Hickville Confessions: A Hickville High Novel (5 page)

Her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t you see, Justin? If I let it go, I’m abandoning her—just like they did.”

He gave her shoulders a slight squeeze and looked into her eyes. “Chelsea’s gone. But Dad, and you, and me—we’re here. We have to keep going. You’re stuck. She wouldn’t want that. She’d never want you to stop living.” He was wasting his breath. She didn’t want to get better. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “If you don’t start eating, you won’t be here either.” He went back to the kitchen, fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and slapped it on the counter in front of her. “Here, you can eat this.” He bit the words out. “We don’t have much else to eat. I’ll go to the store tomorrow.”

He retreated to his room and flopped onto the bed. Tears came to his eyes and a few trickled down his cheeks before he was able to check his emotions. He wouldn’t give in to it. He wouldn’t allow himself to be sucked into the hurt and anger he felt in his chest.

He’d watched his mom go there too many times over the past two years. More than that, he’d watched his family fall apart. God, his family was a freaking hot mess. His dad was obsessed with work. He spent more time taking care of strangers than acknowledging the shit at home. His mom was frozen in her grief. All Justin wanted was to be a normal guy. Play football, kiss girls, have a little fun. Chelsea used to call him “little brother heartbreaker.” He took a deep breath and let the pain settle deep.

He missed his sister.

He looked at the drawing that hung above his desk—a pen and ink of a football player diving through the air with his hands clasped around the ball and reaching toward the goal line. Chelsea had given it to him for Christmas the year she died. She’d drawn other football pictures, but this was his favorite. He liked the anonymity of it. It could be any player.

Guilt for leaving his mom to fend for herself seeped through his self-pity. He got up and headed back to the kitchen. She was sitting on the sofa with the remote in her hand, but she hadn’t managed to turn on the TV.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I haven’t slept.” He sat next to her.

She patted his thigh. “It’s okay. I needed something to snap my brain out of it.” She tried a smile but it looked awkward on her face. “Did you boys play video games all night?”

He gave a sort of shrug nod.

She clicked on the TV. “Get some sleep. I’m okay now.”

“Sure?”

She nodded. “Go.”

He kissed her on the top of her head and went back to his room. He stripped off his trousers and dress shirt, fell into bed, and didn’t open his eyes again until the next morning. When he awoke, the first thing on his mind was Ryan Quinn. He stretched and moved to his desk.

He clicked on his Facebook page and did a search for her.
Bingo!
He sent a friend request. He got an acceptance almost instantly.

Justin: Hey. How’re you feeling?

Ryan: Eh. Better since I’ve slept.

Justin: Good.

He was trying to think of something to say when she sent the next message.

Ryan: Family time. Got to go.

He sat back.
Family time.
What a concept
.
He scrolled through her pictures. Most of them were of various sculptures… and no pictures of friends. On the sidebar he noticed that some chick named Kat Guilin had tagged her in a picture. He rolled the cursor over the entry to highlight it. Wow. Something about the lip and eyebrow rings told him this chick wasn’t a member of the Purity Club. Or it could be the way her tongue hung out of the side of her mouth like she was looking for head. Ryan’s face was smashed against the other cheek—though it hardly looked like Ryan. Her short hair was spiked and her eyes looked messed up—like high messed up. Next to her profile picture, Kat had written,
Epic party, better than Ryan Quinn’s legendary bong-a-rama.

What’s this? The sins the PC scrubbed from her? How did they find out? Why pick on her?
It wasn’t like she was the only kid in school who’d smoked weed.

There was more to this story than bullying. They had targeted her and he was going to find out why.

Ryan slept for most of the rest of the weekend. She’d hoped by Monday that her face would look somewhat normal, but when she looked in the mirror, nausea rolled through her stomach. Some of the scrapes were weeping and had a yellowish crust. The right side of her mouth was swollen more than the left and it hurt to open her mouth.

