Chapter 19: 1.17
Chapter Text
Monday morning rolls around, bringing with it another wave of frost. The footpaths are slippery when you go for your jog that morning, forcing you to pick your path carefully so you can avoid slipping and falling painfully on your butt. Again. You've done that one too many times before.
The chill in the air does a good enough job at waking you up that you're not feeling tired by the time you stumble back home at seven, at least. Admittedly, you're pretty sure that your fingers are actually frozen now, and you're probably going be nursing your left hand for the rest of the day after you go to pick up your cup of coffee and realize it's actually really freaking hot, but it's almost worth it.
Still, even after showering and changing into your school clothes, you still feel half-frozen. You slide a jacket on over your clothes. It helps somewhat, but not as much as you'd like. At least the bus has a functioning heater half the time.
When you arrive at school for the day, nearly ten minutes earlier than normal (the bus driver was grumbling the whole time about someone called 'Will'; you're pretty sure they have a new boss who's pushing them to get to their routes on time) you're back to freezing your butt off. Winslow does have a heating system, but it's not perfect. It works about half the time during the day, and it's only really the classrooms that get warm. The hallways always end up freezing. Everyone just rushes through them as fast as possible to get to their next class.
The good thing about being so early for once, you discover, is that Madison doesn't have enough time to open your locker and slip your lunchbox inside before you can sneak up on her. The bad thing about that is that you're pretty sure she messes up your lunch when she shrieks and tosses your lunchbox in your locker after you slip your arms around her. But you find it hard to care about that, because- "Oh my god, Maddie," you exclaim. "How are you so warm?"
She relaxes after hearing your voice, turning around to look at you and wrap her own arms around you. The hallways are clear enough this early in the morning that it should be safe to hug for a few minutes, you decide. "I just wear warm clothes," she declares against your neck. "Like all not-silly people do."
You don't even care that she just called you a silly person. "No, but seriously, you're so warm," you say, amazed. "You're like a little space heater. I want to drag you around with me all day."
Her face heats up against your neck. You're not even a little ashamed.
"That might be hard," she says, "but I'll do my best and be a good little heater for you at lunch if you want."
You laugh quietly against her ear, causing her to redden even more. Interesting. "I'll make sure to hold you to that," you tease her. "I'll wrap us both up in your jacket so we can be even warmer."
She gasps. "Can you actually do that?!" she exclaims. "Taylor, if that's possible then we have to do that one day, okay?"
You laugh again, and she gives you an adorable smile. Your heart does a little flip, and you can't stop yourself from leaning down to give her a little kiss on the nose right there in the middle of school. Her face flushes, and she grins at you even wider. "Maybe one day," you assure her. "I'll take you out somewhere nice and private, and it'll be cold enough that we'll have to share my jacket. Might be a tight fit, though, we'll have to take our shirts off first so we can make sure we both have enough room in there..."
She's blushing so hard even her neck is turning red. Her expression is a little dazed as she tells you, "Taylor, this needs to happen."
"Okay," you agree easily. "If you want it, then I'll make it happen." You don't think you actually have a jacket large enough, but you're starting a new job tomorrow morning. You'll just make sure that's one of your first purchases. It's a weird fantasy for her to get hooked on, but you've had weirder, and if she gets off on it, then you don't see a reason not to do it for her.
She nods and tucks her head back against your collarbone. "Good," she murmurs. Then she stiffens and half-turns back to your locker. "Oh no, I think I ruined your lunch," she gasps.
"It's fine," you tell her. "I have something more delicious to occupy myself with now anyway." And you give her a quick lick on the neck to make it clear what you're talking about. She shivers, but still looks sadly at your locker.
"I spent so long on that brownie," she says mournfully. You chuckle and give her a quick kiss on the neck before reluctantly releasing her from your arms. Even more reluctantly, she lets you go, allowing you to take a step back and away from her.
"I'll see you in class, Maddie," you tell her. She nods, looking a little depressed. You're immediately tempted to step forward and wrap her in your arms again, but this time, you actually have to refrain.
At least it doesn't take long for class to arrive, less than twenty minutes. Madison greets you at the door with a thrilled little hug and allows you to drag her over to your seats, where she cuddles up to your side. The teacher rolls his eyes when he sees the two of you again, but he just lets out a long-suffering sigh and ignores the two of you. He must have something more important occupying his mind. It's nice to have your own little personal heater through the class, and Madison definitely doesn't mind you holding on to her. With Sophia sitting behind you, nobody dares say anything about the two of you in here.
