You by Charles Benoit Page B

don’t need to, since he obviously knows.
    â€œShe’s not my girlfriend,” you say, and as you say it your stomach folds in on itself and your chest turns to lead and there’s a taste in your mouth like you’re about to puke and you don’t know why.
    Zack’s eyebrows arch up too far. “ Really? Gosh, I didn’t know.”
    He knew.
    â€œWow. She’s so darn cute. And you’re such a nice guy….”
    But maybe not nice enough.
    â€œIt’s a shame, you’d be perfect together,” he says, and you’re not looking at him, but you can see himshake his head, overacting on purpose just to make it worse. “Are you sure you’re not a couple?”
    â€œYeah, I’m sure.”
    He tsk, tsk, tsk s, and adds an exaggerated sigh. “Really and truly, cross your heart and hope to die?”
    You choose an appropriate F-word response, delivering it with a casual nonchalance that you hope will end the discussion, hard to do through gritted teeth.
    â€œFine, fine,” he says, putting his hands up in mock defense as you start walking away. “Sooo…if she’s not your girlfriend you wouldn’t mind if I called her, right?”
    You glance over at him and you’re thinking:
    Wrong.
    She wouldn’t talk to you.
    She wouldn’t have anything to do with someone like you.
    You don’t even know what she’s like.
    You wouldn’t treat her right.
    You’re not her type.
    Don’t.
    You start back down the hallway toward the stairs and foreign-language classrooms and over your shoulder you say:
    â€œDo whatever you want.”
    You hear a chuckle. “I always do.”
    Â 
    HOW YOU GOT THAT SCAR ON THE BACK OF YOUR HAND PART 3 : WHAT YOU TOLD ASHLEY IN HOMEROOM ON MONDAY
    Â 
    Yeah, you do remember.
    Last year, in March.
    Yeah, on the bus.
    I told you before.
    You sure?
    Oh.
    I don’t like to talk about it.
    I just don’t.
    I don’t know.
    Okay, but don’t tell anybody I told you.
    Just because, okay?
    Do you want to hear or not?
    Promise?
    All right, so some asshole was making fun of this retarded kid—
    I don’t know, just some asshole.
    I think he transferred or something.
    He was saying crap, you know, about the retard.
    Sorry.
    Anyway, I’m sitting across from him and I go, shut the hell up—
    Yeah, more than that, of course.
    Well, because you don’t like when people swear.
    Yeah, real frickin’ sweet.
    So anyway, he keeps it up and I’m like, shut the hell up, and he’s like, what are you gonna do, so I stand up and go to punch him in the head—
    I don’t know, tenth grade maybe.
    About my size, maybe bigger.
    No, he was bigger than that.
    I didn’t care, he was making fun of the retard.
    Sorry.
    So I stand up and just as I’m swinging, the bus swerves and I go flying and put my hand through the window.
    Yeah, blood everywhere.
    He freaked.
    Naw, didn’t hurt.
    Twelve stitches.
    I told them I slipped.
    He was too scared to say anything.
    The retarded kid?
    I guess he still goes here, I don’t know.
    Back in March.
    A couple days after your birthday.
    Yeah, I heard it was a good time.
    No, I wasn’t there.
    I’m sure.
    I was probably busy anyway.
    Yeah, that happens with emails sometimes.
    No, it’s cool.
    Why would I have been pissed?
    It was just a party.
    Yeah, this year for sure.
    Â 
    Y ou turn the corner to walk down the hall— the hall—toward the scene of the crime . There’s a small crowd standing around locker 174.
    Well, not that close around.
    And there’s Jake, jacking some freshman up against the wall with one hand. His signature move. It’s a small crowd, their freakish size making it look bigger, and you keep walking right toward it.
    â€œWhy you laughing, huh? What’s so funny, huh?” It’s Jake, making a new friend.
    â€œI-I-I didn’t…I don’t…I-I…”