Page 107 of The Initial Insult

I’m not bleeding, so I don’t really know what the giggling was about. I’m taking off my pants to check the butt anyway, when the loudspeaker comes on, cutting through the chatter of the halls, right into the bathroom.

“Tress Montor, please report to the guidance office.”

“Seriously?” I ask my pants.

There’s already a line there, people wanting schedule changes or complaining about not having a study hall. Mrs. Febrezio spots me and takes my elbow, ushering me past them and into her office.

“Tress,” she says. “It’s seven fifty on the first day of school, and I’ve already had complaints from teachers about your shirt.”

“My . . . what?”

I must look baffled, because she drops the strict look. “Your shirt,” she repeats, searching my face.

“I . . .”

“Tress.” Her face softens a little a more. “Do you even know what’s on the back?”

I take off Cecil’s bowling jersey, and flip it around.

It’s got two bowling balls and one pin embroidered on it, arranged so that it looks like a cock and balls. Above that, where a last name should be, it just reads DICK.

“Ballin’,” I whisper to myself.

“Excuse me?” Febrezio’s sympathy disappears.

“Sorry, I . . .” I’m trying not to laugh. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste metal. “No, I didn’t know. Swear.”

She nods, but I can tell I lost points by being amused.

“I’ve got some shirts from lost and found you can choose from,” she says. “Unless you want to just wear . . .” Her voice fades off, taking in the tee I had on under the jersey. It’s a rumpled mess, but she’s had too much training to say so.

“I’m fine,” I say, stuffing Cecil’s jersey into my bookbag. “Sorry about the . . .” I almost say cock and balls but stop myself. I’ve been living with Cecil so long my filter isn’t always in place.

“Have a good day, Tress,” Febrezio calls behind me, but I’m already slipping past the row of kids who want study hall, don’t want study hall, or just want to align their schedules more closely with their friends’.

I’m cruising through the halls, scanning lockers for my number when someone grabs my elbow. “Dude, what happened to your shirt?”

It’s the football player again, all smiles and teeth, and I think of Rue. She’s either going to hug you or kill you. I give him the benefit of the doubt, something I don’t do often.

“I’ve been castrated,” I say, shrugging.

He laughs, and a few people turn to look. I’m struggling to find words, to think of what to say next. I almost unzip my backpack and offer him the jersey, since he likes it so much, but then he clamps a hand onto my shoulder, and I reassess. It would never fit him. This guy is huge.

“Huge,” I say, the word filling the gap between us. “Hugh Broward.”

“Yeah,” he says. “See you around, Tress Montor.”

I nod like he didn’t just give me a gift, then turn to my locker. The staff put signs on all the freshman lockers, little welcome banners with our names. My eyes slide to the one next to mine, curious, and my heart goes up into my throat just as I hear a gasp behind me.

I turn to see Felicity Turnado, clean and beautiful and perfect. I still feel good about making Hugh Broward laugh; I can still feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. So there’s a lightness in my chest that lifts a little more when I see her, a buoyancy that rises to my face and pulls the corners of my mouth up.

I’m smiling at Felicity Turnado when she turns her back on me and walks away.

Chapter 17

Felicity

Freshman Year