One Big Cliché

Chapter 7

Nicole

          The Wench meets me at the door, opening it as soon as I reach for the handle. Crap. I forgot to have Chris drop me off down the street. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she's going to enjoy this lovely talk we're about to have. Her hand rests on her cocked-up hip, and her dress is a bit too tight for her. I'm sure she's trying to be sexy, but with age she's developed a little pudge. I'm not saying she should wear baggy clothes, but maybe just not her high school homecoming dress, you know?

          "Who was that?" She asks, smiling at me. There's a bit of red lipstick smeared on her tooth, but I don't bother pointing that out.

          I can feel my face slacken into an expressionless state, my mind blanketing in emptiness, covering the emotional turmoil I can feel building up, buried deep inside my chest. I hate when that happens. I hate how she makes me feel. Most of all, I hate that there's never anything I can do about it. I need to do something, though, to get this feeling out. To just feel nothing at all. I've already finished my calculus homework; I won't have that step-by-step process that clears my thoughts. But I have music.

          Instead of answering her, I shoulder past her and head upstairs. It probably wasn't the best move, because now she'll for sure think that something happened between Chris and me. It's better than wasting my time trying to clear my name with her when I already know she won't listen, anyway, and will probably twist my words into something to use against me when reporting to my dad.

          My feet pound up the stairs, and my breathing is a bit harder than normal as I struggle with the blanket over my mind and the clenched fist around my throat. As soon as my door is slammed shut, I strip off my shirt, change into a pair of yoga pants, let my hair loose, and blast my music. Time seems to move on without me as I lose myself to the bass and the lyrics and the beats, and I forget all of the things I'm feeling as I let it all go.

◊◊◊

I pick at my tray (not as artfully as Claire) and don't bother trying to eavesdrop on Sarah and Tyler's conversation. I gave up after hearing her awkward attempt at flirting, although I do kind of wonder if he was laughing at her or with her when she told him about the time she once begged her mom to take her to the hospital after having stubbed her toe really hard. An involuntary sigh pushes its way through my lips, and I set my fork down and push away the gross looking spaghetti.

          There's a loud whack as a hand slams down on the table between Sarah and me, startling everybody into silence and me out of my thoughts. What the hell? My head snaps to the side, hurting my neck with the force, and I see Asshole standing behind Sarah with a hand on either side of her on the table, his head right next to hers, trapping her in her seat. I stand up immediately, about to grab his arm and tear his hand off the table, but Chris's voice distracts me.

          "Donavin, stop," he orders, stepping up behind him.

          But Donavin ignores him, bringing one of his hands up to tug on a chunk of hair from Sarah's ponytail. "Who's your girlfriend, Tyler? She's a pretty one, ain't she?"

          This time I do tear his hand off the table, and he steps back to keep from losing his balance. I glare at him. "What's the matter? Jealous he's not with you?"

          "Shut up, slut," he sneers, puffing out his chest like the ape that he is.

          "Donavin!" Chris shouts this time, and Donavin turns to look at him, shocked. "Enough."

          I notice Dustin standing there for the first time, and he looks at me, begging me with his eyes to stop. I peer back, not blinking. No. I give my attention to Donavin again, positioning myself a little bit more between him and Sarah, who looks up at him scared. Honestly, what is this guy's problem? It's like he's obsessed. I should have seen it coming, though. Bullies don't just go away. This one is no different.