There it went again, like a chime singing in the center of his heart. It started going off at random intervals that morning as he readied himself for school. It continued on his drive. It sped up when he saw his girlfriend waiting for him by his locker. It turned to frantic clanging when she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.
Joy. That elusive feeling. He remembered a long time ago lying in bed the night Regan visited with cupcakes, thinking he felt it warm his heart. He wasn’t certain then, but he knew he felt it now—like his heart finally mended after years of abuse, years of torment.
His father no longer posed a threat. The students didn’t seem to either. His life was changing, his purpose . . . changing. The opaque image of his future self no longer stood at the end of the hallway bearing a rifle in one hand, a pistol in the other. He stood empty-handed because he’d already laid down his weapons.
The mission he lived for turned futile—the clear, detailed plan confused by happiness. Happiness altered everything. It pushed the hair out of his eyes. It plastered a goofy grin on his face. It grew a confidence he never before possessed—a confidence he had to check on occasion. It was too easy to turn into a cocky asshole because he had the girl. He had a running car and a brand new snowboard and a future. He had a good life.
Oh, what the hell? He was gonna be an asshole. He thought he’d earned it after years of suffering at the hands of that buzz-headed douchebag.
He strolled down the hallway at a leisurely pace, well aware that Brandon was behind them, watching Jeremy’s arm hang comfortably over Regan’s shoulder. Her arm wrapped his lower back, and she leaned into him as she walked, using him like a crutch. A love crutch.
His chest swelled, adrenaline kicking into a higher gear. Not too fast. He could still control it, and he wanted what he planned next to be very controlled.
He swung his arm up—the arm draped over his girlfriend’s shoulder—lifting his hand in a right-turn signal. And then he lowered all his fingers but one—that one right there in the middle. It was no longer a right-turn signal, but it was a signal, sending a clear message: Fuck you, motherfucker.
He lowered his hand to Regan’s upper back, slowly tracing the length of her spine with the offensive digit, making sure Brandon got a perfect view of his hand sliding snugly in the back pocket of her skinny jeans.
She squealed. “We’re at school!”
He grinned fiendishly and squeezed her bottom, then looked over his shoulder. Public Enemy No. 1 stood frozen to his spot, confusion twisting his hard features. His hands opened and closed into fists. His nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed with purpose, and Jeremy was certain he knew what that purpose was.
Not if I beat you to it, he thought smugly, and rounded the corner out of sight.
***
The force catapulted him forward. He tripped on the cracked pavement and nosedived to the ground. His reflexes saved him from crushing his face—the heels of his palms breaking the fall.
His upper back screamed, throbbing heat that rippled along his spine and through his arms.
Another blow. This one to his lower back. He cried out and rolled over on instinct. Brandon hovered above him clutching a metal rod.
“You think you’re funny now, asshole?” he taunted, waving the rod menacingly.
“Fuck you,” Jeremy breathed, searching for a weapon of his own.
“Not me, you,” Brandon said. “You’re the one about to get fucked. You think you’re something special now because you’re dating my ex? Guess what? You can have her. She sucks. Like you. You guys are perfect for each other.”
“Then leave me alone,” Jeremy replied.
“Oh, no no,” Brandon said. “I’m not gonna beat the shit out of you because of Regan. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you because I fucking hate your guts.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a fucking asshole!”
Jeremy snorted. “You’re an idiot.”
Brandon swung the rod like an ax, but Jeremy was too quick. He rolled to his right and jumped to his feet. His spine screeched, sharp pains going off one by one by his tailbone.
“I’ve done nothing to you!” Jeremy yelled, jumping backwards to avoid the rod.
Brandon now used it as a sword, thrusting it forward toward his unarmed opponent. Jeremy danced around it, trying to avoid it piercing his heart.
“Sure you have,” Brandon replied. “You take up space in my school. You add to the loser population, and we don’t need any more of those.” He paused, thinking. “You look at me sometimes. Yeah, that’s right. Who the fuck do you think you are looking at me? Did I ever say you could look at me? You keep your goddamn eyes on the ground, Scarface!”
Jeremy gritted his teeth. The arrogance of this guy. God, he fucking hated him!
“I killed my dad,” Jeremy said low. “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”
Brandon’s head swiveled left then right. “Well, I don’t see a baseball bat anywhere, so I guess you’re shit outta luck.”
“I don’t need a bat,” Jeremy said.
“You’re saying that to a guy holding a big metal rod,” Brandon replied. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Then drop your weapon and fight me like a man.”
Brandon burst out laughing. His cackles sent Jeremy into a rage. He plowed into his enemy, wrapping him in an angry bear hug and slamming him against the side of a building. Naturally Brandon chose an alley as his point of attack. Such a B-rated douchebag bully move.
“You need to give me a little more respect,” Jeremy growled, spit flying from his lips onto Brandon’s face. “I’m not that punching bag I was last year. Or the year before that. Or the year before that.”
Brandon pushed him off and swung wildly. The rod slipped from his grip and flew through the air, landing several yards away.
“Now what are you gonna do?” Jeremy taunted.
He watched the contortions of Brandon’s face—trapped in seething frustration. A frustrated guy isn’t a smart guy. A frustrated guy makes critical mistakes.
“Fucking kill you!” Brandon bellowed, charging Jeremy with no control.
Jeremy jumped to his left, whipped out his hand, and clasped his rival’s wrist. He used Brandon’s propulsion to swing him around and throw him easily to the ground.