THE WILD SEASON

Chapter 6

My stomach stays in knots as I navigate the rest of my classes. As I think about the SAT, and what I said to Colt. Why did I say it? Did it help anything? Is my mother any more alive? Will Colt magically stop being a thorn in my life, and my history?

As I walk to my car after school, a memory I'd rather forget punches me in the gut, bringing shame to my cheeks. I'm eleven years old, and I'm waiting for the bus. A group of kids surround me. They take turns running toward me, and then away. They're pretending I'm sucking them in, that they can barely escape my pudgy stomach, my fat girl mouth.

"She's got me!" a girl screams as she stumbles toward me, her arms failing. She reaches for help, but in the nick of time she escapes my inhalation moments before I—what?—swallow her whole?

I wasn't even that chubby. An extra fifteen to twenty pounds on my prepubescent peers. But that was enough, I guess.

No one was watching us that day, and even if they had been, they'd have seen me laughing too, acting as if I were in on the joke. But I cried as soon as they were out of sight, huddled in the corner of my bus seat. And then again when I got home and saw the empty place in the driveway where my mother once parked.

I lost those twenty pounds, plus another ten, to be safe.

I am now slimmer than the kids who bullied me. I have better grades and better clothes and better hair and better everything, and my dad can smile when he sees his daughter, who is beautiful and strong, even when he can't be.

No one makes fun of me today. The social status I've worked so hard for wouldn't allow it. But I remember how it felt to be shamed by others.

I'm plagued by what I said to Colt as I cross the parking lot. Until, that is, I see him standing near the trunk of my car. He has a screwdriver in one hand, a carton of eggs tucked under his arm, and my color-coded folder in his grasp.

He thumbs through the pages, bewilderment twisting his features.

"How dare you," I hiss, when I'm close enough for him, but no one else, to hear. "Do you want to go back to jail? This time for burglary?"

"I haven't stolen anything," he says, almost to himself. He lifts the folder. "What is this?"

"That's mine, is what it is." I snatch it from him and clutch it to my chest, my skin buzzing with anxiety at this unexpected confrontation. "Though I can understand your confusion, seeing as how you found it in my car."

"Why do you have all this camping gear?" He picks up my hiking pack. "You planning on going to that place in your dumb folder? Allegheny, or whatever?"

"It's none of your business." I slap his hand away from my bag, and remember the eggs under his arm. "Why the hell do you have eggs?"

He tries to remain pissed. I can see the struggle in his features, but in the end, the hint of a smile touches his lips. "You said I was a stinking deadbeat. And you threw the fact that I don't have a car in my face."

I wait for further explanation. When he provides none, I say, "So you thought you'd leave eggs in my car so it smelled? God, you really are insane. I can't believe I felt bad about what I said to you. I could say so much worse right now."

Colt grabs the folder from me, tosses it in the trunk, and closes it. As if it's his folder to toss. His trunk to close.

"Are you running away or something?" he asks, his voice flat. I must hesitate. I must. Because he pulls back and says, as surprise replaces amusement, "What in the hell would you possibly have to run away from? A parent who loves you? Friends who worship you? Oh, I know. It's the world you've got at your fingertips."

"I'm not running away," I snap, looking around to ensure people walking to their cars aren't watching us. If they see us fighting again, it'll get people talking. I can't let that happen. I must control this situation. "I just...you know what? Get out of my face."

I turn away from him, feeling tears burn my eyes. Because he's right. I'm an idiot. I packed my entire trunk with supplies like a moron, as if I really were going to take off. Could I be any more dramatic? I open the car door, scramble inside, and slam it closed.

Colt steps back, and I avoid looking at him as I drive away. I don't want to see the expression on his face, because he is irrelevant. He is everything I hate in Bethel Park, I remind myself. He is a liar, I repeat, over and over until it soothes my pain.

I set my sights on the road that leads to my house.

I set my sights on my future.