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Excerpt:
She rounds a corner. Instead of going into a classroom, she walks
out the double doors leading to the quad, maybe heading for the library or the
gym. I jog to catch up, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Hey—”
The next thing I know, the sky is above me and I’m hitting the
ground as my legs are knocked out from under me. I see stars. In broad
daylight. Concussion: minor brain
injury that may occur when one’s head strikes an object. Ow.
The girl’s face comes into view as I’m blinking the white from my
vision. “You following me, jackass?” she snarls. “I know who you are. You’ve
got some fucking nerve.”
I push myself up to sit, scooting back on the concrete to avoid
getting struck again in the event she lashes out. “N-no—I mean, y-yes. I j-just
wanted—”
“Wanted to what? I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“I…I saw you at Callie’s l-locker…”
“If I had my way, they would have thrown your sorry ass in jail
already. You realize they’re getting a restraining order against you.”
“I—”
“Better not let me see you in the parking lot, ’cause you’d better
believe I’ll mow you down.”
“I didn’t touch her!”
The heat of my voice startles me. I’m not a yeller. I keep quiet,
under the radar. But those words felt like they were going to burst out of my
ribs if I didn’t say them. Callie’s friend is watching me with a smoldering
glare.
“Right. She just made it up, then.”
“N-no. I didn’t say…say that.” Once I’m sure she isn’t going to
use some weird karate move to put me on the ground again, I pick myself up.
“I’m just saying it w-wasn’t m-me.”
She squints, looking me over. Studying me. I’d feel less exposed lying
naked on a silver tray in biology being sliced open in the name of science.
“Why were you following me?”
Why was I? What, exactly, did I want to ask? What did I want to
say? I rub the back of my neck, ducking my head. “I wanted to s-see if you
could deliver a m-message.”
“Uh-huh. What kind of message?”
“T-tell her…I d-didn’t do it. I swear on my life. And…” The guilt.
It comes out of nowhere and slides its slivers into my lungs, making my chest
tight. “Tell her I’m sorry.”
She folds her arms, gaze steely. “Sorry for what?”
“For not keeping her safe.” That’s what it comes down to. No, I
didn’t rape Callie Wheeler, but I feel like it was my fault it happened. The
number of things I could have—should have—done to prevent it seems staggering.
The weight of my guilt makes it hard to breathe.
