Turner had shifted against the railing, revealing the person beyond: the sad little girl from the library the other day.
Jayden’s little sister? What the actual fuck?
He was holding his hands out, palms up, as if he was pleading with her . . . or maybe threatening her? Her arms were wrapped around her waist, her head hanging. She looked so vulnerable—especially next to Turner’s height and strength. He was easily twice her size.
Why the hell was he talking to a freshman in an abandoned part of the school, making her look as though she might burst into tears at any moment?
It killed me to even consider that the sweet, funny guy I was falling for wasn’t who I thought he was, but I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing . . . even though that’s what all my classmates had done for years as I’d endured Madison’s and Jayden’s torture.
I was about to bust my cover. He’d know who I was as soon as I opened my mouth. He’d had nothing to focus on but my voice for weeks.
I didn’t care.
I took a step around the corner, but Turner beat me to it. He leaned down and whispered something to Jenny, his big hand engulfing her delicate shoulder, then rushed away up the stairs.
Jenny lifted her face to the ceiling and sighed, unshed tears glistening on her lashes. She lowered her head and immediately spotted me.
Her eyes widened in fear—of me? Of him?
With one hand still gripping the strap of my bag, I cautiously reached the other out to her, taking small measured steps forward. “Hey, Jenny. Remember me? We met in the library the other day.”
She nodded and glanced at the stairs. The tears spilled over.
“I just want to make sure you’re OK. That looked kind of intense, and—”
“I’m fine,” she interrupted, squaring her shoulders and swiping at the tears on her face. “Just leave me alone.”
She started to move past me, and I let her, not wanting to make her feel any less safe.
“Was that guy bothering you?” That made her stop and face me again. “Did he do something to hurt you? Is he—”
“No,” she interrupted me again. “Leave him alone too. He’s just . . . just don’t say anything to anyone, OK? It’ll only make everything worse. I just . . . I need to think.”
She rushed off, leaving me standing at the bottom of the stairs, confused.
She’d seemed afraid of him when they were talking, but I’d caught only a glimpse of it. Was she just upset? Maybe he was trying to comfort her? He did look as though he was pleading with her at one point. And the way she demanded I leave him alone . . . it was fiercer than the way she’d defended herself.
Was I reading this all wrong? Or was my connection with Turner making me search for any explanation that put him in a positive light?
Chapter 7
MOM AND DAD were both working late, and I didn’t even attempt to do any homework when I got home. I dumped my bag at the foot of my bed and immediately reached for my makeup case. I needed to clear my head, calm my racing heart, get lost in the precision and focus required to execute a full face of makeup.
I set up in my room, retrieving the circle light I’d had out on the balcony all summer. It was getting too cold to sit out there at night anyway, but really, I was avoiding Turner. My phone had lit up with several messages from him, and it took a Herculean effort not to read them. In the end, I put the damn thing on silent and shut it in my bedside drawer.
I ended up doing a split-face makeup—definitely not something you’d ever wear in public but fun to experiment with. One side was fierce, with a strong brow and smoky eye, a defined deep red lip, and contouring around the cheeks—the bitch you didn’t mess with. The other half was youthful and vulnerable, with light makeup around the eyes, soft blush on the cheeks, and a gloss on the lips—the naïve young girl who needed protecting.
I was neither.
I was both.
It spoke to my confusion and conflicting feelings about the day.
I snapped a few photos and wiped it all off just before my dad walked through the front door. While he was in the shower, I started dinner, needing something to occupy my hands and my mind.
“Er . . . you feeling OK, Sweet Chilly?” He eyed the knife in my hand with wide eyes.
I gave him a withering look and got back to chopping the pepper. “Stir-fry, right?”
“I was gonna say we should get a pizza since your mom and I both worked late, but you’ve already done half the work, so sure!”
He put the rice on, and we had dinner ready in no time. Dad chattered about mundane things, asking about school and work. I managed to respond just enough to show I was listening, but half my mind was still in that stairwell with Turner and Jenny, my gut churning about what I’d seen and heard.
Obviously, I wasn’t the only one with secrets. I just couldn’t figure out if his were going to get me into trouble.
To both my parents’ astonishment, I sat on the couch with them and watched some TV for a while, then I went to bed early.
I took time with my evening routine before flopping into bed on my back, staring at the dark ceiling. With nothing left to distract me, I could no longer resist the urge to reach into my drawer and check my phone.
There were forty-eight messages in the group chat with the girls, mostly demands for more information about “the hottie you mentioned the other day.”
An anonymous message told me I’d looked like shit today and should stop making other people deal with having to look at me by just killing myself. I got out of that one quickly, but my heart still plummeted in my chest.
There were three from Turner.
The first was from barely an hour after school.
Turner: Hey, neighbor. Balcony?
The second was from about half an hour later.
T: Mena? I didn’t think you were working tonight. I miss you.
The third was sent about fifteen minutes ago.
T: Are you OK?
Was I? I supposed I was physically OK. Mentally, I was a confused mess. Emotionally? I didn’t even know where to start.
