Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
Gregory and Lou’s mom was T-boned at the intersection by Costco a month ago, and she’s been in a coma ever since. Before the accident, Gail used to be the one who brought the boys over for their guitar lesson, and she and Mom-best friends since high school-would sit in the kitchen at the breakfast counter and drink glasses of Sauvignon Blanc until the class was over.
Mom cried for three days straight after Gail’s accident. A black cloud descended on the house, and no one could breathe a word in Mom’s direction without causing a fresh barrage of tears. After the third day, when Gail looked like she wasn’t going to die, but everyone was unsure when, or if, she was going to wake up, Mom just…stopped crying.
She hasn’t been to visit her once.
* * *
It’s been a while since I put any real thought into what I wear to school, but for the past few weeks, ever since Marcus Moretti showed up and ruined everything, I’ve been making changes. Every day, there’s been some small concession made. It started with matching socks, even though no one was going to see them. Then matching underwear. A pretty hair-tie. Lip balm, and then actual lip gloss. Last week, I pulled my favorite Billy Joel shirt out of rotation because it was looking a little threadbare and ratty.
Today, though, I’ve done something unthinkable. As I walk through the entrance to school, my head down, I feel incredibly self-conscious in the strappy black top with the lace trim I’m wearing underneath my hoodie. It was fucking stupid to wear something that doesn’t completely cover my skin. Extra, extra stupid to wear it for Marcus Moretti’s benefit, when he hasn’t even looked in my general direction for the past two weeks, and I decided on day one that I didn’t want him to notice me, either, but…
When I was eleven, there was a full solar eclipse, and everyone warned me not to look up at the sun without wearing the special glasses they gave out to us at school. I knew it would potentially damage my eyes, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to take a peek.
I am that person.
And now here I am in a strappy black top, hoping rather recklessly that Marcus might actually see me today, even though…
“Well, would you look at that. Branson bothered to look in a mirror before she got dressed this morning. Boys, is…is she wearing makeup?” Jacob Weaving’s voice calls from across the hall. I can feel his eyes crawling over me, and I have to fight the urge to throw up inside my locker. As always, he’s hovering with Cillian and Sam in front of his locker, joking and rough-housing-they’re like a bunch of fucking Neanderthals, guffawing and shoving one another as if they’re somehow impressing the rest of the school with their brainless antics.
“Wonders will never cease,” he continues. “Honestly, I was beginning to think you were gonna start showing up in a garbage bag. Are the short skirts and the knee-high socks gonna be making a comeback, too, Betty?”
I press my lips together, biting back the cutting retort that’s just begging to be unleashed. This is nothing new. I’m used to the taunting and the sly digs he sends my way across this hallway. Some days, ignoring him is harder than others, though.
“Come on, Betty. We all miss those thighs of yours. I’m getting bored of diving into the spank bank every time I wanna jerk off. You used to love putting on a show for us.”
“Gross, Jake. Why would you even bother with that hag when you have me to tempt you now?”
The cool, mocking voice belongs to none other than Kacey. I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror I have glued to the inside of my locker door, and I see the spite in her eyes as she stares at my back. Her hip is popped, jutting out to one side as she leans provocatively against the bank of lockers next to her new monster of a boyfriend. She’s pouting, her lips heavily glossed, her demeanor confident and commanding, but I recognize the jealousy in her gaze. She hates me; she hates that she just caught Jake talking about my body even more.
I huff out a breath of bitter laughter under my breath as I grab my calculus book for first period and slam my locker door closed. There will come a time when she won’t be desperate for that sick motherfucker’s attention…
“Ahh, don’t get precious on me now, baby,” Jake croons. “She’s got nothing on you. You are one hundred percent right. Why would I want Second Place Betty when you are first place gold?”
This seems to pacify her. God, Kacey was never a straight-A student, but she was never this stupid either. I sling the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, peeling away, hurrying down the hallway, making sure to keep my eyes on my shoes; I’m almost past them when Jake’s voice echoes above the chatter of the other students.
“Hey! Hey, man. Marcus, right? Has Coach talked to you about trying out for the team yet?”
God, do not look up. Do not look up.
At some point, Marcus has arrived, and he’s standing somewhere behind me. I quicken my pace, not wanting to witness the moment when Jake makes his move, trying to induct Ravenshire’s newest student into his entourage, but my progress is halted when a hand lands on my shoulder. My instant response is to whirl around, fist raised, ready to defend myself-
-but then Marcus’s voice is in my ear. “Steady there,
Argento. My street cred’ll be in ruins if my first fight at this shit hole is with a chick.”
He places a hand in the small of my back, setting pace beside me as he urges me away from Jake and the others. I look up at him disbelievingly, daring a glance out of the corner of my eye, and there he is, dressed in black, looking like the devastatingly handsome villain of a story that I can feel being written even as he ushers me toward the women’s bathrooms. He gives me a shove, and I stumble through the door, a protest already on my lips. “Dude, you can not be in here. Karen’ll have a fit if she finds out-“
“Who’s Karen?”
“Darhower’s assistant.”
“All right, well fuck Karen. I don’t care about Karen.”
I spin, so mentally turned around that I dump my bag into the wet sink beside me without thinking. Against my own better judgment, I’ve wanted to speak to him again. I didn’t think he’d be shoving me into the bathrooms before first period this morning, though.
The black long-sleeved sweater he’s wearing pulls taut across his chest; he’s not as built as some of the guys on the football team. He’s broad in the shoulders, though, and his biceps are defined. His jeans hang low on his hips, tight enough to be fashionable, but not that tight. His white sneakers are Adidas-Stan Smiths if I’m not mistaken. The green flash on the tongue gives them away. For the first time since he showed up at Ravenshire, I really see the tattoos on the backs of his hands. On the left, a huge, intricate, black rose with vines snarled around it, thorny, winding their way around his wrist and his fingers; on his right hand, the face of a wolf, or a lion, baring its teeth in a savage snarl. I can’t really make out which-
“You done?” he asks, voice hard. He slides his hands into his pockets.