Chapter 13: Zayna

Chapter Thirteen

Zayna

Massachusetts, 2 years ago

I 'm safe at home. Completely safe. I slide onto the couch I bought with my ex-boyfriend at Costco back when I thought I knew exactly how my life was going to go. He changed his mind about a quiet life just outside of Boston working at a prep school and last I checked, he was still "finding himself" in The Netherlands. (He's unemployed.)

The couch is a memory of something I used to have. Something I always wanted. Companionship. A warm, broad chest to rest my head on. A man who would only gaslight me when he really wanted to protect my feelings.

I throw open my laptop, loneliness and frustration churning through me. Checking up on my ex would be too depressing. He hard launches a new "love of his life" on Instagram every time he moves to a new Dutch city, and I don't want to see which variation of a six-foot-tall blond he's going to spend forever with next.

Another darker thought crosses my head. What if I looked them up on social media?

The kids. Ha. It feels downright ridiculous to think of these teenage monsters as kids. They use the most foul and disgusting language you have ever heard in your entire life. It's like their career plans are becoming porn directors straight out of high school and judging by the way the phrase "OnlyFans" is thrown around my classroom by underage kids, maybe I'm not too far off.

It's enough to make you lose hope in the entire country, not just this next generation of kids, although both are definitely doomed. The four kids who keep harassing and threatening me are all football players. Barbour-Barnes & Goodenough Academy's football team has their own social media page where they tag the students.

How hard would it be to find these three fucking monsters? (Although, I have no idea what I would do with that information.) They're my students. It's not like I don't know their names.

Brooks Astor

Grant Fairfax

Reid Moreland

The most insufferable preppy asshole names you could think of. Ugh. I hate when my inner thoughts don't sound like a teacher, but these kids have beaten the soft-hearted idealist out of me. That woman feels dead. But even as I'm tempted to conduct a thorough social media investigation of my students... I just can't bring myself to do it.

I shouldn't let those creeps have that type of power over me. Instead of succumbing to that particular dark age, I open up my non-school email and type three words into the subject line.

My Resignation Letter.

What the fuck am I thinking? I have no money. I have no back-up job. If I called my mom to ask for help, she would tell me to go back to that school and hold my head high. She doesn't understand these kids.

They meant those threats. I'm not being hysterical. I saw the look in Reid Moreland's eyes as he groped my ass in the hallway. That shit eating grin that says "I can do what I want and I know it". His family donated the entire goddamn football field to that school. He's untouchable.

I have to do this.

Dear Mr. Sutter,

I regret to inform you...

I don't want to give a two weeks notice. I want to leave this job and never look back. I don't even want to clear out my desk. I'll have to sacrifice my beat up copies of Eat, Pray, Love and The Body Keeps Score to the great lost and found bin.

I backspace a little bit.

Dear Mr. Sutter,

Fuck this job and fuck you too.

Okay. Maybe that's too far.

Dear Mr. Sutter,

Consider this my official resignation letter. I will not be returning to the school to collect my things.

– Zayna Fontaine

I genuinely don't know what else to say. There doesn't feel like anything else to say and it's not like I care what he thinks or what he says in return. I feel giddy as my hand hovers over the send button. I shouldn't over think it.

My front doorbell rings. It's a somewhat-smart doorbell -- so a smart doorbell for women on a budget who get the cheaper option.

Bong, clink, dong-ping!

Okay. This is a sign, then. I have to answer this doorbell, which means I don't have another second left to reconsider. I lowkey hope it's Tazara surprising me with pho. I don't know why she would be doing that, but it's not like that many people come to my apartment.

I smash down on the send button and hop up from the couch, shaking my ass instinctively in the carefree way you can only achieve when you just quit your damn job with no backup plan and there's nothing left to do but shake. That. Ass.

The front door bell makes its annoying sing-song noise again. Okay, damn... Can't a woman do her happy dance? I keep happy dancing to the front door and just swing it open without a second thought.

