0 9

g r i e v o u s

Molly continued to have contractions all through that night, each wave coming once every twenty minutes or so. I'd entered the kitchen the next morning to see the place empty, save for a bowl of cereal and a carton of milk, along with a post-it that read:

Breakfast is on the table. Have a good day, Scout. Stay strong.

- Charlie

I couldn't help but smile as I read that. I was lucky, fortunate enough, to have two backup parents after having lost my own. Molly was incredibly dramatic at times, and Charlie seemed more like an older brother than a Dad, but still, I considered myself more fortunate than others to have at least two people to keep me anchored down.

So I went to school in far brighter spirits that day, ready to leave the past in the past and build upon my renewed friendship with Jason. Clearly, the both of us had a lot to work on – communication, for starters, as well as attempting to understand each other better.

Jason was waiting for me by my locker, as was our usual practice, as he always did before we had that fallout. There was a nasty bruise under his eye from the scrimmage the day before, but other than that he seemed fine.

"So I heard that you and Wright had a falling out yesterday," was the first thing he said when I came up.

My mood immediately took a dip for the worse, and I busied myself with the combination code on my locker.

"It was more of a conflict of interest," I muttered, even as I felt my heart clench painfully within my chest. "Clearly, there are some things we completely disagree about."

Jason laughed, but it was an almost derisive laugh, one that made my toes curl. "Well, he's always been a complete ass anyway. You're better off without him."

He was right, I was. And I desperately wished for his words to convince me enough so I could believe whole-heartedly in them. I was better off without Callum, that was for sure, but that knowledge still did not lessen the sadness or disappointment I felt. These were strong sentiments of emotion that could not be diffused by rational thought.

Shrugging, I simply pulled my textbooks out of the locker, before shutting the door. Jason and I began walking to class, but we were hardly ten feet down the hallway when someone shoved Jason, their shoulders colliding heavily, the impact of it sending Jason stumbling backwards.

His hand latched onto my arm for balance, and I hastily attempted to steady the both of us, nearly falling over in the process, had not someone else pulled me upright just in time.

"Assholes," Jason muttered, sending a deadly glare in the direction of the guy who had shoved into him, whom I belatedly realised was Keith.

And as for the person who had saved me, it was none other than Callum. His gaze was hooded, emotionless when I looked up at him, but I felt his palm flush on my skin, the tips of his fingers curling slowly around my arm.

"Alright there?" he asked, an edge of concern seeping into his voice, one that made my heart clench painfully at the sound of it.

I flinched away from him, as if his touch scalded me. "I'm fine," I said, coldly, before shifting past him and heading down the hallway.

My steps were brisk, almost angry, and I hated myself for how I still reacted to his touch, how I knew I subconsciously still craved for it, for him. There was nothing more I wanted than to pull his arms around my waist and slip into his embrace, because I missed him, I missed every bit of him.

And I wished I could be strong, I desperately wished for me to be that feisty, independent girl I always read about in novels, the girl who stood up for her friends and her own beliefs, the girl who could turn her back on the boy she loved and still get along just fine – but I just...wasn't. I could never be her; instead, I was stuck being me.

"Wow," Jason mused, as he caught up with me. "That was pretty harsh."

But there was no semblance of sympathy in his tone; a small, amused smile played on his lips, and I felt a surge of indignation rise within me. Did he not realise how terrible I was feeling about the whole thing?

"But this is what I meant when I said it happens on a daily basis," he continued, smoothly. "Wright and his posse treat everyone like they're invisible or beneath them. It's messed up. They just – push past you, like you're invisible, and they don't even apologise. They never do."

"Let's stop," I told him, a little stiffly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, I do. Don't you see how Wright's twisted your mind into thinking that it's alright for them to behave this way? And how he's playing with your feelings – honestly, Scout, do you even think he gives a shit about the way you feel – "

"I said drop it," I said, sharply, and I supposed Jason must've felt surprised by my sudden outburst, for he shut his mouth with an audible click. Feeling slightly guilty about losing my temper, I sighed and avoided his probing gaze. "Let's just go to class."

