Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
He pivots, twisting his torso to face me. His damned t-shirt is drenched, a much darker grey across his shoulders and down his chest. There are rivulets of water running down his neck, soaking into the collar of the cotton. God, what does he smell like? A light, fresh scent has flooded the car, like clean laundry and soap. It’s a masculine smell, though, teasing the back of my nose, making me want to lean in…
“It was you, last Friday. In the hall. Watching me,” he states.
“I wasn’t watching you. I just heard voices.”
“And then you stood there, in the shadows, watching me. You heard what a bad boy I’ve been.”
“That you nearly got sent to jail? Yes.” I’m not thinking about my responses before I give them. I’m just saying the first thing that presents itself to me. If I start to analyze what I’m going to say or try and be clever, my words are going to get jammed up in my throat, and I’ll end up stumbling over every vowel and consonant, or worse, I won’t be able to make a sound at all.
Get out of the car. Get out of the car. God damn it, Marcusandro Moretti, get out of my car right now.
He looks at me, stares into me, picking over my face as if he’s deciding which parts he likes, which he doesn’t, and how he could improve me. I wrestle myself into stillness. Hardly the quiet stillness of the content and at ease. No, I am a possum, playing dead, in the hopes that the creature stalking me will lose interest and move on.
Marcusandro doesn’t go anywhere. He narrows his eyes at me. The rain drives harder against the glass, the downpour suddenly torrential, and the hammering roar of the water drums against the roof over our heads, almost deafening. Distracted by the sound, he looks away, head craned back, eyes unfocused as he listens, and the electric pressure that’s been building inside the car subsides. So fucking strange that such a weight is lifted from me as Marcusandro’s attention slips for a second.
The sensation’s a lot like finally reaching the surface of dark, deep water and urgently sucking in a lungful of much-needed oxygen. Or a brilliant light, shining straight into your eyes, blinding you to anything but its brightness, going out, leaving you blinking as you try to adjust to the world around you again.
“This place is a fucking disaster. You can sense it sucking the life out of everyone dumb enough to venture too close to it,” he says absently.
“Welcome to Ravenshire High, Marcus Moretti,” I whisper back. “Glad to hear you’re settling in.” Since we’re here together, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere any time soon, I voice the burning question that’s been niggling at me since last Friday. “What did you do to land yourself here, Marcus? What was so bad that almost got you sent to prison. Are any of the rumors people are saying about you true?”
He stops listening to the rain. The pressure returns, pressing in on all sides, though he doesn’t turn his head toward me. He faces the windscreen, eyes burning holes into the glass. “I did what had needed to be done. And I don’t know if any of the rumors are true. No one’s said any of them to my face.”
“Yeah. Well…” I shift uncomfortably, leaning my elbow against the car door, chewing on my thumbnail. “Consider yourself lucky.”
“That’s right. A fellow black sheep.” I hear the sharp-edged smile in his voice. “Are any of the rumors about you true, Betty?”
Heat flares in my cheeks. I’m used to all the major high school players of Ravenshire High spreading the lies and hurtful gossip about me, laughing at my story of woe, disbelieving me, calling me every name under the sun, but not one of them has actually come and asked me what really happened.
The truth will set you free. I’m not a churchy person; I don’t believe in God. I’ve read sections of the Bible in religious studies, however, and I’ve experienced enough of life in Grays Harbor County’s tiny little backwater towns to know that this piece of scripture should come with a caveat: the truth will not always set you free. Sometimes, the truth will ruin your damn life. Sometimes, the truth will make your life a living hell, and you’ll wish you kept your goddamn mouth shut.
New Boy’s asking me for the truth now though, just as I asked him a second ago, and I’m torn between giving it to him and making something up. Something fantastical and unbelievable. Something outrageous. At this point, what the fuck does it matter anyway? When it did matter, no one listened. No one cared.
I blow a frustrated breath down my nose, digging my fingernails into the top of my thigh, feel the bite of pain there and reveling in it. Needing it to calm my nerves. “I’m sure half of whatever you’ve heard is true. I’m sure the other half is bullshit.”
“Which half is which?”
“Take your pick. It doesn’t even matter anymore.”
His eyes are on me. I feel his scrutiny like I might feel a hand on my shoulder-a very physical, very real thing. “Do you sell coke out of your locker?” he asks.
I bite back laughter. “Look at me. Do I look like some kind of drug kingpin to you?”
He shrugs one shoulder, looking me over. His gaze diverts from my face, down to my band tee and my plain blue jeans. He pauses on my scruffy, worn high tops and smirks. “Tough call. Some drug dealers are tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerates. Some are librarian grandmothers with RSI and a weed card.”
God, he’s infuriating.
“No, I do not sell coke out of my locker. If that’s the real reason you came over here to harass me, then I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.”
“I don’t want to buy drugs from you, Betty. Remember, I’m a tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerate. I can find my own coke.”
“Awesome. Why am I not surprised that you’re a drug user?”
“D’you turn tricks for cash?” Marcusandro doesn’t even blink. From his expression, it looks as though he just asked me what fucking day of the week it is.
An uneasiness begins to creep into my bones. Surely, he didn’t come here for that. “No. I don’t. I’m not a whore.”
He nods. “And what about the rape thing? Did you wrongly accuse a bunch of students of raping you last year?”