Nosy Girl

The next morning, I walked into library and was surprised to see Will sitting at a table in the back, all alone. I was surprised because he was almost always late, and classes didn't start for almost another hour. I'd gotten here earlier then I usually had to do a little research on child abuse. I would've done it at home but my Internet had been out, leaving me without a source of information. So I'd decided to come to school a little earlier then usual and hop on one of the computers. Besides, if someone asked me what I was doing, I could pass it off as a project for the psychology class I was taking. Of course, I hadn't even entertained the thought of Will being there.

The room was practically empty at this time, aside from him and the half-asleep librarian stamping books at the front counter. Will sat as far away from her as humanly possible, all alone at the table in the farthest corner. The tips of his hair were bright blue now and hung down in front of his face, hiding his bruised eyes. He was staring down at the table in front of him, actually working on something. Although the strokes of his pencil were in strange enough patterns to make me question what exactly he was working on.

He didn't look up as I walked inside and I didn't expect him to. Still, this completely squashed my plans of doing research. Will wasn't stupid; he would know exactly what I was doing. So I walked across the room and sat down across from him. Still, he didn't look up. He even tilted his head forward even more, letting his bangs cover even more of his eyes. I looked at what he was doing and decided that it was one of his drawings. I couldn't tell what it was upside down.

I wanted to confront him again about his family right up front. It was more my style then small talk, but I knew that Will would just get up and leave if I was too forward.
"So . . . What are you doing?" I wondered.

"A project for one of my art classes," he mumbled, still not looking up at me. Something about the way he said 'art classes' made me smile slightly to myself. Maybe it was just the thought that he was doing something that made him happy. Despite how horridly impossible and messed up he was, ever since Saturday I'd decided to quit denying my feelings for Will.

"Oh . . . Can I see it?" I asked.
"It's not finished," he muttered. His dead tone demanding an immediate end to that topic.

"So . . . Uh you dyed your hair again?" I said. Good God I hated small talk. I was horrible at it. I preferred to be forward.
"Yeah, last night. I got tired of the purple," he told me.

I flopped around mentally for another topic again. But shortly gave it up. This wasn't who I was. I wasn't subtle or sensitive. I was up front and a little aggressive.
"Look at me Will," I said sharply in a harsh voice, a severe opposite to my previous casual tone.

He didn't, as per his usual behavior. I was hardly surprised.
"William," I snarled in an even harsher voice, "I said look at me."

He made an aggravated noise, huffing out an annoyed breath, before he finally lifted his head. "Yes?" he growled.
"We need to talk," I said in a hushed tone.

"Whatever could you possibly mean Amunet?" he asked in a clipped tone. His usage of my full name made it painfully clear that he wasn't in a good mood.
"You know exactly what I mean William," I hissed, using his full name as well.

He glared at me with an uncommon heat. Will hardly ever glared, but he glared at me just then. Now his smoldering eyes weren't making me melt, they were making me want to cower. "If you want to talk about my family again," he growled, "Then save it. Because I refuse to have that conversation with you."

"And why is that Will?" I pryed shamelessly, "Are you too embarrassed to talk about? Or are you afraid you're dad will find out you told someone? Or is it your step-brothers abusing you."
"No," he snarled, his eyes stormy, "I don't want to talk because it's pointless."

"Pointless?" I repeated, "As in you think nobody can help you?"
"No. As in I don't need help," he said.

"Will please," I practically begged, "Stop being so . . . defensive."
"I'm not defensive," he said too quickly.

"Yes you are," I said, lowering my voice, "And you're being unreasonable. You know that I know what they do to you . . . Why won't you admit it?"
He looked over my shoulder at the half-deaf librarian at the counter twenty feet away. "Fine. You want to know the truth?" he growled.

"I made that obvious," I muttered.
"The truth is that my step family . . . hates me," he said.

"Hates you? As in abuses you?" I asked.
"If you want to label it . . ." he muttered.

"No I don't want to label it," I said, "But I have to. Because when you walk into school with two black eyes it's obvious that you're being abused."
He sighed and knotted his fingers through his hair. "My step brothers," he sighed, "They just . . . hate me. They're jealous that I have a dad and they don't."

"So your dad . . . He doesn't hit you?" I asked quietly.
He lowered his eyes. "I didn't say that,' he mumbled.

"Then-then why are your step-brothers jealous?" I stammered out in confusion and shock.
"Just because my dad hits me doesn't mean he doesn't love me," he mumbled.

I pressed my lips together to keep from saying anything. Or possibly crying. That was just a horrible thing to hear. He sounded so . . . convinced. So convinced that his dad could abuse him and still love him. I knew it wasn't an uncommon mind set for victims of abuse . . . But seeing it up close . . . It was just heartbreaking.

"Don't look at me like that," he said quietly, avoiding my eyes.
"Don't look at you like what?" I asked guiltily.

"Like you feel sorry for me," he mumbled, still refusing to look at me, "I hate that."
I'd never heard Will use the word hate before. He liked things and disliked things. But as far as I knew he never hated anything or anyone. He just wasn't that kind of person.

"How can I not feel sorry for you Will?" I hissed quietly, "Your dad and your step-brothers beat you and you act like it doesn't bother you!"
He looked at me then. Right into my eyes. "I'm not acting," he said, his eyes clear as day, "It really doesn't bother me." I stared past the bruises and into his eyes to see that he didn't seem to be lying. And that was the sad part.

"How can - how can you say that?" I demanded, "That-that's insane! How can you even think that?"
"Why does it seem so impossible to you that I don't mind it," he said, seeming genuinely confused, "I mean, I know it's not normal and that it's illegal. And I'm not going to lie and say that I enjoy it. I don't. It's just . . . I can deal with it. I've gotten used to it."

"You make getting abused sound like an uncomfortable pair of shoes," I muttered, "Like it's something you can adjust to."
"I have adjusted to it," he said, "Besides, I don't even live with him anyway. It's just every other weekend. No big deal."

"Really? Because I don't get abused every other weekend," I said, "In fact, I've never been abused."
"You wouldn't understand Net," he sighed, "Your family functions. Am I right? It's just you and your mother and you're happy. Right? Well . . . Not all families are so simple."

"And not all children are abused by their fathers," I retorted.
"Nettie, you have to learn how to quit while you're ahead. I told you the truth, just like you wanted. And now that I have, you can stop bugging me about it. All right? Now let it go. Pretend you don't know a thing. And don't even think about telling anybody. Because if you do, you'll regret it," he snarled, grabbing his stuff and getting up, "I won't let you, or anyone else, ruin my family again."

And with that, he stormed out of the library. Leaving me all alone. We both seemed to have a flare for abandoning one another.