by Angel Lawson
“Father.” I put my hand on his shoulder and look him in the eye. “I love you, but right now, I don’t respect you. Maybe that bothers you, maybe it doesn’t. Either way, I don’t want to be you. I want to be someone who can look at himself in the mirror every day, and that’s not a path you’re equipped to guide me to.”
With that, I turn and walk away, because it really doesn’t matter what he thinks. It only matters what one person thinks, and she already hates me. The only way forward is to come to terms with that, even if I’m not sure I can.
28
Gwen
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Yes, sir.” I stand before Coach, my stomach a twist of anxiety. This isn’t about what I want to do. Nothing could ever be so easy as that. This is what I have to do. I can’t stay at Preston Prep another second. Every moment I remain on this campus, it takes another little part of me, chipping away, bit by bit. Maybe there isn’t much of me left, but whatever is there? I’m taking it away from this place.
“You’re aware that Hamilton has been removed from his position as captain by the administration, right?” He frowns at me, eyes searching. “This leaves me with no leadership on the team.”
I think I do a pretty good job of hiding my shock at this news. I hadn’t known. Aside from the talk with my mom, no one’s really mentioned the fallout to me. The sense of justice I feel is only bittersweet. It probably won’t make much of a difference in the long run, and anyway, it doesn’t change anything for me.
“I’m sorry for letting you down, but let’s face it. The effectiveness of my leadership here has always been questionable. As much as I hate to admit it, without Bates next to me, no one will respect me. On top of that, now they’d just blame me for him getting removed.” I twist my hands behind my back, eyes dropping. “Thank you for giving me a chance, but I feel like it’s a no-win situation for any of us.”
He sighs, face falling. “You’re a good kid, Gwendolyn. You’ll leave this place and go on to better things and never look back. I have no doubt you’ll be amazing at whatever you do.”
Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back. I’m tired of crying. I spent all of yesterday, and then all of last night, curled up on my bed at home, a complete blubbering mess. I’m done wasting my tears on these people. “Thank you. I hope you guys have a great season.”
I cross the pool deck, thankful that it's empty, and enter the office to collect my things. Although some part of me feels like this is a failure—like I’m giving in—a bigger part of me knows this is best. I pushed through this with Skylar, but I can’t do it again. Sitting in class with Hamilton, knowing what he did to me—to Micha—would be horrible. I can just see it in my mind now, the long stretch of days to graduation, the creeping, black sickness of anxiety, the constant dread. That isn’t healthy.
Worse still is the way everyone seems almost grateful for it. My mom and dad are obviously relieved, and the Headmaster offered me the option of finishing the school year online. It was almost as if he’d been prepared. It didn’t matter to me, though. I gladly took him up on it.
I search the desk first, scooping up my pens and notebooks. Then, the locker, where my bathing suit, goggles, and towel are hanging from hooks. After that, the bathroom, for the special chlorine removal shampoo I’d left in the shower. I’m pulling the strings on my bag, cinching it tight, when I walk out, oblivious to the fact I’m not alone.
Hamilton stands in the doorway.
I freeze when I see his form, wide shoulders filling the gap of the entrance. He’s got this strange, dull look in his eyes as he watches me, and it’s not the first time I’ve found him imposing, intimidating. But now, it’s different. How odd to remember a time where I was afraid of his size and physicality—as if that could be his most effective way of harming me. Standing here now, just facing him, is like having a knife shoved through my heart.
“Don’t worry,” I say, hoping that my words drip with sarcasm rather than hurt. “I’ll be out of your way in a second.”
His eyes dart between my empty locker and the bag in my hands, brows knitting together in confusion. “What are you doing?”
“Packing up.” I spot my swim cap on the shelf near him.
His gaze follows mine and he picks it up, holds it in the palm of his hand, as if he’s testing the weight of it. “Why are you packing? I’m the one who’s no longer a captain.”
