edge of the bamboo screen and unhooked it from the nails holding it to the wall. When I rolled it aside, there was nothing between us but the metal railing separating his side of the balcony from mine.

  My eyes were adjusting to the heavy darkness, and I could just make out his silhouette. I reached out and tentatively placed my hand on his arm. It was ridiculously hard, like warm rocks under his skin.

  He responded to my touch immediately, reaching out and placing his hands on my waist.

  “Oh, hey, neighbor,” he whispered, leaning in.

  “Hey, stranger,” I whispered back, moving my arms up to his shoulders. Why was every part of him so damn solid? And why did I want to run my hands over every inch of it? And why was being so close to him making a heavy, pressured feeling appear low in my belly? “I know we can’t technically see each other, but I hope this makes up for it a bit.”

  His hands flexed, and we leaned into each other more.

  “Yeah, this makes up for it.” His breath fanned over my face. He was so close I could almost make out the lines of his jaw, his straight nose. But none of the details. And if I couldn’t see the color of his eyes, I was pretty positive he couldn’t see my birthmark.

  My boobs pressed against his hard chest, and my breath hitched. He smelled like fresh rain and something warm and comforting—amber, maybe.

  “Fuck, you smell good.” Zero filter. I closed my eyes and cringed, but he just pulled me closer, his hands moving to my back, the railing digging into my hips. I hated that damn railing.

  “You feel good. Can I kiss you?”

  “Please . . .” I didn’t even have time to consider how desperate I sounded. The word was barely out of my mouth before he closed the miniscule distance between our lips and kissed me firmly.

  He sighed and moved his lips against mine in a determined but gentle way. His body was hard and lean, but his lips were pillow soft.

  It didn’t take long for the kiss to intensify. I don’t know if he darted his tongue out or if I sucked on his bottom lip first, but then our tongues were involved, and little gasping breaths were coming out of my throat.

  The thrum of the transformer on the corner snapped me out of the moment, adrenaline coursing through my veins as surely as the electricity was rushing through the wires. I knew that sound—I had about five seconds before the lights turned back on.

  “
Fuck.” I pulled away abruptly, and he grunted, his body following mine, his hands gripping my clothing.

  “Shit. Sorry.” He let go immediately, and I shoved his shoulders until he was safely on his side of the balcony. I yanked the bamboo screen across just as the streetlights below once again bathed the world in artificial light.

  I chuckled through shaky breaths, the exhilaration of having kissed Turner, then gotten away with what I’d just pulled, still igniting my every nerve. “That was . . .”

  “Yeah . . .” he breathed. “Are you sure you don’t work for the CIA? That was a little too perfectly timed.”

  “FBI, remember? And I never denied it.”

  He laughed, his voice lower, huskier—it sent desire shooting through my body again. I wanted to feel his lips against mine as he made that sound; I wanted to feel it reverberate through his chest. I clenched my thighs, suddenly aware of the moisture in my underwear.

  I had to get out of there before I broke down and did something stupid—like show him my face. “I have to get to bed.”

  “Wait.” The urgency in his voice pulled me up short. He shuffled around for a moment, then shoved his hand through the narrow gap between the bamboo and the wall, his phone clutched in his perfect fingers. Fingers that had been digging into my back moments ago, holding me against him as he . . .

  I shook my head. Focus, Philomena!

  His screen displayed the keypad.

  “You want my number?” I asked. “How . . . old school.”

  “I mean, I’m happy to connect on Insta or Snap or Twitter, or even Facebook, but you’re determined to maintain your secret spy identity, and I’d like to talk to you outside of this balcony from time to time, so . . .” He wiggled the phone at me.

  I took it and entered my number, saving it under “Neighbor.” “Good night, Turner.”

  “Sweet dreams, Mena.”

  Naturally, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I’d never experienced such a high. Sure, I’d kissed a few guys before at some of Amaya’s parties—I’d even liked one enough to get to second base with him in her pool house—but I’d never stayed up all night replaying every single thing a boy had said to me. Not to mention the kissing—oh god, the kissing!