Keep Holding On (15 page)

“I can’t be late today,” she says. “You can take the train.”

Physics is almost over by the time I get there. Everyone’s doing an activity in groups. I give my late pass to Ms. Scofield. She looks like she wants to say something, but she just tells me to join my group.

I slog over to my desk and put my bag down. I don’t bother to take anything out. I slide my desk closer to Ali’s, but I don’t ask what the activity is. I don’t care about anything. I just want to go home.

“Are you okay?” Ali asks.

Just her asking if I’m okay makes me want to burst out crying. I blink back tears. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I don’t want it to get back to Audrey that she made me cry in class.

I glance at the other two kids in our group. They’re oblivious, arguing over something on the activity sheet.

“Did they hurt you?”

“Who?”

“Audrey. And her friends. I heard about what happened.”

“You heard
already
?” How is that even possible? Did Audrey hijack the PA system and make an announcement during homeroom?

“Someone was talking about it before class.”

“Who?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

I look at Warner’s group. He catches me looking. He holds out his hand like a gun and shoots it.

Pow,
he mouths.

He probably wishes I were dead. But then he wouldn’t have anyone to make fun of anymore. Except Ali. And Tommy. And maybe some dorky freshmen.

“Do you want to come over after school?” Ali offers. I’m sure she recognizes her own pain in my eyes. “We could make smoothies
and watch a movie. That always takes my mind off things.”

“I can’t,” I say. “But thanks.” I just want to be alone. I hate everyone.

When the bell rings, I grab my bag and dash for the door. Simon catches up to me. He doesn’t say anything. He just puts his arm around me and walks me to my locker. Sherae’s waiting there for me. She exchanges a look with Simon. I should be protesting that I don’t need babysitters, but I don’t care. I am officially over everyone and everything.

“See you at lit mag?” Simon asks me.

I nod at the floor.

The bell rings. The halls empty out. I don’t move. Neither does Sherae.

“Those look like they hurt,” she says. She means the red welts on my arms. A few of them are turning into nasty bruises.

“I guess.”

“Let’s go to the nurse.”

“I’m okay.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“I am.”

“Why don’t we let the nurse decide?”

I’m too tired to fight. So I let Sherae take me to the nurse’s office. The nurse sends Sherae to class. Then she asks me what happened.

“I got hit with paintballs.”

“When?”

“Before school. At the bus stop.”

She inspects my arms.

“Who did this to you?” she wants to know.

If I tell the nurse it was Audrey, she’ll tell the principal and Audrey will get in trouble. Which will motivate her to make my life an even bigger nightmare. I’d rather lay low and wait for this to blow over.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

The nurse is radiating so much concern that I have to look away. She has pictures of a little girl on her desk. I bet she’s an amazing mom.

I blink back tears again. My whole life is blinking back tears. It’s getting really old.

“You’re okay,” she says. “You’ll be good as new. Sit here for me?”

I sit on the patient table. The white paper sheet crinkles under me.

“Can you lift up your shirt?”

“Why?”

“I want to check the other bruises.”

When I lift my shirt, her expression shifts. It’s only for a second. Then she’s smiling again and putting on ointment and explaining that my bruises should go away soon. I won’t even know they were there.

I wish emotional bruises healed like physical ones.

Lit mag. My salvation.
It’s the one place at school where I can relax, even if other kids are working in here with me. I’ve gotten to know everyone. They’re a cool group. Plus, I’m actually more interested in writing and editing than I thought I was. Making things happen behind the scenes of a publication, even our small-town lit mag, is kind of cool.

“Lunch is served,” Simon announces. He puts his tray on the big table. The smell of fried chicken makes me happy.

Today it’s just me and Simon. These are the best times. Simon is so easy to talk to. Sometimes it feels like I could open up to him about anything and he’d totally understand. Even though his family is crazy wealthy, he’s not conceited at all. He’s one of the few kids around here who hasn’t been brainwashed by excessive privilege. High school would be a piece of cake if everyone were like Simon.

“You’re too good to me,” I say.

“Nope, just hungry. Come eat.”

“In a minute. I have to finish these edits.”

“Later. Your fried chicken is getting cold. And I got extra-crispy pieces.”

Extra-crispy fried chicken is what’s up. I sit across from Simon and take a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Everything looks so good.

For a while we just eat and talk about lit mag stuff. Then Simon asks if I’m okay. My automatic response is that I’m fine. But lying is really exhausting. It would be a relief to be honest with Simon.

“No,” I admit. “I’m not okay.” I tell him about the whole Matt/Audrey debacle. Then I tell him about Julian.

“Wait,” Simon interrupts. “If you want to be with Julian, then why aren’t you with him?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It sounds like you’re both into each other.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“I’m … not good enough for him.”

“
What?
That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s how it is.”

“Sorry if no one’s told you this before, but any guy would be lucky to be with you. You’re smart, funny, insightful, talented, caring … don’t you see any of that?”

Wow. No one’s ever said anything like that to me before.

“Well … jeez, Simon. Thanks.”

“It’s the truth. Do yourself a favor and start believing it.”

I can’t help smiling. Simon can inspire anyone. Maybe he’ll be our next great leader in ten years.

