I'm living one side of a statistic thanks to my father. Odds are good that I'll end up at the other side if I ever have a child of my own. I never want kids. I never want to hurt someone like I was hurt. Like I am hurt.

-Brenda Del Vecchio

BEFORE ...

It was called bushing. Jaime watched the dusty earth rock back and forth above his head. He curled his chin to his chest to right himself. He tried kicking, pulling free. Grips tightened around his ankles and wrists. His nose filled with dust kicked up by their sneakers. He smelled sweat at every inhale. Jaime's swing gained speed. This was it. He was about to be bushed.

Ten minutes prior, Jaime sat in the school library. He was supposed to be working on a research paper about Hamlet and his ghost dad. But he got sidetracked with a different topic.

Hunched over a computer, he read:

In ancient Egypt, dung beetles were representations of resurrection. After rolling a ball of dung, female beetles would lay their brood within and conceal the ball in the earth. Upon hatching, the pupa would consume the dung and spawn from the ground-

Gross! Skip that.

The hieroglyph for the dung beetle is most commonly translated as meaning "to come into being," "to transform," "to become," "to-

Did Brenda seriously find this interesting?

Just as the scarab rolled the dung ball, it rolled the sun across the sky. The scarab would seemingly bury the sun in the earth, mirroring the burial of the dung ball. The sun god Ra was renewed and reborn within the sun, emerging the next day from the earth. This cycle symbolized rising from death and ultimately eternal life.

Okay, that part was sort of cool.

Jaime turned away from the web search and back to his notebook. All over the margins of the pages were doodles of necklaces. He still hadn't drawn one he both liked and could actually make. Behind him, students clustered at tables and gossiped as loudly as they dared while Mr. Partridge the librarian prowled around shelving books.

Brenda's party was less than two weeks away. So far Jaime had learned a lot about Egyptian gods and scarab beetles, but he still had no idea what to make with the bug carving. He wanted that Egyptian feel without it looking corny. With a sigh he scrolled down the webpage and kept reading.

Themes of transformation, resurrection, and rebirth are depicted by a scarab beetle with bird wings in place of those of an insect. This furthers the symbolism of heavenly ascension.

Bird wings.

Jaime twiddled the pen between his fingers. He reached into his bookbag. The interior was warm even in the air conditioning. Weird. He retrieved the bug carving he found at the lab wreckage a few days ago. Because it had been at the bottom of his hot bag, the bug carving was warm to the touch. Due to it's weight, Jaime thought it would be better as a necklace. But the research had given him another idea. He placed it against the back of his wrist. It just might work.

In broad strokes, he sketched out a long rectangle strip, tapering the edges. Brushed aluminum would be perfect. The band had to be strong enough to last, easy enough to bend. He'd overlay that piece with a thinner layer, this one cut and engraved to look like feathers to give it detail.

Jaime finished his drawing by adding the bug carving as the centerpiece. This part he had already figured out. He would fasten the carving with soldered prongs, bending them over the stone. He flipped to a blank page and hatched out an image of the finished product.

"Perfect," he breathed.

A silver bracelet mounted by a sapphire scarab, its intricate feathered wings encircling her wrist. Brenda would love it. He would stay after school in the metal shop to work on it or his padre's garage.

Satisfied, Jaime returned to his Hamlet paper. He thought the dead king was way molesto coming all the way back from the grave just to tell Hamlet to go and kill some other guy. What the ghost should have said was for Hamlet to get with his girl Ophelia. But then it wouldn't have been a very interesting play because half the cast would still be alive. On the other hand, Jaime wouldn't have to write a stupid essay about it. He didn't get far into his paper when his cellphone buzzed.

A text from Brenda. It said:

Need u

Jaime's heart spasmed with elation then terror. As much as he'd like to imagine that Brenda had realized what a burning hunk of manly passion he was, he'd received similar texts before.

He was just about to text her back asking what happened when Mr. Partridge popped over Jaime's shoulder. The librarian had sensed the forbidden technology.

"Outside," Mr. Partridge somehow simultaneously yelled and whispered.

Jaime crammed his stuff into his bag and rushed to the exit. He tried calling Brenda's cell. No answer. Must be bad. He pushed his way through the double doors into the warm afternoon sun. He knew where she would be.