We headed to class in silence, an annoyed frown on his face and a sad look on mine, for I could not help but repeat Jason's words in my head. He had planted the seed of doubt in my mind, and now I was second guessing everything – all that I had been through with Callum, every word exchange, every touch, every kiss.

Maybe they had all been lies.

Each and every single one of them.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

That afternoon, I worked off my frustration during the run Coach Orlitz made us do during gym period. Dave was beside me, his strides drawn out as he kept pace with me, but I was surprisingly active that day. My sneakers scuffed against the rubber bits on the track, and my lungs were burning inside my chest, but still I pushed on relentlessly.

"Hey, slow down," he said, at last, his breathing erratic, "Scout."

I slowed to a walk but kept my gaze forward. Sweat trickled past the ridges of my cheekbones and down my neck, and tried to catch my breath. "What?"

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything's – " I trailed off as a shout came from down the field.

"Dawson! Martin!" It was Coach Orlitz, and his eyebrows were knitted in annoyance as he stared at us. "You've been doing well for the past few laps, don't you dare quit now!"

With a sigh, I turned to Dave, who was still looking at me worriedly. "Everything's fine," I assured him, my voice sounding far more convincing than I felt, before breaking into a run again.

This time, I made sure to sidle between two other kids from my gym class, so Dave couldn't run beside me. It was a horrid thing to do, but the exhaustion I felt from all the things that had happened was far more than the physical exhaustion I felt from the run.

The emotional exhaustion was still incomparable even after I was done. The muscles in my leg were sore, my cheeks flushed and breathing unsteady as I grabbed my bag and headed for the shower room, as was the usual practice after ever gym lesson.

Standing under the faucet in the shower reminded me of Callum once more, that day we had gotten drenched by water and I'd showered in his house and we shared a little moment together, a moment that made me realise that he perhaps harboured the same feelings as I did.

But maybe that was all a lie too. Could you put on an act for someone to make them believe that you cared? After all, we were all in high school, and the bottom-line was that we were all façades of our true selves.

And if you wanted to fit in, the question you had to ask yourself was: How good are you at playing pretend? How good are you at faking it?

Callum, perhaps, was far too good at it.

I left the shower stall with no traces of tears, save for the flushed cheeks and abashed expression that possibly betrayed the fact that I had been crying in the shower. Ignoring the usual group of popular girls from my gym class who usually stayed behind to touch up on their make-up, I began to shove my clothes into my bag before heading for the exit.

I was halfway out of the room when an all too familiar voice made me stop in my tracks. It was Gwendolyn Price, her voice so light and innocent her words almost didn't seem like an insult.

"Honestly, I don't know what Callum sees in that girl. He can do so much better than her."

My steps slowed. Everyone in the room had gone still, their eyes were on me and I felt my cheeks flush furiously.

Gwendolyn's back was facing me, her lips pursed as she swiped on some cherry lip-gloss, but I saw her reflection in the mirror and she was staring right at me, her eyes dancing with amusement and a faint trace of scorn.

And I knew then that she was talking about me. That was precisely the reason why I preferred staying in the shadows, where the limelight did not shine on me, no unwanted attention prodded and inched its way into my life.

"Well, I heard he was playing her anyway," this now came from Jessa, one of the most popular seniors, "She probably thought she was special just because he paid attention to her."

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. "Please. We all know he was just having a little fun with her and she was just too easy."

I stood there, jaw clenched and fingers curled tightly around the strap of my bag. Each word felt like a stab in my chest, a fresh, raw wound that made me feel like keeling over with pain.

Jessa laughed. "Her parents sure raised a slut."

Her words made a surge of anger rise within me, and before I could stop myself, the words were leaving my mouth. "Leave my parents out of this," I found myself saying, through gritted teeth, "They had nothing to do with it."

Jessa's eyes widened, as if she could hardly believe that I'd actually said something, but Gwendolyn's gaze sharpened, somehow it seemed almost predatory, almost feral, like she'd set up a threat and I'd fallen right into it.

Immediately realising my mistake, I turned to leave, but a hand snuck out at the last minute to pull me back. I turned around, only to realise that Marcel had her fingers curled around my arm in a vice-like grip, her fingernails digging into my skin painfully.

"Where do you think you're going?" Her voice was excruciatingly calm, her gaze levelled as she stared at me.