“Oh, man.” Simon jumps up. “I’m supposed to be showing Mr. Gilford those proofs. You have everything you need?”

“Yeah, I’ll just be finishing the edits.”

Simon grabs his bag and a folder. Right before he leaves he says, “Hey, Noelle?”

“Yeah?”

“Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”

“I hope so.”

The nice things Simon told me nestle into an empty place inside my soul. It’s like he really believes everything he said. When I hear someone come into the office a few minutes later, I look up from my work smiling all big, expecting to see Simon.

But it’s Carly.

I live in constant fear that Carly will humiliate me in the hall or outside. She owns everywhere else. She’s not allowed to invade my one safe place.

“So that thing you did with Matt?” she says. “Wasn’t cool.”

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Oh, no?” Carly strides over to my desk. She picks up my supply organizer and turns it over. Pencils, staples, paper clips, and tacks scatter everywhere. She leans down close. “Who’s going to stop me?”

The bell never rings when you need it to. The clock says we have six minutes left. My pulse is racing the same way it always does when Carly busts out tormenting me. She is the hunter. I am the wild animal, praying she’ll make it quick.

“Leave,” I tell her.

“That’s not very nice. Kind of like when you skanked around with Matt behind Audrey’s back. That wasn’t very nice, either, now was it?”

“I didn’t know they were going out.”

“Yeah … no one believes you.”

“Why do you even care?”

“Um, because Audrey’s my friend? And when people hurt my friends, they hurt me.” Carly gives my chair a hard shove. It starts wheeling across the room. I jump off and head for the door. But Carly’s right there, grabbing my arm.

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“Let me go.”

“No. I want to show you something.”

“Let me
go
!” I yank my arm away.

She grabs me harder and pushes me to the other side of the room. I can’t get away from her. She’s way stronger than I am. The door is open, though. I could scream until someone comes. But then what would I say? That Carly was grabbing me? Then she’d get in trouble and attack me even harder next time. And everyone would know how weak I am.

No. It’s better to just see what she wants. The bell will ring in four minutes and the hall will get crowded and she’ll leave me alone.

“Audrey wanted me to give you a message,” Carly says.

“What?”

“This.” She grabs my hand and yanks on my index finger. My knuckle cracks.

“Ow!”

“Don’t be dramatic. It doesn’t hurt yet.” Carly pushes me over to the paper cutter. She lifts the slicer. Then she presses my finger against the edge of the cutter.

Right below the blade.

“Stop!” I yell, snatching my finger away.

Carly grabs my hair. She pulls it all the way back.

“Let me
go
!” I yell louder. Now I want someone to hear.

No one comes in.

Carly is pulling my hair so hard that I can’t look anywhere but at the ceiling. My neck is killing. I try to kick her. I try to shove her away. Nothing works.

“What happened to your hair?” Carly asks. She grabs a piece of my staircut and flips the short section of hair against my face. “Why’s it all chopped up?”

Maybe I’d be able to answer if my neck weren’t bent all the way back.

“I guess that’s how you like it,” Carly concludes. “So you won’t care if I chop it up some more.” She shoves me down over the paper cutter. The side of my head slams against it so hard I hope my brain still works. “Let’s see.” Carly rips some pins out of my hair. “Which part is too long?”

“Stop it. Let me go.”

Carly has my arm pinned behind me. I can’t move. She pulls a section of my hair under the slicer. I hear the slicer being lifted and lowered, but not all the way. She lifts and lowers the slicer over and over.

The bell rings.

“Psych!” Carly yells. She lets go of me and heads for the door.
In the doorway, she turns to me and says, “Thanks for playing, Rotten Egg. Let’s do it again sometime.”

Mother stopped doing my laundry in the winter of eighth grade. She never said she wasn’t going to do it anymore. She just stopped.

I didn’t realize this until one morning when I was getting ready for school. I’d thought mother was going to do laundry the night before. I was expecting to wake up and have clean clothes waiting.

But my dirty clothes were still in the hamper.

I panicked. I had nothing to wear. I only had a few long-sleeved shirts and it was really cold that morning. I often dealt with winter by wearing a tee under a cardigan while everyone else was all cozy in their cashmere sweaters. But I didn’t want to do that today. It was too cold. And I’d already worn my only decent sweater twice that week.

I lifted the lid off the hamper. Dirty-clothes smell wafted out. The arm of my turtleneck was wrapped around some pajama bottoms. I took out the turtleneck and sniffed it. It smelled like rotten eggs. There was a slight possibility that I could wash it in the sink, put it in the dryer until wearable, take the train to school, and still make it in time for second period. Only, I’d have to walk in the freezing wind all the way to the train station. And mother would be up by then. She’d yell at me for missing the bus.

I went to my closet to see if a new shirt had magically appeared.

It had not.

I returned to the bathroom and sniffed the turtleneck again. The rotten egg smell seemed to be dissipating. I waved it around a little. I sprayed some Sea Island Cotton body spray on it. If I didn’t get too close to anyone, maybe I could pull it off.

So I put the dirty turtleneck on.

Of course Carly came up to me when we got to school. She’d been taunting me at the bus stop. She wasn’t done.

I took my coat off and put it in my locker.