"Look who we have here," a voice said. That voice that oozed down Jaime's spine like hot grease. His body immediately stiffened, his legs tensed to bolt. He made it three steps when a meaty hand grabbed Jaime's bag strap and jerked it away.

Jaime spun around to face AJ and his sidekicks, Leo and Javier.

Jaime's heart collided against each of his ribs like a malat. His bag dangled just within reach. He knew if he tried to grab it AJ would snatch it away again. He didn't have time for a game of keep away. Brenda was waiting for him. She needed him.

"Give me my bag," jaime said. His eyes were drawn to AJ's thick arms. "Uh ... please?"

AJ smirked. "We got unfinished business." Jaime inched back. He was shoved from behind. Javier had circled around to box him in.

Oh good. Now he was trapped.

"Not now, AJ," Jaime said.

"You too good to spend time with your pals?" AJ said. Another shove. The circle tightened. "That's just rude right there."

"Just give me back-" Jaime swiped at his bag, it was passed, he was shoved. Jaime caught his balance before he fell. He knew he was dead meat. Three guys, the smallest of whom was twice his size. In situations like this, Jaime had two rules: one throw the first punch and two ... okay, maybe just one rule.

"Give me back my stuff," Jaime said one last time.

AJ's eyes narrowed while his smile widened. Jaime locked his fist, shoulder tensed to swing. But then AJ shrugged. "Whatever. Was just messing with ya." He held out the backpack.

Jaime blinked. That was it? He reached for his bag slowly, expecting it to be jerked away. His fingers closed around the strap.

AJ nailed him in the gut. Jaime crumpled to his face. His body spasmed. He tried to breathe and almost threw up. The world darkened and he cowered. Above him they laughed.

"He's crying," one said. "Look at him crying."

Javier grabbed his ankles, Leo his wrists. The two flipped him and stretched him out. Jaime tried curling back into a ball. They were too strong. The hot earth disappeared from underneath him. They were carrying him somewhere.

"He's shaking like a baby," another one said.

Jaime's breath returned, shallow and irregular. He felt himself swinging and immediately knew what they were doing.

Only freshman got bushed. Jaime was a junior and he'd been bushed no less than three times that year. Lucky him. Any guesses as to who bushed him each of those three times?

Jaime opened his eyes. Sure enough, he'd been taken behind the school near the bus lane. To his left, there were a row of thick, prickly shrubs nearly as tall as AJ and his buddies. To Jaime's right, AJ. Every time they swung him towards the right, AJ slapped him in the face.

They started the chant.

"One," swung out over the bush, then back, slap. "Two," over, then back, slap. "Three!" With one mighty heave he was released. Jaime arced through the air. He quickly covered his face with his arms and crashed into the jagged branches. He splintered the top of the bush and plunged into the mess of limbs. His jeans protected his legs for the most part, but his thin shirt was breached by needles. He bit his cheeks, refusing to make a noise. Beyond the branches, he could hear laughter and high fiving as the seniors moved off.

Jaime gingerly pried his arms away from his face and extracted his clothes from the thorns. He crawled free, clamoring to his feet. He froze. The three boys leaned against the school. Waiting for him.

"Who gave you permission to come out?" AJ sneered.

And again, the ground rocked below. Again, hit in the face. Again, crashing into the unmerciful briars.

Jaime waited a long time, laying suspended by tiny claws. The sun sliced through the branches and the pale sky glared down on his weakness and on his shame. He emerged slowly, peering this way and that for any sign of the three. Once he confirmed he was safe, Jaime crawled out. He picked leaves out of his hair and briars out of his clothes.

Bushed twice in one day. Jaime found his bag, grabbed it, and slunk off. What a loser.

Brenda sat in what passed for a park. There was a swing set and, theoretically, a soccer field. This early in the year, the tufts of grass were actually green in place of the bristly tan. A rusted, netless goal sagged at either end of the plot. A few kids ran in the lot, sneakers slapping against the deflated ball.

Jaime tried calling Brenda's phone. She let it go to voicemail. She didn't want him to hear her crying. He'd only worry. She stared dead eyed at the soccer field, not daring to blink, not daring to focus. She was perched on a picnic table, feet on the bench, hands limp between her knees, staring.

She wasn't sure how much time passed when the table shifted and creaked. Someone sat on the table top behind her.

"Hey," Jaime said.