All at once, I was transported to a time that happened years ago, when Marcel and Gwendolyn had cornered me in the bathroom, with Alexia as their ring-leader. Gwendolyn was the malicious one and Marcel had always been calm and composed in the deadliest sort of way, because she was like a viper and you never knew when she was going to strike.

"I have to go to class," I muttered, but my throat was dry, my voice unsteady.

She simply stared at me. "We all have a problem with you, Scout – we've had it for awhile now, ever since that day Callum Wright came to your rescue and warned us never to come near you again. But Hell Week's changed a lot of things, and even though we weren't in school, we heard how it all went down. How you and that bunch of losers made things difficult for our friends."

"I had nothing to do with it," I replied, but even as I did, my mind flitted to Callum. It was an instinctive reaction, how I always thought of Callum when I found myself in trouble. My reliance on him was terrifying, to say the least.

"So you say," her expression was disbelieving, her voice mocking. "Then explain to me why Callum all bruised from last week." Her grip grew tighter on my arm, and I winced. "Explain to me why Gwendolyn's boyfriend now has a sprained ankle. Explain to me why our quarterbacks and basketball players have been stuffed into lockers, or pantsed, or dumped into trashcans."

Her nails were digging into my skin hard enough that my mind was almost numb, but I somehow managed to find something to say. "This happens to my friends on a daily basis."

"Doesn't matter," Gwendolyn interjected, shrugging her shoulders lightly, "Your friends – especially Burke – are major assholes, and they deserve it. We aren't as mean to the other kids at school, haven't you ever wondered why we're just particularly horrid to your friends?"

"We have a problem with you, Scout, because you try to cross boundaries that shouldn't be crossed," Marcel continued, her grip still tight and unrelenting. "You run to Callum like a stupid damsel in distress, and then you betray him and return to your friends. Stop putting ideas into his head, and stop living in your little deluded fantasy that we're all going to get along – because we aren't. And stop with that martyr-act, like you're above everyone else and pretending like you're going to make the school a better place. It's sickening and absolutely pathetic, and I just – "

Her words were cut off as the door to one of the shower stalls opened, and her grip slackened on my arm as she let go of me. Alexia stalked out of the stall, her chestnut hair damp and a blue towel slung around her slender neck.

"Are we going to be standing here all day," she asked, her tone almost bored, "Or do we actually have something better to do with our lives?"

Gwendolyn's eyebrows shot up. "We were kind of waiting for you, Alexia."

"Well, don't," she returned, flatly. "I'll meet you in the cafeteria, now clear out."

I had not been around Alexia for a long time, and I failed to realise the power she actually wielded over the other students. But as the shower room emptied out, the popular girls leaving in a usual bunch and the other girls scattering to leave as quickly as possible, I realised that by leaving me, Alexia had finally made herself one of the most feared girls in the school.

The room was soon empty, save for three other girls who were still busy changing. Alexia had found herself a spot in front of the mirror and was brushing her hair, her expression still as emotionless as before.

My heart pounding in my chest, I sidled up to her. "Thank you," I whispered, hardly daring to meet her eyes. "That was nice – what you just did."

"I didn't do it for you," she replied, coldly, but her blue eyes locked with mine in the reflection of the mirror. "I did it because Marcel was simply wasting her time talking to you."

Biting my lip, I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me.

"When are you going to learn how to stand on your own two feet, Scout? You've had Callum come to your rescue three years ago, and three years later, I'm the one having to save you. When are you going to save yourself?"

There was no reply I had to that, because Alexia was right. Ducking my head, I headed out of the changing room, and leaned against the wall, trying to calm my pounding heart.

The nail marks that Marcel had left on my arm were deep, deep enough for faint traces of blood to stain the top layer of my skin. And they stung when I brushed the tips of my fingers briefly across my skin.

They hurt, terribly so, but as I stood there that afternoon, my breathing harsh and tears stinging the seams of my eyes, I realised something I hadn't known before.

Marcel's physical infliction of pain had not hurt more than her words did. I could still hear her voice clearly in my head, they looped over and over like a broken recorder, and each word cut straight to the heart and it hurt.

It hurt in a place that no form of physical torture ever could.