XGeneration 1: You Don't Know Me (28 page)

“Yes.” Scott tried to keep his nose from sniveling. He turned over and assumed the position, conscious of the laughter still pelting down around him.

Just a few paddles, and you’re done
, he told himself.
He’s probably not even going to do it very har—

THWACK!

Scott’s buttocks exploded with heat, and he bit into his lip to keep from screaming. The taste of warm copper trickled beneath his tongue.

“I didn’t hear a laugh, nerd,” Britt said from behind.

THWACK!

This time, Scott half honked, half grunted.

“Louder!”

THWACK!

Another half-honk, half-grunt.

“I wanna help you, son. I really do. But you have to want it!”

THWACK!

Scott’s next honk emerged as a high grunt, almost a squeal.

“I just don’t think we’re getting through,” Britt said sadly to more laughter, his breathing labored. “But it’s all right. I’ve got a couple of parishioners who have volunteered to help out. Boys?”

Scott heard heavy footsteps land on the tarp and then felt his suspenders being pulled away. Another set of hands fumbled with the front of his pants. Too late, Scott realized what was happening. His pants were yanked to his calves. Cool air needled the skin of his raw buttocks. His underwear was down as well, he realized—also too late. Scott struggled to sit up, to reach back and reclaim them, but his neck and arms were being pinned.

“It’s for your own good, son,” Britt said above him.

THWACK!

A fresh clap of pain.

“I didn’t hear you!” Britt bellowed.

They’re going to humiliate you, but don’t let them.

Scott turned his head toward the house as his chest began to wrack with strangled sobs.

THWACK!

Stand up for yourself.

Thicker, heavier sobs. And Scott realized in fresh horror that he was still trying to do the honks. Like with his sobbing, he couldn’t stop. A swill of tears and snot began dripping from his face.

THWACK!

“H-a-a-wnk!”

Stand up for yourself!

It was no longer Britt striking him, but his mother, her shrieking face looming before his.
Stand up for yourself, Scott!
THWACK!
For God’s sake, stand up for yourself!
THWACK!
For God’s sake! For God’s sake! For God’s sake!
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

And without his realizing it, his honking became a series of retching screams, rising in pitch and urgency, occluding all else, even the sharp explosions of pain across his naked buttocks.

23

“Oh, god, do something Blake,” Janis whispered. “Make him stop.”

She had dropped her eyes the minute Scott was made to bend over the ottoman, sick to her stomach. But she could still hear the
THWACK
s of the paddle, each one landing in her gut.

“
Blake
—!” she whispered.

“He’s stopping,” he said quickly. She could hear his relief. “Look, he’s stopping.”

But when Britt spoke again, he was still using that creepy Southern preacher’s voice.

“I just don’t think we’re getting through,” he was saying. “But it’s all right. I’ve got a couple of parishioners who have volunteered to help out. Boys?”

Janis raised her eyes just as Bo and Shelton, two beefy jock-preps, descended on Scott and began wrestling with his clothes. And then his pants were down, his rail-thin buttocks, which had already begun to redden, bared to the world.

“It’s for your own good, son.”

Janis brought her fist to her mouth and clenched her eyelids.

THWACK!

The sound was starker this time, almost wet. And another sound was emerging. Janis couldn’t tell if she was hearing it over the raucous shouts and laughter or if it was inside her own head, but it was unmistakable. It was the sound of Scott sobbing—just as he had that time in the woods with the Rottweiler.

Even when Samson growled, she remembered, even when he lunged, Scott had remained calm. For twenty minutes or more, holding the stick out before him, keeping her behind him, stopping occasionally to whisper a
shh
, he had remained calm. His stiff shoulders had felt cool beneath her hands. Only when they’d reached the safety of the fallen tree and climbed up, when Samson had returned to whatever hell-cave spawned him, did Scott collapse and begin sobbing. The rhythm was exactly the same.

Janis jumped to her feet and began running toward the stage.

“Stop!” she cried.

THWACK!

“
Stop, I said!
”

THWACK!

