“Yeah.” Mrs. Walters paused. “You know you can tell me anything.” She held her breath, hoping for the conversation she knew had about a two percent chance of happening.
Regan fidgeted with her hairpins. What she wouldn’t give to tell her mom! Just one thing. Just one. But it was the one thing she couldn’t reveal to anyone. She promised. Jeremy trusted her. And anyway, didn’t she trust him? When she said she didn’t believe he’d actually go through with that crazy plan, didn’t she believe him? She did, she did! She did the first day, anyway. And maybe the next. But then a week passed with no reassurances from him. Did she need reassurance? Once you believe someone, shouldn’t it stick? Then there was the tattoo and subsequent flip-flop. Yet another conversation and her need to be convinced all over again.
“Regan?”
Do not say it, Regan.
“Brandon is throwing me a birthday party even though I told him I didn’t want one,” she said.
Whew.
“Eighteen’s a big one. He’s just trying to make it special for you,” her mom replied.
“I . . . I don’t think I wanna date him anymore,” Regan confessed.
“Well, perhaps you oughta tell him that before he spends five hundred dollars on a cake for you and all your five hundred friends?”
“Very funny.” Regan thought a moment. “I don’t wanna hurt his feelings, but I really can’t be with him anymore.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Many reasons.”
Silence.
“Any of those you’d like to elaborate on?”
“No.”
Mrs. Walters sighed. “Well, I’m calling this a half victory.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t say ‘huh’ to an adult. It’s rude.”
“Sorry. Ma’am?”
“What I meant was, you didn’t tell me everything, but you shared something. And I’ll take anything I can get.” She leaned over and kissed Regan’s forehead.
“Do I have a healthy relationship with you and dad?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s abnormal, right?”
“Yes.”
“Should I be rebelling?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Breaking curfew. Drinking. Snorting heroin.”
“From breaking curfew to heroin, huh?” her mother asked, eyebrows raised.
“If I lived the fast life,” Regan explained.
Mrs. Walters smirked, considering her daughter’s suggestions.
“Would you like to go to one of those camps for troubled teens? The ones where they put them out in the woods and make them hunt and cook their own food? And make shelter out of twigs and moss?”
Regan shook her head, grinning.
“Then no. I wouldn’t suggest you start doing those things.”
“Got it.”
Mrs. Walters walked to the door then paused, turning around. “I love you, Regan Scott.”
“Love you too, Mom.” She didn’t look up. She was already back to work on her assignment.
It was the obligatory “I love you” response, and it lit up her mother’s heart every time.
***
The whole thing was a little creepy. She knew it. She also knew she wasn’t going home without some answers. While Brandon was a notorious bullshit artist, she couldn’t be wholly sure Hannah wasn’t doling out a little bit of her own bullying. Maybe he was partially right. After all, sometimes victims did that: they found weaker victims to prey upon to make themselves feel in control of something. Maybe skinny, freckle-faced Jarrod was her target—an indirect “fuck you” to Brandon and all the other kids who’d teased her over the years.
She watched Hannah from a distance pack her book bag then sling it over her shoulder. She was tempted to approach her right there in the middle of the crowded hallway. But when Hannah walked toward the women’s restroom, disappearing through the door, Regan knew it was a better place to talk. Privacy for whatever went down, and she knew it could be any number of unpleasant scenarios. She followed her inside.
Hannah stood at the sink washing her hands. She glanced at Regan and rolled her eyes.
“Hi,” Regan said.
No reply.
Regan dropped her book bag. “Okay. I deserve that.”
Again, no reply.
“But I need to ask you something, and that requires a response on your part,” Regan went on. “So are you gonna keep playing the mute, or are you going to answer me?”
Middle finger. Straight. Up.
“Soooo mature.”
A second middle finger.
Regan sighed and scratched her head.
“Get outta my way,” Hannah mumbled, and pushed past Regan for the door. Regan wheeled around.
“Stop right there!” she screamed.
Hannah froze, then slowly turned around. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously. You’re a fucking bitch to me for no reason.”
Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “Uhhh, seriously?”
“I’m nice to you! I’ve always been nice to you!”
The words conjured storm clouds that gathered and swirled in Hannah’s eyes. They obscured the bright blue of her irises.
Regan blushed. “I . . . I can’t help the way Casey treats you. I tell her to stop.”
When Hannah’s eyes grew darker, Regan searched frantically for something else to say.
“I can’t be held responsible for what my friends do!”
“You’re so fucking pathetic.”
“I am not!”
The lightning flashed, and Regan counted the seconds, waiting in fear for the sound of imminent thunder. One, two, three, four . . . It rolled off Hannah’s tongue effortlessly—a controlled storm—shaking Regan to her core.
“You’re that girl who pretends to be good. You hang out with assholes, but noooo, you’re not an asshole. You’re the good one, protesting halfheartedly every now and then when you see them making fun of someone. Like you did your good girl part—trying to convince yourself that you’re not really like them. You don’t have the guts to go it alone. It’s easier for you to be the pathetic popular one. A tag-along.” Hannah cocked her head. “That about right?”
It was perfectly right. What could she say? Do? The coward in her turned spiteful.
“You’re mad that I rejected you,” Regan hissed.
Hannah shook her head. “You really wanna go there with me?”