I think about how Garrett thinks Vincent will go to great lengths to find me.
I text Brooklyn again.
Me: Do you think it’s safe for me to see you?
B<3: I’ll have security. My dad will be there. I really don’t think he’s gonna fly all the way to NY on the off chance you might be there.
A lotta rage.
5:45pm
Dance team practice is over. Normally, we’re supposed to be done at 4:30, but today was super long. Peyton marches up to me, grabs my arm, and says, “You went out on a date with Dawson? After all I did for you?”
“All you did for me?”
“I got you to try out for dance. I put in a good word for you in soccer. And you go after Whitney’s ex?”
“From what I understand, a panel of judges decided who made the dance team, not you. And if you put in a good word for me about varsity soccer then I appreciate it, but I’m assuming a coach would not play me if I didn’t earn it, and I fully expect to earn a starting position.”
“Fine. What about Dawson?”
“What about him? We went out for pizza. Big deal.”
“He kissed you. Everyone saw.”
“So? Why does Whitney care? She’s made out with both Bryce and Jake. Which I find interesting since she has a college boyfriend.”
“She’s done with the college boy. She’s just moving on.”
“Well, maybe she should let Dawson move on too.”
“Oh, trust me, he’s moved on plenty.”
“No, he hasn’t. He’s hooked up, yes. But he hasn’t moved on. He hasn’t dated anyone even close to seriously.”
“You think he’ll be serious with you?”
“Absolutely not. We’re sorta becoming friends. We have a lot in common.”
“And what about my brother?”
“What about your brother?”
“He likes you.”
“No, he doesn’t. He did all that dances for points stuff and we had a great time, but it’s been two days and I haven’t seen or heard from him. Well, he is in my French class, but he just sat behind me and didn’t say a word to me. He hasn’t texted me, talked to me, nothing! And it’s not my fault he frickin quoted Keats, and I froze. It caught me off guard! He can be super romantic one minute and a stupid dick the next. He knows where to find me and, so far, he has not found me!”
“Well it doesn’t help that you’re making out with Dawson!”
“I have not made out with Dawson. I don’t know why you think that. We kissed. Once. I told you, we talk. And mostly, sadly, we talk about Whitney and your stupid brother. So back off!”
I spin on my heel, walk out the practice room door, and let it slam loudly behind me.
Shit!
I march into our dressing room, stuff my stupid pompoms in my locker, and leave.
I feel the need to kill something. Or hit something.
As I’m marching down the hall in the field house, I spy a large boxing bag in the fitness center.
I make a beeline for it.
No one is really in here, so I take my frustrations out on the bag.
I do all my kickboxing moves. I don’t even care that I’m still in my stupid practice dance skirt and probably look ridiculous.
Punching this bag feels really, really good.
I kick the bag first.
Then I grab a pair of gloves and start punching it over and over.
I hate stupid boys and stupid, bitchy, bossy girls.
I throw an uppercut to the bag’s chin, like if the bag had a chin. And, in my mind, the bag’s chin looks just like Peyton’s.
Then I throw one, two, three fast jabs straight into Whitney’s perfect nose. I picture it shattering and her crying out in pain as blood shoots out of her nostrils and her eyes begin to blacken.
I hate my life. Boom.
I hate stalkers. Boom.
Big swooping hook to the cheekbone or, better yet, the temple.
I hate getting chewed out for something I didn’t do.
Knockout punch. Bam, baby.
I love punching this bag.
I may have to come and do this daily.
I now know why Tommy started doing kickboxing. It’s probably a necessary stress relief when you live with six women, four of whom are under the age of five. Really, it’s a wonder he isn’t completely bonkers.
I shut my eyes and continue to punch my stress away. I hit the same spot over and over again.
I hear a voice go, “Damn, girl. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
I open my eyes and see Tyrese and Ace.
“Hey, guys.”
“Who pissed you off? You gotta lot of rage in there, girl. And it’s only the first day,” Tyrese says.
I back up and wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Where’d you learn to punch like that?”
“I used to take kickboxing lessons.”
Tyrese says, “Let me guess. Whitney freaking about Dawes? I heard her bitching about you in Government today.”
I roll my eyes. “It was Peyton but, yeah, pretty much.”