“You wanna live here? Then make your goddamn bed!”
“News flash! I don’t wanna live here!” Jeremy roared, feeling his father’s fingers wrap around his throat.
It was the surge of miraculous adrenaline one experiences when pinned beneath a car. It erupted from the force of determination—I won’t die today!—and exploded through his hands. He thought he lifted his father in the air and threw him clear across the room. In actuality, he punched his face hard enough to invite a few precious seconds for escape—Mr. Stahl rolling off him onto the floor.
“One, two, three, four,” Jeremy whispered. “Five.”
But he didn’t run. He sat up on his knees and glared at his dad.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” he warned.
Mr. Stahl snorted. “Tough guy now, huh?”
“I mean it, Dad.”
There was a long stretch of silence where both men studied their injuries. When Mr. Stahl sat up, Jeremy jumped to his feet, positioning his hands by his face for a fistfight.
“I know you mean it. I’ve been watching you.”
“Watching me?” Jeremy asked.
“Pumping iron. I see you. I figured one day you’d beat me to death.”
He struggled to his feet, clutching the side of his face that showed the first signs of bruising—deep purple flooding the surface of his thin, leathery skin.
“You’d deserve it,” Jeremy spat.
Mr. Stahl winced. The words stung, hurting far worse than the bruise.
“I know, son,” he whispered. He massaged his head, and Jeremy knew the hangover was fast approaching.
Just like that, the fight was over. Typical scenario: Mr. Stahl would fly into a rage, take it out on Jeremy in a matter of seconds, come to, and offer a pathetic apology. Until the next episode. It happened every time he drank.
“I, uh . . .”
Jeremy lowered his fists and pushed past his father.
“I’m sorry, Jer.”
“I know,” Jeremy replied, searching the room for his book bag.
Mr. Stahl cleared his throat. “Lemme take a look at your stomach.”
“No way.” He found the bag, shoved in a few notebooks, and headed for the front door.
“School today?” he heard his father call.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I’d forgot,” Mr. Stahl mumbled.
Jeremy rolled his eyes as he made his way out the door. So his father wouldn’t have punched him like a pi?ata had he remembered today was the first day of school? Gee, Dad, you’re so thoughtful.
He hopped on his bike and turned the street corner toward Ridgeview High. It was the only high school in the tiny town of Mountainview, Utah. Nestled at the base of the Wasatch Range, the town boasted a much larger population until T.A.C.—the largest tactical rifle accessories manufacturing company in the state—closed its doors on the heels of a corporate tax hike. Thousands of workers were laid off. Jeremy’s dad would have been among them had he not broken his back on the job a few weeks before. No need to find work. He stayed put. On his couch. Collecting beer bottles and disability checks.
The south side of the school came into view, and Jeremy hit the brakes, his heart twisting in paralyzing confliction. He hated that school and all the people in it. Except for her. He didn’t want to go in, and yet he couldn’t wait. Just to see her. She made it better, though he still felt mildly ashamed to walk the halls.
He was nineteen—too old for high school—but it wasn’t by choice. He repeated second grade, and that changed everything. At first it was cool to be older than his classmates, but that didn’t last long. The notion disappeared altogether with his unsightly scar. He thought it amazingly ordinary how children operated—scared of anything different. Scared to be different. Many followers. Few, if any, leaders. They had no legitimate reason to dislike him. They were just assholes. And nothing changed when they grew older.
He felt his mouth form the word—her name—and swallowed it whole. He didn’t want anyone to hear he loved her. It meant nothing, anyway. Love didn’t count when it was one-sided. He learned that early on. He loved a mother who abandoned him. Didn’t count. He loved a father who hit him. Didn’t count.
He parked his bike at the racks near the east entrance, locked it, and headed inside. That sterile public school smell wafted in his face as he yanked open the door. For most, the smell offered the hope of a do-over. Fresh start. Clean slate. For Jeremy, the smell suggested a chance to make right all the wrongs he’d experienced. This was the year to make right.
“Ready for another super duper year?”
He smiled at her facial expression. If anyone could show him the humor in his dire straits, Hannah could. She was as bad off as he was—just another bullied kid desperate to get out of high school.
“Is it weird that when I walked through that door, I couldn’t stop saying ‘fuck’ over and over? I mean, it was like Tourette’s. That’s weird, right?” she asked, falling in pace with Jeremy as they moved down the nearly empty hallway.
“No,” he replied. “What’s weird is that we got here early. What’s up with that? Are we trying to punish ourselves?” He paused, thinking. “We’re like those priests who beat themselves.”
“Flagellants,” Hannah said.
“How do you even remember that?” Jeremy asked.
“Because I’m a star student. Hello.”
“Hey, as long as you’ve got something going for you,” he teased.
Hannah snickered. She leaned against the locker and watched Jeremy put away his notebooks.
“I got here early so I didn’t have to listen to my parents,” she explained.
“Listen to them say what?” he asked.
“Just anything.”
Jeremy snorted with laughter.
“Now you,” Hannah said. “What’s your excuse?”
Jeremy hesitated. “I . . . I didn’t wanna listen to my dad either,” he mumbled.
Hannah narrowed her eyes. Total bullshit, but she didn’t pry.
“Like my hair?” she asked.
“It’s spikey.”
“I meant the blue tips,” she said. “They’re new.”
He studied her—super short spikes of blond, blue-tipped hair cradling a round head.
“You look like a medieval weapon,” he said.