Predator

Chapter Five

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It's been exactly one week since the incident.

Well, six days, twenty hours, and four minutes to be precise. Nothing's changed, really. My black eye has faded into a sickly yellow and I don't bleed down there anymore. But it still hurts to sit. And walk. And pee. And anything that requires my legs to move.

I still hear his voice and shiver.

His Spanish class is across the hall from my fourth period Biology and my desk is right beside the door. This is the only time of the day that I can watch him, because any other time he can see me. I can't let him know how he gets to me. So I sit at my desk, like I do now, and watch him stand beside his door as students trickle in. It amazes me how he can just...go on. Act as if everything is right with the world. Then again, I suppose everything is right with his world. No guilt, no consequences. Asshole.

I wonder what he thinks when- damn! I was looking at him too long, he saw me. I can feel the color on my face as I pretend to be engrossed in a textbook. Well, there goes my spying time. Is he still looking at me? Slowly, I glance up again.

He is. The bell has rung already, but he's still lingering by the door because he knows I have his attention, the bastard. This is the first time we've made eye contact all week. I don't like it. I shoot him the coldest look I can muster and in return, his lips press into a thin line. He closes his eyes in defeat and turns back into his classroom.

Good.

I hope I'm making him feel guilty.

Class begins and I find myself having a hard time concentrating. But that's nothing new. For some reason, no matter what I'm supposed to be learning, my mind always finds a way to travel back to him. I bet Mr. Schuester never had to learn this when he was my age, I wonder if Mr. Schuester was good at Algebra 2, Mr. Schuester said something about that once, Mr. Schuester this! Mr. Schuester that!

How dare he do this to me! How can he just keep continuously ruining my life without suffering at all?! Well, he would if I could just turn him in! But I know doing that would only make things worse for me. How dare he put me in this situation, too! How despicable! How heartless! How-

My train of thought is interrupted by the bell. I sigh, watching everyone else hand in the test I didn't do. My days just keep getting shorter and shorter now, drawn together like one big, never-ending nightmare. My science teacher looks at me questionably and I ignore her. Who cares if I flunk everything? It doesn't matter what happens to me now anyway.

I hoist my backpack over my shoulder. He's standing next to his door again, looking at me. I have a bad feeling he's going to try to talk to me so I completely avoid him, heading in the opposite direction. It doesn't work.

Sure enough, I hear my name come out of his mouth, behind me. I keep walking.

"Rachel!"

He walks faster than I do and he steps in front of me. "Leave me alone," I grumble, trying to move away.

"Stop," he tells me. "Rachel, can you please just listen to me for a moment?"

"You didn't listen to me when I said 'stop'," I retort. He exhales slowly.

"I...I know. Rachel, you have every right to hate me, but please just hear me out. I'm-"

"Sorry," I interrupt harshly. "You're so sorry about what you did, and you feel so bad seeing me flunk all my classes, and I just have to pull it together, glee club needs me! Well guess what? There's nothing left for me to pull together, and I know you have about as much guilt as a two year-old!"

He tries to protest but I don't let him. "And now that we're on the same page here, I suggest you stop pissing me off because all it takes is one phone call and everything you have is gone," I grit between my teeth. "Your family, your house, career...everything!"

I'm startled when I look back up into his face. He's angry now, and it scares me a little. His fists are clenched at his sides and he looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't. After a moment, he turns away from me and stalks back into his classroom. I feel myself shaking. I can't believe I just stood up to him like that.

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The last girl from Jane Addams Academy shuts the door of the exit, making a hollow echo in the auditorium. Everyone sits in silence. Usually they would worry me and I'd immediately start planning our set list of the century. It makes me sad to think that I don't even care.

"Mr. Schue, they're better than us," says Brittany.

"No, they're not," he snaps. "We're just as good as they are. It's just..."

"Hairography."

Every single person turns their head and stares at me. I guess it's been awhile since I've spoken up. And I don't even know why I bothered to.

"What?" asks Mr. Schuester. I fight the urge to narrow my eyes at him in front of my peers.

"Hairography. All the whizzing around of their hair to distract from the fact that they really aren't good dancers, and their vocals are just so-so. It's all smoke and mirrors, you guys don't have to worry."

His eyes drift to the ground and I know he's just realizing that I said 'you guys' and not 'we'. I think everyone else is too, because I get a questionable look from Finn. "Rachel, what's been up with you lately?" he asks. "I think that's the first thing that's come out of your mouth all week. And you hardly even participate anymore."

Mr. Schuester and I share another painful glance as he finishes speaking.

"I...uh," I rake my mind for a legible excuse. "I haven't been feeling well. I have to rest my vocal chords."

"Well that explains a lot," mutters Mercedes. But some others don't look too convinced.

"You don't sound sick," argues Santana. She always argues. "What, did someone finally tell you that you can't sing worth a damn? Is that where you really got that black eye, from-"

"That is enough, Santana!" Mr. Schuester bellows. My eyebrows raise in surprise. Why the hell is he defending me?

"No, it's not!" she fires back. "And as much as I hate to admit it, Rachel's the one who's supposed to be carrying our weight to Sectionals! And when she quits doing her little Broadway-theatricality thing, that's when we lose the one ounce of professionalism we have! If she doesn't get her head back in the game it'll cost us the competition!"

Oh, she makes me so mad! "For your information-"

"Can it, Manhands," she cuts me off. "You need to get off your little high-horse because you're not making a statement! Nobody feels sorry for you! Everybody just wants to win Sectionals and we can't do that with you having a pity party everyday! You are absolutely the most-"

I don't hear the rest of what she says. I slam the auditorium door as loud as I possibly can, knowing I'm about to cry, which I can't do in front of them.

I know she's right.

That's the worst part.

I sink to the floor and make myself as small as possible, because maybe then nobody can see me. Maybe the world can just forget about me.

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