Casey hesitated, eyes fixed on Regan’s. And then Regan saw the imperceptible shaking of her head: Everything’s fine. I would never do that to you. Don’t worry.
Regan fought down the words she so wanted to blurt: “Come with me! Stay with me! Get away from them as fast as you can!”
She turned on her heel, instead, and left the cafeteria.
~
There’s gotta be a Bully Code out there somewhere. That’s why so many are good at it. Yeah, basic internal evil helps a lot, but the really good ones are studying up. They’re making notes in the margins. Asking questions. Making sure they get it just right—just the right amount of intimidation to make someone pee themselves. What these assholes probably aren’t aware of is the fact that there’s a Victim Code, too. It can’t prevent the punches and hurtful words, but it can help victims cope with the aftereffects. The code looks something like this:
1. Don’t acknowledge a bully by looking directly at his face. You’re just inviting trouble when you do that. He’s going to go after you regardless. No need to piss him off any further.
2. Don’t fight back. You’ll just get it ten times worse. (See No. 7 for exception to this rule.)
3. Relinquish whatever he wants. Hey, lunch isn’t all that important, right?
4. Don’t discuss victimization with other victims. Banding together does nothing. Find maybe one other victim to hang with, but talk about anything other than bullying.
5. When you’re getting pummeled, go into “shutdown” mode. Erase your thoughts. Think large, black, empty space. This helps dull the pain from both physical and verbal assaults.
6. Don’t cry. Just don’t. I repeat: don’t fucking cry.
7. If the opportunity presents itself, throw a punch, but only if you KNOW you’ll make contact, and you KNOW you can escape right after. Otherwise, you’re the idiot who tried to make a difference.
8. Don’t bother telling adults about the bullying. They don’t do shit about it anyway.
9. Find music that inspires you to take revenge in your fantasies. Listen to it at night before bed to pump you up for the next school day. Only way you’re making it through.
10. Don’t get a girlfriend or boyfriend. Just don’t. Then you’ve dragged them into it, and that’s a jerk move.
~
She stood a few feet away, trembling with hurt. Emotional damage—far worse than any punch to the face, the gut. Far worse than any jab to the ribs. Broken bones? They eventually heal. A broken mind? Much harder.
It was easy to be angry with her. Those people weren’t good for her! She knew it. He knew it. But he also realized that they were her reality for three years. One of them was her reality for far longer. He couldn’t expect her to get over it so easily. He couldn’t expect her to move on overnight. He couldn’t expect her heart to heal so fast. No one’s heart heals that fast. His still hadn’t, though he knew the catalyst for a speedier recovery.
“I know I shouldn’t cry!” she said, tears and snot coursing her face.
He abandoned the Camaro and grabbed a Kleenex box from the counter. She pulled a tissue and blew her nose. He waited for the sobs to subside, listening to the hitching in her chest—her heart jerking and halting, searching for a normal rhythm.
“Has Casey said anything?” Jeremy asked.
Regan shook her head.
“Well, that’s one good thing,” he offered.
She nodded.
He didn’t ask about Brandon. He already heard the rumors of their sexual escapades and Regan’s inexperience. In detail. The words were meant to humiliate her, and they did. But he was oddly happy for them. He liked the idea of her not knowing much. He wanted her to discover those things with him.
He stood close to her, looking down at the top of her head, her bright white part juxtaposed against dark strands of silky hair. He thought he’d put his fingers in it. It was unfair to entertain lustful feelings when she was obviously upset, but he couldn’t stop himself. His eyes moved to hers, rimmed with black from her smudged mascara. His heart thumped madly behind his breast, and despite her leaking face, he knew this was the moment.
I’m going the distance, he thought, recalling one of his favorite songs. He listened for the melody inside his head and imagined the fist pump. The two twenty-five he was about to bench press. The starting line, and his chance to be the winner.
So, now you’re fucking awesome? She’s got raccoon eyes, and that makes you awesome? Go ahead and kiss her. She’ll sock you. This is Regan we’re talking about.
No, she won’t, he argued with certainty.
You’re quite sure of yourself.
I am. He smiled.
You’ve got something to prove?
I do.
“What are you doing?” Regan whispered, staring at him staring at her.
He studied her flushed face, watched another tear trail her dewy cheek.
“You wanna be better?” he asked.
She nodded automatically, not understanding.
“Me, too,” he said.
He cupped her face. He knew his fingers were damp with sweat and soiled with engine grease. He had no business touching her with those hands, and yet, he felt he had every right. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t nervous. But determination was a strange and powerful thing—stronger than any self-doubt. He knew he was inches from her face. He knew his scar screamed loud and angry at her. It was ugly. And he didn’t care because he knew. He knew her. He knew what she wanted but was too chickenshit to ask. He’d make it easy for her. He’d make the first move. Be a man for her.
“I’m taking you away from them for good,” he said softly. “And you’re gonna like it.”
Regan’s lips parted. He didn’t know if she’d protest, and he didn’t wait to find out. He pressed his mouth to hers. He wasn’t forceful. He wasn’t gentle. He was resolute.
Her hands went to his wrists, and she wrapped her fingers around them. She didn’t push away. She didn’t draw him closer. She simply accepted it. And then she craved it. He felt it in the slight movement of her hips. He was crushing her against the counter and didn’t realize it.