“You made me run to the bathroom and cry,” I said, hiding my face. And then I jumped up from the bench and started walking.
I was embarrassed. Maybe that was a bad idea. It seemed far better in my head—saying those words out loud—but the reality was something entirely different.
“Cadence,” I heard from behind. I cringed and picked up my pace. “Cadence, wait!”
I kept walking as fast as I could, chin tucked protectively, eyes glued to the ground. I wouldn’t go back to school tomorrow. I could never return and face another day of bullying. I could never face him. I would run away. I’d pack a bag tonight, tear the house apart until I found the car keys Dad hid, and leave town. Just drive. Drive until I hit the ocean. Then drive the car into the ocean.
“I’m sorry I made you cry!” Mr. Connelly said, jumping in front of me and forcing me to a halt.
I looked up at him, eyes swimming with angry tears.
“I feel terrible for it,” he said gently.
“I’m not like one of those girls!” I cried, feeling the first tear sneak from the corner of my eye and slide down my cheek to betray my next statement. “I’m not, like, emotional all the time!”
Mr. Connelly nodded.
“I’m just having a bad thirteen months!” I sobbed. The tears were leaking now, and I blotted them with the backs of my hands. “And you didn’t help! You could have been nicer, you know? You could have just let me be! What they did was cruel, and I was just trying to make the best of it!”
I watched as Mr. Connelly struggled with what to say and do. He almost looked like he wanted to reach out and hug me then remembered he was a male teacher and I was a teenage, female student. He opened his mouth then closed it. It was awkward watching him squirm in discomfort, and it made me cry harder.
“May I please go?” I blubbered. I didn’t have a tissue. God, I hated crying! There was nothing pretty about it, and I was not going to stand there and let my gorgeous math teacher see snot running from my nose.
“How will you get home?” he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to me.
“What the hell. . .?” But I took the handkerchief because I was desperate to blow my nose. I turned my face and blew as quietly as I could. “What is this? Eighteen-ninety?” I asked, turning to face him.
He chuckled. “I’m old school.”
I balled the cloth in my hand. There was no way I was giving it back to him.
“Old school, huh?”
Mr. Connelly nodded.
I shrugged. “Do you want this thing back?” I held up my fist, the cloth tucked securely and out of sight.
Mr. Connelly shook his head. “Not just yet.”
I didn’t know what that meant, or maybe he expected me to wash it first. I would definitely wash it first.
“What do you say we start fresh tomorrow?” Mr. Connelly asked.
I grunted.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’ll see,” I replied.
“Fair enough. Now, how will you get home?”
“I’ll walk. I live two minutes from home,” I lied.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mr. Connelly. It’s fine.”
He nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but then thought twice and closed it.
It took me close to two hours to walk home, and I cussed the entire way. Seriously. I’d never said “fuck” so much in my life. And it felt so good. Fuck Crestview High. Fuck my parents. Fuck the jumpsuit. Fuck that judge who could have let me off since it was my first and only offense. Fuck Gracie for being a little bitch. Fuck Oliver for being my brother. Fuck Mr. Connelly? Hmm, no. He gave me his handkerchief, so I let him slide.
I was drenched with sweat and out of breath when I finally walked through the front door of our house. Oliver was sprawled out on the couch in the living room watching an old Simpsons episode.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked, eyes glued to the TV screen. “I didn’t see you on the bus.”
I ignored him and walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and downed the entire drink in a matter of seconds. Then I went straight to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed. So much for my plans to pack a bag and leave town. I didn’t have the energy to fold one shirt let alone drive for hours across multiple states.
I stared at the opposite wall feeling that silky partial-consciousness that sneaks throughout your limbs right before a deep sleep. It was soothing and delicious, and it lied to me.
“Your life isn’t so bad, Cadence,” it said, winding its way down and around my heart, through my arms and legs, spreading to each finger and toe. It lulled me into indifference. I didn’t have to believe it as long as it made my body feel this good. Nothing was that bad so long as I had a bed to lie down on, a place to escape, the dreams in my head that were always waiting, far better than my reality.
I dipped down, head sinking further into my pillow until I was transported to sweet darkness. Escape. Relief.
“Cadence, I volunteered you this Sunday to pass out the programs at church,” Dad said over dinner.
I nodded and forced another piece of chicken in my mouth. It was next to impossible to eat. I’d lost my appetite after being arrested.
“So how was the first day back?” Mom asked. I could tell she was anxious to hear some good news, but I was reluctant to give it to her. My original plan was to lie about everything, make my parents believe that things were back to normal, but lying is a sin. And it felt so much sweeter to tell the truth.
I raised my eyebrows. “Well, I received the nicest gift from a group of girls this morning. An orange jumpsuit, actually. Much like the one I wore in juvie.”
Oliver choked on his chicken.
Dad narrowed his eyes.
“I wore it. I figured they went to all that trouble to find a suit my size. But I got in trouble for it with my first period teacher, ‘Midnight in a Perfect World.’”
Mom, Dad, and Oliver stared at me confused.
“I mean Mr. Connelly,” I explained, shaking my head. “Then I was bombarded throughout the day with insults. Would you like to hear some?”