Unfortunately, first period doesn't last forever, and you're eventually forced to let go of your little heater. She pouts at you as the two of you are dragged off to your next class, where you're forced to sit and freeze your butt off again.
Okay, maybe not freeze it, but damn it, it's just not warm enough now.
This uncomfortable state of affairs lasts until fourth period, where the presence of Sophia beside you is enough to drag your attention away from the frigid temperatures.
You're pretty sure that Sophia is actually taunting you. Ever since she was assigned to sit beside you, she's been wearing more and more provocative clothing every day you have Chemistry. It's a subtle thing- one day, her shirt was cut a little lower than normal, and the next day, she was wearing a skirt cut half an inch higher- but damn it, it's working. Every time you look at her, all you can see is the teasing glimpse of thigh disappearing up her skirt, the curved swell of her breasts, and the shape of her lips as she smirks at you. Damn it, damn it, you're going to have to concede this one to her- there's no way you can compete with her in the looks department, even if you started actually wearing skirts.
Idly, you wonder if there's a way you can lure her into a disused bathroom again. You want to get a proper taste of her, not some teasing kisses and nibbles that leave you as horny and unsatisfied as they do Sophia.
You're brought back to reality when she speaks. "You should probably pay attention to the lesson, Hebert." She smirks at you again when you blink, processing what she said.
You grin lecherously at her when you get the message. "But you're so much more interesting," you say in what you hope is a flirtatious manner.
She scoffs lightly, but she seems happy with your comment. "Yeah, trust me, I know that. It's actually pretty important today, though," she tells you. "I snuck a look at Knopf's lesson plan. She's got a group project planned for us."
"Ah." You slump down and lightly frown at her. "Well, fine. But if I have to pay attention now then you'd better give me something good to look at later."
Sophia crinkles her nose a little. Your scowl immediately falls off your face at the cute look. "Fine," she says crankily. "Just listen so you can get us both a good grade, Hebert." You raise an eyebrow at that- but, fine. If she wants to trade sexual favours for grades, well, you'll happily take that deal. She seems to realize the direction your thoughts take, because she rolls her eyes hard, but she doesn't try to take it back.
Sure enough, Mrs Knops does bring herself to stand in front of the class. "Good afternoon," she says calmly. "I have a project for you all today. It's a group project that I expect each of you to complete in your own time. If you need materials, see me after class. If for some reason you can't negotiate with your partner to meet after school, I've also booked the anteroom off the library after lunch each day. I expect you will need to work hard if you wish to complete your project during lunchtime."
It's not a particularly difficult project, you're glad to see. It's just a complicated list of questions about different reactions, referencing parts of the chemistry textbook most of the class hasn't read through yet. There's just enough of it that you can't reasonably expect to do it on your own- likely an intentional decision by Mrs Knopf, given her frequent complaints about students who don't work hard enough in her class. If you can't do it on your own, then quite a few students in here are going to have trouble completing it without working harder than they normally do.
This project does raise one sticking point, however.
Either you're going to have to sacrifice your lunchtimes with Madison, or you're going to have to invite Sophia over to your house. And you don't want to sacrifice your lunchtimes with Madison.
You sigh, resting your head in your hands. Damn it. And you'd had such a good day up until now, too.
"Right," you groan. "Sophia, do you have the time to do this project during lunch?"
She's already shaking her head by the time you finish your sentence. "Nope," she says. "Got track meetings tomorrow and Thursday, and I've got to see the principal on Friday. Only days I could do it are today and Wednesday."
"Damn it," you hiss. Briefly, you consider asking her if you could go over to her house, but- going over to Sophia's house? Placing yourself as Sophia's mercy? You toss that idea in the discard pile. "Damn it."
"Hey, it's not that bad." Sophia knits her brow. "We can just go after school and do it, track doesn't start until five-"
"I tutor Madison until five," you interrupt her. "And she needs the help. Damn it. And the town library closes at six."
Sophia shrugs beside you. "So come over my house, or I'll head over to yours. It's not that big of a deal-"
"Not that big a deal?" you repeat, faintly incredulous. "No, I'm not doing that, Sophia. No matter how hot you are."
She stares at you. "Fucking hell, Hebert," she swears. "Don't do this to me. I need my grades to stay up."