I’m flooded with so many emotions at once, that it’s nearly a struggle to breathe. The humiliation and anger, the betrayal, the ache—the chest-hollowing, all-consuming grief—all come to the surface. My voice sounds as staggered and ragged as I feel. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
He stares at me blankly.
“You beat me.” I toss my hands up, letting them fall limply against my thighs. “Isn’t that what you wanted? To make me think it was all okay, that you actually cared for me? To make me think that maybe you’d changed?” I look up at the ceiling, blinking to hold in tears, and chuckle thickly. “Well, congratulations, you won. You proved I’m just like every other girl at this school. Willing to debase herself for a chance to be with the Devil himself.”
He watches me, gaze swimming with emotions that I refuse to read. “Gwen—”
“Don’t,” I hiss, fists clenching, and something flickers through his eyes. I’d be foolish to think it was shame. “Do not say my name. Ever again. Isn’t this enough?” I’m resentful of the way my voice cracks, but can’t help the thread of a plea that emerges. “Isn’t breaking my spirit—breaking my heart—enough for you? Or are you just not going to stop until there’s nothing left?”
“If you’d just stop for a minute and listen—” His eyes shutter then, and if I watch carefully enough, I swear I can see him packing away every emotion, nice and tidy, until they become that dull gray once again. He speaks, empty gaze holding mine, as if coming to a realization. “You were never going to forgive me, were you? You were never going to trust me.”
“Forgiveness?” I spit. “Trust?” My face twists in disgust, knuckles white where I’m clutching my bag. “I guess we found one way that I’m not like every other girl at this school. Because I’m done with you, Bates. Never speak to me, or anyone in my family, ever again.”
I wait for a retort—for whatever mean, twisted response he has prepared—but he just watches me, face still full of that carefully arranged blankness. I wait, and wait, but nothing greets me except the still silence of the room. I’ve never known him to let anyone get the last word, but he watches me, and doesn’t speak.
This must be what Hamilton Bates is like when he realizes that he’s finally gone too far.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and meet his gaze, teeth gnashing as I wait for him to move. He’s effectively cornered me, but I’m not afraid. That’s the thing about becoming this vacant, empty shell. There’s nothing left to hurt.
He looks away then, jaw clenching as he steps to the side, allowing me space to pass. My body trembles as I catch his clean, soapy scent, and I know that I was wrong. The mere scent of him fills me with a hurt so acute that it shocks me. Heart thundering painfully inside my chest, I feel like an open, walking wound when I stride away. Away from everything I struggled so hard to gain. Away from this toxic place and all its creeping ugliness and pervasive dread. Away from Hamilton Bates, for good.
I don’t look back.
Moving home isn’t without bumps.
Michaela tells me she’s fine about moving back to her old room, and then spends the next four hours slamming drawers and angrily snatching her things up to carry next door. I try apologizing, but she just gives me a strained look and says, “It’s okay.”
It’s clearly not.
But at least she tries to lie.
Mom turns into a handwringing, eye-wrinkled mess every time I walk into the room. It’s clear that she wants to talk to me, obvious that she understands now that there’s something more happening here th
an I’m saying. She at least does me the favor of not trying to coax it from me. Perhaps we both sense how futile that would be. I’m not ready to admit what happened between Hamilton and me, and I’m not sure if I ever will be. I just want to box it up, shove it into a dark closet somewhere, and never see it again.
Dad’s constantly uncomfortable around me, often approaching me like I’m a ticking time bomb who must be treated with delicate care. He takes to offering me snacks, to letting me run errands, to giving me the remote control. Sometimes when he looks at me, I can see a thread of fear in his eyes. He already had one daughter fall apart. I don’t think he can handle a second.
Debbie, as usual, is a godsend. She does none of these things. She gives me time, space, and chocolate, and doesn’t seem as if she’s asking a question every time our gazes meet.
