Page 28 of Seven Days in June

A wild current charged through her, something primal, dirty, desperate, confusing. Was this being seen for what she really was? Being witnessed? It was heady and terrifying. Genevieve had hoped for someone to share secrets with. But she hadn’t bet on someone beating her, crazy for crazy. And she hadn’t bet on the person being a boy, a boy who looked like that, who looked at her like that.

Somehow, he’d snaked into her head and sunk his fangs into her brain, poisoning her with hope. A cruel trick.

Genevieve lurched forward and grabbed his tee in her fist, yanking him down to her level.

“Stop looking at me like your dick’s in my mouth,” she said, seething, still clutching the peach in her left hand. “You like me now? Think you’re original? Boys love to torture the weird girl, the freak. But guess what? I’m already in pieces, so—”

With feral quickness, he plucked her fist from his shirt and pinned her arm behind her back. Genevieve arched, drawing a breath. A delicious tremble tore through her.

He held her like that for a beat and then brought his mouth to her ear. “Don’t.”

“D-don’t what?”

“Call yourself a freak.”

He let her go. Then he grabbed the peach out of her hand and took a deliberately indulgent, wet bite. He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.

“I’m Shane,” he said, a spark of triumph in his eye. And walked away.

Genevieve found her classroom. Peering through the doorway, she saw chaos. A couple of kids were in a cypher, one girl was unbraiding her hair, and a boy was banging his desk on the floor. Four kids were napping in their chairs; another, on the floor. At the chalkboard, the teacher was explaining photosynthesis, which Genevieve had learned in private school in fifth grade.

In a far corner, tipped back way too far in his chair, was Shane.

She wasn’t ready to see him after whatever monumental thing they’d just experienced. She’d staggered away from the bleachers, feeling like she’d toppled into a tornado.

She wiggled the nicked vintage cameo ring she’d once stolen from Lizette’s jewelry box. It usually calmed her. But not now.

With a deep breath, she entered the room. The class gradually quieted to watchful silence. Thirty pairs of eyes followed Genevieve to an empty desk in the front. She sat down.

Reacting to the sudden stillness, the teacher turned around.

“Who are you?”

“Genevieve Mercier. Sorry, I got…lost.”

“We’re all lost.” Mr. Weismuller was whippet thin with a sallow complexion. He looked like he had mono. “Class, welcome Genevieve.”

“The fuck’s thatname, though?” a girl shouted.

“Young, why her name sound like Pepé Le Pew?”

Genevieve sank lower in her chair. Mr. Weismuller turned to face the chalkboard.

“This bitch think she Aaliyah ’cause she got a half a cup of hair.”

“That ain’t hers,” said a tall girl in Apple Bottom jeans, sitting behind Genevieve.

She turned around to face her. From his corner in the back, Shane caught her eye. And shook his head. A warning that Genevieve ignored.

“What’d you say?”

“I said that hair ain’t yours, ho. And what?”

“Yeah, and what?” said a slight boy who materialized next to Apple Bottom, presumably her boyfriend. The whole class was watching Genevieve. She was surrounded. The only person she knew was four rows back. She wasn’t going to win.

“Nothing,” she muttered.

“I thought not,” said Apple Bottom, and the class resumed cutting up. Behind her, Genevieve heard The Boyfriend whisper “Yeah, do that shit” to Apple Bottom.

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