You grit your teeth. Unfortunately, it's true, and you know it. Sophia is intelligent enough, but she's not the kind of student who works well in an academic context- like Madison. Back when they'd still been actively bullying you, one of the few measures of reassurance you'd had was keeping an eye on their grades so you could assure yourself that at least you had that over them. That was when you'd started staying up so late studying, so even when they sabotaged some of your assignments, you were still able to keep your grades up. Sophia isn't able to do that, though- she consistently gets C's and D's, with only the occasional B. An important assignment really could be enough to throw off her grade average.
"Shit," you hiss. "Okay. Okay, Sophia, fine. We can work on it over at my house. But- you can't- you have to do what I say there. "
She stares at you for a moment. Her eyes dart over your face, as if she's searching for something. You're not sure if she finds it, but when she next speaks, her voice is softer. "Fine, I can respect that. Your house, your rules. But nowhere else. We're at school, or we meet in town, I do what I want. And if you ever come to my house, then you follow my rules, no complaints, no working around it, same as your house. Deal?"
You offer your hand. "Deal," you say firmly. You can live with those, you think. Besides- it's not like her restrictions matter. By the time you plan on going over to her house, Sophia is going to be begging to follow your rules. "When can you come over, then?"
She taps her fingers over her thighs. "I'll be busy today and tomorrow, but I should be free from seven from Wednesday on. That good for you?"
You nod. "Sounds perfect," you reply.
That afternoon, you head on over to the library with Madison. You'd spent a delicious lunch with Madison, eating a thoroughly stirred salad and a brownie that probably wasn't meant to be partially covered in balsamic vinegar. Okay, so maybe it hadn't been such a delicious lunch. You'd still spent the time with Madison, which makes it more than worth it.
Madison has a secretive smile on her face, as though she knows something you don't know. Madison can't actually keep a secret from you for her life, so you're content in letting her hold on to whatever she knows for now.
Sure enough, when she sits down at the table besides you, she quickly pulls a rolled-up letter from inside her jacket. "Taylor!" she squeals. "Guess what, guess what! We had a surprise test in Home Economics, and I got my results back?"
"Oh?" you ask. Judging by her reaction, she's done pretty good. And, indeed, she has- much better than you thought she'd been doing, actually. She unrolls it in front of you, proudly displaying the read 'A' scrawled in red marker up the top.
"It was pretty hard," she rambles, "but I managed to get it all down. It was all about cooking and stuff, which helped, but I wouldn't have remembered it all if it wasn't for you helping me as much as you have." She smiles sweetly at you, then leans over to give you an affectionate hug.
You take it a step further, and push out your chair so you can pull her up into your lap. She lets out a happy squeal as you hold her in place and pepper her face with affectionate kisses, scrunching her nose as your hair tickles her face. She holds her face up, non-verbally asking you for a kiss; you're happy to oblige.
When you part, you lean in and steal another one from her before speaking. "Good job," you praise her. She closes her eyes again, preening at your compliment. You give her a kiss, then another, then another. "But don't give me the credit here, Madison. You're the girl who was smart enough to learn this stuff."
She giggles and holds her face up for another sweet kiss. After you give it to her, she shakes her head a little, accidentally rubbing her nose against yours in the process. It kind of tickles. "I learned it, but it's only because you taught me, Taylor. Thank you, thank you."
You chuckle again. "A teacher's only as good as their student," you inform her. Then, before she can try and refute you again, you lean and deliberately place a kiss along her jaw, just beneath her ear. She shudders against you, her argument dying off as she sucks in a shaky breath. You place another kiss there, then slowly trail your lips down, leaving a trail of wet kisses down to her neck, then her collarbone, then her shoulder. You look up and give her a devilish grin as you continue kissing even lower on her body, kissing down the front of her shoulder, then over her chest; her eyes flutter as you tug on her shirt, then her bra, freeing one of her breasts for you.
It's risky, playing around in here like this, but she deserves a reward for all her hard work.
You kiss lower, suckling your way down her breast until you're able to take her nipple into your mouth. You tug on it a few times with your teeth, thoroughly enjoying the way she tries to hold her moans in, then release it so you can finally reach your actual goal. There, you begin pressing wet kisses all over the side of her breast for a moment, before you lean in and begin sucking on it, hard. She lets out an actual moan at that, then quickly clamps a hand over her mouth to prevent another one escaping her. You don't stop, though, continuing to suck at her breast until you're sure a bruise will form. Then, and only then, do you tuck her breast back into her bra for her and lean up to give her another kiss on the mouth.
