Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“We just have to be patient,” she says. “I wish I could’ve seen who did this. Who do these people think they are? Somebody needs to make them pay.”
“I think so, too,” I agree. Is it making a difference? I can’t quite tell, and I don’t want to trick myself into believing it. Maybe it’s helping, but only a tiny bit.
She glances at me and looks almost guilty. “Do you think it’s because of what Briggs did? When he told everybody you… blew him?” Then she gags like the idea makes her sick, and for the first time, I can think back on the whole thing and laugh a little. Not that it does anything to take away the memory of how scared I was—and how excited that made him.
“That, and everybody assuming I’m just like my mom.” I rub the paint harder, gritting my teeth, but it’s not working. “I think this is hopeless.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.” She pours a bottle of water over the suds to rinse them away. “That’s fine. It was only plan A.”
No way am I going to be able to keep going with this if I don’t ask the question that’s on my mind. “You don’t think I did it, do you?” I know what she’s going to say, but I need to hear it.
At first, she only laughs it off. When I don’t laugh, she must figure out I’m serious. Her head tips to the side and her eyes narrow before she murmurs, “How can you even ask that question? And not only because your lips didn’t, like, fall off. You know they would if you ever had to put them anywhere near his dick.”
The idea makes my chest go tight. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“But for real,” she adds. “You wouldn’t do something like that.”
“You don’t really know me,” I remind her.
“I know you well enough.” She pulls out a bottle of nail polish remover and sprinkles a little on a handful of paper towels. “Let’s see how this works.”
“Go slow,” I warn. “Just in case it takes off too much.”
“It doesn’t seem like it’s… oh. Wait.” She pulls her hand away, wincing, and I know why when I look at the paper towels. It’s not only the red that’s coming off. It’s the white paint underneath it.
Her eyes are wide when she looks at me. “I’m so sorry. But it’s only a tiny bit.”
“This is hopeless. Anything we use is going to take off all the paint. It’s not like there’s something smart enough to strip one paint and not the one under it. If there is, I couldn’t afford it.”
I want to cry. It would be one thing if I really was a slut—and even then, there wouldn’t be any excuse for this.
Maya’s still trying to keep a happy face, but her smile is getting tighter. More like she’s grinding her teeth together. “We can try something else.” But I hear it in her voice, how she doesn’t really believe this is going to turn out well. She was only faking it for my sake.
“You know what? Screw it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, screw it.” I grab a handful of paper towels for myself and splash remover on them. “The paint is already ruined. At least I won’t have to look at that word.” She waits until I get started stripping the paint, like she wanted to be sure I was serious first, but soon joins me.
“So what has he been doing to you?” she asks. “Besides telling everybody you gave him a blow job?”
“Oh, you know. Basically torturing me whenever he can. He follows me to classes, taunting me any chance he gets and doesn’t bother hiding it.”
“Doesn’t have classes of his own?”
“Exactly what I’ve been asking myself.” It’s nice being able to talk to somebody about this, instead of holding it all inside. “Why bother coming to school?”
“Why do any of them bother coming to school in the first place?” she mutters darkly. “They’re going to get passed through, anyway. They probably don’t bother doing projects or studying for exams.”
“But Briggs already threatened that I better get an A on the project we’re doing together.”
“Another way to fuck with you,” she concludes. I can only grunt in misery while ruining the whole side of the only car I can afford.
“He’s unhinged.” It’s not the paint I’m looking at now. It’s that knife, coming out of nowhere, gleaming, promising terrible things. There was a second there where I knew in my heart he was going to hurt me. There was nothing I could do about it. Nobody would stop him. Just like it was back in the bathroom. And both times, the only thing that saved me was him stopping himself before he went too far.
What does he get out of this? Why does it get him so excited? When is the time going to come when he can’t stop himself?