Chapter 21

Hell.

Absolute Hell is what this is.

Watching him with her…

Watching other guys my age date without a single fuck in the world.

Watching the world spin and spin, while I'm stuck here, trapped in time behind glass, watching, always watching…

And if I'm not watching, I'm wishing I was.

Because at least when I'm invisible, I'm not getting slurs slung at me, or the shit kicked out of me.

I'm not getting treated like the weak kid brother who can't take care of himself.

I'd take the curse of shadows over being centerstage any day. The curse of being unseen rather than seen in the wrong light.

I can't wait to turn eighteen and get the fuck out of this small-ass backward town. Get away from all that reminds me of what I'll never have.

And that's if I even survive until then…

AGE 15, MAY

"Move it, fag!"

The foul words register through the music playing in my ears a half-second before a foot jabs me right behind the knee, sending me careening forward.

My art supplies go flying, crashing to the thinly carpeted floor. Whole lotta good that does, I think bitterly, wincing at the pain rocketing up my thighs and arms when I too make a crash landing. My headphones slip off my ears, hanging skewed around my neck.

My bag gets ripped off me, jerking my arm back at an awkward angle, and I grit my teeth, seal my eyes shut, praying this ends before it can begin.

But clearly today is not my lucky day.

Ethan, Clay's right-hand man, grips me by the hair, yanking my head back. From my headphones, I can still hear the muffled screams of Flyleaf's "I'm So Sick."

I glare up at the asshole, and he grins down at me, cruelty shining from his dark eyes.

Behind him, I catch Clay lifting his phone. "Smile."

He snaps a picture just as Ethan thrusts his crotch in my face.

And given the harsh angle, of course my mouth's open. A denim bulge knocks me right in the tooth, and bile races up my throat.

"Hey!" he shouts, jerking back. As if I bit him on purpose. I wish…

Laughter bounces off the white walls surrounding us.

Before I can so much as even take a breath, I'm backhanded across the jaw, my head snapping to the side with so much force, for a moment I wonder if he broke my neck. Killed me.

Maybe that would be for the best.

"Dude, are you fucking retarded?" Clay says, but he's still laughing as he drags Ethan away from me. "Now you've done it."

I barely register their words under the ringing in my ears. I can feel my pulse in my face, right where he hit me. My mouth floods with the taste of iron, and tears sear my nose and eyes when the pain finally hits a second later.

By the time I catch my bearings, and lift my head, they're already gone. Their laughter and cruel words nothing but an echo, haunting the empty hallway stretched out before me like an endless, darkening tunnel. One I'm not sure if I have any hope of ever finding my way out of.

The bell rings, signaling the beginning of fifth period.

Lunch…

Which for me, means the art room. Where I was headed when I got ambushed.

Fuck that. I'm out.

I quickly adjust my headphones, check to make sure my iPod screen wasn't shattered when I fell—it's not; the music's still playing, as if nothing happened. Shoving everything back in my bag that had fallen out, I climb to an unsteady stand, and walk around, gathering my sketchbooks, easel, and roll-up bag of pencils, grimacing every time I have to bend over as all the blood rushes to my injured jaw, making it throb.

I can already feel it swelling. But at least I didn't lose a tooth. A quick run of my tongue over my teeth confirmed as much. Everything's accounted for. Except for my dignity, that is.

Small blessings.

At the water fountain just up ahead, I lean over and spit a wad of spit and blood into it. Using my knee, I give the push bar a nudge, and watch the water swirl it all down the drain.

Rather than risk running into anyone—least of all Ethan, Clay, or any one of their asshole friends—I make a beeline for the doors to the courtyard, and shoulder my way outside, cutting across the yard to the north side of the school where my locker is.

I brace for a teacher or student to see me, but so far no one.

It's a blessing and a curse that our school is so small. Not the building so much as how many people occupy the space at a given time. My graduating class alone is made up of only fifty. There's probably four-hundred people max, and that's including six grades' worth of students and faculty. And the school's short-staffed at that.

As nice as it is to slip by unnoticed when I need to, say, dip out early…

Such empty, quiet, unchaperoned halls make breeding grounds for shit like what just happened.

