One Small Thing(67)

“You guys can talk on your own time. Before school is mine.”

Scarlett’s face is now emotionless while Jeff’s is flushed with something I don’t fully understand.

“Jeff, let her go,” I order with a scowl. “You’re leaving a red mark on her skin, for Pete’s sake.”

He ignores me. “Should I let you go, Scar? Is that what you want? To break up with me?”

“I didn’t say break up with her. I said let her go.” I gesture toward his hand clamped around her neck.

“Scarlett?” he prompts.

We both look at her. She’s staring at the tips of her gray flats.

“No. I don’t want to break up with you, and I don’t want you to let me go,” she replies dully.

“There you go, Lizzie. Scar likes my hand right where it is.”

He squeezes her nape, and I swear I see her wince. Or maybe I imagine it. Maybe because I’d wince if Jeff was touching me like that.

“Ready to go to Calc?” I ask my friend.

Jeff answers for her. “She’ll be there soon. You go on ahead.” He directs a smile at me that isn’t friendly at all. It makes me take a step back.

“Scar?” I say uncertainly.

“I’m fine.”

She doesn’t sound fine. She sounds down—a muted version of herself. I hesitate, not entirely sure what to do. Students start filing out of the hall. Calc is starting in less than five minutes. Finally, I tuck the wildflower in my notebook and say, “I’ll see you in class.”

I walk six feet and then bend down to tie my nonexistent shoelace.

Behind me, I hear Jeff ask, “What are you wearing?”

“It’s Chanel,” Scarlett responds. “I got it—”

“This is so slutty, babe. I thought we talked about your wardrobe choices. Are you so insecure that you need to give all the guys boners? Is that when you’ll start feeling good about yourself? At this point, why bother even wearing a shirt? All the ones you own are fucking see-through anyway.”

I wait for her to blow up at him. To tell him to take his disgusting opinions and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.

“I’m sorry. I’ll change,” she says instead.

My jaw drops.

“When?” he demands.

“After class.”

“You better.” There’s an or else implied.

I don’t like the tone he’s using with her. She’s his girlfriend, not his puppet. Straightening my shoulders, I stand up and confront him. “Leave Scar alone.”

But it’s not Jeff who responds. It’s Scarlett, and in a way I didn’t expect.

“Why are you sticking your nose in our business?” she bites out. “I know your home life sucks right now, but maybe stop hanging out with drug dealers and murderers. I don’t do that. Jeff doesn’t do that. But I guess that’s why we have doors on our rooms and you don’t.”

I stare in dismay at how she just threw out my secret for everyone to hear. A few of our classmates start whispering. A couple laugh.

I tighten my jaw. “Whatever, Scar.”

I can’t believe she just blabbed something I told her in confidence. I was sticking up for her! I stomp to class, steam blowing out my ears. I slam my books on my desk and scrape the chair against the tile. Hard.

Chase, already in his seat, arches an eyebrow. I want to vent to him, but I can’t. We’re not allowed to have a friendship. I’m supposed to hate the sight of him.

That makes me even angrier. I’m going to tell Scarlett off when she shows up to class. Best friends do not say shit like that in front of other people. Best friends do not... My thoughts dry up in my throat as Scar walks in wearing an oversize green polo. Her cute sheer top is nowhere to be seen.

Jeff’s behind her. His plaid shirt is no longer hanging open. He made her put his polo on. What a jackass.

Another burst of alarm hits me when Scar walks right by the empty desk next to mine and stops in front of Chris Levin’s desk.

“Scar’s going to sit here,” Jeff announces.

“What?” Chris’s perfectly groomed eyebrows crowd together in confusion. “This is my desk.”

“Did Mrs. Russell assign seats when the semester started?”

Chris continues to look confused. “No.”

“Then move.” Jeff says it with a smile—the same unfriendly one he used on me.

I sigh. “Scarlett, just sit down.”

“Butt out, Beth.” Jeff points to Chris. “Move.”

“Please,” Scar adds, putting her hands together in prayer. “Just for today.”

“I get it, I wouldn’t want to sit near Manson, either,” Troy says snidely. “Sight of him’s been making me ill for weeks.”

“Is that why you sucked so bad last Friday?” I interject. Troy and his defense allowed five touchdowns in their last game.

“Screw you, Jones.”

“Not if you paid me a million dollars.”

“Right, because you’re only going to screw guys who kill your sister.”

I almost fall out of my chair. Inside me, ice-cold rage battles with red-hot embarrassment.

Someone gasps.

Chairs scrape and I find myself shooting to my feet to stand next to Chase.