Page 29 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

She never takes the hint. I shove the phone into my back pocket and retrace my step to the clinic. Of course, I don’t go in. I lean back on the wall, close my eyes and wait. The school counselor should be expecting me. We have one of those foolish sessions a few hours a week. I don’t want to be in that drab office, listening to that woman drone on and on in her even more boring voice. But I have to do these fucking things to please them, or they will cancel the arrangement. Fuck them.

Minutes go by, and my fingers start to jerk. It’s the guilt mixed with nervousness. I think I feel bad. I run my palms over my face and exhale slowly. No point staying here. I grab my backpack and head to the same place I punched her. Bile pushes to my throat, my forehead meets the wall, and I flatten my hands on the wall. What’s the difference between her and me? I punched someone who had no defense. A girl. My eyes smart with tears. I am absolutely like her, maybe worse.

I unzip my backpack and pull out the second phone. It has the account I sometimes use to check info on BGC. My palms are sweaty as I open the website and tap onMessage Usat the bottom of my screen. Anyone can message them, but there are no guarantees your scoop will go live on their page. I have a feeling this will make it to the front page since it has to do with Theresa Mower.

Ben punched Tessa. She’s in the clinic now.

They might take Asher from me if this gets to them, but I hit send on the text and wait for the worse to happen. The post shows up almost immediately with a meme of a girl in a hospital bed.

That was fast. The first comment appears. It’s a hate comment saying Tessa totally deserves it. I bark out a short, fake laugh. They don’t even know the true story. When did anyone ever care for the true story? We are all fakers. Another person reposts it, and I do the same. I need her best friend to see the post. When the post has about fifty likes, I shove the phone into my pocket and go in.

The bell goes off. Ms. Ola should be getting ready to leave for lunch, so I increase my steps. The sea of students in the hallway parts for me. From the distance, I spot Daniel and the best friend.

Guilt bubbles up to the surface. Maria’s gaze collides with mine, and her scowl deepens. She saw the post. Good. Now, she can do the needful. Because I’m getting used to being an asshole, I slow down for them to catch up. Maria brushes into a string of words I don’t understand. Everyone knows she is Spanish, and she is probably cussing me out. But I have to be the asshole, so I wink. Daniel is more aggressive. He slams his shoulder into mine, and they both walk away.

The few students gathered to watch the drama disperse as soon as my head raises. I cover the gap to Ms. Ola’s office, but before I can knock, the door opens, and the hand with her purse drops.

“Mister Benjamin Carter.”

Ms. Ola is not pleased to see me. I’m about to ruin her lunch break the same way she will destroy the minutes we have been forced to spend together. I half-expect her to kick me out. For once, I need her to stop being a professional. I need her to flare up and yell at me so I can feel less horrible for giving her such a hard time.

But she steps back into the office. “Come in.”

I follow behind her. She shuts the door, and I slump into the single chair I always occupy since I was forced to do this crap. One semester of this bullshit was our agreement. They think they can fix me by dumping me here when the real issue hasn’t been addressed. Ms. Ola settles in the seat opposite me. There’s a table between us with an unsolved puzzle on it. It wasn’t there during our first session, but it showed up at the next meeting after I mentioned—in passing—that I loved puzzles. It’s one of the things Asher and I spend the week doing before he has to leave. That and gaming.

“There’s a rumor going around that you punched someone,” she starts. Today, she is not smiling at me, and the lines on her forehead wrinkle as she holds my gaze. “Is it true? Did you do it?”

One, I hate that her voice is soft and comforting. Two, why does she have to be so kind? She sure as hell knows it’s true, but rather than jump to a conclusion like everyone else, she gives me the benefit of a doubt. I count to seventeen under my breath, then count backward to one.

“Benjamin?”

I sit up straighter and lower my elbows to the armrests. “Yes.”

“How come?” I shrug. She drums the tip of her pen against the corner of her lips. Ms. Ola has long learned I won’t tell her shit, so there’s a small recorder on the coffee stool beside her couch with its red light blinking. “Do you know what this could do to you, Benjamin? The principal will have to suspend you. It will be on your report and affect your chances of getting into college.”

“Like I care about that,” I say, teeth gritted.

“Well, you should start caring. It’s your last year of high school.”

Not once does she raise her voice. Mom would have had a fit already. We would be engaged in a screaming bout by now. Maybe that’s why I crack. “She touched him. My brother,” I whisper.

“Inappropriately?”

Red clouds my vision. I breathe in and out. I would have killed her if she did.

“No. She was just around him.”

Confusion settles over Ms. Ola’s face. She tips her head back like she wants to understand this student before her. She should quit trying. I don’t even understand myself. She shakes her head slowly. Is she disappointed in me? Maybe. Her hand runs through her cropped hair, and I follow the movement as the same hand grabs a pen to scribble on her note. I go stiff. She never writes when I’m here.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asks.

“You shouldn’t touch anyone without their permission,” I mumble.Or give them cookies.

Ms. Ola quirks a brow. “Did you have her permission to hit her? Because that involved touching.”

Oh. “I didn’t…” I stop myself. There is no good enough reply to her based on my argument. I slide down the chair like it can hide me. “It was an accident. She wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Did you apologize to her?”

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