Brayden gives me a wide berth at first, until late one night, he finds me sitting alone on the back porch. I fully expect his well-earned ‘I told you so’, but it never comes. He sits down beside me, silent, and the weight of his palm, warm against my back, means he probably feels the hitch in my breath when I struggle to choke down my tears. We sit out there for over an hour, just staring into the darkness of the backyard, and it’s nothing, really. No words are spoken. Nothing gets resolved. But it’s the first night I fall asleep without shedding a single tear.
Then there’s Micha.
Micha is, by all accounts, perfectly fine. He’s still riding a high from the show, and if he’s upset with me or anyone else, then he isn’t showing it. I watch him for days, waiting to see a sign of resentment or detachment, but they’re never there. Nevertheless, I stew in the need to comfort him while I wait, carefully composing my apology in my head.
Eventually, I take the plunge.
“Hey,” I say, walking into his room. Michaela’s stuff is back on her side, but you’d never know it was a boy and a girl who shared the space. There’s pink and glitter everywhere. He’s watching something on his laptop and barely flicks his eyes in my direction. “Can we talk?”
He sighs, flicking me a long-suffering gaze as he presses pause. “Sure.”
I walk in the room and sit gingerly on the edge of his bed. I lean to take a peek at what he’s watching on YouTube, and see the still frame of a dancer leaping across a dark stage.
I look away, lacing my fingers into my lap. “About what happened at school—”
“What about it?” His eyes are shrewd, completely unguarded.
He’s not going to make this easy.
With a composing breath, I confess, “I think the Devils targeted you because of me. And if that’s the case, then I’m really sorry. I know that seeing the pictures of you floating around like that has to hurt, and nothing would hurt me more than seeing you feel self-conscious or—”
“Gwen, stop.”
“What?” I look at him, sighing. “I’m just trying to clear this up because I feel really shitty—”
“Well, this isn’t actually about you.” He closes the laptop, pushing it aside to level me with a frank gaze. “I don’t care about that graffiti, okay? Honestly it was pretty cool.”
I blink at him for a moment before openly gaping. “Excuse me. What?”
He shrugs. “I looked amazing in that costume. I did amazing in the show. I don’t have anything to be ashamed of here. I crushed it.”
“I know, but—”
“There’s no ‘but’.” He rolls his eyes. “Are those guys assholes? Yes. They’re also jealous haters who can’t stand the fact that us middle school kids don’t care about all their Devil bullshit. I have friends, Gwen. Real friends, who love me for who I am.” He pulls out his phone and opens the ChattySnap app. He goes to a hashtag—#queenofthefreaks—and I see hundreds, if not thousands, of posts. Each and every one is something positive; demands for more pictures, celebratory gifs, kids showcasing their own uniqueness. I look at it in awe, realizing that he’s already got support—a tribe of his own. He explains, “It went viral. The freaks shall inherit the Earth, sis, and I’m proud to be one.”
I stare at the photos and feel my cheeks heat. Leave it to Micha to see this as good publicity. “I’m proud of you too, Micha, so much. I just didn’t want you to get hurt like—”
“Like Skylar got hurt at that party?” My gaze jerks to his, widening in surprise. The twins aren’t supposed to know anything about Skylar and that party. “Please,” he scoffs, watching me. “With as much of a snoop as Michaela is? Did you really think we were just sitting around, not even trying to find out what happened to our own sister? We might be younger than you, but we’re not dumb, and we don’t love Sky any less.”
“I know that.” I frown at him. “I wasn’t meaning—”
But Micha just continues, “What happened to Sky was bad, and I hate that she had to go through it. But that’s not who I am.”
“You’re strong,” I agree. Way stronger than I am. “But people like the Devils? They see that strength and they want to break it.”
He rolls his eyes, seeming entirely unconcerned. “I’m not scared of the Devils—or whatever is left of them, anyway. Every day, I walk out the door and make the choice to defy assholes like that.” He turns to me, eyebrow raising. “Like, come on, Gwen. Do you have any idea how much bad bitch energy it takes to pull off some of the outfits I wear?”
