“Seriously?” Regan asked.
“I’m sorry, but it’s kinda funny. I mean, I’ve been wondering that for the longest time.” Casey crinkled her brow. “Never occurred to me to just ask her.”
Regan sat stunned, staring at her best friend, wondering how she’d come this far—how she went from being Hannah to this abhorrent human being. Why am I friends with this chick?
She jumped up from the table then leaned over Casey’s shoulder, her lips millimeters from Casey’s ear.
“Have a little compassion.” Her voice was low and threatening. “You used to be her. Remember? You were an outcast, too. People picked on you constantly. People made you cry. Like, a lot. I remember. And so should you.”
She walked away, leaving Casey to sit alone and digest her words. The truth, whether she fucking liked it or not.
~
I hate my life. I wanna know how people survive this. They go on to have jobs—careers, even—families, houses, friends. Lives. How do they do it? How do they experience what I experience daily and move on? Are they robots? Do they lack feelings? Maybe they have a reset button. Maybe they push it every morning before they get out of bed. Where the fuck is my reset button? I just have a trigger, and every day I’m tightening the grip. If I pull back all the way, can that count as my reset?
~
“Regan?”
She huffed and puffed. “Yeah?”
“What’s going on?” her dad asked.
He stood hunched over, cradling the soccer ball in the crook of his sore arm.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, something tells me you’re pretending this is someone’s head,” her dad replied, holding up the ball. He tossed it to her.
She dribbled in a wide circle, then lined up for the kill shot. He could see it on her face: Fuck everyone.
“Oh, God,” Mr. Walters breathed.
Smack!
“Ouch! Okay! Enough!” he bellowed, dropping the ball and holding up his fiery red palms. “Look at these!”
Regan rolled her eyes. “Where’s Caroline? Caroline can be the goalie.”
“The hell she can!” he cried. “You’ll sever her arms!”
“Dad, I told you to wear gloves.”
“Regan, I appreciate your skill. I do. I just don’t think anyone in your immediate family is in a position to help you practice it.”
Regan stared.
“I want you to take those feet all the way to the top. I do. Especially since you have no college fund.”
She smirked.
“But I can’t have you taking me out in the process.”
“Understood.”
“Or your sister. Or mom.”
Regan said nothing. She simply held out her hands.
“We’re done here,” Mr. Walters said, throwing her the ball a final time.
She nodded and popped it in the air, passing it to herself. Her dad watched as she bounced the ball from foot to foot, every now and then catching it behind her back. She paused.
“What’s up with the no college fund thing, anyway?” she asked.
“Retirement,” he replied.
She nodded. “Makes sense. I’d pick my own retirement over my kid’s education any day.”
“You’re skilled and smart,” Mr. Walters noted, and she laughed.
She continued juggling the ball on the tops of her feet and thighs, knocking it a few times against her chest and head. She caught it on the top of her left foot and froze at the sound of her father’s question.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Regan. I’m not dumb. You’re happy when you practice. Today, you’re not happy.”
She rolled her ankle and let the ball plop on the ground.
“What do you think about a person who sees something unjust happening and does nothing to stop it?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t think much of that person,” her dad responded.
“What if the person’s scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of the person who’s doing the unjust thing,” she said.
Her father narrowed his eyes. “Is the person doing the unjust thing in a position of power?”
She thought a moment. “Yes.”
“As in adult power?”
She shook her head.
“Then perhaps an adult should be brought into the picture,” her dad said.
“Isn’t that like tattling?”
“Is the unjust action a major threat to someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Then no, it’s not tattling. It’s called doing what’s right.”
Regan picked up the ball with her foot. She juggled a few times, but her heart wasn’t in it. She tossed the ball to her right where it rolled out of range.
“What if the person’s afraid of retaliation?” she asked.
“Regan, what’s going on?”
“Dad, it’s all just hypothetical. We’re discussing this stuff in Journalism. You know, ethics and all that.”
Mr. Walters chewed his lip. “Well, there’s always a chance for retaliation. That’s the nature of our world. We can’t lock ourselves away from evil. It’ll eventually find us. What matters is justice. Doing what’s right no matter the consequences. Because if we don’t do what’s right, how can we live with ourselves? How can we ask our children to do what’s right?”
She nodded.
“I hope my daughters do what’s right every single day of their lives,” he said softly.
“That’s a tall order, Dad,” Regan replied.
“I know, but that’s still my hope. And I can hope whatever I want.”
Regan grinned. “Let’s aim for ninety percent of the time.”
Mr. Walters shook his head. “Nope. I wanna be one of those overbearing parents. One hundred percent, all the way.”
“I fail,” she said flippantly, tossing her hands.
She walked to the back door. Her dad followed. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she paused in the doorway.
“Never be afraid to do what’s right,” he said behind her, like her conscience was emerging from the back of her brain.
The words “I won’t” stuck in her throat. She couldn’t say them yet because she didn’t believe them.
Later that night, she stared at the blinking cursor, fingers poised above the keys. She knew what she wanted to type. She just needed the courage to do it.
I’m a coward.
She watched the cursor flicker beside the word “coward,” emphasizing it—growing it bigger in her brain.
A fucking coward.