You cuss at my story. You’re angry for me. I put a hand on your shoulder to calm the rage coming off of you and it works. “No one deserves the start you got Charlie,” you tell me like I’m important. I want to believe you.

Mitchell and Claire are on vacation visiting his mom for the week. I’m home alone. So incredibly sick of being alone. I watched you minutes before, as you walked out of your house. I hope you're going to the park. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. You have become my only friend.

I look for you through the branches. I don’t like to approach you in case you’re with friends. I don’t want their attention. Today, you’re not with the guys. You’re with a girl. She’s beautiful; a year older than you. She has long blonde hair, the complete opposite of my dark locks and her breasts are fuller than mine. She has curves. I have none. I know I’m staring, but she presses herself against you.

Your hand goes into the back pocket of her jean shorts and she laughs then slaps your arm. You say something low, and I don’t hear it. But she does. She leans into you, presses close and her lips are against yours.

I watch.

I see you.

It doesn’t feel good to see you like this. A pit forms in my belly and I want to throw up at the sight of you with her. I let out a gasp.

She freezes, pulls away from you and looks around until her eyes land directly on ME.

I’m caught.

“What are you doing? You little freak,” she yells.

You try to tell her to calm down--that it’s just me. Mouse.

She argues with you and starts to come towards the bushes where I’ve been watching you. I’m frozen in place. My heart screams for me to run, but my feet won’t move.

“You like to watch, you nasty little bitch,” she sneers.

And you lose it. You grab her arm and move her away from me. Then, you pull me from the bushes and stand protectively in front of me.

“You don’t talk to her like that!” you yell.

“Mouse, look at me. You’re not a freak. You did nothing wrong.” I don't meet your eyes. I’m embarrassed and afraid. My insecurities feel suffocating.

“What do you mean, she did nothing wrong? She was watching us make out through the bushes.”

“Heather, stop. Go home.”

“But what about us?” she whines. You look at her and say without emotion, “There is no us. It wasn’t even a good kiss. You don't talk to Mouse again. Yeah?”

“Whatever, asshole,” she yells and walks away.

“Mouse, look at me.”

I know I should lift my eyes. It’s not that I care what she said. People have called me worse. It was your lips on hers. The way my heart aches. I don’t want you to see that on my face. My legs finally kick in and decide to work. I run. You chase me, but I’m fast. By the time I reach my front door, you're winded, but close behind me.

“I’m sorry,” I say and close myself behind the door.

“Charlie, don’t.” Your fist hits the door once in defeat.

You see me after that and pretend it didn't happen. You never mention it again. You meet me as I walk to the park. You don’t mention Heather or why I ran.

Fourteen years old

I am a freshman and at the same school as you. This year feels different. I see you in the halls and you always stop to say hi.

You look at me differently. I’m not sure what it means. You seem like a loner; like me. You don’t hang with the jocks. You get into fights sometimes. I hate when that happens, because then you’re not at school. Even when I see you angry, I see the fuel behind your eyes. You have so much inside of you. Sometimes, I’m envious of the spark behind your eyes.

I hear your mom yell at you for getting into another fight. Her boyfriend has made an appearance in your life. I don’t think you like him, but you don't fight with him.

He has friends who ride motorcycles that often come over. They hang out in the front yard. They smoke their cigarettes and drink their beers. I watch as you stand in the shadows watching them.

The man who dates your mom brings you a motorcycle. It’s not as big or as fancy as his, but you get on it and he helps teach you to ride it. He’s over your house often now. You work on your bike together. You no longer ride the bus with me.

Fifteen years old

Boys are starting to notice me no matter how invisible I try to be. They all want to talk to me, but I only see you. You date and have girlfriends. I hate this, but I understand. After all, I am me. I sometimes feel your eyes on me but they never linger.

I’m walking home from school today. I stayed after to work in the computer lab. It’s a few mile walk, but it isn't bad. I work hard at school and you tease me from time to time. I know I’m a bookworm, but it’s my only outlet. It’s not that Mitchell and Claire are bad, it’s just they are not really there. They don’t talk to me. We exist. They fight with each other and I stay out of their way. I try to be as invisible as I can around them. I don’t want them to send me to a group home where I’ll no longer be able to see you.

Today, as I walk, a group of boys in a jeep pulls up alongside me. I cling my books to my chest. They holler things at me from their open jeep. They slow to almost a stop and a boy I recognize jumps out. “Charlotte, right?” he asks.

I don't say anything. I continue to walk.

“I’m Fitch,” he says and stands in front of me, so I can't continue to walk forward. I take a step to the side, but he sidesteps too.

I’m so focused on what is happening that I don’t hear you approach. I should’ve.

“Get the hell away from her,” you say, hooking an arm around my waist and pulling me back towards you. You’re bigger now. You look like a man. You have hair on your chin and your hazel eyes stand out against your dirty blonde hair. You’re dressed in black all the way down to your motorcycle boots. You’re bigger than the guys at school.

“Gunner. Isn’t it enough you’re fucking half the cheer-leading team. You gotta fuck this one too?” Fitch says.

I flinch and you notice. You probably think it’s because of his terse words. It’s not. It’s because he said you’re fucking so many women. I know your reputation. I hate it.