Page 21 of The Initial Insult

I sail into the atrium like I don’t care, like I’m not noticing every single person who notices me, not weighing the glances and determining where I land on their judgment scale. There are a few junior girls giving my tanned legs the stink-eye, but Brynn spots me and comes over, gives me a hug. Their attitude changes immediately, which tells me they must be athletes. Brynn’s been burning a hole in volleyball records since sixth grade; if she accepts me, they will, too.

“You look good,” she tells me, and I pay the compliment back, meaning it. She’s got dark skin and knows how to set it off . . . not that she needs to. Everything looks good on that build.

“What’s your first period?” she asks, taking me by the hand and leading me over to where the juniors are gathered.

“Um . . .” I glance at my phone. “English.”

“Cool,” Brynn says. “Me too. Walk together?”

“Yes.” I jump at her offer. Brynn introduces me to the other girls, and they warm up immediately when she tells them that I kept book for the eighth-grade volleyball team.

“We need a new book,” one of the girls says, obviously eyeing me. “You know the sport?”

“I don’t play, but I know it,” I tell her.

In and out, the closest I’ll ever get to being an athlete, myself. Brynn has played in school and travel leagues her whole life, and if you wanted to spend any time with her, you ended up watching a few games. Maybe a few hundred. I tend to run from projectiles—or just cover my face and scream—but that doesn’t mean I’m not into sports. I showed enough interest that the coach invited me to come to some scrimmages and taught me how to keep book. She said having a parent keep book was just inviting an unwanted coach to the bench. I’m practically a pro now; my book is tight. No smudges, no pencil strikes that are unsure, substitutions recorded like clockwork. You could look at my record of a game and relive it, accurately, play for play.

In junior high tournaments last year I noticed that Prospero was serving out of rotation. I’d glanced around, hoping an adult would say something, but both our coaches were consulting with the players, and they hadn’t spotted it. I checked my book again, stunned that something so obvious could slide. But my book didn’t lie, and I cleared my throat.

I didn’t miss the sneer on the Prospero coach’s face when I handed my book over to the officials, expecting a child’s unsure notes, a vague perception of reality. Instead, they’d consulted, nodding, and we ended up getting a point out of the mess. When the table official handed the book back to me, he said, “Good work, kid,” and gave me a high five.

It felt good, like something I’d done had actually mattered. But I can’t be too enthusiastic, or these juniors will automatically peg me as a social climber.

“You should come to a practice, introduce yourself to coach before scrimmages start,” one of them says. She’s tall, broad, probably a middle hitter.

“Cool.” I nod. “I mean, I’d do it. If you need me.”

“She’s the best,” Brynn says. “Felicity’s mind is like a steel trap.” She snaps her hands together to illustrate, and I jump.

“Nice,” another girl says, and I give her the smile I tried on at home.

She smiles back. Good. My smile works on upperclassmen.

There’s a little more bounce in my step as I search for my locker. I’m scanning numbers, looking for mine as mini reunions occur every five steps. I’ve gotten about twenty hugs and twice as many once-overs from guys by the time I find it.

Right next to Tress Montor.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

The panic grabs me, instantaneous and crushing. My pulse quickens, my breath stops in my chest, and my brain goes to slush. I don’t even have language anymore, just the need to run. It’s been like this since that night; I can’t even look at Tress without having an all-out anxiety attack. Guilt rushes in, filling my whole body like it’s a helium tank and I’m a balloon . . . one that’s about to burst.

Black spots fill my vision, and I know I have to breathe, so I inhale, gulping like a drowning person. A little bit of control comes back, enough that words can be strung together again. It’s not a relief. They come in a tidal wave, like always, an attack on myself inside my own mind.

You’re the reason they left the house in the middle of the night.

You’re the one who can’t remember what happened.

You’re the last person to see Tress’s parents alive.

It’s your fault.

I’m going to lose it. Break open right here in the middle of the hallway, leaving a puddle of insecurities and guilt for everyone to slip in.

Tress turns and sees me.

She hasn’t mastered her face the way I have, hasn’t learned that emotions shouldn’t be shown. We were so close for so long that this still happens sometimes—we’ll catch each other’s eye unexpectedly, and she’ll light up, just a little bit. Tress Montor is still happy to see me.

I can’t take it. I spin on my heel and walk away.