Page 3 of Neverland

Chapter 2

THEN

“What are you waiting for, fucking greaser? Hit me!”

The boy from the eleventh grade circled my best friend, bouncing back and forth on his toes like he was trained to fight. He had this rabid look in his eyes like he wasn’t planning on letting us go unscathed.

“Romeo, let’s go,” I begged, but my pleas were drowned by the jeering crowd. The eleventh grader took a swing connecting on Romeo’s chin with a sickening thud, the power behind it causing him to stumble to the ground.

More cheers erupted, spurring the boy on. “Please stop,” I yelled, stepping forward, arms outstretched, willing the older boy to stop. “We didn’t do anything to you.”

“Not yet you haven’t.” The boy leered, eyeing the length of my body. “But we can change that, can’t we, greaser?” He grinned at Romeo knowing his taunts were having the desired effect.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Romeo yelled, taking the bait. I’d never seen him so angry and thirsty for revenge, and all because this eleventh grader took it upon himself to put his hand up my skirt.

I retreated, unsure how to handle the threat. Surely, he wouldn’t be stupid to do anything to me with everyone watching.

“Lucy, move out of the way,” Romeo ordered, straightening himself.

“Yeah, Lucy,” the older boy mocked. “Listen to your taco boyfriend before you wear his blood.”

“Don’t be an asshole!” I snapped, knowing the racial jibes actually cut my best friend deep.

Cavalier about the drama he was causing, the boy sauntered up to me until our bodies were only inches apart. “Or you’ll do what?”

“Arrrgghhh,” Romeo roared, charging forward like a raging linebacker. One minute the older boy was in my face licking his lips like he wanted a taste of me, the next minute he was gone, crash-tackled to the ground by a furious Romeo.

“Holy shit!” I stood in disbelief, mouth agape. Romeo didn’t match the boy’s height or weight. We were two years younger and while everyone loved him, he was my only friend. I loved him more than life itself, but right now as the older boy managed to roll on top, I feared for Romeo’s life.

My heart thudded. This wasn’t going to end well.

The crowd cheered like they were watching their football team in the playoffs.

“Get off him,” I roared. With each blow the boy delivered to Romeo’s baby face, I hit him in turn, my fists pummeling into the boy’s muscly back. He didn’t flinch. In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice. “Leave him—” Strong arms hooked around mine, pulling me away, my legs kicking. “Get off me,” I continued hollering at whoever held me close to their chest. I watched with a breaking heart as the eleventh grader sent Romeo’s blood splattering across the pavement. He was relentless. A soul so dark he couldn’t even see any light.

Among the chaos, someone yelled ‘teacher’ and everyone, including the person restraining me, fled the traumatic scene like ants climbing over the top of each other. The boy rose to his feet, a wicked glimmer in his dark eyes with speckles of blood, not his own, on his face and clothes.

“Don’t for a second think this is over,” he warned with a promise I believed. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”

~~~

“Lucy. Lucy. Lucy?”

Cameron, the boy next to me who barely tolerated my presence at the best of times, shoved my shoulder, breaking through my thoughts.

“Lucy?” Mrs. Garland asked once more. “Can you tell me the significance of propaganda in World War Two?”

I sat up straight, knuckles turning white as I gripped my pencil. “Um… yes.”

“Um…yes,” Cameron mocked in a stupid voice, causing a ripple of giggles across the class.

“Enough, Mr. Clayton,” Mrs. Garland warned before waiting expectantly for my response.

“Its significance was the bias it created. Influencing countrymen to do the honorable thing and fight for what they should have believed in.”

Pleased with my answer, she nodded enthusiastically, before eligibly scribbling my response on the blackboard. Only when she turned her attention to another daydreaming student—her favorite targets—did I relax and fall back into my thoughts. I glanced at the empty seat to my right. Romeo’s desk. After the bell rang early, marking the end of recess courtesy of the commotion, Mr. Frankston, the gym teacher, had picked a dazed Romeo off the ground and escorted him to the office. The eleventh grader had done a runner.

Ordered to head straight to class, I arrived after the students had taken their seats, my tardy appearance at the door sparking a round of whispers and snide remarks.

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