One Small Thing(20)

I track Chase’s path with stunned horror. The muscles of one defined arm flex as he twists the doorknob.

The door closes softly behind him and the sound crescendos.

“God, I cannot believe he’s allowed in this school,” Scarlett says.

“I don’t know why he would want to come here,” I reply. I wanted to crawl under my desk earlier, but whatever I’m feeling can’t begin to compare with Chase’s humiliation.

But why am I sympathizing with him, dammit? I’m supposed to hate him, just like everyone else hates him. I’m supposed to feel sick that I allowed him to touch me.

Maybe I shouldn’t hate him, then. Maybe I should hate myself.

I groan in distress, causing Scar to glance over. “You okay?” she asks.

No, I’m not okay. At all. But I manage a nod.

“Did you see how he walked out of here? All swagger and shit. Like he’s proud of what he’s done. It’s disgusting.” My friend’s face screws up like she’s smelled one of Allyn Todd’s infamous farts.

“Yeah,” I echo vaguely. He didn’t seem intimidated at all—not by the other students, not by the teacher, not even by me. There’s something intriguing about that. It’s what drew me to him before, when I only knew him as Chase, a random hot guy at a party who gave me attention when I needed it.

Ms. Dvo?ák calls the class to order and continues her lecture, but my attention is broken. Shouldn’t I be having the same feelings as Scarlett? Shouldn’t I be mad at this guy? Shouldn’t I be horrified that I have to breathe the same air, sit in the same class? What’s wrong with me that I’m not?

Why do I feel like it’s my classmates and Ms. Dvo?ák who are the problem here and not Chase? I half expected the class to rise up and yell “Shame” like some scene out of Game of Thrones. And that doesn’t sit right with me.

It’s been three years since Rachel died, but no one wants me to let go.

After the bell rings, I linger at my desk until Ms. Dvo?ák notices me.

“Is there something I can do for you, Elizabeth?”

I pick up my supplies and make my way to the front. “About Charlie—”

“I can’t kick him out of the class every day,” she interrupts. “You’ll have to talk to the principal about that.”

“I know. I...I’m actually not bothered by him.”

“You don’t need to say that. I’m not thrilled to have to teach him, either.”

I grapple for an argument that she’ll buy. “My family believes in forgiveness,” I lie. “That an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. That sort of thing.”

Ms. Dvo?ák’s face softens. “That’s very generous of you.” She leans forward and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll do what I can to minimize his disruption. I suppose I can ask Principal Geary myself to have him transferred to another class. If he needs a fine arts credit, he can take something else.”

My mouth falls open slightly. She totally mistook my attempts to smooth things over as a complaint in disguise.

“He’s not a disruption,” I repeat.

“You don’t always have to put on a brave front, Elizabeth. I’ll see what I can do, all right? Now, you’d better go so you’re not late for your next class.” She gives me another distracted, condescending pat.

Frustrated, I stomp out of Dvo?ák’s classroom and go hunting for Chase, the note I wrote him firmly in hand. Of course, he’s not readily found. I walk down to the lockers, but there are so many people around that I can’t slide the note into his locker without being seen.

Or can I? Who says I shouldn’t talk to him?

“Lizzie! Are you okay?” Macy throws her arms around me. “I heard that—that criminal was bothering you in Dvo?ák’s Music History class. How horrible. This school is the worst.”

“It’s Beth,” I mutter, but nobody’s listening to me.

“You let me know if he’s bothering you and we’ll teach him a lesson.” This is from Troy Kendall, a football player whom I’ve never said more than two words to.

“We should do it anyway,” another thick-necked jock says.

“Tell your parents,” Yvonne murmurs at my side. “They’ll get this straightened out. You could put something in the paper, rally public support behind you.”

Stomach churning, I crumple the note in my hand. Who says I shouldn’t talk to him?

Only everyone.

*

I arrive home after a forty-five-minute bus ride. I hate the bus. I hate it with the heat of a thousand fiery suns. It smells like a rancid mix of sweat, bad gas and garbage. The seats look like a thousand middle schoolers spit on them and then rubbed their dirty butts all over the covering. And it’s bumpy as hell. I feel sick to my stomach by the time the ride’s over.

No one’s home when I walk in. Mom’s at work and Dad’s at the store. Normally I’d be at the Ice Cream Shoppe, but I’ve been banished from working. Losing the spending money from my part-time job sucks. Plus, I need to save up for the college application fees.

Not being able to volunteer at the animal clinic? Not bearable at all. I’m supposed to be there this weekend, and I’m already planning on broaching the subject again on Friday. Maybe Mom and Dad would be willing to let me keep at least one shift.