THE LINE IS SIX DEEP for the restroom. If the hall were empty, I’d dodge into the guys’ bathroom, but instead I race down the corridor and slip through the gym doors to use the public restroom designated for visitors—the one nobody visits. Immediately, I hear voices, loud and familiar.
“This is so fucked up!”
“Obviously.”
I’m reminded of one of my first Saturdays at Bea’s house, when I was scrubbing spots of toothpaste off a bathroom mirror and heard shouts in the hallway. I rushed to shut and lock the door, and within seconds Bea was screaming, “Get out!” I never saw who she was yelling at, but my money’s on her boyfriend, Toby. Later, when I was leaving, Bea stopped me at the door and asked what I heard. “Nothing,” I said, my eyes darting everywhere but her red cheek. “Are you sure?” Bea asked. And again, I answered, “I heard nothing.” She didn’t believe me.
This morning’s different, though. My bladder and bowels refuse to care what I’m about to witness again, so I whip around the corner with my finger raised, eyes on the ceiling. “This restroom is not for you. Get out!”
Toby shouts, “Piss off!”
That’s when I catch a glimpse of Bea hunched over the garbage can, crying. Twenty minutes ago she was complimenting my clothes. Now she’s wiping her nose and darting into a stall to avoid eye contact.
Toby slaps her stall door and shouts, “You’re going to have to deal with this, Bea! Once and for all! As much as I want to help, some shit you have to do yourself.”
“Go away,” Bea says, her voice muffled behind the door.
“Yeah,” I say, pointing behind me. “Leave. . . . Just scram.” Scram?
Toby faces me and flexes his chest. I yawn and point toward the exit.
He shouts, “Time to choose, Bea! Time to fucking choose!”
Bea sniffs from the stall.
I barely manage to lock the door before tearing down my pants. I’ve reached the stage where I have to pee so bad, I can’t anymore, so I draw deep breaths. Relaxation is impossible with Bea and Toby near. I don’t have time for their drama, and I really don’t want to see it up close and personal, so I close my eyes and force myself to unwind.
When I finish, I linger at the sink, soaping my hands two hundred times. I turn the water off and on, trying to rinse off the curiosity that keeps rearing its hideous head. I hate that I want to ask Bea if she’s okay. She’s not the kindest person I’ve ever met. Her sniffs from the stall tell me she’s not fine, though. I can’t just leave her in here, with him out there.
I stomp toward the exit, kick the door open, but remain inside. Within seconds, Bea swings the stall open, heads for the sink, and dampens a wad of paper towels to smudge snakes of mascara from her cheeks. I step from behind the wall and Bea jumps. “What do you want? Haven’t you seen enough?”
My eyes widen and my sarcasm from earlier slinks out the cracked window. The only thing left on my tongue is sympathy splashed with shock.
Bea stares at me, one eye turning the shade of a stormy sky. The bubble on her lip from yesterday is busted open and her mouth is oozing a mixture of saliva and blood.
“Are you okay?” I ask, offering more paper towels.
She swats my hand away. “Of course I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.” My voice is soft, almost a whisper.
Bea glances at herself in the mirror and after a long pause mumbles, “And you do?”
I sigh and drop the paper towels on the sink. “Look. I’m just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for help. Did I?”
She never does. Maybe she never will.
But I can’t ignore the similarities Bea and I share. I never ask for help, either. And sometimes I wish I could. I can’t even jump in her boyfriend’s face and shake my fist, for fear I’ll end up in the principal’s office. I hate that Bea makes me want to care for her, even when she treats me like crap.
Bea and her friends never used to bother me. I’m not chubby or Asian, in a predominantly lean and whitewashed school tainted with an occasional racist and misogynistic asshole. I try to keep to myself, always covered in an I-don’t-care-if-you-like-me sheen, but when it comes to Bea, I’d be lying if I said I don’t care a little. Seeing her pain is hard. You don’t even have to search for it—it’s written all over her face. Swollen lip. Sad eyes. She stirs hard-to-face feelings.
“Why are you still standing here?” Bea asks. “Didn’t I tell you to get out?”
I snatch the paper towels I tried to offer Bea like a white flag and wad them into a ball in my fist. I can’t leave without asking her a question. “What did Toby mean when he said you’d have to choose?”
She dabs her lip with her tongue. “Why do you care?”
I shake my head and stuff the paper-towel ball into the garbage can. “Why don’t you?”
We stare at each other until the moment grows awkward. My insecurities bubbling and stirring, hers masked with anger and pride. Words push at her lips but no sound escapes. I arch an eyebrow to encourage her, show her it’s safe to open up, but she glares and returns a middle finger.
“You suck,” she says, and spits blood into the sink.
I shake my head. “You’re impossible.” And I swing the door shut.
Why even try? Bea doesn’t want my help. Pride is more important to her than happiness. At least that’s how it seems.
