As I dart into the classroom, water splashes all over the front of my uniform.
“You gotta watch where you’re going, Weinstock,” Sully chuckles.
I know he did it on purpose, and I choose to ignore him, but then he laughs, “Oh damn, looks like someone pissed herself.”
The whole class laughs, and it makes my cheeks flame with embarrassment.
For a moment, I freeze like a frightened deer, but then Mr. Matthews’ voice snaps me back into action as he passes by me. “Clean up that mess and take your seat!”
I dig tissues out of my bag and quickly wipe up the puddle on the floor.
“Be glad I didn’t drown you,” Sully chuckles. It’s a jab at what my mother did. She was once a socialite until she ruined her own life by trying to drown a fellow student at Trinity Academy. Kingsley Hunt. I wish I could meet her. I’d like to see what the girl who survived my mother looks like.
Straightening up, I throw the tissues away, then anxiously glance at the remaining open seats. The one in the corner is still available, but Colton has taken the desk next to it.
Dang.
“Sit!” Mr. Matthews snaps.
I dart forward and keep my eyes on the floor until I reach the corner desk. Taking the seat, I notice a scrap of paper, and I shove it aside. I pull the wet fabric away from my chest, hoping it will dry quickly.
I’m not good at math, and luckily Mr. Matthews doesn’t pay much attention to us while he drones on. I open my art book, and I’m just about to continue with my sketch when my eyes are drawn to the scrap of paper.
Someone from the previous class probably left it here. Reaching for it, I fold it open.
‘Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ – Eleanor Roosevelt.
The quote hits like a ten-ton train, and it derails my emotions.
Yeah? Eleanor probably never had to deal with Sully or Michael, who love to torture me every chance they get.
She never had to deal with my mother, who continually reminds me I’m nothing more than an unfortunate by-product of one alcohol-induced night between her and some man. A stranger whose name she didn’t even bother to get.
At least, that’s one way of looking at it.
My opinion? That my mother had me because she needed someone to torture, so she could feel better about her own life that’s nothing short of disastrous.
Inferior? That’s not how I feel.
I just feel alone and unwanted. All my life, I’ve been judged for the way my mother behaves. She’s a cruel woman who has a high opinion of herself. She blames the world and me for her problems. My grandparents practically exiled her to this town because she’s unhinged and harmful to their public image. They also refuse to acknowledge my existence.
Letting out a sigh, I neatly fold the scrap of paper and tuck it into my bag.
COLTON
She read the quote. I watch her shove the paper into her bag, and then she continues to draw.
There’s a frustrated pang in my chest. I was hoping the quote would mean something to her. I don’t know, maybe enlighten her the same way it did me. But it doesn’t look like the words meant anything to her.
Something about her reminds me of Brady. Just like my brother, she looks timid and scared of her own shadow.
Brady.
I shut my eyes against the grief that shudders through me. It’s not as intense anymore. Three months have passed since Brady shot himself, but there are moments when it feels like it just happened. I’ll suddenly smell the blood. I’ll see his vacant eyes.
If I allow myself to think of everything that happened, I’ll break. It feels like all it will take for me to lose my mind is one small shove.
Before Brady died, life was a constant battle. I had to fight our father because my mom and Brady wouldn’t. They cowered whenever Dad flew off the rails. But I couldn’t. It’s like his anger triggered something inside me to keep fighting. To keep forging ahead because retreating would mean that he’d turn his rage toward them.
That night, I backed off and left because it felt like I would kill our father if I stayed at home a second longer. The one night I retreated cost me my brother’s life.
If I could turn back time, I’d stay and kill our father if it meant Brady would still be here. I’d spend the rest of my life behind bars so my brother could live.
But I retreated.
I left Brady to face that monster.
The rumors are right. I did kill my brother.
Opening my eyes, I try to focus on the book I’m reading. At first, I read to escape, but now it’s so much more. My father is nothing but an abusive asshole, and my mother checked out of reality the day we buried Brady.
I can’t give up like Brady did. I just don’t have it in me. I can’t lose my shit like my mother did because then there won’t be anyone to look after her. And truthfully, I’d rather die a thousand deaths before I become anything like my father.
Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer taught me how to survive when staring death in the face. The book changed my life.
Since then, I’ve been devouring books that show the unbreakable spirit of those who have survived the unthinkable.
Where my parents have failed to teach me anything of value, books have become my guide, my perseverance, my moral compass.
The teacher begins with class, and I close my book, so I can pay attention because I sure as hell don’t want to fail my senior year again.
“Psst…”
I let out a slow breath, instantly annoyed. It’s the same idiot who was hurting the girl in English. I hate people like him. People like my father. They only know how to hurt – how to destroy. I’ve dealt with his kind all my life.
The guy waves a hand to get my attention from where he’s sitting a desk up in the next row over. “Hey.”
Clenching my jaw, I slant my eyes in his direction. He leans back to hand me a piece of paper. When I don’t move to take it, he tosses it onto my desk. “Pass it on.” He gestures to the girl next to me.
Not caring that I’ll upset him, I read the note.
Couldn’t help but notice you’re all wet for me. Did I hit your G-spot in English?
My eyes snap back up to his, and then I tear the note into tiny pieces.
“What the fuck?” he hisses.
Taking a deep breath, I turn my gaze back to the teacher.
I have zero time for the parasites of life. If you give them half a chance, they’ll suck you dry. Not that there’s much left of me. Brady’s death stripped all meaning from my life.
When the bell rings, I gather my stuff, and before I’m done shoving it into my bag, the girl next to me is out of her chair and rushing up the aisle. Her shoulders are hunched forward, and her black hair hangs around her like a cloak she’s trying to hide behind. Her whole appearance screams at me to look away. To not notice her.
She reminds me so much of my brother, and knowing what happened to him when the pressure became too much, has me taking notice. Before Brady’s suicide, I probably wouldn’t have looked twice at her.
I get up, but then the parasite blocks my way. “That note was for Brie.” His posture is threatening.
There are four kinds of people in life. The parasites who feed off others, aka bullies who get off on the fear they spread. The sheep who just exist, going through the same shit every day. The deers who mind their own business but then either freeze or run whenever they’re threatened. And then there are the bears who are tolerant until you fuck with them.