Inside, I head straight for my locker. The music is still playing from my headphones, muffled against my throat. I vaguely register one song fading out, and giving way to the opening chords of "My Heroine" by Silverstein, one of my favorite bands.

"Jeremy?"

At the sound of Mason's voice calling my name, I still.

Eyes falling shut, I hang my head, and mutter a curse.

Of course. Of fucking course.

Out of all four-hundred people in the school I could run into at what's probably the lowest point of my life, it just had to be him.

I zip up my bag, and shuck it over my shoulder just as footsteps draw near. Keeping my head low, I let my blond hair fall all around my face, praying that, by some miracle, he just doesn't look too closely.

I can still taste blood in my mouth, but hopefully it hasn't swelled or bruised too noticeably yet. I haven't even had a chance to look at my face to check.

"What are you doing? Are you leaving?"

I close my locker, staring down at my shoes. "Yeah, I have an appointment," I lie, my voice nothing but a quiet mumble.

"Oh. What kind?"

"Dentist."

A beat passes. "Uh huh."

Making to brush past him, I'm yanked to a stop by a firm hand on my shoulder. He tugs me back, whirling me toward him.

"Look at me."

I grit my teeth before I can think better of it, immediately wincing at the pain shooting across my face. My eyes sear, nostrils flaring as liquid heat rushes up my throat.

"JJ…"

A pair of black Vans appear in front of me, angled toward my black Chucks.

Breathing heavily through my nose, I keep my chin down and flick my gaze up through my lashes and the blond messy hair curling over my eyes. My fists tighten around the straps on my bag. "What?" I mutter, my voice raw.

Mason's pale blues search my eyes, a frown forming between his brows. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I mumble, and again try to move around him.

"JJ."

"Don't call me that," I whip out reflexively, and in doing so, my head snaps up.

It's a split second before I realized what I did. It happens at about the same time his attention hones in on the lower half of my face, and a white-hot fury ignites the icy blue depths of his eyes.

His gaze snaps to mine, jaw clenched so sharply, it could probably cut through steel. "What the fuck?"

I shake my head, my hair falling once more around my face. The entire right side screams in agony from the movement, bringing a fresh wave of tears to my eyes that I don't dare let fall.

Without a word, he's suddenly all up in my space, and with surprisingly gentle fingers that belies the tension riding the rest of him, he moves my hair away, fluttering the tips over my injured jaw.

Everything in me stills.

"Who?"

I try to swallow, and fail.

"Who?"

Chills spiral down my spine, and my eyes grow big and wide, lifting to meet his. In all the years I've known Mason, I have never once seen him this pissed off. It's…confusing, to say the least.

My brow knits. "Mas?—"

"Who the fuck did this to you? Clay? Ethan?"

"Doesn't mat?—"

He barks out a short, dangerous laugh, shaking his head. His fingers slip from my face, hand falling back to his side in a fist. He shakes his head, and makes to turn. "Fuck it, I'll kill them both. Kill them al?—"

I rush forward after him, gripping his shoulder to throw myself in his path, blocking him. "Stop."

His gaze sears a line of wrath over my shoulder. I half-expect lasers to shoot out of them. I've seen Mason fired up before, sure. Hell, my first memory of him is him shoving Mikey.

But he was a kid then. A nervous, angry kid, still hoping for his asshole dad to come back. It wasn't him…

"Just forget it," I urge strongly, quietly, so as not to alert any nearby faculty. "It barely even stings."

His angry gaze finds my pleading one. "And you're full of shit."

I flinch, and he winces.

Stepping back, I hunch my shoulders, hiking my bag higher up my back.

"Sorry," he mutters, before releasing a sharp breath. His hand comes up to his ashy brown hair, and I don't miss the tremble in his fingers.

I frown. "Seriously. It's nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"But it is," I mumble. Shaking my head, I look down at the floor. It's not carpeted in this hall. I scoff lightly, and it's an ugly, bitter sound. And before I can think better of it, jagged words tumble from my lips. "Just another fucking day being me. What else is new?"

I regret it immediately.

Not so much the words themselves, as the brokenness behind them.

"Jer—"

Blood roars in my ears, and I can feel my pulse quickening, throbbing in time with the ache in my jaw. My chest squeezes, and much to my horror I feel tears surging to my eyes.

