“What do you think about a person who sees something unjust happening and does nothing to stop it?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t think much of that person,” her dad responded.
“What if the person’s scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of the person who’s doing the unjust thing,” she said.
Her father narrowed his eyes. “Is the person doing the unjust thing in a position of power?”
She thought a moment. “Yes.”
“As in adult power?”
She shook her head.
“Then perhaps an adult should be brought into the picture,” her dad said.
“Isn’t that like tattling?”
“Is the unjust action a major threat to someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Then no, it’s not tattling. It’s called doing what’s right.”
Regan picked up the ball with her foot. She juggled a few times, but her heart wasn’t in it. She tossed the ball to her right where it rolled out of range.
“What if the person’s afraid of retaliation?” she asked.
“Regan, what’s going on?”
“Dad, it’s all just hypothetical. We’re discussing this stuff in Journalism. You know, ethics and all that.”
Mr. Walters chewed his lip. “Well, there’s always a chance for retaliation. That’s the nature of our world. We can’t lock ourselves away from evil. It’ll eventually find us. What matters is justice. Doing what’s right no matter the consequences. Because if we don’t do what’s right, how can we live with ourselves? How can we ask our children to do what’s right?”
She nodded.
“I hope my daughters do what’s right every single day of their lives,” he said softly.
“That’s a tall order, Dad,” Regan replied.
“I know, but that’s still my hope. And I can hope whatever I want.”
Regan grinned. “Let’s aim for ninety percent of the time.”
Mr. Walters shook his head. “Nope. I wanna be one of those overbearing parents. One hundred percent, all the way.”
“I fail,” she said flippantly, tossing her hands.
She walked to the back door. Her dad followed. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she paused in the doorway.
“Never be afraid to do what’s right,” he said behind her, like her conscience was emerging from the back of her brain.
The words “I won’t” stuck in her throat. She couldn’t say them yet because she didn’t believe them.
Later that night, she stared at the blinking cursor, fingers poised above the keys. She knew what she wanted to type. She just needed the courage to do it.
I’m a coward.
She watched the cursor flicker beside the word “coward,” emphasizing it—growing it bigger in her brain.
A fucking coward.
She wanted to be cruel to herself.
And I need to lose weight in my gigantic boobs. Who has boobs like these? And any girl who’s like, “Oh my God, I’d kill for your boobs” is a fucking dumbass. She has no idea the shit I have to go through to get ready for a match. For practice, too! Taping them down. What the fuck? Who the fuck has to tape down her fucking boobs in order to kick a fucking ball around?
Oh my God, I’m so fucking angry. I hate my body. I hate my cowardice. I know Brandon is lying to me! There. I said it. Happy?? I know he’s lying to me about Hannah, and I’m letting him. I’m letting him lie and get away with it. Why?
Now the word “why” was emphasized by the flashing cursor. She stared at it—through it—typing the answer.
Because I’m a coward.
***
For an entire week she avoided him. And he avoided her, too. So this was how it would be. She thought the journal might force a friendship between them, but it did nothing except grow hostility. She couldn’t shake his words: “Tell me your secrets! I have a right to know!” He did have a right. If she really thought about it, which she did constantly, he had every right to know her most private thoughts. After all, she violated his.
What bothered her most was the fact that daily life at school continued as before. She hoped for a significant shift. There was none of that. There were the same old faces, the same old conversations, the same old lame ass boyfriend she was too afraid to dump. She actually apologized to Casey even though she knew she said nothing wrong. She just wanted to smooth things over. She couldn’t make sense of her warring spirits—the bullheaded fighter and the pathetic pleaser. The pleaser kept winning! She frowned every time she thought of that conversation with her dad. She wanted to be a better person, a stronger person. She wanted to do the right thing. But she wasn’t doing anything except improving her soccer game.
She passed the foreclosed house, then stopped. She wasn’t ready to go home. She turned around instead and headed for the oak tree. She sat behind it, safely hidden from the street view, and pulled her knees to her chest.
“It’s okay,” she said, hugging Casey close to her breast.
Casey cried unabashedly. Regan could feel the black paint seep between the fibers of her friend’s sweater to soak her own, but she didn’t care.
“Mom’s gonna kill me!” Casey wailed.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Regan replied.
“It . . . it’s a brand-new sweater.” Casey hiccupped. “I . . . I should have walked h-home the other way.”
“Are you crazy?” Regan asked, pulling away from her friend. “You can walk wherever you want!”
Casey shook her head. “No. I should have gone down Sumter. He said he’d be waiting.”
Regan growled. “I’ll get him. And her.”
“No, Regan! Just don’t do anything! You’ll make it worse.”
“No, I won’t. Once I’m done with them, they’ll never bother you again,” Regan promised.
She took off, ignoring her best friend’s pleas as she tore down the street. She knew where Alexia lived. She knew where Ethan lived. Side-by-side. Double whammy.
“Alexia!” she screamed from the sidewalk. “Get out here!”
No one emerged.
“Hey, Ethan! Get out here, or are you too chicken?!”
A door opened.