Interim(37)

Not true at all! He knew that wasn’t true. All he cared about was retrieving his journal. All he cared about was keeping the secret. All he cared about was lying to her over and over until she believed him. He couldn’t kill her. That wasn’t part of the plan.

Plans change, his vigilante said. She stole your property. She read your words. She’s not innocent anymore.

Jeremy pulled on his shirt as he thought.

But she’s never abused me. She stuck up for me.

Wake up, you idiot! That was sixth grade! That bitch STOLE from you! Is that not a form of bullying? Intimidation? She took away your thoughts! She compromised you! She goes, just like the rest of them. End of story.

He laced up his boots.

I can’t hurt her. I can’t. But I can keep her happy. I can do that.

You’ll waste your time playing a lying game with her? Always watching your back? Worrying constantly that she may turn on you? Rat you out? Why? She doesn’t care about you at all.

He grimaced at the thought: She doesn’t care about you.

“What are you doing to me?” he asked helplessly.

He didn’t wait for his vigilante to answer. He flew to school—crossing a busy intersection without looking, and inviting the angry blares of car horns. He threw his bike on the ground near the school. Locking it was unimportant.

He flung open the door and hurried inside. She wasn’t there.

“Regan,” he hissed under his breath.

He loitered about the hallways, moving slowly and restlessly, eyes glued to his combat boots. He hadn’t worn them for months, feeling they revealed too much about his aggressive nature—the one he was trying to keep hidden. But he slipped them on today with the understanding that he was going into battle—a new one—with a girl he could put over his knee and snap in two. He snorted at the irony. A little girl had all the power over him.

“Regan,” he breathed.

The more he said her name, the more his frustration grew. He thought it monstrously unfair that he was now in love with his enemy. She was, after all, his enemy. She became that as soon as she opened his journal. He fantasized for a moment about all the ways he could torture a confession out of her. It made no sense; she’d already confessed to reading his journal. What more did he need to know? And then it hit him. Right as she walked into the building, he realized what he wanted: her words. She stole all of his. It was only fair she give him hers. Maybe then he wouldn’t need to fear her next move because he’d have something on her, too. They’d be forced into a reluctant friendship built on tenuous trust. She would become his accomplice. No longer his adversary.

He breezed by her and muttered, “Stairwell.”

He continued down the hall, pushed open the door and waited beside empty stairs.

“One, two, three, four,” he whispered. “Five.”

The door opened slowly, and she peeked her head in. He grabbed her arm and yanked her under the stairs—a dark nook decorated with graffiti and dust cobwebs.

“Easy,” she barked, pulling on her arm.

He released her and mumbled an apology.

“What are we doing under here?” she asked.

“I figured you wouldn’t wanna be seen with me in public,” he replied. He raised an eyebrow.

“Ouch,” she said softly.

“We can go back out,” he offered, knowing she’d refuse.

She fumbled with the strap of her messenger bag, avoiding his eyes.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I wanna know if you plan on running your mouth,” he said. Maybe not the best way to approach the subject, but he was too agitated to care.

She looked up at him. “Run my mouth about what?”

Don’t play games with me, he thought. He had to force his hands to remain by his sides. He wanted to shake her.

“My journal,” he said through his teeth.

“What about it?”

Fucking Regan.

“The shit I wrote about. Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m referring to.”

She paused. “I told you I believed you. You think that changed overnight?”

“How should I know?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.

She got an up-close view of his scar. Her hand moved before her brain registered, “Stop!” She touched it. He flinched but didn’t move away. She hesitated until she sensed it was okay to continue. He watched her carefully—the way her brows furrowed in concentration as she moved her finger along the scar, studying its texture the way she did in sixth grade. Her finger paused on top of his piercing.