Page 26 of Scrimmage

“Yeah, well, he’s definitely in love with her. Dude is beyond whipped. I’m talking, like, personal assistant whipped.”

“A small speed bump. She obviously doesn’t take him seriously, or she wouldn’t be stumbling out of frat houses on Thursday mornings.”

“What if that’s his frat?”

Alexi purses his lips and taps his finger on the table. “Good point. I’ll have to ask her.”

“When you finally get her attention, what are you going to do with it?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. She’s funny.”

I don’t like the way he says it. Alexi is an idiot, and even worse, he’s relentless. The more this girl pushes him away, the stronger he’s going to come onto her, which means he’ll be trying to bring her to every party. At this rate, he’ll be in love with her by the end of the semester and dragging her home for Christmas. I better not find her in my damn house.

Chapter Four

Ashland

I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. They jolt vertically over and over again, resetting every few seconds. They don’t glow much anymore. I’m not sure if they really glow at all or if it’s my imagination. Doesn’t really matter, I guess.

I count them even though I know how many are left. Twenty. Where will I be when I’m twenty? I hope I’m not alive, but if I am, is it nice? Will I be walking down the street breathing in fresh air? The thought is stupid. I know it as I picture it. It makes me sick as much as it makes me giddy. Just the small possibility, the tiny pin prick of hope, is enough to make me count the stars again.

Momma always told me that stars weren’t special. She said that contrary to Disney’s bullshit, you couldn’t wish on one. ‘They’re just fuckin rocks.’ Well, I’d rather be a fucking rock. At least I’d be completely mindless.

If I could sigh, I think I would. I don’t think a fifteen-year-old is supposed to be this melancholy, but my little journal I shove under the raised edge of the carpet begs to differ. I write sentences. I wouldn’t call them poems, and they’re certainly not love letters, but I write lines on a piece of paper sometimes that help me feel. I read them over and over again wishing I could shove them into a bottle and send them off into the sea to be picked up by someone who would just fuckingcare.

Up. Down. Up. Down. The stars bounce.

Can you kill yourself with a piece of paper? Asking for me. What about a bottle cap? Can you choke hard enough to end it? It sounds pretty painful and I don’t think I could do it, but I imagine.

Who would come to my funeral? Me, obviously, but who else? I wonder if my momma would be there. I get a sweet and sour taste in my mouth at the same time. I hate her, but even after her death I want her to love me. I want her to somehow show me a sign that I wasn’t the worst fucking thing that ever happened to her. The others either don’t care or they pretend they don’t, but I do.

The truth is that I’ll be buried in a backyard if I’m lucky. They’ll shove my body into a deep grave, probably with a few others, and cover me up to rot. My momma told me that once. That I started rotting the day I was born. I watched her rot. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

What if someday I’m not the object of his affection? Will he leave me alone? Will he let me just walk out of this place with a thank you, a hug, and a wave? Only during these times do I fantasize about something beyond this.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

The squeak of the mattress fills my ears like an alarm. The world is opening up again, forcing me to be in it.

“Who do you belong to, Ashland?”

The tears stream down my cheeks, but I’m not sure why. It’s instinctual, probably. He likes it when I cry.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.Beeping accompanies each movement.

It’s almost over. I can tell by his grunts. Up. Up. Up.

I stare at the stars and count them again, slowly absorbing myself in each number. I heard about constellations once. I don’t really know how they work other than the Big Dipper, but I know they’re stars with stories. I’ve made my own up, and I recount them in my head as he tells me he loves me.

My phone alarm is blaring over and over again. It bleeds into my nightmare where I see him.

Alarm. That’s an alarm. Fuck. Shit. Not again.

My arms flail as I fall out of the bed, taking the sheets with me.

“Fuck,” a groggy voice mumbles. Chance grabs the pillow and shoves it over his face. “Make it stop.”

This time it’s a dingy apartment. I didn’t mean to pass out, but we drank so much last night that I must have. I spot my backpack by the door and a faint memory of me forcing this guy to stop by my house and get my stuff filters through the haze. At least I came prepared. My head is pounding as I throw on my clothes and brush my teeth. Chance doesn’t even move. I can’t find my bra, and I just accept it. It’s not my favorite thing to do but extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. I grab my board and head for my class, dreading it the whole way.

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