There; you're pretty sure she'll be satisfied with that as a reward. Being physically marked by you, the soft pain a reminder of the fact that you've claimed her as your own- well, you think the heaving of her chest and the wetness on your thigh as you spin her around to sit facing the table tells enough of the story.
You can't resist one last little promise, though.
"Keep getting good grades like that," you murmur in her ear, "and I might not be able to stop myself from doing that every time." To punctuate what you're saying, you give her a little nip on the neck.
She turns her head, giving you a sweet little smile. "You promise?" she asks.
"Of course." You nip her neck again. "I'd want everyone to know that such a smart girl is mine, after all."
She turns back to her work. Her happy smile doesn't fall off for the rest of the day.
The start of the next day also happens to be the first day at your new job. You get up even earlier than normal so you can wash yourself and still catch the earliest bus there.
You're not even sure how you'd fallen into the job, not really. You'd mentioned to Doctor Fitzpatrick last week that you were looking for a job to help out with the family finances, and he'd told you that one of his friends ran a movie theater and was looking for a casual assistant to work around the area. He'd offered to bring up your name, and you'd accepted. The next day, you'd come home to a phone call offering you a trial position at the theater. You'd accepted, of course, but that was it- a phone call and a notification that you'd be starting today.
The owner of the theater turns out to be a haggard man in... his late fourties, you would guess. He's dressed in a tailored suit, but his beard looks like he hasn't trimmed it in a few days. That's even grosser than a normal beard. He introduces himself as 'Mr. Harding', but hurriedly excuses you, leaving you with vague directions to go clean the place up a bit.
The job itself isn't very exciting, but you didn't really expect it to be. Mostly, you walk around with a long-handed dustpan and broom, sweeping the floors and picking up the trash left over from a midnight screening last night. You arrive at seven, and you're done by eight. One hour's work, at ten dollars an hour, a generous rate. Two to three mornings a week, and afternoon work on Mondays until eight. Four to five hours a week. It's not great, but it's something- and it could potentially lead to more. Plus, discounts on movie tickets. Always helpful.
You're content enough with it, in part because nobody tries to speak to you- not that there's anyone to speak to you, there's only two other workers working right then and there are virtually no customers- and in part because the work is finicky enough to require you to actually pay attention. You have to get in behind chairs and up the stairs, you have to clean in the aisles and try and get gum off the handrails, and all other sorts of weird places. You're not sure why people leave this kind of rubbish behind, but they do.
Mr Harding is kind enough to let you use the restroom to change out of your uniform and into your school clothes when it hits eight. He shows you to a locker with a blank white sticker on it, and asks that you keep your uniform in there when you're not using it. He has a contract with a dry cleaner, and will get them dry-cleaned every Sunday, when the theater isn't open.
You're content enough with the job. It's not exciting, but it's good money for the hours, and keeps you busy.
There's a bus running between the theater and school, but school's close enough that you don't feel you need to worry about it. You just jog there instead, and make it just in time to see your regular bus pull up- and, yes, the bus is on time again. Huh.
You're actually in a pretty good mood, right up until the point you walk up to your locker and find Emma leaning against it. She sees you at roughly the same time as you see her. You're tempted to just turn and walk away, but- you have to get to your locker eventually, and she knows it. She's never been one to be scared of cutting the first few minutes of class, either. Shit.
You take a deep breath and try to square your shoulders as you move towards your locker. It's not a very successful attempt.
"Emma," you greet her flatly.
"Taylor," she replies. "It's nice to see you."
You can't help but roll your eyes. "Yes, well. Could you move, please? I need to get to my locker."
She doesn't move. "Actually, I was hoping we could talk," she says.
You look around the halls, taking in all the people surrounding you- there are at least seven or eight people in the halls. None of them are close enough to hear your whispered conversation, but, yeah, no."
She grimaces. "After school," she compromises. "We can meet up at your house- or, no," she corrects herself hurriedly when you scowl, "my house? No? The library- look, just pick a place," she says. There's a faint note of exasperation in her voice, but also a pleading note in there. "Please, Taylor."
You scowl, but-
- you can't put this off forever. You know you can't. You created this entire damned plan of yours to get the entire Trio down on their knees before you. Sure, you've adapted some, compromised some- you won't be forcing Madison to do anything like you'd originally planned for her to do any time soon- but there are aspects of that plan that are kind of vital. Emma being one of the Trio is kind of the most intrinsic one of those.
