Page 94 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

Ben shrugs and releases his grip on my waist to take my hands. His palms are warm. I want him to cup my cheeks and share some of his warmth. “I don’t know, babe.” My heart thuds. I love it when he calls me babe. God. I’m in so much trouble. “For whatever I did to earn this…attitude.”

Guilt pushes a lump into my throat. I hide my hands behind me, and my heart cracks at his smile. I am not an awful person, but I need to protect myself. His thumb brushes my cheek. Oh, God.

“I want my Juliet back,” Ben whispers with a small smile that doesn’t transfer to my lips. His worried eyes take in my appearance: my flustered face and pouted lips. But I don’t say a word to him. He frowns. “Alright. Since you won’t tell me the issue, can I at least walk you to class?”

The warning bell rings. We jump apart, and he chuckles. Students bump into us in their hurry to reach their classrooms. Ben’s head jerks toward my class, but I am stiff. Kissing a corner of my lips, he slips his hand into the crook of my elbow before I can process anything. It almost feels like we are back to being cool, but that voice in my head doesn’t fail to remind me of our status.

“Have a good day, Gracie,” Ben says when we are at the front of my class.

Ben darts in the other direction without hearing my reply. What if I chase him with my attitude? We are not dating, but I want him in my life. I am so confused. I want him as more than a friend.

I zone out during class. Once I get a chance, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I splash water on my face and glare at myself in the mirror. My wet hair sticks to my forehead. Aside from the drops dotting the front of my shirt, I look okay. No eye bags or bruises. A hint of lip gloss. I have been putting more effort into my appearance. Talk about wearing coordinated outfits and trying more color combinations after Ben jokingly asked if I had anything other than black t-shirts. If only he knows about the pile of untouched clothes Mom dumps with me in hopes that my tastes will improve.

The door creaks. I clamp my eyes shut, willing the intruder to leave. A girl cannot get a moment of privacy in this school. My eyes jerk open when the person claps. “Who do we have here?”

If I missed her entrance by mistake, I can’t miss her sarcasm or the mockery in her voice. Our eyes lock in the mirror. Olivia flips her imaginary hair, and I stifle a laugh. Her hair is in a bun. She would remember that if she wasn’t bent on making me miserable. Bitch. Did she follow me?

“Poor you,” she coos. “Trouble in love island?”

She and Abigail would make great friends. They make up phrases on the spot.

“None of your fucking business,” I spit out. “Get a life. Ben chose me over you. Deal with it.”

Olivia clicks her tongue and takes menacing steps toward me. My back presses into the sink as she bridges the distance to level me with a distasteful look. I can punch her, but it won’t help me in the long run. It sucks when the person you shared your insecurities with turns against you. That’s the case with us. It won’t matter how much I punch her. As long as her mouth functions, she will tear me down with her words. Sadly, there’s no handbook on how to protect yourself from that.

“Don’t be so sure about that, Loser.”

Olivia leans so close her breath fans my face. She is jealous and hurt I got the boy she wants. We stand toe to toe, the perfect position for me to headbutt her. Will Ben take my side if he finds out I hit his friend? Why am I thinking about him? He is the reason I couldn’t concentrate in class.

“You are not even his girlfriend,” she whispers, stepping back to gauge my reaction. Knots form in my belly. I force myself to meet her gaze. I cannot let her get to me. “And you will never be. I wouldn’t want to date you too. Not with those ugly stripes on that zebra skin. Is it contagious?”

Vitiligo is not zebra skin, and it is not contagious. She would know this if she picked up a book to read. I absorb her words like a wet sponge, and she jumps another step back to make her point.

“I bet it is. It’s why no one wants to talk to you. Four years, Tessa, yet no one wants to be friends with you except Maria. Makes me wonder if she also has that thing.” Her face contorts on the last word like she’s holding back her puke. Disgust coils my spine, and I countdown from twenty. She is not worth the effort. She is a hater. “Maria has the looks, but what do you have?”

Olivia knows where to hit, and she hits it hard.

What do I have? Nothing. Flat chest. Skinny legs and arms for days with no fashion sense. Her words burn holes into my fragile confidence. I tug my sleeve over my knuckles and shrink into myself. Her pointy heels click against the floor as she sashays forward to deliver the last blow.

“Ben will never pick you over me, and you know why?”

A traitorous tear spills out of my eyes, I swipe at my cheek to catch it, but the dam finally bursts open. Olivia shudders. Her condescending gaze sweeps over my body, and she smirks. I hate that she’s right about everything, about Ben, that we were once friends. She knows where it hurts.

“Because I am everything you will never be, Mother Theresa.”

She is not lying. I can never perfect that aura of confidence she has going on for her. I can never look as sexy as she does in something as simple as faded jeans. I can’t even wear a crop top.

“People like Benjamin Carter don’t date girls like you. They date me, Olivia Beckham. You will never be good enough for him.” She straightens up and pokes my shoulder. I swat her hand, and she chuckles. “Don’t bother trying. Find your type and stay away from him. Benjamin is mine.”

The ensuing silence after her exit is loud. My tears create a small puddle at my feet, and I let them pour shamelessly until the pain in my heart subsides. It was meant to happen. All I needed was a reminder and a wake-up call. But it was fun while it lasted. Dating in high school is unnecessary.

Her words are a shield over me as I step into the hallway. They echo so much in my head that I begin to believe them.

Ben is out of my league.

I will never be his type.

He hates labels only because it’s me.

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