SIXTEEN
Regret. Oh, bloody regret, I’ve seen you on TV but never had the chance to feel you in real life. And man, you freaking suck. I roll over in bed, rubbing my eyes as I move. They feel dry, like my eyelids are abrasive. But the post-hookup regret most people on those shows feel is after a character had sex with either a friend or an unattractive stranger. This was just kissing. We literally kept our pants on, yet my head feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. What if Kaylee saw us doing what we were doing? What would the punishment be?
The image of the Stalker holding my head flashes in my mind. Only this time, there are two blood-drenched bodies on the ground, one in white, one in black. Its free hand rises, revealing another head: Dyl’s. The Stalker presses the two heads together so that the lips touch.
I slide out of bed and realize I’m fully clothed. After what happened in the shed, taking my clothes off felt dirty. So I climbed into bed with all my clothes on and, after hours of replaying the events that took place, I fell asleep.
I grab my towel from where it’s all balled up on the floor. It’s still damp. I fling it across my shoulder and head out into the hall. D is walking toward the bathroom wearing only red silk boxers. A faded blue towel hangs around his neck.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growls.
I duck into the bathroom and slam the door shut. He smashes into it and the whole room shakes. I press the button on the door handle and it locks with a click. Was that the right thing to do? A Nice wouldn’t do that. I breathe in through my nostrils. One of the things I liked most about kissing Dyl was the recklessness of it, the feeling of ignoring common sense and following my gut, giving a big middle finger to the consequences. But the night is over, and I’m a Nice, so I need to act like it. I’m going to shower as fast as possible, and then I’m going to apologize until D forgives me. It’s what I have to do.
With that in mind, I undress and step into the limescale-covered shower. As I close the door he shouts a shockingly profane string of insults at me. It’s so awful it’s almost comical, and even though it’s incredibly nasty, he does deserve credit for somehow managing to be sexist, racist, and homophobic within the space of ten seconds. I’m going as fast as I can! I turn the tap as far as it goes, which does nothing to heat the water up. I brace myself and step into the cold water. I wash my chest, then duck my head into the spray, wetting my hair.
I shut off the taps and stand, shivering, in the shower. He’s still screaming. I grab my towel, dry my body as well as I can, then put my old boxers on. I’ll change them when I’m back in my room, but I know he’s going to make a scene, and I’d rather not deal with him totally naked. I wrap the towel around my waist. I can do this. I’ve worked so hard to become the perfect Nice, and all he wants is for me to break character. If I show him how mad he makes me, he wins.
I open the door and step outside.
His face is blood red. “You arrogant little shit!” he says. “I was on my way to the bathroom and you went in first!”
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t—”
His hands shoot out and shove me in the chest. I take a step backward and grip the towel around my waist really hard.
“Who do you think is in control around here, huh?” he asks. “You act like you’re big and important, but you’re nothing. No one expects you to win, so I’m the one who matters, because I’m the one who will still be alive in a month. Trust me, I’m counting the days until they march your entitled, flamboyant ass to the incinerator.”
He steps into the bathroom.
I feel myself lift away from the train tracks. This is going to be a wreck. It’s unavoidable. A voice tells me to stop, to keep being Nice, but it’s quiet and soft. It knows I’m already gone.
“I am.”
He steps back out into the hallway. His body is bent forward and his breath stinks like beer. “What did you say?”
“You asked me who I think is in control around here. I know who is. It’s me.”
He snarls and leaps forward. Both his hands smack into my chest, the force making my ribs vibrate. I take two quick steps back before my feet can’t keep up and they fall out from under me. I land hard on my ass. His foot comes down and presses on my sternum, giving me an excellent view of his gnarled toenails. Tufts of straggly black hair protrude from the base of each of his toes. He wiggles his foot, pressing me down into the carpet.
“I’m stronger than you! I’m in control, you little maggot!”
“You’re not!” I spit. “I’m the Love Interest. I’m the one who matters! You’re a washed-up failure who is jealous of me because this is as good as your life is ever going to get!” I shove his foot off me. Small clods of dirt remain on my chest. “Touch me again and I’ll make sure they incinerate you. Got it?” I breathe in and sit up. “In my story my real dad is dead; you’re my stepparent. You can be replaced. Got it, Dad?”
He stares at me. “Got it,” he mumbles, his face reddening. He turns and walks into the bathroom. He closes the door softly.
After getting dressed I start to cool down, and the stupidity of what I did starts to sink in. I sit on my bed and rest my head on my hands. What’s wrong with me? I just broke character, something I swore I’d never do. But I did it. I start shaking and my eyes fill with tears. What if something like that happens when I’m around Juliet? How fast, and how violently, I stopped being Nice haunts me.
Still, I have to go, so I stand up. I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, settling myself, then I head down the stairs. M is in the living room, lying on the couch, her head propped up by red pillows. The Doctors is on. I open the front door and see that the bus has stopped at the house two doors down from mine.
Shit! I forgot my costume!
I chance one last look at the bus, then sprint back through the house to my bedroom. I guess I could drive if I miss the bus, but I don’t really want to, because driving still freaks me out. Inside my room, I pick up the dirty clothes that I’d previously kicked under my bed and throw them away. Then I pick up a gray box and tear it open. Inside is my Spider-Man costume.
I grab it and shove it into my bag. Then I run down to the bus. The bus driver, whose name always escapes me, gives me a friendly smile, which settles my heart rate a little bit. It’s not enough to calm me down, though, as the memory of my epic fuckup lingers.
At school, Juliet, Natalie, and Trevor are standing near Juliet’s locker.
“Hey, Caden,” says Juliet with a small smile. “Do you have your costume for the party?”
I open my locker. “It’s not a party, it’s an extravaganza, remember? And yeah, I do.”
She snorts and pushes away from the locker. “Yeah, you’re right. It should be a lot of fun. But hey, can I talk to you for a second?”