His hands shook by his sides. Why did he care? Why did he care? Oh yes, now he remembered. An issue of ethics.
“You had no right to read my journal! You had no right to learn those things! You barged into my brain like it was your privilege! Your right to take whatever the hell you wanted!”
“I’m sorry!”
“Bullshit! You’re not sorry! You wanted to do it! You planned to do it the second you found my journal!”
She blushed profusely. She’d never been so shamelessly called out for her actions.
“How about I barge into your brain, huh?”
“What?”
“Tell me all your secrets, Regan! I have a right to know!” He loomed over her, and she shrank back.
“No!”
“But you have mine! Seems only fair. Tell me! I have a right to know!”
She was mortified, swallowing the words that almost spilled over: “I’m in love with you, you fucking jackass!”
“Tell me!” he roared, and then the door swung open.
They fell silent, waiting for the students to ascend the stairs. Waiting for the second door on the top landing to open and close and give them back their privacy.
“Fuck off, Brandon.”
It was Hannah. He could tell. Regan turned to leave, and he grabbed her arm again. She resisted, but he wouldn’t let go. He placed his finger over his mouth: Don’t say a word.
“I just wanna know what you’d wear,” Brandon teased. “Would you be in the tux or the dress? Would you be the guy or the girl? I’m looking at your hair and thinking guy.”
“You’re an idiot,” Hannah spat.
Slight shuffling.
“And you’re a little cunt dyke,” he hissed. No more teasing.
Jeremy listened intently. It sounded like Brandon had her trapped in the corner of the stairs. He’d have to make a move soon. But he wanted to wait a little longer, so Regan could get a good taste of her boyfriend’s words—let her mull them over all day until she felt like shit by the end of it.
“You want my girlfriend?” Brandon taunted.
No response.
“You dream about her?” He laughed. “I bet you decorate your notebooks with her name. Draw hearts around it.” He paused. “Hmm, but that’s more of a girl thing than guy thing.”
Regan pulled on her arm. Jeremy held her still.
“Leave me alone,” Hannah whispered.
“I can’t figure you out,” Brandon went on. “You a girl or a guy?”
“Stop,” Hannah said.
“Well, give me just one look. You have tits under that shirt?”
Jeremy shot out from under the stairs.
“Leave her alone,” he called up to Brandon.
Brandon whirled around, eyes wide at Jeremy’s command.
“Someone grew a pair over the summer,” he said.
“Just leave her alone.”
“I wasn’t doing anything,” Brandon said. “We were just talking.”
“Yeah, except that Hannah doesn’t talk to you. Ever,” Jeremy replied.
Brandon sneered. “You certainly have a mouth on you. Where’d this guy come from? I remember you cowering on the ground last year after I beat the shit out of you.”
Jeremy balled his hands into fists. “Leave. Her. Alone.”
The tardy bell rang.
Silence in the stairwell until Brandon finally spoke.
“Saved by the bell,” he sneered, patting Hannah’s cheek.
Jeremy said nothing.
Brandon climbed the stairs, and Hannah sighed relief.
“You okay?” Jeremy asked.
“Yeah,” she replied. There was an edge to her voice.
“You sure?”
“I didn’t need your help,” she snapped.
Jeremy nodded. He understood. No one wants to feel weak, helpless, unable to defend herself. He felt the same way last year after Brandon attacked him at the bus stop. He still couldn’t figure out why Brandon’s BMW-driving ass was even at the bus stop. Whatever. He beat Jeremy to a pulp, and Hannah walked up to him afterwards to offer a hand. He resisted, yelled at her to leave, and she did without any hurt feelings. It was understood between victims that you don’t offer assistance. You pretend it didn’t happen.
Jeremy watched her leave. He had almost forgotten about Regan, who still hid below the stairs.
“You can come out now,” he called.
She emerged, a slew of emotions battling it out on her face.
He knew not to say it. But he was gonna fucking say it.
“Congratulations.”
She was silent.
“You’ve got yourself a winner right there.”
“Shut up.”
“Hope the sex is worth it.”
He only said it for the reaction. He hoped as the words shot out of his mouth that she’d give him a good one. A fierce blush, hurled insult, maybe even a shove. He wanted to hurt her as she’d hurt him. He needed to see it on her face—those precious seconds of ripe, raw pain—before she hid it under a mask of composure.
Her face screwed up in confusion. The corners of her eyebrows drew closer together the longer she stood considering his words, like a seamstress was working on her slowly and carefully to make the stitch line up just so. He watched those brows, and then his eyes moved to hers. They were too dark, and he couldn’t read the message. Until she gave it to him.
“You’re supposed to be the good guy,” she said softly.
The words punctured his heart instantly, and he turned his face, unable to look at the girl awaiting an answer. He tried to conjure his anger once more to justify his comment. She deserved it. She deserved anything ugly he’d ever say to her. But he couldn’t make himself believe it, and so the anger remained hidden somewhere deep, letting embarrassment fill his heart to the brim instead.
He listened as she pushed through the door, and only turned in her direction when he knew she was safely out of view. He couldn’t let her see his face. He knew it betrayed his shame, and he wasn’t ready to apologize.
“She deserved it,” he muttered, waiting for the vigilante to agree.
You’re an asshole, it replied, and he was confused by the response.
***
“What?” Brandon asked, staring into his girlfriend’s eyes from across the lunch table.
“What?” Regan snapped back.
He paused, confused. “Uh, that’s what I asked you. You’re looking at me like you hate me. What the hell did I do?”