It’s okay. I write, adding a smiley face at the end to let him know it’s okay. I have issues, but it doesn’t mean he should feel bad for reacting. After years of my mom doing the same thing, I feel like an old pro, at least with telling people it’s okay.
“You know,” he says. “You can just smile; you don’t need to write the happy faces.”
I lower my head and out of the corner of my eye I see he’s frowning, which makes me sad. This is probably why the doctors think I’ve got social anxiety, but it’s not that at all. I just have the uncanny ability to make people feel bad because I don’t know the proper way to act. No matter how hard I try to learn it, it never sticks.
“What did they do to you?” he asks, shifting the tone of the conversation again.
Pushed me around a little bit, yanked my backpack off and ripped it open. Tim and Dillon did that part. They grabbed me pretty hard on my arms. You know the rest.
I can see his attempt to calm his breathing and again, I just feel sad. I actually debated whether or not to tell him what they did because of the reaction he’d have and seeing it now bothers me. He shouldn’t have to worry about this.
“They won’t do that shit to you again, okay? I swear to you, no more. If it happens, they’re dead.”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer so I pick up the pen and do the one thing that I hope will get him to smile again. I can sense the tension rolling off of him and it’s making my stomach uneasy thinking about it. I want him to be okay.
Holding up the notebook, I turn it in his direction and the minute his eyes catch what I’ve done, they soften and he smiles. It’s a real, genuine smile. One I haven’t seen him wear since we were seven. It makes me happy knowing that I was right.
“One more question and I swear I’ll take you home.”
Ok. I print out quickly.
“Why do you draw the happy faces instead of just smiling?”
Because I don’t smile, not ever. I answer easily.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this Isabelle, but you just did.”
Before I can question what he means, he takes the notebook out of my hands, placing it between the seats until its laying perfectly flat between us. Lifting a finger and bringing it back down on the paper, he points to the face I drew and then looks up at me.
“It’s a nice smile, Isabelle. Don’t let those assholes take it from you.”
Kayden
I have no idea why the hell I said that to her, but it isn’t like I can take it back so I let it sit there between us. The only thing that bothers me about what I said anyway, is I told her not to let the assholes take it from her and I’m one of them. Maybe she’ll see it that way and steer clear of me.
I can hope anyway.
When she told me what they did, it took every bit of restraint I have not to smash my hand through the windshield, that’s how angry it made me. It’s even worse because we’ve done that same thing to a bunch of other people and I’ve never once given a shit about it.
Maybe it’s because I know there’s something wrong with her that makes me like this. It makes her more vulnerable than the others or that’s the pretty picture I’m selling myself to push away the guilt I feel.
Hell, I’ve dunked heads in toilets, stolen underwear during PE and run them up the flagpole and laughed the entire time I did it. Add to that, pushing kids around, tripping them in the halls and then all the name calling and I really am king of the assholes. I’m the one that taught Dillon all he knows and what he used on Isabelle less than a half hour ago.
As I pull into her driveway, I look over and notice she’s frowning. I immediately want to know what caused it because it doesn’t seem like it should be there. If the girl can’t smile then she shouldn’t be able to frown either.
Since when am I this worked up over the way a girl looks? I should be more concerned with getting her out of my car so I can get it cleaned, not with the frown that seems even deeper across her face.
“What’s wrong, Isabelle?”
Before she can reach over to grab the pad, I pick it up and tear the paper out. I have no idea why, but I can’t let her write on it again. I want to keep it the way it looks right now.
The damn happy faces have obviously messed with my brain.
I pass the pad across to her as I put the car in park and she immediately starts scribbling across the page furiously. It’s obvious that whatever she’s frowning about is pretty big. Even when I’m in class with her, I don’t think I’ve seen her write quite this fast.
My mom’s car isn’t here, which means she’s not home and I don’t like being home alone.
Is this girl kidding me? What teenager doesn’t like being home alone? Man, I’d kill for Dean to get his ass out of the house once in awhile so I could have peace and quiet. Trust me, there’s nothing more I want to do in the moment then trade spots with this girl.
“Why?” I ask, curious. “I thought everyone liked having the house to themselves?”
She shrugs before writing on the pad again, this time slower than before.
Serial killers enjoy coming for people that are home alone. Like that one Scream guy, except he likes calling first.
I read what she wrote and I laugh. Loud. I really tried to keep it in, but I couldn’t. I wonder if that’s part of her thing, blending fiction with reality. Focusing on that made it easier not to focus on the first part. I didn’t want to think about how much truth there is to her serial killer comment.
Wexfield, Ontario is a pretty small town, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have crime. In fact, we had a couple murders a few years ago that still weren’t solved.
Yeah, this is definitely not a place I want my mind going right now or I’m not sure how comfortable I’ll feel leaving her alone. Shaking it off, I look up and catch her eyes locked on me. Shit, did I wait too long to respond?
“I think you’re pretty safe here. Serial killers only come for the really dumb blondes anyway.”