And then she was close enough to see his head shivering, the skin on the back of his neck blanching where Shelton’s fingers dug in. Janis grabbed the collar of Shelton’s shirt and felt it rip when she yanked him backyard. Her assault on Bo, who was holding Scott’s arms, was less a kick and more a pair of stomps—right in the side of his ribs. When he recoiled, his face was surprised with pain. Janis’s only regret was that she wasn’t in cleats.

“What in the hell’s wrong with you?” she cried.

Her fury had swelled into a force beyond her. She turned to confront Britt, who had backed away a step, his thrashing robe gone limp. A strenuous sweat glistened along the sides of his face. The paddle was still suspended, poised to strike again, and in the huge silence, Janis could hear Scott’s gasping sobs. They all could. Britt looked from Janis down to Scott, seeming to return to himself. He lowered the paddle. She grabbed it away and swung it against the nearest tree. The head of the paddle snapped at its neck and shot off into the bushes.

She turned her fury on the crowd. “Is this your idea of entertainment?” she screamed. “Huh? Beating someone who’s defenseless?”

Blake was standing on the verge of the stage, his palms raised to her as though to say,
It’s all right, babe. It’s over. Let’s all just cool down.
But she could see the pale shock on his face. Whether it was from what they had done to Scott or what she was doing to them, Janis couldn’t tell.

Her gaze returned to Scott, who had gotten his pants back up and was pawing around for his glasses. His body was still hitching, but the sobs were thinner now, smaller. She glared once more at the crowd, at their shocked and stupid expressions, and knelt to help him. His taped glasses had ended up behind him somehow. She picked them up and handed them to him.

“Here,” she whispered.

Scott stood and wiped a sleeve across his nose before accepting his glasses. With his face downcast, he pushed them on. He then began shoving his shirttail into his pants, as though trying to put himself back together. The pens and pencils that had been in his pocket were scattered around his feet. In her periphery, Janis noticed Grant approaching them.

“All right. I think we can all agree that one got a little out of hand.” He spoke with the sober concern of a politician. He reached forward, as though deciding whether or not to place a hand on her shoulder.

“And you let it happen.” Janis wheeled on him, her voice shuddering with anger. “At your house.”

She could see in his eyes and faltering hand the implication sinking in. The school took a hard line on hazing. Official notices were posted along the hallways. This was the sort of thing that could get Gamma hit with probation—or worse—not to mention the disciplinary actions against those involved, namely the president and host. Grant ran his fingers through his hair.

“At your house,” she repeated.

“Oh, get over yourself,” someone called.

Janis recognized the voice—just as she had recognized her handwriting.

When Janis turned, her former friend was sneering out at her, arms folded, head cocked to the side. She couldn’t see the other hydra heads bookending her, couldn’t see Alicia or Autumn, just Amy.

Amy, in her Playboy bunny outfit (“It’s real rabbit’s fur, I swear!”), legs crossed primly to show off her fishnet-clad thighs. Amy, who had slipped that note into her locker three years before, who had treated her and her friends like shit ever since. Amy, who had manipulated her emotions these last months for no other reason than to get into Alpha.

Like a fiery arrow, Janis shot toward her.

Gasps sounded like bottles of cola being popped open. Pledges and members alike cringed from her path. They had already witnessed her attack on Bo and Shelton. So had Amy. The sneer fled her red lips. Her large eyes flew around for someplace to hide. But in the cruelest of ironies, she was trapped between the two friends whom she’d sought safety in these last three years, their chairs pressed together and angled inward.

When Amy tried to stand, Janis shot her arm out. Janis had only made it to the second row of chairs, still a good fifteen feet away, but Amy was thrown backward anyway. One of her black heels snagged in the chair leg. The entire aluminum chair followed her somersault, bunny ears flying from her head. Amy and the chair landed in a clanking heap.

Maybe it was the terror of Amy’s scream or the horror at what she herself had done, but Janis pulled up. Relaxed her fists. Forced herself to breathe. To everyone else, it would have looked like Amy had toppled backward in her attempt to scramble away. But Janis knew better. She had felt the pulse leave her hand, just like the night of the Lyon game…

Only stronger.

Alicia and Autumn, who had been cowering back, arms covering their faces, knelt to Amy’s sides. With worried backward glances, they helped untangle their friend from her chair. When Amy peered over the upended seat, her hair flopped over half her face. One eye searched around and found Janis. And in its naked fright, Janis saw that Amy had felt the pulse, too.

