“Why did you do it?” she shouted.
She tasted the salt of her tears at the corners of her lips and cursed herself for crying in front of him—for letting him see how much he hurt her.
“I don’t know what I did!” he fired back. “I have no idea what the hell you’re screaming about!”
“You rejected me!”
“I never rejected you!”
“YES, YOU DID!” And she came at him, fists balled tightly with purpose. She slammed them into his chest over and over, trying to expunge her pain with every punch.
Jeremy grabbed her wrists. “Stop it!”
She fought and twisted against him, trying desperately to free her hands for another assault.
“I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU . . . !”
“Regan and Jeremy!” Mr. Armstrong bellowed. “What the hell is going on here?”
He rushed over and thrust his Marine body between them.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Regan hissed, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Please move, Mr. Armstrong, so I can kill him.”
Mr. Armstrong’s eyes went wide. “Regan?”
She sewed her mouth together once more, breathing heavily through her nose like a bull about to charge. She balled her tiny fists, squeezing hard, making her arms quiver.
“Regan,” Mr. Armstrong said softly, “calm down.”
The tears traversed her bright red cheeks. She was the humiliated child who could no longer handle the anger—the first grader who didn’t possess the emotional maturity to cope with unjust conflict. All she knew to do was throw a punch—to inflict physical pain as the problem solver.
“My heart,” she cried softly, and Jeremy flinched, remembering uttering those exact words a few days ago when he panicked under the truck, thinking he’d killed the most important person in his life.
“I don’t know what I did,” Jeremy said, his words the lyrics that complemented the mournful tune of her crying.
The men stood awkwardly, listening to Regan’s hysterical cries, unable to think of a way to comfort her. Unsure if she should even be comforted, as she was the aggressor.
Mr. Armstrong turned to Jeremy. “Technically she could be in huge trouble for this—for hitting you. For threatening your life. Technically I’m required to bring in an officer.”
Jeremy gasped. “What?”
“I’m just saying technically,” Mr. Armstrong said.
“Look at me,” Jeremy said quickly. “Do I look hurt? Scared? She might as well have been a stuffed doll going at me. I’m fine. Truly. Please, don’t punish her.”
Mr. Armstrong nodded. Jeremy wasn’t sure what his nod meant: “No, she won’t get in trouble,” or “I’m acknowledging what you’re saying, but she still has to be punished.” He hopped from foot to foot, impatient for an explanation.
Mr. Armstrong turned back to Regan. “Regan, you can’t hit people.”
Regan swiped her eyes, smearing her mascara Swan Lake-style.
“And you can’t threaten to kill people either,” Mr. Armstrong continued. “This behavior is completely uncharacteristic of you. I confess I’m at a loss as to how to proceed—how to deal with you.”
Regan shrugged, eyes glued to the floor.
“It’s my fault,” Jeremy lied. “I provoked her.”
Mr. Armstrong snorted. “I’m provoked every day I step foot in this building, Jeremy. Doesn’t mean I’m going to fistfight with my students.”
Point taken.
Mr. Armstrong expelled a slow, slightly-louder-than-necessary sigh. “Jeremy, go to class.” He shoved his hand in his pocket and handed Jeremy a late slip. “Regan, come with me.”
“Please, Mr. Armstrong, don’t call the police,” Jeremy begged.
“I’m not. Now go to class.”
Regan fell in step with the assistant principal. Jeremy followed.
“Then what are you going to do to her?” he asked.
“Go to class.”
“Please, tell me!”
“It’s none of your business,” Mr. Armstrong snapped. “Why do you care at this point? I told you I’m not calling the police. She won’t be expelled either. Okay? That’s all you need to know. Why are you so insistent on details?”
Because I love her! I fucking love her, and I don’t want anything to happen to her! I don’t care that she hit me! She can hit me a thousand times over. I don’t care, you see? Because I win! I win because she touched me. Do you understand? I’m the winner!
“Stop staring at me, and go to class before I take back that late pass,” Mr. Armstrong demanded.
Jeremy hesitated, glancing at Regan one last time before he turned on his heel reluctantly and headed to math. He wouldn’t see her at school again that day.
***
He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but the doorbell was already rung, the final dong! still echoing in his ear. His feet were cemented in the concrete of resolve, so there was no bolting from the porch. His heart hammered behind his scar, rattling his piercing, betraying his secret fear.
“Yes?” Mrs. Walters asked, standing in the middle of the open doorway. Her eyes moved over Jeremy’s piercings. “We already bought one of those coupon booklets from a basketball player last week,” she said apologetically.
“I’m Jeremy.”
Mrs. Walters’ lips parted. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Oh?” she said faintly, and then she shoved her head farther out, looking side to side. “Your parents here? I suppose they’d like to talk to us.”
It was all Jeremy could do to keep from laughing. “Uh, no.”
“Do they know about today? Should you even be here?” Mrs. Walters asked.
How much truth should he share?
“Um, my parents are dead. I live with my employer.” Eh.
Mrs. Walters gasped. “Oh, honey!”
Jeremy shifted uncomfortably. “It’s okay. Happened years ago,” he said quickly. “I really just want to talk to Regan. If she’ll talk to me.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“I’m not upset about this morning. I mean, I’m not, like, hurt or anything. And I didn’t want her to get in trouble. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“She hit you,” Mrs. Walters pointed out.