She wanted to be cruel to herself.
And I need to lose weight in my gigantic boobs. Who has boobs like these? And any girl who’s like, “Oh my God, I’d kill for your boobs” is a fucking dumbass. She has no idea the shit I have to go through to get ready for a match. For practice, too! Taping them down. What the fuck? Who the fuck has to tape down her fucking boobs in order to kick a fucking ball around?
Oh my God, I’m so fucking angry. I hate my body. I hate my cowardice. I know Brandon is lying to me! There. I said it. Happy?? I know he’s lying to me about Hannah, and I’m letting him. I’m letting him lie and get away with it. Why?
Now the word “why” was emphasized by the flashing cursor. She stared at it—through it—typing the answer.
Because I’m a coward.
***
For an entire week she avoided him. And he avoided her, too. So this was how it would be. She thought the journal might force a friendship between them, but it did nothing except grow hostility. She couldn’t shake his words: “Tell me your secrets! I have a right to know!” He did have a right. If she really thought about it, which she did constantly, he had every right to know her most private thoughts. After all, she violated his.
What bothered her most was the fact that daily life at school continued as before. She hoped for a significant shift. There was none of that. There were the same old faces, the same old conversations, the same old lame ass boyfriend she was too afraid to dump. She actually apologized to Casey even though she knew she said nothing wrong. She just wanted to smooth things over. She couldn’t make sense of her warring spirits—the bullheaded fighter and the pathetic pleaser. The pleaser kept winning! She frowned every time she thought of that conversation with her dad. She wanted to be a better person, a stronger person. She wanted to do the right thing. But she wasn’t doing anything except improving her soccer game.
She passed the foreclosed house, then stopped. She wasn’t ready to go home. She turned around instead and headed for the oak tree. She sat behind it, safely hidden from the street view, and pulled her knees to her chest.
“It’s okay,” she said, hugging Casey close to her breast.
Casey cried unabashedly. Regan could feel the black paint seep between the fibers of her friend’s sweater to soak her own, but she didn’t care.
“Mom’s gonna kill me!” Casey wailed.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Regan replied.
“It . . . it’s a brand-new sweater.” Casey hiccupped. “I . . . I should have walked h-home the other way.”
“Are you crazy?” Regan asked, pulling away from her friend. “You can walk wherever you want!”
Casey shook her head. “No. I should have gone down Sumter. He said he’d be waiting.”
Regan growled. “I’ll get him. And her.”
“No, Regan! Just don’t do anything! You’ll make it worse.”
“No, I won’t. Once I’m done with them, they’ll never bother you again,” Regan promised.
She took off, ignoring her best friend’s pleas as she tore down the street. She knew where Alexia lived. She knew where Ethan lived. Side-by-side. Double whammy.
“Alexia!” she screamed from the sidewalk. “Get out here!”
No one emerged.
“Hey, Ethan! Get out here, or are you too chicken?!”
A door opened.
“Get real,” Ethan said, popping his head out. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“Well, come down here and tell that to my fist,” Regan replied, balling her hands and lifting them beside her face. She noticed Alexia in her periphery.
Ethan threw his head back and laughed.
“I mean it!” Regan cried.
“I don’t fistfight with girls,” Ethan replied.
“No, you just throw black paint all over them for no good reason. You’re a fucking jerk!”
And that was the first time she ever said the f-word. Twelve years old. Seventh grade. Four thirteen in the afternoon on October 26.
“Fuck off, Regan,” Ethan replied.
“What? You scared? You scared of a girl?” she taunted.
That was the ticket. He sauntered down the front steps and stood directly in front of her.
“Take your best shot, little girl,” he sneered.
Open invitation. She couldn’t refuse. She aimed for his eye. Her fist made contact with his nose instead. Sickening crunch! Instant blood. Blood everywhere. Ethan wailed for his mother, who wasn’t home from work. He lurched toward Alexia whose terrified face disappeared behind her front door. Regan moaned at the shooting sparks lighting up her knuckles. What the hell? The punch was only supposed to hurt the other guy, right?
She burst out laughing even as the tears coursed her cheeks. She instinctively rubbed her knuckles, erasing the ghost pain that returned with the memory. Ohhh to sock Ethan in the face once more. She’d give anything. She’d take anything, including expulsion. But then where would that leave her future soccer career?
“Nowhere,” she admitted aloud.
She fell silent at the sound of crunching leaves directly behind her. She held her breath, hoping the intruder would carry on and leave her in peace. She wasn’t afraid. She was annoyed at the bother.
“Hey,” Jeremy said.
She wiped surreptitiously at her face, but he knew she’d been crying. Crying and laughing at the same time—a trick only a girl could pull off.
She didn’t answer. He sat beside her, knowing he was unwelcomed. He took the chance anyway, hoping she wouldn’t leave. She didn’t. She didn’t acknowledge his presence either.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shrugged. “For what?”
“For what I said about the sex being worth it,” he replied.
She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. “That happened, like, a week ago. Who cares?”
It was dismissive and passive aggressive and everything he knew would be her response.
“You do,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I do, too. It was wrong, and I shouldn’t have said it.”
“I don’t care.”