Bad Boy Blues(7)

I press my hands together and force my legs to stay still. It’s a good thing my heart is an organ, firmly caged within the ribs. Because if it weren’t, it would be exploding out of my chest and lying a pulpy mess on the floor.

“Crystal,” I say with difficulty.

“And Cleopatra?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Mr. Prince to you. Don’t forget your place.”

I grit my teeth, grind them, smash them.

“I won’t.”

***

Zachariah Prince.

I met him when I was ten and he was twelve.

In fact, I met him my very first day at St. Patrick’s. It’s a posh school for posh kids on the north side of town.

At the time, I was probably the only one from the south side to go there. My parents were very proud. They wanted the best for me and so, they worked very hard to get me into that school.

I never had any high hopes of St. Patrick’s, to be honest. I would’ve been happy to just go to my regular school on the south side with Tina and all my other friends.

Anyway, whatever I was expecting to happen on my first day, it wasn’t even remotely close to what actually did.

I got caught stealing, or rather borrowing, carrot sticks, from a girl at lunch. It wasn’t my fault. I was hungry and they had this long list of prescribed snacks that kids could bring. All of it was some bullshit, healthy stuff that didn’t do anything to curb my hunger.

So I improvised.

And got caught and sent to detention.

Where I met him.

The guy who’d become my bully for the next however many years I was to go to that stupid school – St. Patrick’s has both middle and high school wings.

When girls my age were falling in love with cute boys, I was falling in hate with Zach. When boys were asking them out on dates, carrying their backpacks, opening their doors, Zach and his minions were pushing me through them.

They were tripping me in the hallways, spilling drinks on my uniform and my homework. They were hiding my blue car and sending me hints on my phone as to where it could be.

Not to mention, they were Photoshopping my face on every cheese commercial that they could find on the internet, and calling me Thunder Thighs, Jiggly Lump, Lard Ass. You know, because I love eating and I’m not exactly a delicate flower when it comes to my body.

And while his minions were doing his dirty work, Zach would simply stand there and stare at me. Sometimes he’d smirk. Especially when I fought back.

Oh yeah, I fought back.

I wasn’t helpless. I was far from it.

In fact, I punched him in the face a day after I met him because they’d slashed my books and scattered the pages all over the hallway.

My dad always taught me to stand up for myself and I did.

Countless times.

I’d break into their lockers and steal their homework. I used to key their cars. One time, I even got into this big fight with one of the girls in his inner circle because she hid my clothes after a gym class and sent boys into the locker room to gawk at me. It became a whole big thing at school.

For years, I’ve plotted ways to murder them.

To murder Zach.

I would have too, if he hadn’t gone away. But now he’s back and I’m acting like I’m in school again.

I’m looking left and right, walking very, very slowly lest I slip on something. Something like a banana peel, deliberately planted so I’d step on it and so people could laugh at my ungainly, curvy, jiggling body.

I’m jumping every time someone calls my name. Someone laughs and I tighten my muscles and narrow my eyes, preparing myself for the punch line, which I definitely think involves me. I’m flexing my fists, remembering the right technique to make one like I’ve been teaching Art. I’m thinking up ways in which I can fight back.

I’m drowning in anger and hate and I haven’t even seen him yet.

Gah.

So in order to regroup and act like an adult, I’ve shut myself up in the service closet by the kitchen. The party’s on and I’m supposed to serve champagne, instead of drinking it myself and sitting on a large mopping bucket.

But whatever.

They’ll survive without me. A lot of the cleaning and cooking staff are serving tonight, including me. I used to be a waitress back on the south side and I need the extra cash, so I always volunteer for such events.

Suddenly, the closet rumbles and shakes, making me yelp. Dust falls from the ceiling and the tray full of champagne flutes set on the floor vibrates.

Someone’s knocking at the door.

“Cleo.”

My tensed shoulders sag at the familiarity of the voice. It’s Tina.

I press a hand to my heaving chest, lean over and unlock the door, letting her enter. In contrast to me, her blonde hair looks put-together and she looks very polished in her uniform. I’m pretty sure my mascara has smudged with the nervous sweat and I’ve already chewed off my lipstick.

“What are you doing in here?” she asks, her expression concerned in the meager light of the yellow bulb.

“Trying to regroup myself.”

“By hiding?”

“Hey, don’t judge.”

“Fine. I’m sorry.”

Tina takes a seat beside me on an upturned bucket. “You okay?”

I shake my head.

“You drunk?”