I round the back hall on the way to my locker and see a handful of students gathering. Reed has Toby pushed up against the wall. I dart beside them and pretend not to hear Reed shout Bea’s name like a drunken poet. He’s punching the locker like a boxing bag. Dude’s unhinged.
Nobody wants to see this shit. Especially here. Technically, they are in my house, yet I’m plowing through the middle of someone else’s domestic disturbance.
Bea resurrects herself from the restroom and shouts. “Stop or I’m going to Principal Falls!” The boys break apart.
“But I love you, Bea!” Reed shouts, prompting me to rev up my speed. Basically, I’m sprinting my ass to class, now.
I walk into class and hear mouths buzzing about the altercation between Seung and Reed. Only Seung’s referred to as That Asian Guy, and gossip has it that Reed threw the first punch. The story lacks facts, which really pisses me off.
Mr. Dique launches into a lecture out of the starting gate, and I’m willing my stomach to shut the hell up because it sounds like a monster dying for a kill . . . or perhaps a cheddar-stuffed corn dog from Cheese Country. I’m stuck in the middle row, jabbing at my arm with a pencil to keep my eyes open, when Kristen flits into class and says, “Sorry I’m late,” then hands Mr. Dique a pink slip of paper.
She spins on her heel and marches toward her seat, staring at me and smiling. Her eyes say, “I’m sorry,” for what, I don’t know. Then she slips a folded piece of paper onto my desk and sits in her chair. I slap my hand over the top of the square and shift in my seat to catch Kristen’s eye.
Drama Jarrell blocks my view. He smiles and says, “Good morning, Linden.”
My eyes land on his shirt, which reads: Save the Drama for Me and Your Llama. I smile and slide back around to listen to Mr. Dique ramble on about a complicated form of replication. Usually I’d be hurriedly scribbling notes with a cramped hand, but I’m tired and cranky and craving lunch. Kristen clears her throat, and I swear I hear her cough out the words, “Open it.” Jarrell jabs my back with a pen.
I half turn in my seat. “What?”
“Open it,” he whispers.
“Later.”
“She said to do it now.” Jarrell leans forward on his desk chair and cradles his chin on his hands. “She keeps saying to open it. It’s Kristen. Remember? She’s infused with the inability to relent.”
I grunt and unfold the paper just as Bea walks into the room.
She makes no excuses for being late, and when she passes my desk, she snatches Kristen’s note and waves it like a flag.
“Excuse me, Mr. Dique,” Bea says, interrupting the class.
“Questions at closing.” Mr. Dique swats his hand without looking. “Answers, too, because you’re late.”
“But, Mr. Dique,” Bea says, all grin, “Linden is disrupting class with a note.”
Are you joking right now? I mean, where is Bea’s confidence coming from? She’s wearing a second face made of concealer and powder that’s doing a fine job of hiding the damage, but why welcome the spotlight?
Mr. Dique whips around from the white board and says, “A note? Who cares? Pass notes all you want. Please, somebody, resurrect the lost art of letter writing. It’s the phones I’ll confiscate.” Mr. Dique smiles and turns his back to the class.
I smile at Bea, and she scowls and throws the note at my head. It sticks in my hair.
“But,” Mr. Dique says, twisting back around and tapping his pointer on the front desk, “no disrupting class. Understood, Linden?”
I nod. “Understood, Mr. D.”
I pat the note and try to make sense of Kristen’s words. It reads:
She talked to me again. Asked questions about you.
Who? That journalist lady? As if I don’t have enough to think about.
I fold the paper into a tight square and stuff it into my pocket as Jarrell pokes my back again.
“You’ve got to stop doing that,” I whisper.
“More mail.” He grins and shrugs and slips me another note.
Jarrell’s right. Kristen is relentless, and I do need to find out more about this journalist lady, so I unfold the paper and read.
Mind your own damn business, T.T.B. Stay out of mine. Consider this a threat!
Clearly the note is from Bea, not Kristen. Bea and Toby are the only people who refer to me with those initials, but Bea’s the one with reason to threaten me.
I read the note again. Each letter pops in my head, over and over, until something inside me stirs. Anger, hurt, Seung’s confidence rubbing off on me. Whatever it is, it’s causing a reaction. My knee hits the desk and I’m up, wadding the paper into a ball and launching it overhead.
“Aren’t you tired of living a lie?” I snap.
Somewhere, deep in the pit of my gut, I feel sorry for this girl. Call it hunger. Call it rage. But I’m too busy spitting questions at Bea to realize that the note bounces off her desk and lands at Reed’s feet. He clears his throat and says, “That’s enough, Linden.”
Then Mr. Dique repeats, “Yes, Linden. That’s enough.”
Here’s me, standing in the middle of class, staring at Bea, who’s staring at Reed, caring little about the twenty other sets of eyes looking at me like I’m a monster. I glance at Reed and he stares at me for what seems like an hour, maybe longer, but enough time to sizzle the I-don’t-give-two-shits sheen off my skin. He looks at the note, then back at me. He bends over and snatches the paper, knuckles his brow, and wipes away droplets of sweat. His eyes are glazed over. He might even be crying, because he has that same look he had when he blocked my exit and asked me about Bea.