It was supposed to be a joke but the way her eyes well up with tears, I know she took it the wrong way. Damnit, even when I think I’m doing the right thing, it still turns out wrong. I really am the fuck up Dean says I am.
“Isabelle, please don’t cry. I don’t know how you took what I said, but it’s wrong if it’s making you cry.”
She wipes at her eyes before turning back down to the paper in front of her and writing away again. After a couple of minutes go by and she’s still going, I lean over and try to catch some of what she might be trying to tell me. Just as I’m able to catch a few words, she lifts her head and it smacks clear into my nose.
I feel the burn immediately, but as I wipe at it with my fingers, I’m happy to see there’s no blood. She’s got one hell of a head butt, but not one that can beat my made of steel nose.
Making out the paper in front of me, I see the words ‘I’m sorry’ first. In an effort to make sure she knows she has nothing to be sorry for, that it was my dumb ass idea to bend over her, I reach out and touch her hand.
I don’t know how she reacts to touch. It’s been too long since I’ve spent any real time with her, but she doesn’t jump and that makes me feel pretty good. I don’t understand this. I’m not supposed to give two shits about this girl, so why is it that the simplest things she does and the way she reacts get to me this way?
“It’s my fault, I was being nosy.”
You’re a nosy walker.
Again on the paper in front of me is a happy face. It’s almost as if the damn smile has some kind of spell over me, because I’m smiling again. Even her cheesy joke has the desired effect. Instead of being a nosy parker, I’m a nosy walker. I think I’ve smiled more since getting in the car with her today then I have in the last ten years.
“Now that you’ve officially made me never want to be nosy again, can I see what you were writing?”
Nodding, she passes me the pad and as my eyes run down the page of things we’ve said, I stop dead the second I
see what it is she was so furiously writing before the head butt.
If they come for the really dumb blonde girls like you say, then it means they’re sure to come for me. I’m retarded and that’s even worse than being dumb. I want to be like Super Girl and fight back, but I would probably just get scared, pee my pants and cry like the big, stupid baby I am.
I don’t know much, but what I do know is, the minute I get to school tomorrow and see Dillon; he’s a dead man. The problem is, if I blame him then I have to blame myself too. The guys on the team aren’t the only ones that called her all those names and thought things about her. I have too. I’m just as guilty as they are, maybe even more so because for the first ten years of our lives, we were sort of friends.
“None of that is true, Isabelle. Shit, I’m sorry. We never should have said those things about you. We’re all just a bunch of dicks.”
She sits still and silent for so long I start to worry. Before I can ask her, she turns to me, the tears from earlier present in the corner of her eyes and I’m left with the horrible feeling that I’m the cause and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.
You said those things about me?
The way I see it, there’s only two ways I can handle this. I can lie to her, tell her I just worded things wrong, or, I could do the right thing and tell her the truth. I didn’t just say those things about her like everyone else.
I’m the one that got everyone saying them to begin with.
I’m a complete pussy though, so I go with a third option, one that I know almost as well as I do lying. I evade the question and change the subject.
“Isabelle, look. I think you should get out and go home now. I know you’re afraid to go in alone, but you need to get cleaned up.”
It’s a dick move, but it’s me, so it really shouldn’t come as a surprise. I can’t answer her questions because I can’t hurt her, at least not this way. If I tell her the truth, I will break her, so being a mean asshole is the only way I can go now. Better she hates me for making fun of her then learning the real reason she gets made fun of at all.
She picks up the pad and quickly scribbles out one final statement before undoing her seatbelt, opening the door and sliding out, slamming the door behind her. It’s only when I’ve watched her make her way across her lawn and inside her house that I dare look down at her final words to me.
The circle of pain has been completed as I read it. I’ve done exactly what I set out to do. I’ve made her believe me to be the dickhead I already know I am.
It’s only two words and a sad face, but it’s the impact of those things that makes everything that much worse. Scribbled on the paper I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from, is the simplest of statements yet the hardest at the same time.
Goodbye Kayden.
As I pull out of her driveway and peel forward into my own, it hits me. If I’m the bad person I think I am and I want her to stay away from me, why does the sad face hurt so god damned much?
Chapter Two
Belle
I’m such an idiot.
When he was asking me questions in the car, I really thought he might be one of the good guys. Despite knowing it was his friends that did everything to me earlier, I thought by saving me and taking me out of there, he was proving he actually cared.
Kayden Walker is no better than the friends that lied to get me in the parking lot. He just did a good deed for the day by taking me home; otherwise, he’s the exact same way he’s always been, at least for the last eight years.
I watched out the window a little and he stayed parked there. He’s probably calling up Dillon and the others, apologizing for what he did to them. Letting them know that next time they wanted to come after me, he wouldn’t stand in their way.
He never should have stepped in back there. He should have kept on walking when Dillon called to him. They could have done anything they wanted and no one would be fighting. I could have gotten home some other way then his car, where it was warm and for a little while, comfortable.