And, you know Emma well enough to know that she won't give up. When there's something that she wants, she reaches out and she takes it. The fact that you don't want to talk to her won't deter her.
"Fine," you say bitterly. "I'll call you this afternoon and tell you where we can meet up. Bring your wallet. I'm not paying for it."
"Okay." She nods resolutely. "Okay. Please don't back out on this, Taylor."
You sigh. "Just get away from my locker," you mutter.
You can't even have two nice days in a row, you grumble to yourself. Something always comes along to spoil your fun.
The restaurant you chose is a small one, not too far from your house. It's called 'Moretti's Dining'. When you were a kid, it was called 'Mama Moretti's'. At some point, the woman who ran the restaurant died, and her children renamed it to what it's called now.
It's a small, cozy restaurant. Dad's taken you out here before. The prices are low enough that the two of you can afford to go out a couple of times a year, usually for each of your birthdays. The food is good, the atmosphere is friendly enough, and it's in one of the better parts of the district you live in.
The waiter- a man in his very early twenties- recognizes you as you walk in, bringing a small warmth to your stomach. "Aha!" he greets you. His nametag tells you his name is Trey. "It is good to see you again, Miss..."
"Taylor."
"Miss Taylor. You're not with your father today?"
You shake your head, clutching the sleeves of your jacket together. "No," you say quietly. "I'm here to meet with, uh, a.. a girl. Emma. Emma Barnes. Is she here yet?"
"Hmm," he hums. "There have been a lot of girls coming in tonight. Can you describe her to me?"
"Um. She's got red hair. Around my age, pretty-"
"Yes, I see," Trey interrupts you. "Yes, I think I know who you're talking about. If you follow me, I'll show you where she's sitting."
He leads you through the restaurant, which is surprisingly crowded considering it's not even six. You draw your shoulders in more, trying not to draw any attention to yourself. Most of the people aren't paying attention to anyone beyond their own tables, but some of them glance curiously at you as you follow Trey in. You retreat further into your hood and shy away from them.
"Here we are," he murmurs eventually. He's led you to a table up at the back end of the restaurant, one with faux-bamboo dividers around it as though to provide the people inside with some privacy- or trap them inside. Instinctively, you take a step back, but then Trey steps aside, and you spot Emma inside. Your feet die, and your throat closes up. Trey seems to sense that something is wrong, because he hesitates from where he was standing just before, where he was beginning to move away as though to resume his job, and steps forward to clasp you on the shoulder. "Good luck," he whispers softly, a message for you alone. You watch forlornly as he strolls through the building again, casually weaving his way through a mess of toddlers with practiced ease.
You turn back to Emma, who's watching you with guarded eyes. She looks... like you imagine you do. She's wearing her own jacket, a heavy maroon thing with thick black buttons at the front. On her head sits a woollen beanie, and the hands clutched around what you think is a hot cup of tea are clad in thick black gloves.
But it's not her clothes that draw your attention. Reluctantly, you drag your gaze up to her face, taking in her expression. She looks... guarded, fearful. Similar to how you feel. Her eyes are sunken and bloodshot, as though she hasn't been getting enough sleep for the past few weeks, and she's barely wearing any makeup, just some lip gloss. You can't remember the last time you saw Emma without any makeup on.
You slip inside the booth to the seat opposite her. Her eyes watch you warily as you slide inside, and her grip tightens on her mug.
"Hi," she says quietly.
"Hi," you reply. You wish you didn't sound hesitant and fearful saying it.
Neither of you says anything more for a few moments. Emma opens her mouth a few times as though to say something, then visibly bites back whatever she's going to say and closes her mouth, only to repeat the process seconds later.
Your hands start shaking beneath the table. You wish she'd just say whatever she wants to say. Let you get out of here. Let you run away. Again.
But instead of saying that, you just clench your jaw and dig your hands into your thighs.
Before you can help yourself, your power snaps out, settling over Emma's mind. You quickly try to reel it back, but it's uncooperative. It's a strange feeling, like your power is mentally dragging its heels.
Or, no. You can't blame your power for this one. It's not your power that wants to stay there. It's you. You hate not knowing what she's feeling- no, that's not right. You just... You want, you need to know what she's feeling. You can't- you can't sit here, right across from Emma, and just trust that she's not going to hurt you. You don't- you can't trust her like that.
