“You know you want it. Everyone knows all about you and that foster dad of yours.” He takes two steps closer, and on the other side of me, Sutton lunges. Instinctively, I shy backward and crash into Matthew’s chest. He wraps one arm around my torso, twists both of us around, and shoves me through the bathroom door.
I land on my hands and knees, palms skidding across the black-and-white tile. I sweep my legs under me, ready to jump to my feet, and something heavy knocks me down again.
Matthew. I can’t breathe. Too heavy. Too—I jam my elbows backward and connect with his knees.
“Bitch,” he mutters, and flips me. My shoulders hit the floor and his hand circles my throat, tightening until I can’t gasp.
I claw his face and Matthew jerks out of reach. His eyes dip lower and his other hand follows. It creeps along my skin with spider legs.
“No!” I stamp both feet into the floor, kicking myself up and unseating him. “Stop!”
“Say please.” His words are singsong, and when I don’t respond, his fingers snag the bottom of my T-shirt, pulling it up and exposing skin that suddenly burns.
“Stop it!”
“I will if you say please.”
“No.”
Matthew’s smile promises mayhem. “Say it,” he hisses, taking a fistful of my jeans now, touching me like he owns me and I’m here with him instead of floating above us. I’m here and not here as, somewhere very far away, Ian whimpers and I swallow and Matthew’s horrible smile blurs as I watch some other Wick say, “Please.”
“Look at you.” He pushes to his feet, leaving me curled on the floor. “You sound almost like a real girl.”
Laughter. I roll onto my side, putting my back to them. No good though. Their gazes crawl across me like fire ants.
Do not cry. Do not cry.
I open my eyes. Ian’s a few feet away. His shirt is gone and he’s staring at me, face puffy from crying and Kyle’s beating. The skin by his hip stands up in ridges, the imprint of a sneaker.
A toilet flushes and Matthew steps around us still laughing. They’re all still laughing. I can hear it long after the bathroom door slams shut.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Ian swipes a forearm across his eyes, the skin along his cheekbone a stinging purple. “My brother used to beat the shit out of me all the time. That was nothing.” He glances toward the stalls. “I think . . . I think they stuffed my shirt down the toilet.”
I crane my head and, sure enough, water’s spilling onto the tile from the third stall. The whole bathroom will flood. I tuck my arms around me. It’s hardly cold, but my skin is sprayed with chills.
“We should go,” Ian says, struggling to stand. He sways once and steadies himself. “I don’t think they’ll come back, but, you know, if they do . . .”
If they do, it’ll go far worse for us. I don’t think either of us can say the words, but we understand. That’s weird to me. It’s weird that he gets it. I thought money protected you from this stuff. I thought it could make you belong.
Ian offers me his hand, not meeting my gaze. I recognize that feeling too. Shame. Right now, I’m lit with it. I’m plastic in acid, dissolving in it.
Ian tugs me to my feet, turns away, but not before I see how his ribs are spotted with circular scars.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Lit cigar and my brother’s game of cry uncle . . . I never did.”
He gives me a shy smile and I smile back. I think we’re both fighting tears. “Want to make a run for it?” I ask.
“God, yes.”
I stick my head into the hallway, listening. “Okay, I think it’s clear.”
We hustle toward the parking lot, swiping our stuff from the floor. Thank God, Matthew didn’t pitch my keys in the trash or something. I pocket them, waiting for Ian to scrape together his spilled homework.
“Ready?” I ask.
Ian nods, opening his book bag and pulling out a fleece jacket. “I’m sorry I was late for our project stuff,” he says.
I snort. “You want to talk about that now?”
“We could finish it at my house,” Ian continues. We’re through the double doors now, almost around the bend to the parking lot, and he’s so close I can smell his Trident gum. “I’ve already done the first two sections. It shouldn’t take too long to finish everything, right?”
“Ian, that asshole rolled me around on a public bathroom floor. I’m not doing squat with our project. I’m going home to scrub myself with a Brillo pad and—oh, shit!”
The parking lot is so empty it’s easy to spot the Mini. It’s even easier to see what they did to it. “Bitch” is scraped across the driver door in huge, looping letters and “trash” is carved underneath, spilling across the quarter panel in one long arc.
“Nonononononono!” I sprint into the parking lot, Ian chasing after me.
“Wick! Wait!”
I don’t. I skid to a stop next to the Mini, kneeling to run my hands along its sides. The gouges are deep. There’s no buffing them away. “My car,” I whisper, feeling wobbly. It was the nicest thing I ever had and they destroyed it.
The computer!