She stayed glued to his side all the way down the hall. He said goodbye at the door.
“Walk me to second period?” she asked before he left.
“And third and fourth and all the rest?” he teased.
She nodded, wiping a stray tear.
“Someone bothering you?” he asked.
“No.”
He studied her for a moment. “You sure?”
“Yep.” She kissed his cheek again. “I just want your company.”
“Cool,” Brandon replied.
Once she was in Room 27A, she breathed relief. For fifty minutes, anyway, she was safe.
***
He watched her all day. Every now and then she glanced his way, in between classes at their lockers. Sometimes in class. He never once felt the need to confront her. He was safe for now. She still had his journal, after all. He saw the glimpses of red throughout the day. It never left her side. He was never called to the office. The secrets remained guarded.
His heart plummeted when their eyes met that morning. And then the anger bubbled up in his chest almost immediately. The things she must know! He knew she read it. A girl would have read it. Fucking girls. It was written all over her guilty face, her deer-in-headlights eyes. Her body language. He saw the imperceptible tightening of his words against her chest—her biceps flexing as she secured his notebook to her body. Like she owned it. Like she owned him.
The hell you do, he thought.
The final bell rang. He looked for her at her locker, but she didn’t show up. Little sneak. She must have packed before the last period. She was already heading home! He knew she usually walked to school. He took a chance and flew out of the building, taking her regular route. He ran down Holland Avenue and rounded the corner to Soap Creek Drive. There. Right fucking there. Maybe thirty yards ahead of him, give or take. She walked briskly. He wondered why she wasn’t running. Surely she knew he would come after her.
You better run, little girl, he thought, feeling for the first time that he was actually the bad guy.
She heard his thoughts. He knew. She turned around at that exact moment, terror written on every surface of her face, in her eyes. She took off at full speed. He followed suit. There was no way she could outrun him. He didn’t give a shit how much soccer she played. He was too tall and too fast. With every one of her strides, he gained on her by three.
“Do the math, Regan!” he shouted at her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she screamed over her shoulder.
“You can’t beat me!”
“I can fucking try!” And she sped up.
“Goddamnit,” he huffed, and picked up his pace.
He took a sharp left on Belmonte and stopped cold. She was nowhere in sight. He growled under his breath. So she decided to switch up games. Hide and Seek now, was it? He skulked up and down the street, searching for a good spot. Didn’t take him long. A foreclosed property in the process of being flipped. Oh, Regan. You’re a clever girl. But this? You could have done a hell of a lot better.
He noticed movement in his periphery. She was crouched behind a massive oak tree. He remembered playing Hide and Seek as a kid. He always felt a sudden urge to piss when he heard the seeker nearby. He wondered if she was holding hers. How empowering would it be to make her pee her pants? He entertained the idea for only a moment before his conscience spoke up: Don’t humiliate her.
It was easier to take her from behind, but he wasn’t sure what direction she faced. He decided to attack from the right, and moved soundlessly along the edge of the property. Her back came into view. She was peering around the tree. Perfect target. Much too easy. He lunged for her. She heard the twig crack and spun around. Her mouth opened. He knew she would scream. Girls always scream.
He clapped his hand over her mouth and took her to the ground, landing as softly as he could on top of her. She struggled violently. It was a valiant effort, but he held her down easily. And waited. In approximately one minute she would tire herself out, relax, and give up.
It took five.
“Regan!” he grunted. “Please stop. I’m not gonna hurt you!”
He watched the tear slide down her temple. He was a monster. She thought he was a monster. He clambered off of her in a flash, horrified that he’d transformed into the bully.
She backed away, moving like a crab on her hands and feet. Her disheveled hair was decorated with bits of leaves, and he could almost see her heartbeat in her flushed cheeks.
“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered bitterly.
She stopped. “How do I know?”
“Because I would have done it already.”
She shuddered.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
She shook her head.
“Regan, you have my journal,” he said patiently.
She continued shaking her head.
He rolled his eyes. “It’s right there.” He pointed to her left where the notebook lay.
She couldn’t think of a response, and blinked.
“Oh my God,” he huffed, and reached for his notebook.
She was too quick, whipping her hand out and snatching it before he could. She slid it behind her back.
“Give me my journal!” he demanded, leaning into her.
“No!” she screamed, inches from his face.
“It’s my journal!”
“It’s not a journal! It’s a murder manifesto!”
His eyes went wide. “You don’t know a thing!”
“I know this is Columbine shit, Jer! I know that much!”