It's a double-bind situation. You can't sit here, not knowing what she's feeling. But you can't use your power on her, either. You can't trust her because she might be toying with you, but you can't not trust her, because if you use your power to verify that and it turns out she is, you... you can't trust yourself. You don't know what you'll do.
(Yes you do. You just can't admit defeat to yourself. Can't admit that you'd rather run away and cry than admit that Emma beat you, again. Can't admit that you're not sure what your power will do if you're using it in a situation like that, what effect it'll have on her if you use it when you're stretched out to breaking point.)
You pull your power roughly back, before you can get a taste of what she's feeling. There are other people around, you tell yourself. She can't do anything here.
There are other people at Winslow, too.
"Do-" Emma says, then stops, shock spreading over her face, as though she's shocked that she managed to say anything. "Do you want a drink? There's tea, if you-"
"I don't drink tea any more," you interrupt harshly. You haven't drunk tea since Mom died. Emma should remember that. She remembered enough of the other little details about you.
Emma pauses, then subsides. "Sorry," she mutters. "There's coffee, too. Or juice, or milkshakes, or, I don't think they'll give us any wine, but-"
"Just water." You shake your head briefly, trying to interrupt her flow of words. "Water's fine."
"Right." She stares at you for a moment, a forlorn expression briefly making its way over her face before she turns away from you and waves a waiter over. You're left waiting for a minute or so, the nearest waiters busy with other tables already, but soon a waitress comes over- a different one, this time, a girl named Violet. She's a cute girl. College-aged, most likely. She has a generous bust, with a streak of her hair dyed violet, contrasting well with the rest of her platinum-blonde hair. "Could we grab a drink of water, please?"
"Sure," Violet replies. "Anything else?"
You look over at Emma, who quickly drops her hand away from her own hair with a faint blush. "Do you know what you want for dinner?" she asks you.
You're tempted to go for the most expensive things on the menu you can, just to spite Emma's wallet a little, but you refrain. You need familiarity more than you need to win one over her right now. "Just a bowl of minestrone," you tell her. "And some herb bread."
Emma nods as Violet writes down your order. "I'll have some insalata caprese," she instructs the waitress. "And another side of herb bread."
"Sure," the waitress agrees easily. "That'll be about twenty minutes." With that, she turns and walks away, giving you a great view of the girl's tight ass.
Emma coughs, and your attention is drawn back to the other girl, who is currently trying to hide an annoyed expression. You can't hide the flicker of annoyance that flows through you, and the annoyance fades instantly from her expression as she almost flinches back.
"Sorry," she mutters. "A bit of tea went down wrong." She hasn't touched her tea since you sat down.
"It's fine," you mutter.
Awkwardness stews in the air between the two of you now that your distraction has left. You don't attempt to say anything. What can you say?
Emma slowly retreats more into herself as the quiet stretches on. You let her.
A few minutes after Violet rushed off, another waiter- this time, a guy named 'Andrew'- comes over with your glass of water. You take it, thanking him quietly, but don't take a drink. You just clutch the glass tightly in your hands, watching the water inside ripple as your hands shake.
The silence stretches on for long minutes. Occasionally, you glance at the watch on Emma's wrist to watch the time tick past, but that's as far as you dare to look at the girl.
Twenty-five minutes pass from the time the waiter brought your water over before you see someone heading over, bearing a bowl and a large plate. It's Trey, you recognize when he gets closer.
"Alright, here we are," he says faux-cheerily when he finally makes it over to your table. "One plate of insulata caprese for the fine lady over here, and one bowl of minestrone for the lovely lady over here." You suck in a breath at the comment, but let it go in a sharp exhale when he just smiles pleasantly at you, not a hint of flirtation in his manner. Good.
"Thank you, Trey," you mutter. His grin grows a little more genuine, and he pats you on the shoulder as he stands and leans in.
"Don't stay quiet too long," he murmurs into your ear. "Women like that, you have to catch their interest and hold it if you want them to stay around." He winks at you as he stands, and you can feel heat burning in your cheeks.
Emma gazes between the two of you, a light frown on her face. "Thank you," she says loudly. "That's fine, thank you for bringing our meal." She straightens her posture, clutching her fork tightly.
Trey gives you another wink as he before he turns to walk away from you, then spinning back momentarily and mouthing the word "JEALOUS" in an overly-exaggerated manner. Your cheeks burn hotter, and you shrink back down into your chair. Yes, you already know that Emma is a jealous woman, does he really have to point it out so obviously where everyone can see?
