Page 45 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

“Thanks.”

“You shouldn’t fill your head with rubbish from the play. Love doesn’t exist,” he says quietly.

I grip the steering wheel. He’s the real killjoy. “Thanks for the pep talk. Please use your seatbelt.”

His eyes burn into my side, and I breathe normally when he looks away. He has a girlfriend. He should talk to her about love and its inexistence. As for me, I’ll fall in love. Maybe I won’t, but I won’t discourage others. We are en route to Asher’s school when he pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his bag. The knife drops to his feet. Ben picks it up and removes a stick from the box.

“Please don’t smoke in my car.”

“Who says I was going to smoke?” he whispers.

The unlit cigarette dangles from a corner of his mouth. “I guess you brought out that cancer stick to admire it.” When he says nothing, I add, “You shouldn’t smoke these things, Ben. It’s bad.”

“It helps to clear my mind,” falls out of his lips in a silent whisper. That was…unexpected. We are having an actual conversation. Ben straightens up in his seat. “Smoking helps with the cold.”

Asher’s school appears from a distance. I find a parking spot, but none of us get out. I toss him a glance. He still has the cigarette tucked between his lips, but the lighter is gone. Feeling bold, I pull it from his lips and break it into two. “They cause cancer. And you can die from cancer.”

Ben huffs out a laugh. He props his jaw on top of the bag he holds close to his chest. For once, he doesn’t look formidable. “Maybe I’m trying to get myself killed, Mother Theresa.” I can’t tell if he’s joking since we barely speak to each other. “But what do you know, Miss Perfect?”

First of all, I am far from perfect. I can’t dress how I want because I have vitiligo, but I am not about to tell him that. I won’t give this bully another reason to mock me. He never returned my necklace. For all I know, he’s the one with the perfect life. He left his bike there. No flinching.

“Not much, maybe. But I know there will be no one to take care of Asher like you do if you die.”

Ben is quiet after my response, and then I hear a “Fuck you.”

“I wouldn’t come near your prick with a ten-foot pole. Nice of you to offer, though, Benny.”

A small smile breaks out on his lips, but it’s gone the moment he catches me staring at him. The silence isn’t as stifling. I don’t know if we can be friends, but we can be non-enemies for a start.

Something drops to my leg. I look down to see a bracelet. “From Asher,” he says. “He made it.”

“I thought you didn’t want me talking to him.”

He opens the door and puts out a foot. “I don’t. Thanks for the ride.”

“Ben!” I say. He stops walking but doesn’t turn around. My throat dries up. This can only go one of two ways: bad or extremely bad. “Do you have a ride back home? I can wait. I don’t mind.”

Time slows as he shortens the gap. He bends over so I can see his face. I offer him a grim smile.

“Don’t you have stuff to do with your best friend?” he asks with a sneer in his voice. I don’t take offense. Instead, I shake my head. He doubles back in shock, and I have half a mind to laugh at him. Maria and I hardly get to see each other after school hours. Her family is wholesome and fun but can be too much sometimes. Weekends are best for hanging out. “We won’t be long.” A smile touches my lips once he’s gone, but he makes a U-turn, and my breath catches. “Thank you, Tee—Tessa Mower.”

Twenty-Seven

I twirlmy new bracelet and trace the tiny letter beads with my name on them while waiting my turn. Ms. Jota takes note as Whitney performs. Much to my annoyance, Whitney’s red pointed heels connect hard to the wooden floor of the stage, the sound scratching my ears. I focus on Ms. Jota’s face to tell if she’s pleased with Whitney’s performance, but she gives nothing away.

Whitney finishes with a mock bow, her friends clap, and she climbs down the stage. Ms. Jota picks a sheet from the table, squinting at the list. “Theresa Mower?” I raise a hand. “Your turn.”

My heart thumps against my ribcage as I grab my script. I almost stumble on my way up, and the girls seated in the audience giggle. I release my breath when I make it to the stage in one piece.

“You are auditioning for the role of Juliet?” Ms. Jota asks.

“Yes,” I answer with a nod, very much aware Whitney also auditioned for that role. I must get it.

Ms. Jota reclines on her seat, arms folded on the table. She signals for me to start, but the words dry in my throat. With Whitney and her friends, she was bent over her desk, taking notes while they performed. I had hoped for the same. My eyes wander to the audience, the three girls gaze expectantly, and the only boy present yawns. I close my eyes, take a long breath, then open them.

The words on the paper jump at me, and my heart beats so loud in my ears that I forget the lines I memorized. Ms. Jota coughs twice from the table positioned a few feet away from the stage, and I offer her a tight smile followed by an apology. I will be fine. I have done this before; I can do it again.

With that in mind, I read out the first line, and my shaky voice echoes through the hall.

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