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“You did.”

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Connelly asked.

“You made me run to the bathroom and cry,” I said, hiding my face. And then I jumped up from the bench and started walking.

I was embarrassed. Maybe that was a bad idea. It seemed far better in my head—saying those words out loud—but the reality was something entirely different.

“Cadence,” I heard from behind. I cringed and picked up my pace. “Cadence, wait!”

I kept walking as fast as I could, chin tucked protectively, eyes glued to the ground. I wouldn’t go back to school tomorrow. I could never return and face another day of bullying. I could never face
him
. I would run away. I’d pack a bag tonight, tear the house apart until I found the car keys Dad hid, and leave town. Just drive. Drive until I hit the ocean. Then drive the car into the ocean.

“I’m sorry I made you cry!” Mr. Connelly said, jumping in front of me and forcing me to a halt.

I looked up at him, eyes swimming with angry tears.

“I feel terrible for it,” he said gently.

“I’m not like one of those girls!” I cried, feeling the first tear sneak from the corner of my eye and slide down my cheek to betray my next statement. “I’m not, like, emotional all the time!”

Mr. Connelly nodded.

“I’m just having a bad thirteen months!” I sobbed. The tears were leaking now, and I blotted them with the backs of my hands. “And you didn’t help! You could have been nicer, you know? You could have just let me be! What they did was cruel, and I was just trying to make the best of it!”

I watched as Mr. Connelly struggled with what to say and do. He almost looked like he wanted to reach out and hug me then remembered he was a male teacher and I was a teenage, female student. He opened his mouth then closed it. It was awkward watching him squirm in discomfort, and it made me cry harder.

“May I please go?” I blubbered. I didn’t have a tissue. God, I hated crying! There was nothing pretty about it, and I was not going to stand there and let my gorgeous math teacher see snot running from my nose.

“How will you get home?” he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to me.

“What the hell. . .?” But I took the handkerchief because I was desperate to blow my nose. I turned my face and blew as quietly as I could. “What is this? Eighteen-ninety?” I asked, turning to face him.

He chuckled. “I’m old school.”

I balled the cloth in my hand. There was no way I was giving it back to him.

“Old school, huh?”

Mr. Connelly nodded.

I shrugged. “Do you want this thing back?” I held up my fist, the cloth tucked securely and out of sight.

Mr. Connelly shook his head. “Not just yet.”

I didn’t know what that meant, or maybe he expected me to wash it first. I would definitely wash it first.

“What do you say we start fresh tomorrow?” Mr. Connelly asked.

I grunted.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ll see,” I replied.

“Fair enough. Now, how will you get home?”

“I’ll walk. I live two minutes from home,” I lied.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mr. Connelly. It’s fine.”

He nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but then thought twice and closed it.

It took me close to two hours to walk home, and I cussed the entire way. Seriously. I’d never said “fuck” so much in my life. And it felt
so
good. Fuck Crestview High. Fuck my parents. Fuck the jumpsuit. Fuck that judge who could have let me off since it was my first and only offense. Fuck Gracie for being a little bitch. Fuck Oliver for being my brother. Fuck Mr. Connelly? Hmm, no. He gave me his handkerchief, so I let him slide.

I was drenched with sweat and out of breath when I finally walked through the front door of our house. Oliver was sprawled out on the couch in the living room watching an old
Simpsons
episode.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, eyes glued to the TV screen. “I didn’t see you on the bus.”

I ignored him and walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and downed the entire drink in a matter of seconds. Then I went straight to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed. So much for my plans to pack a bag and leave town. I didn’t have the energy to fold one shirt let alone drive for hours across multiple states.

I stared at the opposite wall feeling that silky partial-consciousness that sneaks throughout your limbs right before a deep sleep. It was soothing and delicious, and it lied to me.

“Your life isn’t so bad, Cadence,” it said, winding its way down and around my heart, through my arms and legs, spreading to each finger and toe. It lulled me into indifference. I didn’t have to believe it as long as it made my body feel this good. Nothing was that bad so long as I had a bed to lie down on, a place to escape, the dreams in my head that were always waiting, far better than my reality.

I dipped down, head sinking further into my pillow until I was transported to sweet darkness. Escape. Relief.

“Cadence, I volunteered you this Sunday to pass out the programs at church,” Dad said over dinner.

I nodded and forced another piece of chicken in my mouth. It was next to impossible to eat. I’d lost my appetite after being arrested.

“So how was the first day back?” Mom asked. I could tell she was anxious to hear some good news, but I was reluctant to give it to her. My original plan was to lie about everything, make my parents believe that things were back to normal, but lying is a sin. And it felt so much sweeter to tell the truth.

I raised my eyebrows. “Well, I received the nicest gift from a group of girls this morning. An orange jumpsuit, actually. Much like the one I wore in juvie.”

Oliver choked on his chicken.

Dad narrowed his eyes.

“I wore it. I figured they went to all that trouble to find a suit my size. But I got in trouble for it with my first period teacher, ‘Midnight in a Perfect World.’”

Mom, Dad, and Oliver stared at me confused.

