The Boy I Hate

Twenty.

As April came to a close Sugar Port's weather grew warmer. People starting swimming in the lake again, and Vermont's famous maple trees were littered with leaves anew. Baseball season was ending. The east and west side boys' pranks were only pulled few and far between as they were all busy practicing for their big rivalry game.  That was probably how I managed to avoid everyone. Charles and Richard, at least.

The night on the dock, when all the he-said-she-said came to a head, and I told Charlie I knew the truth - I ran away. I was perhaps finally getting through to him somehow, and I ran away.

I didn't know why I did it. There was no logical thought process or detailed epiphany. After all, when was there ever with me? I just couldn't stand to look him in the eye. A couple months before I would have sworn it was because I loathed him, but now I wasn't so sure. Maybe all this time I had just been begging him not to hate me.

So, leaving my shoes behind, I pitter-pattered all the way across the dock and through the sand. He chased after me for a while, but despite how many times he yelled my name I wouldn't turn around. It felt good to run, anyway. It was night, back then it was still cold, and letting that breeze hit my face and burn through my lungs was a pleasurable kind of torture.

I had probably ran a mile before a car pulled up next to me, and I didn't slow down for that either. If there was anything I'd learned from watching every episode of Forensic Files it was not to interact with cars that pull up next to you in the dark. Thankfully, it was just an Uber driver who said she received an order to pick up a girl running along main street with no shoes on.

That was the last I saw of him, and I didn't know if I was happy about that or not. It seemed to me that our childhood friendship was capable of being patched up in the wake of the truth coming out, but did he really deserve it? After everything?

Richard was harder to avoid. After all, he went to my school, knew my locker combo, and had my class schedule memorized. He tried to use all these factors to his advantage, but to no avail. The only attention he received from me was the occasional glare to get him to back up as I saw him approaching. I'd forgive him when I was ready.

Margie thought it was crazy that I planned to forgive him at all. Most of our conversations now were plagued with her ranting and raving about toxic relationships and the importance of trust. When she wasn't on about that we were discussing the god forsaken Debutante Ball I was still expected to attend.

My mother was a sore spot as well. She'd doubled down on me since our fight, and I'd wasted all my courage the first time I stood up to her. Now she tugged me around like a rag doll; ponytails, upper class parties, and lessons in edicate.

I was walking through life like a zombie; letting things happen to me instead of making them happen. Which was perhaps how I ended up in Miss Gonzales' office to ask her about Charlie's community service schedule, and just maybe why I found myself in tennis shoes, a white T, and adidas shorts making my way to the west side.

Walking wasn't my brightest idea. I'd forgotten that it was hot now, and I couldn't rely on the brisk air to cool me down. So I trudged down the many hills that led from the east to the west with sweat gathering on my forehead and hoped it would go by faster. It wasn't like I could have driven, anyway. My boyfriend had a car, so despite my parents offering to buy one, I'd never thought it necessary. 

The thought to turn around and pretend I'd never attempted to do this in the first place fought its way into my mind with every other step. Yet, I couldn't, because I wasn't just doing this because I felt like it, or because I was curious how Charlie would react - I was doing it because it was the right thing to do. I was as much responsible for lighting my school on fire as he was. I deserved to pay the price as well. If the administration wouldn't give me that punishment I would sure as hell give it to myself.