When I see who is standing there, I scream. A loud, shocked shriek that comes straight from my gut. I slam the door against his hand, but he just grunts and shoves back against me, throwing the door open and knocking me to the ground.

Three teenage boys walk into my apartment. Brooks. Grant. And Reid.

And I don't have a fucking clue how they got here, or how they know where I live.

I'm just lucky when they shoved me back that I didn’t hit my head. Pain shoots through my elbows as I land, but I'm conscious, which means I can run. I don't see any other way out of the situation and I don't even think running will necessarily allow me to escape. Brooks, Grant and Reid are all football players.

They chase and tackle men twice my size regularly. I don't think of that. Mostly because I don't have time to think. I scramble backwards as Reid lunges for my foot. I scream loudly and grab a random object, hurling it at his head.

My winter boot wasn’t designed to be a weapon, even with the heavy rubber soles. Plus, he’s an athlete, so he catches it easily. But I distract him enough to get to my feet and I haul ass to my bedroom, which is at the end of my one bedroom apartment's short hallway. I can hear them pounding down the hallway behind me, silent except for heavy breathing and heavier footsteps.

What the fuck is happening? What the fuck is happening?

"Miss Fontaine, don't run," Grant mocks me as I ram my body into my bedroom door, fumbling with the jerky awkwardness caused by the surge of adrenaline. Every second counts and I give them time to close the distance between us with just a second delay on opening my door.

I roll my body on the other side of the door and this time, I don't fuck around when I slam it against the hand sticking its way into the frame. Grant (Or Reid) yells out like a hurt dog and the other two laugh at him as he whines.

I slam the door and it shuts. Temporarily relief floods through me as I slide the deadbolt shut. I can hear my heartbeat and feel the fucking thing moving up and down the length of my throat, closing it and opening it up with each brutal pump of adrenaline and blood.

My phone is in the living room -- along with my laptop. I have no way to communicate with the outside world. I can still hear the three boys on the other side of the door, but they aren't moving. I can hear breathy whispers, but not the contents of their speech.

How much do I need to hear? They're going to break down the door. That much I know. I rush over to my window and attempt to throw it open. It gets about a quarter of the way up before getting stuck. Fucking landlord special… He must have painted over the track of the window too many times. While looking around my room for something to help shove the window up the rest of the way, I hear rushed footsteps and then a shoulder slams into my bedroom door.

Oh God. They're doing it. They're going to break down the door.

I have a momentary regret that I live in Massachusetts and not some redneck ass state where I could legally have a loaded shotgun on my bed ready to rock.

Who the hell am I kidding? I'm a teacher. I'm not the shotgun type. But I'm so... panicked. I grab the only thing I can think of in self-defense. My paddle from the nerdy sorority I joined in college, decorated with Stardew Valley characters and pink bows.

I throw it over my shoulder like a baseball bat as the next elbow to fly into my door breaks a hole in it. Tears pierce my eyes. They're going to hurt me. They might even kill me and all I have is this fucking paddle..

The only thing I know for sure is that I'll go down fighting.

"Let me do it," Brooks grunts on the other side. I'm surprised they didn't send him first. At 330-lbs, he's the school's heaviest football player and on his way back to the South after he graduates prep school with a full ride scholarship with the Ole Miss team.

He applies minimal effort to my door and it practically crumbles around the hinges. I'm done thinking. I scream and lunge forward, swinging the paddle at all the heads I can see in front of me. I want to treat them like melons in fruit ninja but...

There are still three of them. I hit Reid hard enough that he stumbles backwards, but I lose sight of Brooks. Which is trouble. You lose sight of a 300+ pound man, your ass is in trouble. I scream and whirl around swinging the paddle, only to land against his enormous, soft belly.

"Get the paddle," Reid says once Brooks has me, his voice quiet, dark, and all business.

"I found her phone out there," Grant says. I guess I had lost track of him too. "We should film this shit."

"Yeah," Brooks says. I feel something disgusting and warm against my ass. I want to faint. I want to throw up. "Set up the camera. I'll get her clothes off."