“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t. I swear.”
Now Roy averted his eyes. He opened the door and paused in the threshold.
“Be a good boy,” he said gruffly, and walked out.
Jeremy stood staring at the black door, replaying Roy’s words as he thought about his recent encounter with Regan. He tackled her to the ground. Be a good boy. He yelled at her. Be a good boy. He lied to her about his character, playing the pathetic victim so she would believe in his false innocence. Be a good boy. He planned to kill people.
Be a good boy.
“I can’t,” he confessed out loud. “I can’t, Roy. I’m sorry.”
He thought he should have heard an echo, resounding loud and menacing in his cavernous heart. He knew all the goodness left him the moment he uttered the words “I can’t” because he secretly meant “I won’t.”
***
He awoke in a panic. He swore she opened her mouth to someone. His days were numbered—the time ticking ticking ticking above his head, counting down to zero when the bomb would explode. He imagined S.W.A.T. teams bursting through every orifice of the apartment, shattering glass and splitting doors, slamming him to the ground and screaming in his face. He would hang his head in shame as they escorted him to the police car, unable to look at Roy and Carol. He could imagine their faces—shocked and horrified that they rented their apartment to a mass murderer.
“But he was such a good kid,” they’d say, unable to admit they’d been duped.
He jumped out of bed and hastily showered. He had to get to school early. He had to get her alone. He had to feel her out—see where her brain was. She had become his only liability, and he knew what they did to liabilities in the movies. They put them in a car, drove them out to the woods and left them there with a bullet in the backs of their heads. He could never put a bullet through hers, but then what would he do with her?
He didn’t trust her at all, and the more he thought about yesterday afternoon—tackling her to the ground and clamping his rough hand over her mouth—the more his vigilante side tossed and turned within his muscles. He was restless. He was wondering why Jeremy didn’t take care of the “Regan problem” when he had the chance.
You were too busy getting a hard-on, the vigilante spat, climbing all over her body like that.
Not true at all! He knew that wasn’t true. All he cared about was retrieving his journal. All he cared about was keeping the secret. All he cared about was lying to her over and over until she believed him. He couldn’t kill her. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Plans change, his vigilante said. She stole your property. She read your words. She’s not innocent anymore.
Jeremy pulled on his shirt as he thought.
But she’s never abused me. She stuck up for me.
Wake up, you idiot! That was sixth grade! That bitch STOLE from you! Is that not a form of bullying? Intimidation? She took away your thoughts! She compromised you! She goes, just like the rest of them. End of story.
He laced up his boots.
I can’t hurt her. I can’t. But I can keep her happy. I can do that.
You’ll waste your time playing a lying game with her? Always watching your back? Worrying constantly that she may turn on you? Rat you out? Why? She doesn’t care about you at all.
He grimaced at the thought: She doesn’t care about you.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked helplessly.
He didn’t wait for his vigilante to answer. He flew to school—crossing a busy intersection without looking, and inviting the angry blares of car horns. He threw his bike on the ground near the school. Locking it was unimportant.
He flung open the door and hurried inside. She wasn’t there.
“Regan,” he hissed under his breath.
He loitered about the hallways, moving slowly and restlessly, eyes glued to his combat boots. He hadn’t worn them for months, feeling they revealed too much about his aggressive nature—the one he was trying to keep hidden. But he slipped them on today with the understanding that he was going into battle—a new one—with a girl he could put over his knee and snap in two. He snorted at the irony. A little girl had all the power over him.
“Regan,” he breathed.
The more he said her name, the more his frustration grew. He thought it monstrously unfair that he was now in love with his enemy. She was, after all, his enemy. She became that as soon as she opened his journal. He fantasized for a moment about all the ways he could torture a confession out of her. It made no sense; she’d already confessed to reading his journal. What more did he need to know? And then it hit him. Right as she walked into the building, he realized what he wanted: her words. She stole all of his. It was only fair she give him hers. Maybe then he wouldn’t need to fear her next move because he’d have something on her, too. They’d be forced into a reluctant friendship built on tenuous trust. She would become his accomplice. No longer his adversary.
He breezed by her and muttered, “Stairwell.”
He continued down the hall, pushed open the door and waited beside empty stairs.
“One, two, three, four,” he whispered. “Five.”
The door opened slowly, and she peeked her head in. He grabbed her arm and yanked her under the stairs—a dark nook decorated with graffiti and dust cobwebs.
“Easy,” she barked, pulling on her arm.
He released her and mumbled an apology.
“What are we doing under here?” she asked.
“I figured you wouldn’t wanna be seen with me in public,” he replied. He raised an eyebrow.
“Ouch,” she said softly.
“We can go back out,” he offered, knowing she’d refuse.
She fumbled with the strap of her messenger bag, avoiding his eyes.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I wanna know if you plan on running your mouth,” he said. Maybe not the best way to approach the subject, but he was too agitated to care.