She was a monster.

She dropped to the floor and leaned against the bathroom cabinet. Why? Was she so horrible that she deserved to have her face ripped up? She couldn’t go to school—couldn’t go anywhere.

Kelsey leaned into the bathroom. “Wow, it looks worse than yesterday.”

Ryan nodded. “It hurts worse.” She spoke without moving her mouth.

“I’ll get Mom.”

Ryan retreated to her room. She wanted to crawl into bed and forget the whole thing. She hurt everywhere—arms, legs, chest, neck, and face. Her face. She looked like something from a horror flick. She hugged her pillow.

Her parents came into her room and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Can I stay home? I don’t think I can handle school today.”

Her dad said, “Another day in bed would probably do you some good. Come for just the meeting. Mrs. Johnson needs to see what they did to you.”

Ryan nodded and let a few tears trickle out of the corners of her eyes. He was right. Nobody would believe what had been done to her without seeing it.

Her mom hugged her. “You look like you hurt.” Ryan nodded. “I’ll get you a cold compress. Do you need pain meds?”

She’d love to take the meds the doctor had prescribed and be zapped into oblivion, but she wanted to be alert for the meeting. “Just ibuprofen.”

Thank God, her parents waited until after school had started to escort her to the office. She didn’t want to be gawked at by kids in the hall. The sweatshirt with the hood pulled over her head didn’t hide much of her face, but she felt less exposed in it.

When they walked into the office the receptionist recoiled. “Honey, what happed to you?”

Her dad leaned on the counter. “We need to see the principal, please.”

The receptionist picked up the phone and pushed a button. “Mrs. Johnson, Ryan Quinn and her parents are here to see you.” She hung up the phone and stood. “Right this way.” She guided them down a short hallway to the principal’s office.

Mrs. Johnson greeted them and ushered them to a table in the corner. Once they were all seated, Mrs. Johnson’s face creased with concern. “Ryan, what happened?”

Her mom answered, “She was attacked by Macey Brown and several other girls in the Purity Club. They held her down in the courthouse fountain and took scouring pads to her. They claimed they were cleansing her of her sins.”

“What?” Mrs. Johnson pushed a button on her phone. “Mrs. Bettis, could you join us, please?”

Ryan zoned while her parents explained what had happened, including the meeting with the girls’ parents, to Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Bettis, the counselor. They agreed to disband the club.

Mrs. Johnson told Mrs. Bettis, “I want the girls involved in the fountain incident in my office, now.”

Ryan looked at her dad. “I don’t want to be here when they come in.”

Mrs. Johnson’s expression morphed from
in-charge principal
to
sad lab puppy
. “You don’t have to face them, honey.” At the word
face
she blushed, which created a weird contrast with the pity-eyes. To Ryan’s parents, she said, “I’ll make sure her assignments get to Kelsey. I’m assuming she’ll be out at least a week.”

So Mrs. Johnson didn’t want the freak at school. Granted, Ryan didn’t want to be there either, but somehow having someone else echo that feeling annoyed her.

Ryan’s mom stood. “We’re taking it a day at a time.”

“Kids can be so cruel and I’d hate for Miss Ryan to endure any more trauma.” Her tone oozed sap. Mrs. Johnson stood and clasped her hands in front. “Take care of yourself.”

Ryan crawled into the backseat of the SUV and tried to put a name to the feeling in her chest. Sorrow? Anger? Despair? They all seemed to fit, yet none of them adequately described what was going on inside her.

She had been the one excited to move to Hillside, who couldn’t wait to start a new life at a new school. It seemed like such a good plan. Leave her old life behind, reinvent herself, become who she wanted to be. How had it all gone so wrong? She leaned her head into the seat. She’d tried so hard to fit in, to be one of them. Now she was back to ground zero. No friends. And worse, she was left looking like a monster.

Was this the punishment for her past—her scarlet letter?