No. Not now. Not now, please.

Instead of trying to get past Mason this time, I turn around and start striding quickly for whichever exit I find first, mindless of the fact that I might get caught if I go this way. Who fucking cares? What are they going to do to me that's worse than what I've already gone through today?

I hear my name being called after me. Sense the footsteps thudding toward me. A hand clutches my shoulder, a hold I quickly try to rip out of.

"Let me go," I grit out.

"No. Hold up. Jer?—"

I whirl on him. "Let go!"

His eyes round at my graveled outburst.

"Just fucking let me go," I beg, my voice raw and as hopeless as I feel inside. My nostrils flare, and my vision blurs. My chest rises and falls rapidly.

Mason's shaking his head, and all I can think is?—

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you so much.

I don't know where it comes from. I don't even know if it's him I'm aiming those words at, or me. Maybe both of us. Maybe every single person in this school. The whole world…

He darts a look around us, his jaw steeling over, and then my hand's engulfed in his warm, strong grip. I don't even have a second to process it, before I'm being dragged into the nearest boy's bathroom.

Inside, he releases me, and the next thing I know, I'm being crushed in a hug.

"It's okay," he whispers, hand clasping the back of my head. "It's gonna be okay."

A broken sound erupts from me, muffled by the flannel and cotton covering his shoulder. My jaw smarts at the rough contact, but I don't make it known. I relish in the pain. Let it mingle with the sweet ache that comes from being wrapped in Mason's arms.

Mason…

My best friend.

My hero, always my hero.

I despise it as much as I love it.

A hand strokes my back, and hot breaths coast over my neck where he has his cheek resting against the side of my head.

It occurs to me that this…this is the first time we've ever hugged.

Sniffing, I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Shit," he mutters. "Your face."

He gently pushes me back, lifting my chin with his fingers when I try to keep my face downcast.

"Let me see."

Blinking hard at some unseen spot in the corner of the bathroom, I let him examine my jaw—coasting his fingers over where it feels almost numb through the pain.

"It's already bruising. Your teeth okay?"

I nod, fighting a shudder. "Ethan backhanded me."

Mason growls a string of curses.

I swallow tightly, and pull my head away from his touch. This time, he lets me. Walking over to the row of sinks, I find my reflection, and freeze at what I see.

Glassy brown eyes rimmed red.

Lip cut in the corner, caked with dry blood. Didn't even notice that.

Right side of my jaw is already shadowed with bruises, and rapidly swelling.

My blond hair is tangled, stringy-looking, hanging around my face, reaching my chin.

My gaze drifts lower, taking in the baggy black t-shirt over a gray long-sleeved thermal that I ripped holes in for my thumbs to fit through. Baggy jeans.

I glance down at my black and white Converse with the frayed laces and stars doodled in red sharpie along the white outer soles.

And then there's Mason, stepping into frame behind me in a red and blue flannel hanging open over a white Soundgarden shirt. Black ripped jeans.

He's several inches taller than me, even when I stand at my full height. Broader too. But a lot of it comes down to the way he carries himself. Like he's comfortable in his skin. Comfortable in his life.

He's not trying to make himself smaller.

He's not trying to disappear.

He couldn't even if he tried.

His brow furrows, our eyes meeting in the mirror. His floppy light brown hair curls around his ears. Unlike me, it looks intentionally tangled. Soft, not stringy.

I lift my hand, running the back of it over my nose. And then I turn on the sink, shoving my sleeves off my thumbs, and up my wrists just enough to wash my hands without getting my shirt wet.

There's blood on my fingers, probably from where my lip split. I don't know how I missed that.

Mason says nothing, but I feel his gaze on me like hot needles poking and jabbing at me, refusing to be ignored.

"You can go back to class."

"It's our study period," he says softly.

Our.

My lips turn down. I wonder why he put it like that, but I have my answer a moment later, when the door flies open, and my sister appears, eyes blazing as she storms into the boys' bathroom.

I cut a sharp accusing look at Mason when I turn to face them.

He holds his hands up in surrender. In one of them is his phone.

Of course he fucking texted her.

"She was gonna find out regardless."