I can’t help but laugh, feeling something in my chest slowly loosen at the sight of his twinkling eyes. “You really are the baddest bitch I know.”
“And don’t you forget it.” He smiles back and it warms my heart. “Now, can I tell you something? From one bad bitch to another.”
I nod. “Of course.”
“You worry too much about what other people think,” he kicks back on his bed, scrolling through his phone again. “You think those people target you because you’re strong, but you’re wrong.” He says this matter-of-factly, nodding his head. “It’s because they know you care. It makes it easy for them.”
I give him a weary look. “Are you saying I should just stop caring when the people I love get hurt?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m saying that it’s not your baggage. You don’t have to burn and salt the earth for us. You hold grudges like it’s your job.”
“So, what?” I scoff. “I should just go and be friends with the people who bully you?”
He gives me a look like he knows exactly how stupid I’m being. “I might be twelve—almost thirteen, thank you very much—but even I know there’s a difference between being friends with assholes and not being friends with anyone, ever.”
“I do have a—" I start, but stop when he gives me a glare. I exhale. “When I drop my guard, people get hurt.” I get hurt.
“When you drop your guard, you let people see the real you, and I think that scares you—just like it scares you to see the real them.” He sighs, those big eyes boring into mine. “People are flawed, Gwen. Sometimes they need to be forgiven for the stupid stuff they’ve done. But the way you hold grudges... you never want to listen to the apology. It just makes it hard, you know?”
I stare at my twelve-year-old brother and wonder how he got to be the mature one. He’s right, I don’t want to listen to apologies. They’ve always sounded like excuses to me. I don’t think people deserve a second chance. Should a mother get a second opportunity to hurt a child? Should a boy get another shot at breaking a girl’s heart? Do they even want to?
I give Micha a tight smile. “I’m really glad you’re doing okay.” I pull him into a hug, smiling when he tolerates it with a roll of his eyes. “I’m so proud that you’re my brother.”
“I know,” he says, giving me a grin. “That’s one of the reasons I’m able to be this strong. You’re a badass, Gwen, but you can still be a badass and live your life. Don’t let it isolate you.”
“I won’t,” I tell him, but I don’t add that I’m pretty sure it’s probably too late.
Tyson whines pathetically, “Gwen, I need your help.”
I pu
rse my lips, looking at him skeptically. “I’m really not sure I’m the one you should ask.”
“You’re a girl.” He gestures to me, expression befuddled. “Presley is a girl. You have the golden ticket. You have the inside scoop.”
I flip through the hangers, looking for the right size. Tyson and I are at the mall. I’m here to get an Atlanta United soccer jersey as Brayden’s Christmas gift. Tyson apparently has no idea what to get Presley, and assumes that simply having a vagina somehow makes me an expert on her tastes.
“I barely know Presley. How in the world would I know what she wants?”
He groans. “But you must have the general gist! Come on, you know how it is. Jewelry seems like it’s too much for where we are, status-wise. Clothing is tricky. Trinkets seem lame.”
“Well, what does she like?” I find the right size and pull it free from the rack. “Food? Experiences? Sentimentality? Something practical?”
He rubs his chin, expression thoughtful. He’s let his beard grow out since school began winter break a week ago. It’s depressingly thin. “She likes stuffed animals.”
I raise a dubious eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Those really soft ones. She has, like, this whole collection.” He frowns. “There’s a pretty alarming amount of penguins.”
“Well, there you go.” I carry the shirt over to the checkout counter. “There’s a shop downstairs the twins used to love. I bet they’ll have something she’d like.”
We get in the long line and I idly check my phone, curious if I have any messages. Skylar’s coming home today for the first time since she left for the program. It’s just a visit, but it’s a big step. It’s also the first thing I’ve felt excited about in a long time.
“Hey, guys.”
I turn and see Xavier is standing behind us, a bundle of sweatshirts in his arms.
Tyson grins and they bump fists, which, in my opinion, seems a little friendly for their relationship. “Hey man, what’s up?”
“Christmas shopping.”