Shaking my head to clear my wandering thoughts, I focused on the heated discussion occurring at the far end of the hall.
"What did the little bollox do now?" Johnny demanded as he closed the space between himself and Gibsie.
I mentally noted that he was walking with that same slight limp I'd observed on countless occasions.
It was barely noticeable, but if you looked closely enough, like I constantly seemed to do, it was clear that he tried to keep weight off his right leg.
My gaze danced between all three of them; moving from Ronan, who wasn’t yanking on the handle anymore – in fact, he'd taken a few steps away from the door – to Gibsie who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, before landing and staying on Johnny.
Seriously, as tall as Gibsie was, Johnny towered over him.
There was a streak of dried mud on his cheek that he attempted to bat away with the back of his free hand.
His dark brown hair was sticking up in forty different directions.
Probably from sweat, I mentally noted, or playing outside in the rain.
He was standing in such a way that I could see his side profile and the way his frown deepened as Gibsie spoke quietly in his ear.
I couldn’t make out what they were saying and was unwilling to leave the sanctuary of my corner outside the bathroom, knowing I could always bolt inside and lock myself in a toilet cubicle and phone Joey if this turned ugly.
Seconds later, Johnny's body visibly tensed. "What?"
Tossing the icepack on the ground, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he turned to glare out the glass, revealing the number 13 on his back.
He took a step forward, stopping just shy of the door when Gibsie clamped a hand on his shoulder.
"You're fucking kidding me!" he roared, reacting to whatever his friend was whispering in his ear.
Johnny's head turned in Ronan's direction before quickly snapping towards me.
His eyes landed on my face and holy crap, he looked livid.
It was only a fleeting glance and he quickly turned his attention back to Ronan.
This time I could clearly hear what he was saying.
"I'm going to give you a five second head start, Prickface," he roared through the glass panel. "And then I'm going to cut your cock off and feed it to you."
"Fuck you, Kavanagh," Ronan shouted back, but his face was much paler than earlier. "You can't touch me."
"One," Johnny barked. "Two, three, four…"
"What are you waiting for?" Gibsie called out, waving his hands in the air encouragingly. "Get going, Forrest."
Were they really going to fight?
Over me?
Was this really over me?
It couldn’t be.
They didn’t even know me.
No way.
I didn’t like confrontation, I couldn’t cope with it, and this sure looked like it was about to snowball.
Deciding to detract myself from the situation, I turned on my heels and bolted into the bathroom, not stopping until I was safely tucked away in one of the stalls with the door locked behind me.
With trembling hands, I pushed my bag off my shoulders, allowing it to clatter against the tiled floor.
Dropping down on the closed toilet, I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and buried my hands in my hair, reeling.
What the hell just happened?
What was that?
What would I have done if Gerard or Gibsie or whatever his name was hadn't come?
Where would I be now?
As my earlier adrenalin deflated, tears dripped down my cheeks, but it wasn’t because I was upset.
Okay, yes, I was upset, but my tears were those of anger.
I was pissed off actually.
Who the hell did Ronan McGarry think he was?
More, who did he think I was?
Inviting me into the bathrooms with him.
God, he looked like he actually expected me to say yes.
Blinking away my tears, I clenched and then unclenched my fists, knees bopping as anger and humiliation coursed through me.
I hated humans.
They were such a disappointment.
And to think, god switched dinosaurs for man.
He must be raging.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I quickly swiped at my damp cheeks and battled to get a handle on my emotions.
I was annoyed with myself for being the kind of person who cried when angry.
I wanted to be a shouter.
A shouter was much better than a crier.
I was disgusted with myself for freezing, too.
He had no right to put his hands on me and I did nothing to stop him.
Words didn’t seem enough for that boy, and instead of kicking him in the junk or slapping his hand away, I'd clammed up just like I always did.
I should have learned by now that being a pushover didn’t do me any favors, and not fighting back wasn’t an option either.
In situations like the one that had just happened, I had to fight back.
I needed to stop letting the fear take ahold of me.
I was entitled to stick up for myself.
It wasn’t rocking the boat to defend yourself.
I knew this, but the problem was, every time I was faced with a confrontation or crisis, my body –and my mind – always reacted with the same broken instinct; freeze.
People talked about the fight or flight instinct.
I had neither.
Instead of fighting back or fleeing, I froze.
Every fucking time.
Dragging in a few steadying breaths, I exhaled long and slow, striving to steady my nerves and erratic heartbeat.
It took three tries of shaking out my hand before I had the coordination to successfully undo the top buttons of my coat and retrieve my phone from my shirt pocket beneath my jumper.
Trembling, I unlocked the screen only to release a fresh surge of panic into my bloodstream when my eyes landed on the digital clock on the top of the screen.
It was 5:47.
My bus left on the dot at half past five.
I'd missed it.
There wouldn’t be another one passing through the route I needed until 9:45pm tonight.
"Shit," I whisper-cried, quickly scrolling into my contacts lists to find my brother's name.
Pressing call, I held the phone to my ear, but instead of the typical ring-ring sound that came with placing a call, I was greeted with the pre-recorded, robotic voice letting me know that I didn’t have sufficient credit to place this call. "Dammit!"
Groaning, I quickly tapped in the code that allowed me to send a free 'call me' text message to Joey.
When I didn’t get an immediate response, I sent another, and then I sent three more for good measure.
Mam was at work and wouldn’t have her phone on her, and I'd rather sleep right here in this toilet stall than call my father to come get me – not that he would even come if I asked.
Thirty minutes later and I had sent at least twenty more freebie 'call me' messages to my brother, but to no avail.
He obviously either didn’t have his phone with him, or it was switched to silent.
My bet was it was on silent mode since Joey rarely left the house without it. He probably forgot to take it off silent-mode when he left school.
I didn’t know what else to do other than just wait at the school until the next bus was due.
I knew the school remained open until late for afterschool programs and tutoring.
It technically never closed considering it was also a boarding school, but the main area would be open until at least 9pm.
My stomach rumbled loudly, breaking the silence.
Checking the time again, I noted that it was now 6:18pm.
I had those slices of bread tucked away in my lunch box.
I could go and make some toast in the common area while I waited.
I would be in serious trouble when I got home, but there was no way on god's given earth that I was going to walk the fifteen miles home.
The walk, I was sure I could handle.
It was who I might meet on the walk that troubled me.
Standing up, I tucked my phone back into my shirt pocket, re-did the buttons on my coat, reached for my bag, and let myself out the stall, stopping to wash my hands before leaving the sanctitude of the bathroom.
I pressed my ear to the door and listened for a long moment.
When no sounds of violence and shouting came from the other side, I opened the door and stepped out.
Like a horrific case of déjà vu, I walked out of the bathroom and straight into a hard chest of muscle.
16
Keep your hands off
Johnny