Page 158 of The Glass Girl

Cherie and Dawn are telling me about the new art module for spring as we weave through the hall on the way to Ms. Green’s. Something about clay and being excited to use the wheel. I’m trying to concentrate on their voices instead of all the faces around me when I hear it, rising above the crowd of kids, hovering in the air.

“Belllllaaaaa.”

Some guy, I don’t know him, maybe a senior, is walkingtoward us. Toward me. Saying my name over and over. Dark eyes, wide grin, a pack of guys behind him with the same grin. Snickering.

They stop in front of us. Blocking us.

Cold, cold. My body is becoming ice.

The hallway gets eerily silent and still.

“You’re my favorite sophomore, Bella.”

Slowly, he raises his T-shirt, exposing his stomach, then his chest. He touches a finger to his lips and presses it against his hairy nipple. His friends laugh.

I feel sick.

“Don’t be a dick,” Cherie says to him, pulling my arm and trying to push through the cluster of guys.

“Nip slip,” he says. “Nip. Slip.”

Laughter everyone laughing at me

“Give me a little kiss, Bella, come on.”

Leaning closer to my face. Breath on me, dirtying me.

Suddenly, I’m shoved to the side, into Dawn, who knocks into some other kids.

The guy has fallen backward into his friends. They stagger under his weight. He tries to steady himself but falls back again.

It’s Amber. Amber who shoved me out of the way and is now shoving him, over and over, screaming things I never thought would come from her.

I can only catch certain words.How would you like itandassholeandthink it’s so funnyandyour dick everywhere for everyone to see I bet it’s so small you coward how about we see that how would you like it.His friends are pushing her back, yelling at her, calling her those names boys like to call girls, but there are other girls now, girls I don’t even know, stepping in and pushing those boys and yellingthink we’re just pieces of meatandget your hands off her leave her alone sick of all of you.

My brain says:Run.

My heart says:Ride-or-die.

Just like Brandy said.

And I go in, to get my friend.

—

Amber’s shirt is ripped at the shoulder. She’s pressing an ice pack to her head. We’re in the vice principal’s office, waiting for her to come in. Cherie and Dawn are sitting on the floor, in the corner, because there aren’t enough chairs.

Very quietly, Amber says, “I’m still mad at you, you know.”

“I know,” I say.

“I’m also mad at myself. I was a bad friend. Your mom gave me the number at that place and said I was on the list to call you, but I didn’t.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say. “But it’s okay.”

She’s quiet.

“I sent you a letter,” I say.

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