I stared at my phone, trying to think of something to say until it went dark and locked itself. I groaned and ran my hand through my hair, then rolled onto my side, unlocked it, and replied.
Mena: I’m fine. Just need to think.
His reply was instant.
T: About? Anything I can help with?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my gut churning. What was I supposed to say? Hey, are you doing something shady with Jayden’s little sister? It sounded insane, even in my own head, but I knew what I’d seen. I couldn’t just ignore it.
On the other hand, if there was a logical explanation and I accused him of doing something awful, I’d feel really bad.
Every time we spoke, Turner seemed to me like a good person—I just couldn’t reconcile that with how scared Jenny had looked while talking to him.
My screen went dark again, and he sent another message before I could.
T: Shit. Is it about me? About us?
M: Kind of. I don’t really know how to explain it.
T: Fuck, Mena, what did I do? Did I say something bad? The more I get to know you, the less filter I have.
M: No, you didn’t say anything or do anything to me.
But what did you do to her?
T: Then what is it? Can we talk out on the balcony? I want to hear your voice.
M: My parents just went to bed. I can’t.
T: Then can I call you?
Without waiting for a response, he did. I let it ring out and then replied.
M: They’ll hear me. I can’t talk to you right now. I just need to process some things.
T: I can’t fix anything if you don’t tell me what the issue is.
M: I don’t know if this can be fixed.
T: Fuck. You’re really scaring me.
M: I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I need to get some sleep.
He didn’t r
eply for a long time. All I could think about was him in his bed, staring at his phone. Was he confused? Angry? Scared? Pissed off?
Maybe all of those things. I knew I was.
When he finally did respond, it was a simple “OK.”
I put my phone away and rolled onto my other side, facing the wall, as tears pricked the backs of my eyes. He was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time. But was he who I thought he was? Or was I so desperate for human interaction that I was seeing something that wasn’t there?
_______________
The next morning, I looked more like shit than usual. The lack of sleep and crying had left my eyes puffy and my nose red; even my birthmark looked worse.
Some concealer would’ve covered the imperfections, and a swipe of mascara would’ve made my eyes look more open and alert. But I just looked wistfully at my makeup case and remembered how scratchy the fibers of that mop had felt and how the smell of bleach had choked me, and I settled for washing my face with cold water, hoping that would bring the swelling down.
Like every morning, I drank my coffee on the balcony and waited for Turner. He left later than usual—I guessed he hadn’t slept much either—his shoulders hunched, hood up, hands in pockets.
I waited until he was around the corner, then I left, pulling my own hood up and tucking my ponytail out of the way.
Most of the day passed in a blur as I went from class to class, took scattered notes that would probably make no sense later, and avoided Turner in the halls. I’d figured out his schedule—or at least which general area of the school he would be in at any point in the day. Usually I used this information to pass him in the hall, get a glimpse of him, hear his smooth, deep voice as he talked.
Today, I used it to keep as far away from him as possible.
Even Bonnie bumping into me and loudly declaring, “That was weird. I just knocked into thin air. Does anyone see anything?” didn’t make me feel as shitty as it usually did. A bunch of kids laughed as I walked away, but my mind was with Turner.
By lunch, my stomach was still churning, which meant I wasn’t even remotely hungry. But I was over feeling like shit.
School was shitty enough. I couldn’t have this hanging over my head too.
I sat down in the abandoned stairwell where I’d seen Turner talking to Jenny and got out my phone to text him.
He beat me to it.
T: Can we please talk? This is killing me.
M: Yes. I was just about to text you.
T: In person. Please. I want to talk to you.
M: Tonight? Balcony?
T: I can’t tonight. My dad needs me. Can I come meet you somewhere? Please, Mena!
M: Lunch is half-over. There’s no time.
T: I don’t care. Can’t fucking concentrate on anything anyway.
M: Me neither . . .
I chewed my bottom lip and racked my brain. I wasn’t ready for him to see me, but I needed to speak to him. I craved his touch, even as I worried it might burn me.
It would have to be somewhere dark.
The gym would be empty during lunch. We’d have to finish our talk before the next class came in to use it.
M: Meet me in the gym. There’s a storage room at the back next to the seating. We should have privacy there.
I grabbed my bag, rushing in that direction as fast as I could. I should’ve waited until I was there before sending that text. Hopefully I could get there first.
The gym was empty, and I ran across the polished floor to the back corner, praying the door to the storage room would be unlocked. Luck was on my side, and the heavy door opened.
I dashed inside and took a deep breath.
Sneakers squeaked on the polished gym floor. I’d only just beaten him. Had he been close by? Or had he rushed here like me?
It was pitch black in the dank space, but light would flood it as soon as he opened the door. I hurried toward the other end of the room and around the corner, darting past the industrial shelving that held balls and mats and other torture devices high school gym teachers had used since time immemorial. The room was an L shape, with another door leading outside, providing access to the equipment from the football field.
The door opened. Light streamed in. I held my breath. What if it wasn’t him?
“Mena?” he whisper-shouted into the room.