“Is there an issue, Linden?” Mr. Dique asks.
I shake my head and plop down sideways in my chair, tucking one leg under my ass and locking eyes on the note. Reed flattens the paper ball, pushing the wrinkles out with his long fingers. He squints when he reads. Then cocks his head in my direction and smiles. I don’t know if he’s sympathetic, but his eyes dance over me, starting at the top of my head and ending at the slushie stain on my shoe. I shove my foot beneath my desk, but it’s too late. Reed sees me. My clothes, my stains, my bark-filled hair.
I guess I do give a shit.
I’m T.T.B. Trailer Trash Bitch.
To Bea and her friends.
The irony? I nicknamed myself.
I’m the one who told the world I live in a trailer, as if living in a trailer is better than living nowhere at all.
The bell rings and I sprint for the door.
I refuse to face Bea or Beth or Reed and his perfect complexion. As hard as I try to blend in, Bea fights to make me stand out. Every time I turn the corner, there she is, in my face, scrambling for more ammunition to treat me like shit. I didn’t want to overhear her fights with her boyfriend. I didn’t willingly get involved. Now she assumes I see her as weak. If Bea only knew that I’m strong because I have to be, because I know what it’s like to feel broken. I know what it’s like to lose everything, in an instant, and have to fight and claw my way back from nothing. It’s the fighting, clawing, and clinging to hope that make me strong. Unfortunately, right now, I’m the weakest I’ve felt in a while.
I want to help this girl. I want her to know she’s not alone. But how can you help someone who hates you simply because you know they need help?
I wonder if Bea thinks she’s beyond hope. Like nobody can save her.
And then she waves at Seung. And Seung waves back.
Maybe she’s searching for a rescuer. Who better to run to than the King of Safety? Isn’t that what I did?
Sure, Seung’s more chiseled this year since he quit eating meat, but he’ll need to shove a hamburger in his mouth if he’s going to battle Toby.
I speed-walk the hall, a headache jamming the backs of my eyes. My brain aches from Bea’s drama. When I round the corner, Ham’s slumped against my locker.
“Skip second period,” he hisses. “Meet me in the newsroom.”
“Can’t.”
“But this is important,” Ham whines. “I think Bea’s in trouble.”
I roll my eyes as I dig for my bag. I prop my books to hide my shampoo and deodorant from peeking out of my locker, slipping my hand behind a book and sliding my toothpaste into an unzipped pocket on my bag. Ham’s too busy nodding at Jarrell as he passes to notice what I’m doing.
“Hello? Ham?” I say when I’m done reorganizing my cabinet.
“Huh? What?”
“Bea’s in trouble?”
“Well, yeah,” Ham says. “I think Bea’s cheating on Toby Patters.”
“Well, good,” I say. “Maybe she’s on her way to victory.”
“Is that sarcasm, Linden?” Ham says flatly. “Because if it is, it’s ugly. Hideous, in fact.”
“Sorry, Ham. It’s just that Bea hates me. How am I supposed to care about someone who hates me?”
Ham exhales. “She needs us, Linden. I’m pretty sure she’s cheating on T.P. with Reed.” Ham throws his hands in the air. “And we all know how I feel about Reed Clemmings.”
On cue, Reed passes my locker and winks.
“Did he wink at you or me?” Ham asks. And before I clarify, Ham blurts, “Such a miserable person stuffed inside such a beautiful body.”
My eyes widen, but when I follow Ham’s gaze, Bea appears.
I inhale all aggressive-like, ready to scold Ham about his infatuation with Bea, when Seung walks up and leans against my neighbor’s locker.
“Mr. George wants to meet with us after school,” Seung says. He’s bright-eyed midmorning. Fresh and sparkly and smelling like a mix of cloves and evergreen. Basically, Seung’s the holidays personified. I smile, and Seung holds my stare. “Did you sleep well last night, Linden?” he asks, a bit breathy, and for a minute I worry that he knows something he couldn’t possibly know. Could he?
I shrug and wonder if he’ll look me up and down like Reed did, or ask me if I know I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes. But Seung just fixes on my face forever. “Lunch?” he finally asks.
“I’m not eating in that germ-infested cafeteria,” Ham shouts, walking backward and pointing down the hall. “Let’s meet at Cheese Country.” He raises two index fingers in the air. “I need fucking cheese!”
Seung shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says. “I’m broke. Let’s eat fucking cheese at my house.”
Ham salutes us before walking away. Then he turns and shouts from the end of the hallway. “Linden, that journalist lady talked to me about you. I think you’re winning a scholarship or something.”
I slam my locker door. “Why didn’t you mention this before?” But Ham disappears down the hall. My foot slips and I reach down to pick up a rolled ten-dollar bill. When I come up smiling, bragging to Seung about how my day escalated from suck to nonsuck, he’s gone, too.