Brenda blinked. Her eyes were dry but she wasn't sure if her they were still red so didn't turn. She forced her shoulders to untighten, her throat to unclench, her stomach to contract. "Hey," she whispered back, still not fully trusting her vocal chords.

Jaime said nothing more. This is why she called him and not Paco. Right now, Paco would be trying to crack a joke, asking her if she remembered that one time he threw up in the iMax, telling her some story he heard from this guy's girlfriend's sister. When everything was flying around in her head like this, she didn't need more noise.

Brenda leaned on her hands so that one of her shoulders brushed up against his back. Under the soft cotton of his shirt, she could feel the expansion of his ribs as he breathed. Blessed calm. That's what Jaime was. He could change the way a room felt just by being there, radiating peace like a sun.

She knew she should say something. But she didn't want to talk about it. "There's a book about me," she said still facing the field. She didn't know why she was talking about this. "Says I'm going to become him. Or marry someone just like him." She tried to laugh. It sounded hollow. "Says I'm a victim and I'll stay the victim or become the victimizer. Screw that, right?"

His voice vibrated through his shirt. "You look upset. What's wrong?"

Brenda felt a press of anger burning in the back of her throat. "I'm not upset. I don't look like anything. I just came here to think. I'm thinking, okay?"

"Okay. What are you thinking about?"

"I just told you, about this book."

"That's not what you're upset about."

Brenda leapt off the table and spun to face him. "I told you I'm not upset," she hissed. He cocked an eyebrow as though to point out that her yelling at him instantly disproved that claim. "It pisses me off when people think they know what I'm feeling. You're wrong. Like you know anything about how I feel."

How could he when even she wasn't sure? She was mad but felt like she was going to cry but laughter whirled around too. What she did know was this: calm gone. If she saw one spec of pity in his eyes, she would punch him.

Jaime was staring at her long shirt sleeves. Trying to see under them. Trying to guess what they hid. Anger boiled through her veins. He wanted to help her. Everyone was always trying to help her.

"What?" she yelled.

Jaime's gaze turned to the table.

"What're you staring at?" Her fists were shaking. She wanted him to stand up and push her. Push her so she could push him back. Hit her so she could beat him to a pulp. Her breath came shaky. Is this what that book was talking about; that she would lash out and hurt everyone around her even those she cared about? She grit her teeth. Screw that book! Screw Jaime and his stupid calm.

She was ready for him to say something. One word out of his stupid mouth and she'd ram it down his throat. With her fists!

Jaime said nothing.

Why didn't he fight her!

"Sorry," he said at last.

Her desire to hit him spiked and the next second leaked from her tensed muscles. What was he even apologizing for? For himself? For her? For her dad? She didn't even know why she wanted to hit Jaime. If it was him she even wanted to hit.

Jaime looked up at her. "If you want to talk we can. Or not. We can just sit here." He shrugged. "Whatever you need."

Need? She fumbled for that anger, strained to keep it clenched in her fists so she wouldn't just shatter; crumble into a million pieces like sand. She needed -

She huffed out a breath, forcing the pain away.

That book said she'd do this. Avoid the problem. Cover it up.

No, she needed to keep it together. So what the hell, under the rug it went. Jaime's expression didn't change. Constant calm. The eye to her hurricane.

She felt embarrassed for blowing up. Fumbled to find a way to justify it. Excuse it. She unclenched her fists. She was feeling about a million things and didn't know how to say any of them.

Instead, Brenda finally looked at Jaime properly. There were rips in his shirt and dried blood crosshatched across his arms. "You got bushed, didn't you?" He looked away, shoulders hunching that way they did when he was uncomfortable. Her remaining anger evaporated. The book warned her about this too. She was attracted to broken things; hurt things. She wanted to rescue them. Save them because she was helpless to save herself. Brenda sighed and climbed the bench to sit next to him.

No sweeping under the rug for her today. Not ever. She wasn't going to let some book label her. She'd do the opposite of what it said she'd do. She'd face the problem. She'd talk it out. She wouldn't become what the book said she would.

Brenda took a breath and began. "I got home," she said. "Dad was his usual charming self. He found the invitations to my party. He was pissed. Said I was doing stuff behind his back." Jaime faced her. His dark brown eyes creased. His fingers dug into his knees. "He didn't do anything-" she started to assure then stopped. The book said this too. That she would defend him. She would never defend what he did. Brenda licked her lips, then monotone informed, "We argued. He ripped the invitations up. He told me I wasn't having a party. That he wouldn't let me. I said I was. He pushed me into the wall. I left."