I don’t think he realized just how close I came to speaking to him in the driveway. I wanted to say things because I was feeling pretty comfortable, at least until he said sorry for the names people call me. Everything changed after that and now I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak in front of him again.
It’s probably better that way. Come tomorrow morning, everything will go back to normal. We’ll pass in the halls and ignore each other just like we always have. It’s been that way for years, but now it upsets me and I don’t want it to. I don’t want Kayden and his stupid words to affect me.
I know what I need.
The first time I came home from school in tears, baking had been my mom’s way to make me feel better. She’s pretty short, so she grabbed one of the kitchen chairs, hopped up on it and grabbed all the stuff we’d need to make cookies. We sat in the kitchen, putting it all together and making some of the best cookies I’ve ever tasted. She dished out advice while we waited and by the end of the night, I went to bed with a smile on my face and a full belly. The kids and their taunts were behind me, at least for another day.
It’s one of the only times I can remember eating them. Mom never bought the packaged ones because I had issues with food or more specifically, with processing foods with harsher textures. Up until about a year ago, she would mash up everything I ate because anything chunky I couldn’t eat at all.
I feel pretty bad about it. She works so hard to make sure that Tristan and I have everything we need, and because I’m the way I am, she has to bust her butt that much harder. Sometimes, when I think about all the things she does for me; it’s easy to see why she might blame me for the way things turned out. I’m not sure she signed on for this when the doctor told her she was pregnant.
The front door opens as I slide myself off the counter, but before I can get my bearings; I feel arms wrap around me, spinning me around and the high pitched giggling is a giveaway to exactly who’s behind it.
I love my little brother. When all of this starts getting to me, Tristan is the one bright spot. I can’t help feeling happy whenever I’m around him. If I wasn’t happy, he would definitely find a way to fix it. That’s how amazing he is. Tristan is a miracle baby. After they had me, my parents were told they couldn’t have any more kids and then six years ago, along came my little brother. I love him more than anything.
With the way he’s hugging me now, I’m starting to think I don’t need the cookies after all.
“Belle! I painted the coolest picture in art today! You totally gotta see it!”
Tristan is what doctors like to call Neurotypical, which in human speak means, he’s pretty normal, but when he talks about art, it’s like you see a whole other side to him. He fixates on it, which makes him a lot more like me than anyone wants to admit.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Show me already!” I say, jumping up and down with him to show how excited I am. It’s acting like this now that everything from earlier fades away. I’m me and I’m okay again, but more than that, I’m back where it’s safe.
He races off in what I hope is the direction of his backpack and almost slams into my mom in the process. She’s doing it again. She went to the store, grabbed a whole bunch of groceries and is trying to carry them all in herself, instead of just calling ahead and having me meet her.
Grabbing two of the bags off the pile that are stacked over her head, I place them on the counter and watch as she follows suit.
“Thanks honey. I really wasn’t trying to buy out the store.”
“I figured, but you just can’t help yourself.”
“This time, it’s all on your brother. When did he learn how to pout to get his way?”
“The day you brought him home, I think. He’s just smart about when he uses it.”
She laughs and the room goes silent as we both set to work unloading the bags and putting everything away where it goes. That’s another thing that we do because of me. We have ever
y area in the kitchen labeled. Three years ago, my Uncle Joe gave me a label maker and I went around making labels for everything until eventually it became so obsessive that everything had to be put away exactly as it’s labeled.
My mom calls them Belle quirks, but that’s because she’s too nice for her own good. It’s clearly evident that I’m crazy. I don’t have the heart to correct her though, so quirks it is.
“Honey, where did that bruise come from?” she asks as she points to my shoulder.
Crap. I knew there was a reason I liked wearing my jacket so much. Now I’m going to have to tell her everything that happened today, something I don’t want to do.
“I bumped into something at school, no biggie.”
“What kind of something? Those look like fingers marks.”
I’m getting nervous. I can feel my heart starting to pick up under the scrutiny of her gaze. I really don’t want to talk about this, not when it’s still so fresh. Tristan bringing his picture in right now would be perfect. I need a distraction.
“Isabelle Reagan, tell me what happened right now and don’t even think about lying.”
“Some of the kids…”
“The kids at school did this to you?” she asks, cutting me off before I can tell her everything despite my very strong urge not to.
“Yes, they did, but it’s okay. They were just goofing around. Kayden got me out of there before it went too far.”
This stops her in her tracks. I haven’t mentioned Kayden’s name since he stopped coming over. For me to bring it up now has to knock the wind right out of her.
“Kayden Walker?”
“There’s only one Kayden, Mom.” I answer before turning back to the groceries, putting them away, hoping she’ll drop it now that she knows Kayden brought me home.
“Are you sure it was nothing?”
“Yes. Just kids goofing off. They grabbed me a little too hard, but I’m fine Mom, I swear.”
Count On Me Page 2