Fuck.
I need a cigarette.
Why am I not smoking? Why am I suffering through headaches and intense cravings when I can take the easy way out?
Oh, right. Because of her.
She wants me to suffer. She wants me to not sleep, to go through withdrawals.
Of all the people on this planet, I had to be an asshole to one girl who wouldn’t take my shit lying down. Who wouldn’t leave me alone.
Fucking excellent, Zach.
Even now, her fingers are in my hair.
They’re running through the strands, caressing my forehead all the way down to my jaw. Everything pulses on my face. My jaw, my cheeks, my teeth, even.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this but… I’m sorry,” she says. “I mean, I think I’m sorry, Zach.”
Everything goes black before I can ask her what she is sorry for.
I know how it all started.
The years of misery and hate.
Or at least, I think I know. I have a theory. And if it’s right, then everything I’ve believed in my entire life will turn out to be a lie.
Okay so, that might be a little too dramatic. But still.
I’m freaking the fuck out.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I saw the drunk version of Zach, followed by his book with his name on it and the broken pencil.
Ever since then, I can’t stop the flood of memories.
Zachariah Benjamin Prince.
There’s something so powerful about his name that things that I had buried inside of me are rushing back to the surface. All of them about St. Patrick’s.
But for the first time, I’m not thinking about how Zach and his minions made my life miserable. I’m not thinking about their pranks. I’m thinking about my retaliations. The things I did. The things I said.
I’m thinking about our first meeting.
I spent the entire last night thinking about it, digging out memories, trying to remember everything that I can about the very first time we met.
By morning, one thing was clear in my head. So, so clear that I’m surprised how I ever forgot it in the first place.
His twelve-year-old handwriting and my ten-year-old reaction to it.
Now I remember that I saw it.
We were supposed to do lines in detention and I caught a glimpse of the ones he did in his notebook. And because he was such a jerk to me, I taunted him about it. I got so mad that I thoughtlessly said the first thing that came to my mind at the time.
It’s like ants crawling all over your page. It’s gross. Your handwriting is the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.
I can hear my voice in my head and it sounds mean. It sounds hurtful.
The following day, after lunch, I found my notebooks torn up and destroyed in the school hallway. And then, smirking, he walked up to me and looked at me like he wanted to crush me under his school boots. As another one of my retaliations, I punched him in the face.
Over the years, when his gang called me names, I called them names. I called Zach an imbecile. An illiterate, aimless leech who’d forever suck on his father’s bank account. I called him a burden to society, a waste of space.
When they hid my homework, I smiled at them and told them that they should at least thank God that they chose me to pick on. If they had chosen someone like Zach, they wouldn’t even have any homework to hide. Because everyone knew that he hadn’t turned in a single project since he started going to school.
Does he even know how to read? Highly doubtful. I bet he never learned.
And that’s just one example.
For years, I’ve ridiculed Zach’s intellect and his lack of focus in school. Both to his face and privately.
What if it all started with one little comment that I made? What if the years of vendetta and hatred could’ve been avoided if I hadn’t said that one thing?
I’m not going to go all martyr and say it’s all my fault. But I’ve always blamed Zach and maybe, just maybe, I’m not entirely blameless myself.
“Blue! Look!”
Art’s voice brings me out of my thoughts. I’m at the kitchen island, prepping dinner, when he comes rushing in.
I’m so glad he’s over what happened to him last week. These days if I’m watching him, he doesn’t get to go anywhere further than my front yard. Where I was flung over Zach last night, to be specific.
“Look!” he repeats, spreading his arms wide, grinning.
Shaking all thoughts of last night, I round the island and lean against it. “Oh my God!” I exclaim. “Look at you, dude. Where did you get all this?”
He’s wearing his usual jeans and a black Batman t-shirt, but he has a motorcycle jacket on and a pair of sunglasses. The sleeves of his jacket are adorned with little balls of flames and gosh, he looks like a badass.
“Zach gave ’em to me,” he squeals.
His name makes me go still and look up to find him at the door. At the very threshold. He’s wearing the same leather jacket but no sunglasses and no balls of flames. I guess he doesn’t need them.