Izzy's fuming gaze devours my injured face. She strides over to me, reaching for me, but I crane my head back just before she can make contact. She's still got about a half-an-inch on me, and I hate it. Hate that I'm so small and weak.

"It's fine," I grit out, taking several steps to the side. Arms crossed. "You two need to chill the fuck out."

"It's not fine, JJ," Izzy says through her teeth. She shakes her head. "I thought it was getting better. You said they've been leaving you alone."

"They have," I mumble, looking away.

I feel Mason watching me closely, and bite the tip of my tongue, regretting this entire fucking day. I should've just stayed in bed. Faked sick.

There's a growl, then?—

"I'll handle this."

"What? Iz, NO!" I shout, my head shooting up. My arms fall to my sides, and I take a lunging step forward. But she's already gone, long, wild brown hair rippling behind her the last thing I see before the door eases shut.

I rear back on my heels, slumping. "She's just gonna make it worse," I mumble numbly.

Turning a withering glare on Mason as he goes to follow her, all I can do is seethe, my aching jaw clenched as I try to hold back more tears that I refuse to let fall. Panic still hovers right on the edge of my awareness, and if it weren't for my meds, I know I'd be on the floor, curled up in a ball right now.

Just another small mercy…

"Jeremy…" Mason says, shaking his head. He opens the door, gripping it under white knuckles. "It's already worse."

When he strides out, I follow.

In the distance, I see Izzy speed-walking for the cafeteria.

Mason jogs after her.

Leave. Just go. Now is your chance.

I know it would be the smart thing to do. Nothing I say or do is going to stop them. Stop anything. I'm powerless…

My heart rate jackknifes. Breaths quicken, becoming more uneven, more strained. Warning bells go off in my head. And there's a neon sign flashing:

Abort. Abort. Abort.

Panic attack imminent.

Take cover.

But I'm no longer in control of my body either, it would seem. My feet carry me around the corner and into the cafeteria just in time to find Izzy stomping up to Ethan and Clay's table. Faster than anyone can prepare for, she lifts a tray full of food, and dumps everything over their heads.

I can feel myself shaking my head, a weird ringing sound filling my ears, not unlike what I heard earlier when Ethan's hand cracked across my face.

Slowly, it registers that people are staring. Laughing. And they're looking at me.

I take a step back, then another.

It's the phones I notice next, and I frown, wondering if they're recording this…

A teacher yells out. Someone blows a whistle.

But it's too late.

Mason grabs the phone Clay's waving around, and looks at the screen.

And I remember.

So caught up in the pain rocketing through my face after being struck, and my desperate need to get the fuck out of here—and then dealing with Mason, and then Izzy…

I forgot about the picture.

A single panicked sweep around the full cafeteria shows multiple students looking at their phones, laughing, covering their mouths, eyes wide with shock…

I know exactly what it looks like.

My heart is thrashing, hammering against my chest. Bile fills my throat, flooding my mouth. It's been years since I threw up in school, but I feel it coming now.

This sickness inside of me.

The ugly beast no amount of pills could ever hope to fully tame.

It's coming for me now.

And all I can think is how fucking tired I am of trying to ward it off. Of trying to just get by. To just…exist.

Mason's gaze snaps up to mine, and for a moment the world around us fades away. It's just us. His face is pale, pulled tight with some unnamed emotion. Anger, yes, absolutely. But there's something else. Something I've never seen before.

And it hits me, really hits me, him seeing that horrible picture of me. In that position…

Disgust. That's what it has to be. He's gotta be disgusted by me.

I stumble back a step at the same time he chucks the phone on the floor and stomps on it with his shoe, shattering it, sending pieces skittering across the floor. Just before I turn around, and run like hell, I see his whole body curve with the punch he aims right for Clay's face.

More yelling. More whistles blaring. Cheering…

It was Ethan, I think stupidly, shoving open the doors, putting my back to the world.

But that's not true…

It was both of them.

They both did this.

I run, and I don't stop running. Not when a teacher calls out. Not when the alarm blares when I fly through an emergency exit. Not when I jog off grounds and cut through intersections. Not all through town, not even when I reach our driveway.

I don't stop running until I'm upstairs in the safety of my bedroom, and the door's locked, and I sink to the floor, bury my face in my hands, and let myself be pulled under.