An arm slipped around Janis’s waist.

“What’s this?” Blake whispered. “What’s gotten into you?”

She shrugged from his embrace and waded from the crowd, half of whom were craning their necks around at Amy, the other half still looking warily at her. Feather Heather alternated between the two, a pink-lacquered nail between her teeth.
This is definitely getting back to Margaret,
Janis thought but without caring.

She remembered Scott then. He was no longer on the stage. She spotted the pale glow of his shirt at the dark end of the driveway, nearly to the street.

“Let’s go,” Blake said with a sigh. “I’ll offer him a ride home.”

“No, let me go to him. Alone.”

“I have a car, Janis. Wouldn’t it—?”

“You were supposed to do everything in your power to help him.” Vehemence scored her voice. “Wasn’t that The Pact?”

Blake stood back in his bulky football costume, his gaze soft and uncertain. She had never become angry at him before, not like this. He started to say something, but she had already left his side. She clacked up the driveway, deaf to his calls, and then broke into a run.

* * *

By the time she reached him, Scott was making his way along the parked cars lining the curb, bracing his arm against them for support. His gait was stiff, almost a limp, and broadcast deep bruising.

“Hey.” She arrived beside him. “Are you all right?”

Scott jerked and wiped his face. When he glanced over, narrow, puffed-up eyes looked out from a ruddy face. The street light caught a streak of moisture on his left cheek that he’d missed. He replaced his glasses and lurched back into motion.

“Guess I sort of l-l-lost it back there,” he said.

He snuffled when he tried to laugh, and Janis thought it was one of the saddest sounds she’d ever heard.

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He was trying to keep his face turned from her while he spoke. “I didn’t mean to get you in tr-trouble… I had no business being there. Why don’t you go on b-back. I’ll b-b-be all right.”

She watched his ribs starting to hitch again and could feel how desperately he wanted to be alone.

“Go back?
Pffft.
I’m done with Alpha.”

Scott continued to limp forward.

“The only reason I pledged in the first place was because of Margaret. It’s not me. It was never me.”

Janis began yanking the bows out of her hair and stuffing them into her pockets. She groaned, remembering the freckles Margaret had drawn on her cheeks with a brown makeup pencil. They’d probably smear if she tried to wipe them away. She must have looked ridiculous attacking Bo and Shelton in her frilly dress and pigtails.
Wendy goes ape shit.
She was about to make a joke about it when she realized Scott had slowed down. He was peering over at her with the same searching eyes she remembered from their childhood.

“It was n-n-never me, either.”

“Well, at least it only took us three months to figure it out instead of three years.”

Scott managed another snuffled laugh. “Yeah.”

She touched his arm. “Listen, I know a better way home. If we turn around and go to the back of the neighborhood, we’ll end up at that greenway that connects Eighth and Sixteenth Avenues. We can avoid the streets. And when we come out, we’ll be across from Oakwood.”

Scott stopped walking, his gaze dropping to her hand resting on his forearm. He sniffled, appearing to contemplate her proposal, her touch.

“All right,” he said.

* * *

Their route took them back past Grant’s house. They kept to the opposite side of the street like a pair of exiles. Janis could hear voices down the driveway, thin and excited, the aftermath of a violent storm. She imagined Blake speaking with a concerned frown, hands held out. He could be very diplomatic—too diplomatic, sometimes. It was why he hadn’t intervened on Scott’s behalf. He would have eventually, Janis knew. But she also knew he was hoping the paddling would stop first.

Safely past the driveway, they resumed walking in the street. With the final parked cars at their back, Janis realized she’d chosen this route, not only for Scott’s sake, but also for her own. She didn’t want Blake pulling up, trying to exercise the same diplomacy on them, on her. Not tonight.

She felt guilty about this until she heard Scott snuffle again.

The street ended at a wooded cul-de-sac. A final street light stood against the night and the gathering trees. Beyond the curb, Janis could make out the beginning of a path that showed pale where the topsoil had worn down to a layer of limestone. She peeked behind them, glad to see no cars coming. Three or four street lights away, someone was walking a small dog. She turned back to the trees.