You pick up your spoon and try to eat a mouthful of the minestrone, but your hands are still shaking slightly. Most of the minestrone just splashes out of the spoon and back into the bowl. Across the table, Emma gazes at you with concern written over her face, but she doesn't say anything. Good. Instead, she just pushes her plate of food over to the side, not caring at all about the meal set in front of her, and seems to gather herself for a moment. You drop the spoon into the bowl. You're not hungry any more.
"Taylor..." She closes her eyes and gathers her courage. "Thanks for coming today."
You scoff. "Yeah, well, you're not leaving me with much choice," you say a little harshly. You immediately regret it when you see her stiffen again and retreat into herself. Not enough to apologize, though.
She visibly has to gather her courage again. You can't help but feel a little impressed despite yourself. You're pretty sure that if you were in her position, you'd have just left. Not that you'd mind if she did. Then you could leave, too.
"Yeah," she says. "I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important, Taylor. You know that."
You don't know anything about her any more, but you refrain from saying that.
If anything productive is going to come out of tonight, you get the feeling that you're going to be refraining from saying a lot of things you really, really want to say to her.
"Okay," you say instead, not agreeing with her, but not fighting over it, either. "Well, I'm here. Say whatever you asked me here to say."
She shakes her head for a moment, then lets out a huge sigh. "Great," she mutters, quietly enough that you're pretty sure you aren't meant to hear it. "Isn't this going swimmingly. Alright." She says the last word louder. You're meant to hear this now. "I need to tell you that I'm sorry."
Anger rises in your gut for a moment, quickly fought down, shoved into that same place you've been shoving your simmering anger since you decided to talk to Emma this morning. You can't help but scoff again, though. "Yeah, right." You shake your head disbelievingly.
"Taylor-" On the table, you can see her hands beginning to shake. Absently, you note that your own are still shaking, harder this time. You're not sure whether you're shaking with anger or fear, now. Maybe both.
"No," you cut her off. "You're sorry? That's what you asked me here to say?"
She shakes her head quickly. "No," she says, an undercurrent of fear in her tone. "No, that's- I just- I needed to say that. First. I needed to say that first. In case you walked out. In case I don't get to say anything else tonight, I wanted you to hear that."
You subside somewhat, but don't say anything, choosing to pick up your glass of water and raise it to your mouth. It's difficult to swallow any with your hands shaking this badly, but you give it your best shot.
"Right," she breathes. "Well, um. I guess you want an explanation then, huh?"
You roll your eyes. "It'd be nice, yeah."
She nods to herself. "Right, um. Where should I start. Okay, um. Do you remember that summer you were away at camp? A year after your Mom died?"
You nod. How could you forget? That was the last time- well. You'd enjoyed that camp, enjoyed the chance to get away from Dad's misery for a while and go to a place where people legitimately seemed happy in your presence.
And then it'd all gone to hell when you returned.
"Good," she mutters. "That- It all started when, um. It all started... Sorry. It's hard to talk about this."
You give her a curt nod. It's hard to not feel sympathetic for her when she's blinking away tiredness from her eyes and cringing into herself.
"Do you remember that phone call?" she asks. "The last one we had, where I hung up on you. It started that night. I hung up on you because we'd driven into a bad part of town, and Dad started getting nervous when he saw someone had blocked our path with a dumpster..."
Over the next five minutes, neither of you touch your food as she haltingly describes a horrifying tale of what you can only assume was an attempted assault on her person when a group of gang members- she doesn't know what gang they're from, doesn't care- stopped their car and violently dragged her out. Her voice trembles, and at times falters entirely for long moments, as she describes how she felt through it all- the way she almost went into shock, the way her thoughts spun away from the situation, the way she could only distantly register the pain and the horror until they actually started in on her- and, yeah. You know exactly how she felt through all that. It's not how you'd felt when she'd dragged you out of that shower and shoved you in that locker, but, it's close. You know that helplessness, that fear, that sense of the world slowly slipping away from you as you struggle helplessly against it.
You look up at her. She stares back at you with a fragile expression. Her hands tug nervously at a frayed thread on the cuff of her jacket. There's a small pile of broken threads on the table in front of her.
Your hand is tight enough around your glass that you're afraid it might break.
You don't let go of it.
"Emma," you say evenly, "could you pass me the pepper?"
She pauses in her recollection of her tale, looking down at the table. The pepper is in easy reach. You could just reach out with your free hand and pick it up. She knows it. You know it.
