She looked up at him. “Run my mouth about what?”
Don’t play games with me, he thought. He had to force his hands to remain by his sides. He wanted to shake her.
“My journal,” he said through his teeth.
“What about it?”
Fucking Regan.
“The shit I wrote about. Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m referring to.”
She paused. “I told you I believed you. You think that changed overnight?”
“How should I know?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.
She got an up-close view of his scar. Her hand moved before her brain registered, “Stop!” She touched it. He flinched but didn’t move away. She hesitated until she sensed it was okay to continue. He watched her carefully—the way her brows furrowed in concentration as she moved her finger along the scar, studying its texture the way she did in sixth grade. Her finger paused on top of his piercing.
“You took my suggestion,” she noted.
He said nothing. The side of her mouth quirked up, and she moved her finger below the metal rod. She pressed in.
“Hmm,” she said.
He stared at her, trying hard to push down the memory. It was messing with his head. “Do you ever try to press it in?” he could hear her say. “See if it’ll stay that way?”
“Do you ever try to press it in?” she asked. And then she smiled, and he lost it.
“No.”
“No matter. It’s a hard one—”
He shook his head and pushed her hand away, making her flinch.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
Silence.
“What are you doing?!”
“Trying to show you that I meant what I said!” she shot back. “I believe you!”
“You’ll tell your friends. I’m not a fucking idiot! I know girls talk!”
“I don’t!”
“I don’t believe you!”
“What are you so worried about?! You said it was just a fantasy!”
“It is!” he lied.
“Then why do you care?”
His hands shook by his sides. Why did he care? Why did he care? Oh yes, now he remembered. An issue of ethics.
“You had no right to read my journal! You had no right to learn those things! You barged into my brain like it was your privilege! Your right to take whatever the hell you wanted!”
“I’m sorry!”
“Bullshit! You’re not sorry! You wanted to do it! You planned to do it the second you found my journal!”
She blushed profusely. She’d never been so shamelessly called out for her actions.
“How about I barge into your brain, huh?”
“What?”
“Tell me all your secrets, Regan! I have a right to know!” He loomed over her, and she shrank back.
“No!”
“But you have mine! Seems only fair. Tell me! I have a right to know!”
She was mortified, swallowing the words that almost spilled over: “I’m in love with you, you fucking jackass!”
“Tell me!” he roared, and then the door swung open.
They fell silent, waiting for the students to ascend the stairs. Waiting for the second door on the top landing to open and close and give them back their privacy.
“Fuck off, Brandon.”
It was Hannah. He could tell. Regan turned to leave, and he grabbed her arm again. She resisted, but he wouldn’t let go. He placed his finger over his mouth: Don’t say a word.
“I just wanna know what you’d wear,” Brandon teased. “Would you be in the tux or the dress? Would you be the guy or the girl? I’m looking at your hair and thinking guy.”
“You’re an idiot,” Hannah spat.
Slight shuffling.
“And you’re a little cunt dyke,” he hissed. No more teasing.
Jeremy listened intently. It sounded like Brandon had her trapped in the corner of the stairs. He’d have to make a move soon. But he wanted to wait a little longer, so Regan could get a good taste of her boyfriend’s words—let her mull them over all day until she felt like shit by the end of it.
“You want my girlfriend?” Brandon taunted.
No response.
“You dream about her?” He laughed. “I bet you decorate your notebooks with her name. Draw hearts around it.” He paused. “Hmm, but that’s more of a girl thing than guy thing.”
Regan pulled on her arm. Jeremy held her still.
“Leave me alone,” Hannah whispered.
“I can’t figure you out,” Brandon went on. “You a girl or a guy?”
“Stop,” Hannah said.
“Well, give me just one look. You have tits under that shirt?”
Jeremy shot out from under the stairs.
“Leave her alone,” he called up to Brandon.
Brandon whirled around, eyes wide at Jeremy’s command.
“Someone grew a pair over the summer,” he said.
“Just leave her alone.”
“I wasn’t doing anything,” Brandon said. “We were just talking.”
“Yeah, except that Hannah doesn’t talk to you. Ever,” Jeremy replied.
Brandon sneered. “You certainly have a mouth on you. Where’d this guy come from? I remember you cowering on the ground last year after I beat the shit out of you.”
Jeremy balled his hands into fists. “Leave. Her. Alone.”
The tardy bell rang.
Silence in the stairwell until Brandon finally spoke.
“Saved by the bell,” he sneered, patting Hannah’s cheek.
Jeremy said nothing.
Brandon climbed the stairs, and Hannah sighed relief.
“You okay?” Jeremy asked.
“Yeah,” she replied. There was an edge to her voice.
“You sure?”
“I didn’t need your help,” she snapped.
Jeremy nodded. He understood. No one wants to feel weak, helpless, unable to defend herself. He felt the same way last year after Brandon attacked him at the bus stop. He still couldn’t figure out why Brandon’s BMW-driving ass was even at the bus stop. Whatever. He beat Jeremy to a pulp, and Hannah walked up to him afterwards to offer a hand. He resisted, yelled at her to leave, and she did without any hurt feelings. It was understood between victims that you don’t offer assistance. You pretend it didn’t happen.
Jeremy watched her leave. He had almost forgotten about Regan, who still hid below the stairs.
“You can come out now,” he called.