Michael sniffs. “He didn’t hit me that hard.”

“Hayden, get to the nurse’s office and clean up. Afton, escort your friend down there.” Nelson turns to the rest of the gym. “What is wrong with you people lately? This is a gym, not a battleground!”

I follow Michael out of the gym. We walk the hall in silence. He keeps his palm pressed against his nose, switching hands every now and then, trying not to get blood on the floor. I think about what Nelson said. Friend. Hilarious.

“I’ll just clean up in the washroom,” Michael says. He sounds stuffy.

I push open a familiar blue door. “Here’s one.” He stops. “No way. That’s the girls’ room.”

“It’s fine.”

I push the door open and check every stall twice. The coast is clear. I ignore his protests, grab his hand, and drag him inside. I wedge the garbage can under the doorknob for added security. When I face Michael, he’s hunched over the sink, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. I’m not sure why I didn’t just let him take care of it himself. Maybe because being around him means not being alone.

“Are you sure it’s not broken?”

He runs his hand over his nose. “I don’t think so. I think he just hit it the right way. Looks worse than it is.”

I grope for something to say, trying to piece together what happened while my back was turned. Bruce hit Michael with the ball. Deliberately. Michael said something. Michael had to have said something to make him do that.

“What did you say to him?”

“What?”

“Bruce. Why did he throw the ball at you?”

“He didn’t. He threw it at you,” Michael says. “He threw it at you as soon as your back was turned. I intercepted.”

“So it’s my fault,” I say stupidly. “It’s totally your fault.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You did. All through gym class, you were out to kill. They were laughing at you the whole time, and you didn’t even notice. It was dumb.”

“That’s not fair.”

He points to his nose. “Neither is this.”

He turns on the tap. I make my way over, and we reach for the paper towels at the same time. I push his hand away, rip off a swath, and pat the counter space between the sinks. He hesitates and then hoists himself up, and I wet the towel and hesitate before dabbing at the fresh and drying blood on his face. My hand trembles. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Maybe because I’m glad he stood between me and Bruce and I don’t know how to tell him I’m glad he stood between me and Bruce.

He clears his throat. “I probably wasn’t fair to you….”

“Hold still.” He stills. I keep dabbing at his face. I dab until he stops bleeding and there’s no blood and it’s all off his face. But he’s on to me. He takes my wrist and lowers my hand, and I know talking will ruin this, whatever this is.

“What I said about bullshit…wasting time—”

“I know what you meant. Forget it.”

“But what Donnie did to you wasn’t bullshit. I didn’t mean that.” He stares up at the ceiling, quiet for a moment. “Look, I don’t hang around a lot of people.”

“I know.” I know everything. “Because of me.”

“No. Well, yeah, but what happened at the diner was weird, and that it happened with you was even weirder.” He pauses. “And then you capped it off with that apology and it was—it just made me really angry.”

“I didn’t mean to make you angry,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you didn’t….” He clears his throat again and looks at me. “And I believe you when you say you’re sorry, but it’s so much easier for me to think of you as a total bitch, you have no idea.”

“You don’t think I’m a total bitch?”

I wish I could take it back as soon as it’s out of my mouth. It’s embarrassing. I have to look away from him. But I can’t even describe what that feels like—that there was a moment where Michael didn’t hate me for what I did to him.

It makes me feel human.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “But I feel like that’s what I have to keep doing….”

I can’t hold that against him. I get how important the illusion is. If the difference between Michael thinking of me as a total bitch and not thinking of me as a total bitch is him trying his hardest not to cry at a restaurant, hurting over his dead mother—I’d think of me as a bitch, too.

“I didn’t want her to know how mean I was,” I say.

“What?”

“Your mom.” I try to swallow and can’t. “Because she was so nice and warm and funny and caring and she listened, and I just wanted her to like me, because everyone here hates me, and the people that didn’t, like Anna, made me hate myself. So I…just wanted her to think I was good. And I didn’t tell her about what I did to you or Liz because I really, really liked her and I didn’t want her to hate me too.”

