Page 88 of Breakaway

I keep silent, holding my unlocked phone and just staring at my teammate. “Layla is great,” I blurt, and Clay’s eyes flare at me, and then at Drake, who’s sitting with Colton in the next row over.

“You probably want to make that reservation, Pashkevich,” he drawls, diverting his attention to the window. Laughing, I open the last message Nevaeh sent me, read it, and quickly reply.

Me:

On my way to the airport. Plan to buy your magazine so I can read your article on my flight

Malyshka:

Hope you like it ??

Malyshka:

And I can’t wait to see you

Me:

I have no doubt I’ll like it. I’m so proud of you, Nevaeh

Slipping my phone in my pocket, I notice the airport ahead of us, and my lips stretch into a big smile. I’ll be home soon.

With my earbuds in,I nestle comfortably into my seat and open the magazine I bought. A few of my teammates start throwing curious glances my way, but I don’t care what they think about me reading a magazine with Olivia Rodrigo on the cover. I would read a fairy tale about a princess if Nevaeh wrote it, simply because I want to support her. If it matters to her, it mattersto me. It’s the kind of logic I believe is right. Because I’d do anything for the people I care about.

Nevaeh doesn’t deserve anything less.

I think we all learn from a very young age to be compassionate. To be respectful and merciful to those who need it. A homeless man, an orphaned child, a grieving family. It’s so easy to feel sorry for them. For most of us, our desire to do something to help, to support, is powerful. Listening to their stories, crying with them about the tragedies of their past, feeling happy when we see how their lives are changing for the better. It feels all kinds of right, and we never question it. Never think there might be others who desperately need help too…but some people just do a good job of hiding it.

We see them in crowds. In the faces of our classmates. In our colleagues. In our friends. In a woman who passes us hurriedly on the street. These people are everywhere, and the only thing that unites them is a lack of love.

And I was one of them.

Tightness in my chest prevents me from breathing freely. I wiggle in my seat, as if hoping that if I change my posture it will be better. Of course it won’t. The feeling isn’t physical; it’s all emotional. It’s suffocating me, forming a lump in my throat. My eyebrows are pulled together, and I start chewing on the inside of my cheek.

Moya devochka…?2

More than anyone, kids look up to their parents. Especially when it comes to their professions, looks, or behaviors. I was no exception. Growing up, I’d watch my mom and think she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The most elegant and stylish. I wanted to be just like her. She wasmy role model, and more than anything I wanted her to notice me. To hear her praise me for my achievements. I desperately needed her, but she never cared.

Neither did my dad, who thought money would fix my loneliness.

By the age of six, I knew I was an unwanted child. A burden that my parents carried as they both drowned in their own misery. We were a wealthy family that lived without love in a house filled to the brim with hate and indifference.

Unfortunately, little by little, it poisoned my heart.

I keep reading, learning more and more about her childhood and her years in school. How she sought approval from others, tried to replace the emptiness she felt with a feeling of belonging. Some things I already knew, but some shake me to my core, enraging me and making me hate her parents even more than I already do.

Never showing up to events. Never supporting her in her desire to become a writer. Never telling her that they loved her. Indeed, she had financial support, all the toys she wanted, expensive clothes and electronics. But she didn’t have the thing that everybody needs…unconditional love and support.

Bitterness became my last name when I grew older. I was hurting inside, and I wanted to make others hurt too. I’d use my status, my parents’ money, and even my body. I did anything I could to replace the lack of love with sick adoration from people who simply feared me.

Nevaeh Lawrence was the meanest girl you could’ve imagined. The Queen B who thought she ruled the school and everyone around her. I deserved to be knocked off my high horse. To pay for all the tears and hurt I caused…and Kyle Edwards was my punishment.

Pressing my palm to my forehead, I scowl as I read about her relationship with Kyle. A girl who lived without love met a narcissistic guy who was spoiled by the love of his parents. The most popular kids in school, they looked like the perfect couple, with only one flaw—neither of them loved the other.

What started as a beneficial relationship for both of them quickly turned into something Nevaeh couldn’t control. Kyle used her for sex and his sadistic games, not giving a damn how many bruises he left on her body. He knew she wouldn’t say anything, because of the image she was trying to uphold, and he used it in his favor, to justify his own behavior more and more. It was only a matter of time before he tried these things with other girls while also maintaining the image of a loyal boyfriend. Lyn was the one with whom he crossed the line.

Knowing that someone died because I was too ashamed to talk honestly about my boyfriend was heartbreaking. Finding out that everyone in school thought I had something to do with it because Lyn and I didn’t get along was devastating. Shame became my constant companion. My self-confidence disappeared as if it hadn’t ever been there to begin with, showing me what a miserable person I was, someone who used other people’s pain and hurt to make myself feel better. I deserved every bad word said about me. Every insult. All the hate. It was my punishment for being silent, for being indifferent. For being a coward.

I still remember the questions I was asked during the trial. After all the pictures I took of my bruises were displayed on the screen for everyone to see. “Why didn’t you talk to your parents about it? Didn’t they notice your bruises?” the prosecutor, a woman in her forties, asked…and I laughed. I laughed so hard I couldn’t stop until I realized I was crying.

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