She looks at you, at the rigid set of your shoulders, at your hand tight around the glass. You wonder, absently, what you look like. Do you look angry? Scared? Defensive? All of the above?
Emma lays a trembling finger on the pepper shaker and pushes it over to you. Your shoulders relax, just slightly.
"Thank you," you say, voice still carefully even. You don't pick up the pepper, though. You just let it sit there, your gaze focused on it. Your hands stop shaking quite so hard. "Keep going."
You can feel her looking at you, but you don't let your gaze rise from the jar of pepper. After a short pause, she picks up where she left off.
She goes on, voice going scratchy as she describes how she'd tried to fight them off, how she'd struggled and hit them and it was useless because there were more of them and they were bigger than her, stronger than her. She tells you- and, you note absently, it's only here that her voice regains some strength- about how it was only the intervention of a hero that had saved her- Shadow Stalker- and how Shadow Stalker had proceeded to attack the men assaulting her, how Shadow Stalker had broken them and driven them off and saved her.
"I stayed in my room for days after that," she recalls. "I was too- too terrified to come out. Mom tried to get me to come out, but I couldn't. I thought- it felt, I don't, I don't know-"
You help her out.
"It felt like everyone knew," you say. Your voice sounds dull, almost emotionless. You don't look away from the pepper shaker. "Like everyone could look at you and see what had happened. Like there's a mark on your body, and everyone could see it. Nobody got to touch you, but they made you feel helpless. Like they were in control, and they stripped that away from you, made you feel like a toy for them to play with, like you didn't matter. Only they're important enough to matter. Them and what they want. And every time you went outside, you could feel their eyes on you. You can feel them looking at you, judging you for not getting away. You hate it. You try to tell yourself, it isn't my fault. But you feel weak anyway. Worthless. Like every time they look at you, you're a victim all over again, and all you want to do is go back inside and hide."
You finally look away from the pepper shaker, looking at Emma instead.
Her face has paled. She looks stricken.
"I understand," you say as calmly as you can. "Thank you for dinner, Emma."
And you move back out of the booth, ignoring her attempts to reach for you, and run away.
Dad greets you as you walk back in the front door. "Taylor?" he says, sounding a little surprised. "I thought you were going out to dinner with Emma. Did something happen?"
You ignore him, barrelling straight through the house and into your room, slamming the door shut behind you. He follows you and knocks loudly. You ignore him. You can't deal with him right now.
It's nine oh-one PM.
Your room is a mess. Your bedspread is ajar. Your notes are spread across your desk. Your books aren't in order on your bookshelf. Some of your clothes aren't folded. Your breaths are coming more rapidly. You shouldn't have run home.
Your room is mess. Disorganized mess. You hate it. Why did you let it get like this? Why didn't you realize what a mess it was before?
With shaking hands, you move over to your bed and begin smoothing it out. You don't stop until it's perfect, until every wrinkle is gone, until your bed is exactly as it should be. Exactly as you want it to be.
It's nine forty-two PM.
You move on to your desk.
Slowly, methodically, you work your way around your entire room, bringing to it a sense of order. You arrange your books, first by alphabetical order, then by colour, then by size, then back to alphabetical order. You tuck your notes together, ensuring all the pages line up neatly together and rest exactly in the corner of your desk. Your pencils sit in a straight line against the wall, arranged so you can reach them with minimum fuss. You fold your clothes; then, unhappy, unsatisfied, you take out your entire closet and begin refolding your clothes, item by item. You arrange everything carefully in there, top to bottom. Jackets, then shirts, then underwear, then pants. You take them out three times, sorting them differently. By size, first. Then by style. Then by colour. You're satisfied, eventually, with the colours. Black on the left, white on the right. Dark to bright.
Your hands are still shaking.
It's four fifty-five AM.
Your bedroom is in order now. Everything is where you need it to be.
You climb into bed, and watch the minutes tick down.
You're going to have to make a decision soon, you know, as you watch the clock tick closer to seven. You can stay home, hide until Dad leaves, and put up with it when the school calls later. Maybe staying at home will calm you down. Maybe it'll make it worse. You don't know. It sounds tempting. Or you can go to school. Sit down and try to pretend nothing happened last night. Pretend you didn't just describe to Emma the way in which she victimized you. Pretend that you don't walk through the halls with your arms tucked in defensively. Hug Madison. Hug Sophia.
The clock ticks down. Your deadline approaches. What do you choose?
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