He’s kind of on fire already, with his bronzed skin, rough stubble and intense gaze.
I can’t take my eyes off Zach and I’m not even going to try. This is the first time I’m seeing him all day. He wasn’t working out this morning, nor was he in the kitchen like he usually is, with Maggie doting over him. I assumed he was sleeping off his hangover.
Does he even remember that we met last night?
“He said I could wear it to school,” Art says while I’m still looking at Zach.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes! He says I’ll look super cool in it. No one would mess with me.”
Art makes a fist and growls and I throw out a broken laugh. I reach over and pat his cowlick. But when I speak, I’m looking at Zach. “Zach’s right. No one would dare mess with you. You’re gonna show everyone how badass you are.”
I’ve always been expendable. An afterthought.
My eyes get watery when his words echo in my head. His eyes, however, get hard, unflinching and opaque.
Nothing in them suggests that he remembers what happened last night.
A second later, he breaks the stare and takes a step back from the threshold as if leaving.
“Wait,” I call out.
He stops and throws me a glance.
“Are you leaving?”
“Looks like it.”
“Don’t.” I rush to explain, “I mean, we’re just going to have dinner. Art and I. Tina’s not here. And then, we’re going to just hang out until Doris comes back from her shift. So, uh, you could stay if you wanted to.”
And fuck whoever sees him here. We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s just an innocent dinner.
His frown is more like thunder than the mere crease of muscles, but I’m not afraid of it. And neither is Art. He dashes over to Zach, grabs his hand and pulls him inside.
“Yes! It’s gonna be fun. Blue’s making pancakes. It’s breakfast for dinner day.”
“It is. To cure the Monday blues.” I nod, staring at Zach.
“She makes the best pancakes ever,” Art informs Zach as he brings him closer.
“It’s true. I do. My dad taught me.”
A somber expression passes over Zach’s face at the mention of my dad. I can’t believe I mentioned him so casually when I make sure to never talk about my parents. If I don’t talk about them, then I don’t miss them.
But I guess I can talk about them with Zach.
Step by step, he comes closer and my ability to think shrinks to only one thing: does he remember?
Does he remember last night? Does he remember what I said to him the very first time we met?
He stops a few feet away from me, still being held by Art, who’s talking excitedly. I can see him hopping on his feet but I can’t really tell what he’s saying.
I grab the edge of the counter and breathe the fresh scent of blueberry pie wafting off Zach.
Zach’s eyes drop to my lips. “I like ’em extra sweet.”
I find myself nodding. “Yeah. Okay. I have syrup.”
He looks up. “You do.”
“Yes. All kinds of them. Chocolate and maple and strawberry. You can have whatever you want.”
I realize I’m talking kind of fast and kind of breathily, like I can’t get enough air just because he’s sucking me dry with his eyes.
“Whatever I want, huh?”
Oh, and I also accidentally said the same exact thing as I did the night I snuck into his room.
My reply is different this time, though.
Against a pounding heart, I nod again. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”
Zach roves his eyes over my features, probably trying to gauge my feelings, and I give him a small smile.
Before he can react to it, Art pulls him away.
After that, I get to work. I mix up the pancake batter, adding in chocolate chips to make them extra sweet. I’m not much of a cook but this is going to be the best damn meal Zach’s ever tasted. I’ll make sure of it.
I hear their chattering in the background. Mostly it’s inconsequential, but then I hear Zach’s low voice and I move closer to the edge of the kitchen so I can hear him clearly.
Art’s sitting on the couch, his legs dangling, and Zach’s kneeling on the floor before him.
“You know what bullies are?” Zach says. “They are cowards. They are afraid of everything. They are afraid of themselves. They are afraid of you.”
“They are not afraid of me.”
“You kidding? They are terrified of you. You probably haunt their dreams, buddy.”
Art giggles. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” All traces of amusement go away from Zach’s face as he continues, “That’s why they pick on you, Art. Deep down they know that this is it. This is the best fucking time of their lives and when it’s over, they’re over. If they are tall, they know that’s it. That’s all they are ever gonna be and that’s why they pick on people shorter than them.”
“When am I gonna get tall?” Art mumbles.