Page 45 of The Wrong Side of Kai
He walks over to me and stops a few feet away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and stares at the ground. “I just want to say that I’m sorry for what happened yesterday. You know, in the janitor’s closet. It wasn’t right,” he mumbles, unable to look at me. “And I don’t think it’s right what they did to that guy this morning either.”
“And yet you saidnothingand did even less,” I bitterly remind him. “That makes you just as bad as Harrison and Noah.”
“I’m not like them,” he says, his eyes flickering up from the floor. He’s riddled with nerves. It’s clear from the bead of sweat that trickles down his skin. I always knew Anthony was the nicest of the trio, but still. He’s a jerk through association.
“Then get better friends,” I say, and I stare him down until he sighs and gives up. I watch him walk away, his head lowered, until he is out of sight. I count to twenty in my head to allow Anthony enough time to be a safe enough distance away, then I immediately get back to business.
I pull out my weaponry from my pocket and continue down the hallway. Harrison’s locker is easy to find. It’s on the very end of the row. He pinned me against it and kissed me hard often enough. I stand in front of the locker now, listening closely for a moment to ensure no one is approaching in the distance.
If Harrison wants to screw with me, then fine.
But I’ll fight back harder.
I slam the photo against the locker door and pin it in place, using all my strength to pierce the metal. Then I pop open the cap of the marker and in huge, capital letters, I write:
#SMILEFORTHECAMERA
I stand back to admire my work. On Harrison’s locker, there’s a picture. A picture he took of himself, a picture that was so easy for me to get my hands on. It was taken recently and it’s only one out of a batch of them. It’s of Harrison standing in front of his bathroom mirror, his phone shielding his face, two fingers up in a peace sign. He is totally naked.
If Harrison wants to leak that video of us to the world, then I’ll give our classmates a bit more content to enjoy. He might not even care that much. He’s already in that awful video with me, but this photograph is more personal. It’s not his choice this time. How willhefeel when he discovers something so private has been shared to the world without his consent? How will he feel to be as disrespected, mocked, and knocked off balance as I was?
And the hashtag? A nice touch.
I dump the marker in a nearby trash can and remove myself from the scene. I walk down the hallway and linger around by the noticeboard, a safe distance away from Harrison’s locker, and wait patiently. I stare at the clock on the wall and watch the seconds tick by, counting down to the moment the bell rings out and my peers discover Harrison’s nude selfie. My stomach is knotted with nerves and excitement. I’m terrified about how Harrison will react and what the fallout will be from this, because IknowI’m taking it too far. IknowI’m only adding more fuel to an already blazing fire. But I have to do this, because my ego demands that I’m the winner of this war, no matter what the cost of victory.
The bell blares out across the school, echoing down the empty hallways. It feels louder than ever as it rings in my ears. I lock my eyes on a poster on the noticeboard, something about a new after-school yoga class, trying to play it cool as the sound around me gradually amplifies from silence to a chorus of voices and footsteps. My heart feels like it’s no longer beating in my chest – as if it’s stopped completely, and my breath has caught in my throat. I want to turn around, to watch the stunned expressions of the Westerville North student body when they discover what’s pinned to Harrison Boyd’s locker, but I quickly realize I don’t have to. I can already hear the gasps of shock and the bursts of laughter.
Subtly, I angle my head and watch the scene unfold out of the corner of my eye. A crowd is forming around the locker at the end of the row, everyone pushing and shoving to get a good view, just like they did thirty minutes ago outside when the fight was going down. I remain in my spot by the noticeboard, keeping out of the way.
Harrison’s life hasn’t changed at all this week, despite that video. No one has tormented him, or whispered behind his back, or refused to sit at his table at lunch. No onecaresabout him and that video, because a football player hooking up at a party? That’s to be expected. It’scool. But the girl the football player hooks up with? A tramp with no self-respect, apparently.
Harrison deserves his fair share of humiliation too. He was the one who shared that video with the world, perfectly aware thatIwould be the one to receive all of the backlash.
“What the hell is going on?” I hear a voice yell over the buzz of commotion, and I recognize it instantly. He’s here.
My curiosity is too hard to fight. I look down the hallway at the scene I’ve created. People are snapping pictures of the locker door with their phones. Others are pulling over their friends to show them the latest Westerville North High drama. And Harrison? Harrison is shoving people out of his way, panic flashing across his features, until his eyes take in the display before him.
I watch him closely, basking in the joy that fills me when his expression twists with horror. All the color drains from his face as he looks around the crowd of spectators, all catching a glimpse of his perfectly average package. He tears the photo from his locker, shredding it in half, and then slams his fist into the metal. Everyone moves out of his way as he pushes people to the side, storming off down the hallway. He’s truly enraged, and it’s oh-so-satisfying.
For, like, two seconds.
Because in that very moment, I realize Harrison and I are no different. We are both terrible people. How am I any better for doing to him what he has done to me? I’m not. It’s the most gut-wrenching feeling in the world, the way my chest tightens with regret. Hurting Harrison doesn’t make me feel better. It only makes me feel worse than I did on Monday morning when I first discovered his betrayal.
I can’t stick around here. I shove my hands into my coat pockets and turn on my heels, striding down the hall toward the school’s entrance. My eyes sting with tears again, the same way they did yesterday when I ran down this same hallway, and I push open the doors and step out into the freezing air outside. I suck in a huge breath, filling my lungs until they feel as though they’ll explode, then I release it.
I walk all the way home to an empty house, my head down.
I feel like the worst person in the world.
18
“Hey, honey!” Kai’s mom says as she swings open the front door. She immediately ushers me inside from the cold. The house feels like a sauna compared to outside.
“Did Kai mention I was coming over?” I ask as I kick off my shoes. I hope his mom doesn’t think I’m just turning up uninvited. I’ve been texting with Kai all afternoon while the two of us both skipped school and stayed home, but not together, and I offered to come over and keep him company tonight. It’s just after eight, and I’ve spent the past hour at Chyna’s binging on chicken tacos while I built up the courage to come over here. When it comes to talking to Kai’s parents, I feel a little on edge. Usually, when I go over to a guy’s house, I avoid the parents at all costs because I don’t want them to ever think I’ll end up dating their son long-term. I have to remind myself that with Kai it’s different. We’re not like that.
At least I don’t think we are. All I know is that whatever this is, it definitely doesn’t feel like some fling.
“Of course,” Cindy answers, but her smile quickly turns down into a frown. “Was he fighting at school again? He won’t tell us what happened to his face. Maybe you know? Also, do you know why he skipped school yesterday? The school called me. He isn’t making a good first impression for himself.”