He gets the saddest look on his face.

“Regina, she wouldn’t have hated you,” he says. “Even if she knew, I doubt she would’ve hated you. She wouldn’t have been happy, but she would have helped you….”

His breath catches in his throat, like he just realized it: She wouldn’t have hated me and she would’ve helped me. And I don’t know if he hates knowing that or not. He’s still holding my wrist, his fingers pulsing against my skin. I stay still because I know if I move it will stop. I don’t want it to stop.

What changes a moment like this.

I move forward, tentatively, and his hand stays on my wrist. It’s going to be a kiss. Even if he hates it. One of those out-of-nowhere kisses. It has to be.

I want it to be.

He moves closer—

And then he stops.

We stare at each other, and I want to ask him why, but before I can gather the nerve, he slides off the counter and we’re closer than ever. He exhales slowly and edges away. He moves the garbage can and leaves the washroom, and I stay there too long, my stomach all twisted up, until I’m caught by Ms. Crager, who’s on washroom duty.

Strike one, she tells me.

“I’ll drive you to school today.”

I choke on my coffee. “What?”

“I’ll drive you to school today,” Mom says, and I’m all over it, protesting— no, it’s okay, forget it —when she holds up her hand. “No arguments, Regina.”

I get the kind of uneasy feeling that begs for an antacid. This cannot mean anything good. I finish my coffee, get my things, and follow Mom to her car. It’s total silence as she pulls out of the driveway, and then when we hit the road she says, “We have a meeting with your principal today. It should be fun.”

I close my eyes and lean my head against the seat, and the word fuck just repeats itself over and over in my head, because fuck.

“So do you want to tell me what’s going on before we get there, or do I have to play twenty questions with your principal? Because I don’t have the time—”

“It’s nothing.” I open my eyes. “It’s just—”

“Cutting so many classes in such a short amount of time isn’t nothing, Regina. Your father and I are very concerned. We don’t know where you go, what you’re up to—”

“Someone spray-painted the word whore on my locker, okay?”

“What?!”

She actually stops the car. Pulls over and turns it off. She stares at me, looking equal parts disbelieving and devastated.

“Someone spray-painted the word whore on your locker? Who? Who would do something like that to you? Why didn’t you tell me? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The last part sounds the worst. Like it really bothers her that I didn’t tell her. I’m sure it does, but I feel bad enough as it is, and I need to organize my thoughts enough to lie, because I’m not interested in dealing with the truth and feeling even worse. I just need her to go into Holt’s office on my side, feeling sorry enough for me to forgive me if I miss more days after this. And I’m sure I will.

“It was a few weeks ago.”

She starts spluttering. I cut her off before she can start demanding answers to questions I haven’t prepared answers for. “I didn’t…tell you because it was embarrassing. I mean, who wants to tell their mom something like that?”

I cross my arms and try for a petulant teenage look. Like it doesn’t bother me. Like being reminded of it every time I open up my stupid red locker doesn’t bother me.

“Who did it?” she demands. “What did the school do?”

“I don’t know. Holt had my locker repainted.”

Mom sighs and rests her head against the steering wheel, and then I feel really bad. Really, really bad. I look out the window. After she’s had her moment, she reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. Like a mom.

“Oh, Regina…”

My throat tightens. She sounds really—like she cares. I mean, I know she does, but I haven’t heard that in anyone’s voice in a long time.

“I just hate being there,” I say.

“Well, what about your friends?” Mom asks. “Anna, Kara…Josh—Josh must be a help, right? You have your friends….” God.

The last thing I expect to do—cry. In the car, next to my mom. And it’s the best and worst thing I could do. The best because I have her like that, and the worst because my tears have this stranglehold on me. Now that I’m crying, it’s all I want to do. I want to scream and really let it out. Instead, I stare out the window with tears streaming down my face. Stop. Stop it. Get a grip, Regina.

“This isn’t like…” Mom hesitates. “Should we be calling someone—”

“No.” I take a deep breath. “I just hate being there sometimes, and sometimes I have to leave. I’m sorry.”