She took a deep breath and sighed it out. No. She refused to believe God worked like that. She’d been attacked by bullies hiding behind Christianity. Nothing more, nothing less.

Mrs. Johnson’s words swirled in her mind. It would be so easy to hide away until her face healed. But then they’d win. She leaned forward. “I want to go back to school.”

Her dad had just pulled from the parking lot. “What?” He did a U-turn and pulled back in. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not going to run. I have to face everybody sometime. I want to get it over with.”

Her mom swallowed hard. “You constantly amaze me.”

Her dad parked the car and opened his door, but Ryan stopped him. “I’ve got this, Dad.”

He looked back at her. “Are you sure you don’t want us to walk you in?”

“Yes. I’m good.” She forced a smile. “I’ll see you after school.”

“Okay. If you change your mind, call.” Her dad closed his door as Ryan grabbed her backpack and opened hers.

“I won’t.” She straightened the strap on her shoulder and walked back to the office.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

The bell signaled the end of first period as she signed in. The halls were instantly filled with students and as soon as she exited the glass cocoon of the office, they would see her.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
She choked back fear.
If I hide, they win.

She forced her face into a smile and ignored the pain she felt—inside and out. When she turned from the desk, she saw her sisters waiting for her on the other side of the glass doors.

When she joined them Kelsey said, “Mom texted us.”

“Thanks.”

Mackenzie didn’t say anything, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“I’m okay, Kenzie.”

She bit her lip, nodded, and looked away.

Kelsey said, “I saw the PC girls this morning. They acted like nothing happened. They’re going to get away with it, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Johnson called them into the office.” They set off toward her locker. “I don’t want to think about them now. I just want to get through today.” She pretended she didn’t see the winces and wide-eyed looks of pretty much everybody she passed. She would survive.

Erica, a girl from her Art class, approached her at her locker. “I heard what happened. I just want you to know I hope those bitches get what they deserve.”

“Thanks.”
So do I.
She grabbed her books and turned to her sisters. “I’ve got it from here.” She hugged them. “Thanks.”

Kelsey said, “Text if you need us.”

“I will.” She closed her locker and headed to Shop class, where she sat at her worktable. She’d been by herself since the term began. It’d never bothered her before, but today she felt isolated from the rest of the class and her confidence waned.

Then Justin slid onto the stool next to her. “Hey, you okay?”

She smiled the first non-fake smile of the day. “I’ll survive. Did you get some sleep?” He didn’t look like he’d rested since he’d left her house Saturday. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes.

“Some.” He rolled his shoulders like he’d dumped weight from them. “Hey, gimme your phone.”

“Why?”

“So I can enter my number.”

She handed over her cell and he typed in the number.

“If you need anything, you call. I mean it.” He flashed his dimples and her stupid, sore face went from smile to painful grin. She grabbed her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut until the pain eased.

Justin handed back her phone. “Ouch. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

The bell rang and he moved to his spot at the table behind her. Class seemed to drag on forever, but mostly because Mr. Hesby kept staring at her. After class, Justin put a protective arm across her shoulder and walked her toward the door.
What’s this all about?
She wasn’t sure how to handle it. Was he being a protective friend, or—more?

She wasn’t ready for more. She wasn’t sure she wanted a protective friend either. But since friends were in short supply, she chose to go with that.

When they stepped into the hall he pulled her closer. “Where’s your next class?”

“Art.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m good.”
And please drop your arm.

“It’s on my way.”

She nodded. Okay, this was the guy who’d rescued her. The one who’d spent the night and next day with her. But the last thing she wanted was to be seen in the hall with his arm around her. Sure, he had dimples that made her stomach flip. And yeah, he’d made a horrible ordeal bearable. And that was the problem. If she’d learned one thing in Chicago, it was that no guy ever did anything nice without expecting something in return.

Her body tensed beneath his touch.

“You okay?”

“Your arm hurts my skin,” she lied.