She could see a thousand questions swirling in his eyes. He didn't assault her with any of them. He never did. He knew she didn't need a judge. She had too many of those.

Jaime pivoted his whole body, making the worn table squeak. He looked straight into her eyes. "You're nothing like him," he said.

She blinked, and in that blink lightning ricochet against her heart. In that blink, she wanted to break down and cry, let out all her fear, and hate; wash the past away and clear her future. Cry with relief that someone believed in her. Cry in terror because they might be wrong. But when that blink was over, she laughed and shoved him. And she ignored the fact that the book said this too; that she was in denial about her feelings. Screw that book. She was tossing it out once she got home.

"God, I hope I'm not like him," she said with a smile and rolled her eyes. "The role of ojete is already filled in our trio."

"You better be talking about Paco," Jaime said.

Brenda shrugged. "Hard to tell, isn't it?" He bumped her with his shoulder and they both smiled. She glanced over at him. Brenda reached her hand up and ran her fingers through his hair. He looked at her sideways, body tensing.

She pulled the leaf from his tangled locks and tossed it to the ground. His dark chocolate eyes shot to the ground and he swallowed several times making his adam's apple pulse along his throat. Brenda felt a flush creep into her face. He didn't think that she had been about to ... The heat between their bodies seemed to intensify.

No. No, Brenda. This was Jaime. They were friends.

She pulled her sleeves over her thumbs. "I'll talk to my tía," she said trying to brush the awkward moment aside.

"About what?" Jaime asked.

"My dad. Maybe she can work something out with him.

"Right." Then his crooked smile lit up his face. "He'll come around, Brenda. So don't worry about your party. And don't let him ruin it for you. It's your day. Not his. Your life." He jumped to his feet and brushed himself off. "I told Paco I'd meet up with him at El Diablos. You want to come? You hungry? I'll get you some hot-as-hell cajun tacos. Extra brimstone. Just the way you like them. Guaranteed to peel the flesh from your mouth."

He was talking too fast. Too animated. And in a pseudo-Italian mobster accent.

"Chill, spaz," she snorted. "I'll come." She hopped down.

Jaime reached for his backpack, then paused. His smile waned. He ripped open the zipper and dug inside. "No no no," he muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"AJ better not have ..." Realization flashed across his face. "The library. I left it by the computers!"

"What?"

"I have to go. Meet you there."

"I'll come with you," she said. The school wasn't that far.

"No!"

Brenda shot him a look. "Uh, since when do you tell me where I can and can not go?"

Jaime was double checking his bag as he walked backwards. "It'll be faster if-" He broke off, hand at his pocket. He reached inside and his face surrendered to relief. "Got it." He huffed out a nervous laugh.

"Why the freak-out?" she asked.

He looked away and scratched his nose. "Thought I left my phone."

All that over a phone? She rolled her eyes. "Teatrero."

Jaime shook his head, frowning. "Weird," he said. "I know I didn't grab it."

"Let's go," she urged. "That talk of tacos got my mouth watering." The events with her father had shrunken almost to insignificance. Jaime helped ground her, now it was time for Paco to make her laugh, and for Brenda to stuff her face.

Jaime turned his back to her, shielding his bag from her as he zipped it up, then faced her, the item from his pocket safely within. She cocked an eyebrow at his odd behavior. Like hell it was his cell phone. He was hiding something. But she let it slide. They had cajun tacos to get to. Priorities.

As they walked, the two of them ranted about the essay due next week. Jaime was telling her how the play should have ended, hands waving about as he gestured to an imaginary stage. Brenda took a moment to scan him. Heat made his shirt cling to his slim body. His clothes were dusty and ripped. She winced at the smear of dried blood across an arm. She didn't need to ask who had bushed him.

This time, Brenda didn't bat down the surge of sympathy. Maybe that book didn't have to be all wrong. Maybe she could rescue Jaime, just a little. She smiled as she got an idea. She knew how to help him. All it would take were three invitations.

loose Spanish translation as taken in context:

molesto - uncool, annoying
ojete - asshole
padre - father
teatrero - drama queen
tía - aunt