“I mean Mr. Connelly,” I explained, shaking my head. “Then I was bombarded throughout the day with insults. Would you like to hear some?”

“No,” Dad said flatly.

I ignored him and listed them off on my fingers. “Slut, bitch, dyke, whore, and my all-time favorite, Nazi fascist. Does anyone know what that means?”

Oliver stared at me, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“I still can’t quite figure out the ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ references. I took a vow of chastity in eighth grade,” I said. “You remember that, right Mom? You led that youth group lesson about purity and waiting until you’re married to have sex. I took the vow. I don’t know what these kids are talking about. I’ve never gotten naked with anyone.” The anger was bubbling over, and I knew to put a lid on it

Mom’s face turned the color of beets. Dad looked outraged, holding his fork in one hand and knife in the other like weapons. Like he was about to do battle with me. I couldn’t stop myself.

“Then I missed the bus and had to walk the seven miles home,” I continued. “Any chance I may be able to get my driving privileges reinstated?”

“No,” Dad said. He eyed me with a mixture of anger and exasperation. “Now, would you like to tell us how your day really went?”

I bristled. He couldn’t seriously
not
believe me. Who would make up something like that?

I dropped my fork on my plate. “I told you the truth. That was my day.”

“Cadence, I hardly think your classmates would be that mean to you,” Mom said.

“Exactly,” Dad agreed. “We know you want to be homeschooled and all, but lying about the way you’re treated at school is not going to change our minds. We both work, Cadence. We couldn’t allow you to stay home anyway.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My parents were in complete denial. Did they have no idea how teenagers acted? Teenagers are vicious. I was being bullied, and my parents refused to believe it. I knew I should have kept that freaking jumpsuit!

“Now, I’ll ask you again,” Dad said. “How was your first day?”

I refused to speak.

“I asked you a question, Cadence,” Dad said. “How was your day?”

I knew he’d keep asking me until I lied to him. And since they thought I was a liar anyway, I decided to play along.

I bit my lower lip then took a deep breath. “It was good,” I mumbled.

“Perfect,” Mom replied, and took a sip of her Diet Coke.

I looked across the table at my brother. He was still staring at me, but he no longer sported an I-can’t-believe-you-cussed-in-front-of-our-parents expression. It had changed. He looked concerned. And angry. I didn’t know what to make of it, and I was too tired to try and figure it out. I asked to be excused, but was told to have some manners and sit at the table until everyone was finished. So I sat for the remainder of dinner watching my parents eat and listening to their inane conversation about work and the upcoming food drive at our church.

I carried the basket of clean laundry upstairs to my bedroom. I laid out Mr. Connelly’s handkerchief on my bed and put away the rest of my clothes. Then I sat down and decided how best to fold the handkerchief. While I considered a square or triangle, I thought back to the day I met Mr. Connelly on the side of Highway 28. Particularly his expression when he first looked up at me. I ignored it then because I was too busy wondering if I was staring at an angel, but now that I knew he wasn’t (unless God sends angels to earth to teach calculus), I was free to contemplate that look.

That look.

Like he knew me from somewhere but I was brand new to him at the same time. Or that it all made sense in that moment. Or that he finally found the one thing he didn’t know he was searching for. No one had ever looked at me like that, and I knew I wasn’t imagining it. I saw it. I saw it when his face lit up. And then he averted his eyes and mumbled something about getting out of my way so I could work. I didn’t know what to make of it now, or if the time since our roadside meeting had exaggerated that look in my mind, but I didn’t think so. I think he liked what he saw, and I was flattered. And confused.

I looked once more at the handkerchief. Triangle it is, and heard the creak of my bedroom door. Oliver poked his head inside.

“You okay?”

“Go away,” I said, fingering the handkerchief.

Oliver shuffled in and sat beside me.

“I believe you,” he said. “About your day. I heard Braxton call you a whore and told him if he didn’t stop talking shit about my sister, I’d beat the shit out of him.”

I smiled.

“I just can’t believe you said those things in front of Mom and Dad,” he went on, chuckling softly.

“They asked,” I replied.

“I think they’re just scared, Cay,” Oliver said. “They don’t wanna believe you’re being bullied.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “They should believe me. I’m their daughter and they should believe me.”

Oliver shrugged. “Well, you did lie about that party, and then got high and robbed a convenience store. And then had to go to court. And then got carted off to juvie.”

“One time!” I yelled, and Oliver laughed.

“It’s not like sneaking out and drinking, Cadence,” he said. “Kind of a big ass mistake, you know?”

“Whatever.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “Look, all this crap will die down.”

I didn’t believe a word of it.

“It’ll just take some time. Someone or something new will come along, and those assholes will forget all about you,” he said.

Comforting words, but I wasn’t convinced.

“Want me to sit with you on the bus tomorrow?” he asked.

I grinned. “And ruin your reputation? No. I would never do that to you.”

Oliver shrugged. “I’ll sit with you, Cadence.”

I shook my head. “It’s okay. And why are you all of a sudden being nice? I thought we hated each other?”

“I do hate you,” Oliver said. “But I’m the only one allowed to hate you. No one else is.”