Humiliation washed over me in a cold, clammy wave. My mind scrambled for a way to escape, to evaporate and drift away in the air, never to return to school again. But today I wasn’t a wallflower. Today, there was no quiet, easy way out.
The sting of bitter tears burned at the backs of my eyes and I willed myself not to shed them.
For several seconds, we sat that way, Stephen’s knuckles continuing to brush my chest, my mouth agape in disbelief. His lips moved, but I heard no words; my ears rang with the sound of his friends’ laughter. The hundreds of eyes trained on me stabbed at my nerves like tiny needles.
Then the hair trigger on my temper tripped, completely eclipsing all other feelings, including embarrassment. Anger surged and swelled and built within me until it was a blinding rage. It burned away the unshed tears, bubbling along my veins and blazing across my cheeks. My fingers squeezed around the milk carton I held. I felt the liquid warm against my palm, my hand shaking with fury.
“I know you want me,” he whispered, his pupils dilating as his bravado increased. He was oblivious to the storm that was brewing inside me. “And I can make you feel so much better.”
The smell of scalding milk drifted to my nose as it began to boil inside the carton. I watched it happen as if it was in slow motion. Hot milk erupted from the carton, hitting Stephen square on the chin and splattering all over his face.
CHAPTER FOUR
Stephen sputtered and squealed, finding his way back to his side of the table as he wiped hot milk droplets from his ever-reddening face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was hoping that the milk hadn’t been hot enough to blister his face, just his pride. But the majority of my attention was focused on the satisfaction I felt at seeing him squirm.
A hush had fallen across the cafeteria. The only sounds were Stephen’s indignant gasps and the shuffle of a few chairs sliding back as people stood to watch the scene unfold.
Too angry to process the ramifications of my actions, I stood, looking down on a furious Stephen. I grabbed my cookie from my tray and stepped out and away from the lunch table. “I thought you were different,” I spat then spun on my heel and stalked away.
I marched right out of the cafeteria and straight out the door, refusing to look left or right. I didn’t stop, just kept walking until I was in front of my mailbox. It didn’t take that long for my temper to cool, however, and for regret to sink in. Already I dreaded the fallout my actions would incite and, lucky me, I’d have all evening and all night to dwell on it and dread the next few days.
I lowered the mailbox lid, rusty metal hinges creaking in protest, and took the mail from inside. My arms felt like they weighed fifty pounds each. I was suddenly exhausted. I felt the stress and strain of the previous three days in every fiber of my being it seemed.
Unlocking the front door, I walked straight through to the kitchen and poured myself a huge glass of water. My throat was on fire.
I carried my drink to the living room, along with the mail, and set it down on the coffee table. I collapsed onto the soft couch cushions, letting the mail fall from my fingers and scatter across the floor. I didn’t bother to pick it up. At that moment, I was more interested in letting the familiar smells of home soothe my jangling nerves.
After several minutes, I sat up to go through the mail. I picked up each piece, examining it as I went.
Bills, bills and more bills, I thought as I picked up the last two pieces. But it wasn’t all just bills. Hidden beneath the next to last piece was a plain white envelope. It had my name as well as my father’s written across the front in a neat, feminine hand. Our address wasn’t listed, only our names. There was no return address. And no stamp.
A heavy blanket of foreboding settled over me as I slid my finger under the adhesive flap and pulled. Inside was a single sheet of lined white paper. It was the kind of paper we used in school. I found that odd. It was neatly creased into thirds and