Good

“No,” Dad said flatly.

 

I ignored him and listed them off on my fingers. “Slut, bitch, dyke, whore, and my all-time favorite, Nazi fascist. Does anyone know what that means?”

 

Oliver stared at me, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

 

“I still can’t quite figure out the ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ references. I took a vow of chastity in eighth grade,” I said. “You remember that, right Mom? You led that youth group lesson about purity and waiting until you’re married to have sex. I took the vow. I don’t know what these kids are talking about. I’ve never gotten naked with anyone.” The anger was bubbling over, and I knew to put a lid on it

 

Mom’s face turned the color of beets. Dad looked outraged, holding his fork in one hand and knife in the other like weapons. Like he was about to do battle with me. I couldn’t stop myself.

 

“Then I missed the bus and had to walk the seven miles home,” I continued. “Any chance I may be able to get my driving privileges reinstated?”

 

“No,” Dad said. He eyed me with a mixture of anger and exasperation. “Now, would you like to tell us how your day really went?”

 

I bristled. He couldn’t seriously not believe me. Who would make up something like that?

 

I dropped my fork on my plate. “I told you the truth. That was my day.”

 

“Cadence, I hardly think your classmates would be that mean to you,” Mom said.

 

“Exactly,” Dad agreed. “We know you want to be homeschooled and all, but lying about the way you’re treated at school is not going to change our minds. We both work, Cadence. We couldn’t allow you to stay home anyway.”

 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My parents were in complete denial. Did they have no idea how teenagers acted? Teenagers are vicious. I was being bullied, and my parents refused to believe it. I knew I should have kept that freaking jumpsuit!

 

“Now, I’ll ask you again,” Dad said. “How was your first day?”

 

I refused to speak.

 

“I asked you a question, Cadence,” Dad said. “How was your day?”

 

I knew he’d keep asking me until I lied to him. And since they thought I was a liar anyway, I decided to play along.

 

I bit my lower lip then took a deep breath. “It was good,” I mumbled.

 

“Perfect,” Mom replied, and took a sip of her Diet Coke.

 

I looked across the table at my brother. He was still staring at me, but he no longer sported an I-can’t-believe-you-cussed-in-front-of-our-parents expression. It had changed. He looked concerned. And angry. I didn’t know what to make of it, and I was too tired to try and figure it out. I asked to be excused, but was told to have some manners and sit at the table until everyone was finished. So I sat for the remainder of dinner watching my parents eat and listening to their inane conversation about work and the upcoming food drive at our church.

 

 

 

I carried the basket of clean laundry upstairs to my bedroom. I laid out Mr. Connelly’s handkerchief on my bed and put away the rest of my clothes. Then I sat down and decided how best to fold the handkerchief. While I considered a square or triangle, I thought back to the day I met Mr. Connelly on the side of Highway 28. Particularly his expression when he first looked up at me. I ignored it then because I was too busy wondering if I was staring at an angel, but now that I knew he wasn’t (unless God sends angels to earth to teach calculus), I was free to contemplate that look.

 

That look.

 

Like he knew me from somewhere but I was brand new to him at the same time. Or that it all made sense in that moment. Or that he finally found the one thing he didn’t know he was searching for. No one had ever looked at me like that, and I knew I wasn’t imagining it. I saw it. I saw it when his face lit up. And then he averted his eyes and mumbled something about getting out of my way so I could work. I didn’t know what to make of it now, or if the time since our roadside meeting had exaggerated that look in my mind, but I didn’t think so. I think he liked what he saw, and I was flattered. And confused.

 

I looked once more at the handkerchief. Triangle it is, and heard the creak of my bedroom door. Oliver poked his head inside.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Go away,” I said, fingering the handkerchief.

 

Oliver shuffled in and sat beside me.

 

“I believe you,” he said. “About your day. I heard Braxton call you a whore and told him if he didn’t stop talking shit about my sister, I’d beat the shit out of him.”

 

I smiled.

 

“I just can’t believe you said those things in front of Mom and Dad,” he went on, chuckling softly.

 

“They asked,” I replied.

 

“I think they’re just scared, Cay,” Oliver said. “They don’t wanna believe you’re being bullied.”

 

“I don’t care,” I said. “They should believe me. I’m their daughter and they should believe me.”

 

Oliver shrugged. “Well, you did lie about that party, and then got high and robbed a convenience store. And then had to go to court. And then got carted off to juvie.”

 

“One time!” I yelled, and Oliver laughed.

 

“It’s not like sneaking out and drinking, Cadence,” he said. “Kind of a big ass mistake, you know?”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Oliver cleared his throat. “Look, all this crap will die down.”

 

I didn’t believe a word of it.

 

“It’ll just take some time. Someone or something new will come along, and those assholes will forget all about you,” he said.

 

Comforting words, but I wasn’t convinced.

 

“Want me to sit with you on the bus tomorrow?” he asked.

 

I grinned. “And ruin your reputation? No. I would never do that to you.”

 

Oliver shrugged. “I’ll sit with you, Cadence.”

 

I shook my head. “It’s okay. And why are you all of a sudden being nice? I thought we hated each other?”

 

“I do hate you,” Oliver said. “But I’m the only one allowed to hate you. No one else is.”

 

I chuckled. “You’re such a jerk.”

 

“Wanna say our prayers together?” Oliver asked, smirking.

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“No,” he replied, and stood up. He opened my bedroom door to leave.

 

“Wait!” I called.

 

“Yeah?”

 

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