Interim(41)



“Ethan, stop,” Casey replied.

“What is your problem?” Ethan directed the question to Regan.

“I . . . I know what I heard,” she faltered.

“Yeah. You heard a guy defending his brother. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Ethan demanded.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Regan snapped.

“Get all the information first before you start passing judgment,” Ethan said.

He, too, left the table in a huff, and Regan was left alone with Casey and Brandon’s other friends—the ones she never talked to. They stared at her for a moment before resuming their conversations.

“Are you okay?” Casey asked.

“I know what I heard,” Regan repeated.

“I don’t doubt it,” Casey replied. “But maybe there was a reason. You know, like he said.”

“He was awful, Casey,” Regan said. “I mean, he asked her if she was a girl or a guy.”

Casey stifled a giggle.

“Seriously?” Regan asked.

“I’m sorry, but it’s kinda funny. I mean, I’ve been wondering that for the longest time.” Casey crinkled her brow. “Never occurred to me to just ask her.”

Regan sat stunned, staring at her best friend, wondering how she’d come this far—how she went from being Hannah to this abhorrent human being. Why am I friends with this chick?

She jumped up from the table then leaned over Casey’s shoulder, her lips millimeters from Casey’s ear.

“Have a little compassion.” Her voice was low and threatening. “You used to be her. Remember? You were an outcast, too. People picked on you constantly. People made you cry. Like, a lot. I remember. And so should you.”

She walked away, leaving Casey to sit alone and digest her words. The truth, whether she f*cking liked it or not.





~

I hate my life. I wanna know how people survive this. They go on to have jobs—careers, even—families, houses, friends. Lives. How do they do it? How do they experience what I experience daily and move on? Are they robots? Do they lack feelings? Maybe they have a reset button. Maybe they push it every morning before they get out of bed. Where the f*ck is my reset button? I just have a trigger, and every day I’m tightening the grip. If I pull back all the way, can that count as my reset?

~





“Regan?”

She huffed and puffed. “Yeah?”

“What’s going on?” her dad asked.

He stood hunched over, cradling the soccer ball in the crook of his sore arm.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, something tells me you’re pretending this is someone’s head,” her dad replied, holding up the ball. He tossed it to her.

She dribbled in a wide circle, then lined up for the kill shot. He could see it on her face: Fuck everyone.

“Oh, God,” Mr. Walters breathed.

Smack!

“Ouch! Okay! Enough!” he bellowed, dropping the ball and holding up his fiery red palms. “Look at these!”

Regan rolled her eyes. “Where’s Caroline? Caroline can be the goalie.”

“The hell she can!” he cried. “You’ll sever her arms!”

“Dad, I told you to wear gloves.”

“Regan, I appreciate your skill. I do. I just don’t think anyone in your immediate family is in a position to help you practice it.”

Regan stared.

“I want you to take those feet all the way to the top. I do. Especially since you have no college fund.”

She smirked.

“But I can’t have you taking me out in the process.”

“Understood.”

“Or your sister. Or mom.”

Regan said nothing. She simply held out her hands.

“We’re done here,” Mr. Walters said, throwing her the ball a final time.

She nodded and popped it in the air, passing it to herself. Her dad watched as she bounced the ball from foot to foot, every now and then catching it behind her back. She paused.

“What’s up with the no college fund thing, anyway?” she asked.

“Retirement,” he replied.

She nodded. “Makes sense. I’d pick my own retirement over my kid’s education any day.”

“You’re skilled and smart,” Mr. Walters noted, and she laughed.

S. Walden's Books