He dropped it like he’d been burned. “I’m so sorry.” They walked side by side but she was able to put some space between them. He stopped a few feet from the door to the Art room. “This is where I peel off.”

Not that Ryan minded, but it was weird that he’d stop in the middle of the hall ten feet from the room. “Thanks for walking me.” She made it a point to ignore those dimples and the way his hair had flopped across his forehead. She couldn’t help but notice that his face had an uncomfortable, almost panicked look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s the Art room. Long story.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it look even sexier. “So, I’ll see you after class.” He turned and practically ran from the art department.

Mr. Smith stood outside, shaking his head when he saw her. “Ryan Quinn. They did a number on you.”

They?
“How’d you know what happened?”

“We got an email. It must hurt.”

“I’ve felt better.”

She relaxed as soon as she entered the room, where the smell of cheap manila paper, crayons, and paint was her aromatherapy. This was her place to just be. Mr. Smith always had some weird assignment that seemed completely pointless, but somehow in the end, she was always touched by it. It was like sitting in church and feeling like the homily was just for her.

Church. How could a group of supposed good girls have turned out to be so whacked?

When class started, Mr. Smith walked around the room with his right arm folded across his chest and left elbow propped on the arm. “The theme so far this year has been focused on unlocking your creativity and finding your voice. Open your sketchpads. I had planned to have you draw where you are now—in the moment. But sometimes, I think we need to see the future to get through the day. Your assignment today is to draw your future. Don’t hold back. The only rule is that you must write an artist statement first.”

Ryan raised her hand. “How can we write it first? I mean, our art is an expression of what we’re feeling. So how can we be free to express that, if we are confined by thoughts that aren’t gelled until the piece is set free?”

“I challenge you to look at it the other way around. Writing an artist statement first gives you direction and frees you to focus in that direction. But, I’ll compromise. Write your statement. After you finish your drawing, if you want to edit your statement, you can write a new one. But, I must have both.”

Ryan tried to focus on her future. What did she want? What were her dreams? She knew she wanted to go to college and major in art. That was a given. She didn’t want to focus on life after that. She didn’t want to focus on life next year. Her future was tomorrow, next week, next month. Would her face heal? What would happen when she saw the PC girls again?

On the corner of her sketch paper she wrote:

The future is… now.

She sketched a self-portrait with her hands covering her face, her fingertips just below her eyes. Each pinky nail had a heart in the center. The other nails spelled out survivor. The fountain was in the distance behind her, where five faceless girls stood in a cross formation, their hands poised in prayer position.

Mr. Smith called time on the assignment. They held their sketchpads up for the rest of the class to critique. One of the girls had drawn herself at the Eiffel Tower, while another had drawn a fighter jet. John, the lone guy in the class, drew himself as a superhero. Mr. Smith went around the entire room discussing each drawing before he got to her. “Ryan, tell us about your work, beginning with the artist statement.”

She pointed to the sketchpad. “The future is now. Umm.” Heat crawled up her neck and face. “I—ah—think it’s self-explanatory.” She held her breath. As a class, they critiqued each other’s work. Today, she didn’t want to hear what they had to say.

He nodded. “That it is.”

She let out a breath and the bell rang. She watched her classmates shove their sketchpads in their backpacks and hurry out of the room, but her aching arms kept her moving in slow motion. Kristen, a curly blonde who sat in the back of the class, dropped a note on her desk as she walked by. Ryan slung her backpack over her shoulder and opened the note.

It was a cartoon face covered by two hands. Painted across the fingernails of the right hand was
Slut,
and across the left,
Whore
. The air froze in her lungs.

How did she know? How many others know?

She crumpled the paper and shoved it deep into her backpack.

She felt like she was wearing ten-pound shoes as she trudged from the room. How had this all gone so wrong? So the whole school must know who she’d been in Chicago. But how? She’d removed every bit of evidence on her Facebook page. She’d unfriended all of her Chicago friends.