“Shut the door,” I said. “Quick.”
He closed the door, then cursed. “Where’s the light?”
“No!” I stepped in his direction. “Just leave it. Come toward me.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?” His voice had lost some of that silky-smooth quality, frustration and weariness creating ripples. But he shuffled forward.
“Follow my voice.” I reached a hand out. It was so dark I may as well have had my eyes closed. If I hadn’t been half-convinced we were about to break up (were we even together?) it would’ve been fun, seeking each other out in the dark.
My hand bumped his chest . . . and stayed there.
“There you are.” He lowered his voice, his hand landing on my ribs, then shifting up to my shoulder.
I felt so distant from him, so uncertain of who he was, what we were. But I couldn’t stop myself from getting closer. My feet shuffled forward; my other hand settled on his hip. And then we were moving as one, stepping into each other’s space, hands tentative at first but incapable of holding back. My arms wrapped around his waist, and his banded around my back. We were chest to chest. With my cheek over his heart, I listened to the thud-thud as my breathing began to match his without my even realizing it.
For a few moments, we just stood there, holding each other. I felt at home in his arms, even though I’d touched him only a handful of times through the bamboo and kissed him only once.
His soft voice broke the silence. “Mena, what are we doing here?”
“It’s called hugging.” He’d torn through my defenses without much more than his touch and solid presence. My mind had calmed, the churning in my stomach had settled, and I’d reverted to our usual banter. But there was nothing normal about this situation—about me.
“I’d like to turn on the light.”
“No. Please, Turner, don’t.” I tried to pull away, fully prepared to find an exit and run before he could see me. But he held on. His grip was firm but not insistent. I could’ve wrenched out of it if I’d really wanted to. I didn’t want to.
His chest expanded against mine in a deep sigh, which turned into a soft growl at the end. “I don’t understand this. We’ve been getting to know each other for weeks. I’ve told you things . . . I don’t care what you look like, Mena. I like you—your mind, your sense of humor, how you feel in my arms. What is the big deal? Why won’t you tell me who you are?”
I smiled sadly at how direct he was being. It was incredible to know he felt this connection between us just as strongly as I did.
But he’d been hanging out with Jayden and his friends more and more. I’d seen Steph and Bonnie hovering around him, giving him flirty looks. He was falling into the worst possible group, and I wasn’t sure if it was too late.
“I’m sorry, Turner. I know this is frustrating for you. But once you find out who I am . . . it’ll change everything.”
“No.” He squeezed me. “It’ll change nothing. At least not for me. Are you really that insecure about your looks?”
“Yes. No. Argh!” This time I did push out of his embrace. My hands dropped to his waist, my body unwilling to separate from him completely, but I needed some space to breathe. He smelled so damn good; I wanted to give him whatever he wanted so I could continue to bury my nose in his chest and breathe in that warm fresh-rain scent. “It’s not just about that. There are things you don’t know. About me. About this school. I . . .”
“So tell me. Why can’t you just be honest? Haven’t I earned your trust?”
And just like that, I remembered why I’d been questioning everything in the first place.
“Don�
��t act like I’m the only one keeping secrets, Turner. You can’t demand honesty if you’re not willing to give it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice rose a little in pitch. He was getting frustrated. So was I.
My heart rate quickened, and before I could chicken out, I blurted, “I saw you yesterday. Talking to Jayden’s little sister.”
His muscles tensed under my fingers. He went very still, his thumbs no longer rubbing little absent-minded circles against my shoulders.
“How much did you hear?” The ocean-smooth quality that made me want to sink into his voice was gone—this smoothness was like glass. Sharp and deadly.
What the fuck had I been thinking locking myself in a dark place with a guy I suspected was . . . doing something to sweet, innocent little Jenny? I was a fucking moron.
“Nothing. I hardly heard a word, and I only saw you guys talking for, like, two minutes.” I removed my hands from his sides and took a step back, mentally calculating if I was closer to the door that led to the gym or the one that led outside.
“Shit.” He sighed, and his hands found my hips. “You sound fucking terrified. I’m sorry. Please . . . I didn’t mean to be so intense. I just . . . I don’t know what to say.”
He sounded genuine, but he hadn’t answered my unasked question. What the fuck was he doing with Jenny? I put my hands on his arms, ready to push him off if I had to, fighting the urge to pull him closer.
“What was that about then?” I asked. “I didn’t hear much, but that girl looked fucking terrified.”
“I know. I didn’t put that look on her face. Trust me.”
“Never trust someone who says trust me.”
He chuckled, and it turned into a groan. “I can’t really tell you much more about that situation—the secrets are not . . . it’s not just my story to tell. But I’m trying to do something good. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“Is she in some kind of trouble?” My nails dug into his forearms. She’d defended him when I confronted her. Was it possible the fear in her eyes wasn’t of him but for him?
“Maybe. I promise I’ll tell you the full story when it’s all over. And I hope that will be sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I have to ask you to trust me. Trust that I’m doing the right thing.”
Bully Me: Class of 2020 Page 48