The whole class erupts in laughter, and my stomach sinks.
I catch sight of Masen out of the corner of my eye, leaning his desk forward, closer to mine, and whispering, “But he was hot, so I guess that’s all that’s important, right?”
I keep staring ahead, the knots in my stomach pulling tighter and tighter. Sure, Edward was decades older than Bella. But the fact that he was good looking had nothing to do with her loving him anyway.
Masen continues his attack. “Now if he looked like most hundred-year-old men looked,” he calls out, and I see him stand up, “it wouldn’t have been romantic, would it? There would be no Bella and Edward.” He walks up to the front of the class and rounds the teacher’s desk, gesturing to the laptop. “May I?”
The teacher nods, looking wary but allowing it.
Masen leans down, and I refuse to look as he types something into the search engine. But when more laughter breaks out, louder this time, I can’t help myself.
I glance up at the screen and instantly feel anger curl my fingers into a fist.
A huge image of an old man, withered with wrinkles, missing teeth, and bald but with wiry, silver hairs sprouting from the top of his nose smiles back at us, and I glare at Masen, who grins back.
“Old geezer Edward is a happy guy,” he gloats, “because he’s about to get naked with Bel-la.”
“Aw, yeah!” J.D. hollers, and everyone loses control. Students double over laughing, and their amusement surrounds me like a wall closing in. Everything is getting smaller, and I start to feel the space in my lungs shrink as I pull harder to take in air.
I clench my teeth together. Motherfucker.
Masen crosses his arms over his chest, looking at me like a meal he can’t wait to eat again. “Shake your pompoms, Rocks,” he says. “You just reminded all of us that love is truly only skin deep.”
I walk as quickly as I can, a cool sweat spreading down my neck and back as I dive into the girls’ locker room. The weight on my chest gets heavier, and I pass girls undressing for P.E. as I slip into one of the shower stalls, draw the curtain closed, and turn on the water.
I step to the left so I don’t get hit with the spray. The white noise of the water shields me from listening ears, and I grab my inhaler from my pocket, taking two quick pumps and leaning back against the shower wall, closing my eyes.
Four years. I haven’t had a fucking attack triggered by panic in four years. It’s always exercise-induced. My lungs start to open up, and I slowly breathe in and out, forcing myself to calm down.
What the hell is wrong with me? The guy’s not a threat. I can handle this. So he was challenging me. So what? Am I going to flip out every time that happens? Sooner or later I’ll leave safe Falcon’s Well, and I’ll no longer be Queen Bee. I’m acting like a baby.
But for a moment, everything went dark. Slowly the world in my vision got smaller and smaller like I was in a tunnel going backward. The light ahead of me—Masen, Mr. