His words sting, even though I know they shouldn’t. After all, this is pretty much everything I know about Jackson Stult: One, he cares more about his designer jeans and fancy brand-name shirts than anyone else I’ve ever met; and two, he will do anything for a laugh, even if it comes at someone else’s expense. Which it often does.
I would be more offended if he actually liked me.
But still.
Still.
The sting is there.
But if ruining my night was Jackson’s plan, then I refuse to allow it. I lie back on the blanket, staring up at the orange-glowing clouds that drift by overhead. I try to immerse myself in the good things about this moment. Laughter pealing over the beach. The steady crashing of the waves. The taste of salt and the smell of smoke as the fire gets started. I’m too far away to feel the heat of the flames, but the blanket and sand are warm from baking under the sun’s rays all afternoon.
I am relaxed.
I am content.
I won’t think about biology projects.
I won’t think about spineless bullies.
I won’t even think about Quint Erickson.
I let out a long, slow exhale. I read somewhere that regular meditation can help hone your focus, making you more efficient and productive over time. I’ve been trying to practice meditation ever since. It seems like it would be so easy. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep your focus trained on your breaths.
But there are always thoughts that invade the serenity. There are always distractions.
Like right now, and that terrified screech suddenly cutting across the beach.
I sit up on my elbows. Jackson is carrying Serena McGinney toward the water. He’s laughing, his head tipped back almost maniacally, while Serena thrashes and struggles against him.
I sit up more fully now, my brow tensing. Everyone knows Serena is afraid of the water. It became common knowledge when she refused to participate in mandatory swim class in ninth grade, even going so far as to bring a note from her parents excusing her from any pool activities. She doesn’t just have a slight aversion, like I do. It’s an outright phobia.
Her screams intensify as Jackson reaches the water’s edge. He’s carrying her damsel style, and until now she’s been flailing her arms and legs, trying to get away. But now she turns and clutches her arms around his neck, yelling—Don’t you dare, don’t you dare!
My eyes narrow. I hear one of his friends call out, “Dunk her! Do it!”
I swallow. I don’t think he’ll do it, but I don’t know for sure.
“Come on, it’s barely ankle deep!” Jackson says. Playing to his audience.
It’s clear that Serena does not think it’s funny. She’s gone drastically pale, and though I know she must be hating Jackson right now, her arms are gripping his neck like a vise. “Jackson Stult, you jerk! Put me down!”
“Put you down?” he says. “Are you sure?”
His friends are rooting for him now. A sick chant. Do. It. Do. It. Do. It.
I scramble to my feet and cup my hands around my mouth. “Leave her alone, Jackson!”
His eyes meet mine, and I know I’ve made a mistake. It’s a challenge now. Will he or won’t he?
I plant my hands on my hips and try to convey through osmosis that if he has any dignity at all, he will leave her alone.
He laughs again, an almost cruel sound. Then, in one fluid motion, he releases Serena’s legs and uses his hand to reach back and unhook her arms from his neck. While she’s still scrambling to wrap her knees around him, he hurls her as far as he can out into the waves.
Her scream pierces my ears. His friends cheer.
It’s not that deep, but when she lands on her backside with a splash, the water comes nearly to her neck. She scrambles to her feet and bolts from the water, her dress coated in sand and clinging to her thighs. “You asshole!” she shrieks, shoving Jackson in the stomach as she rushes past him.
He barely moves, other than to reach down and brush away the smear of sand she left on his shirt. “Hey now, this is dry-clean only,” he says, his voice rich with amusement.
Serena storms away, trying to tug the damp skirt away from her hips. As she passes me, I see furious tears building in her eyes.
My teeth are clenched as I turn back to Jackson. His arms are raised victoriously. Not far away, still knee-deep in the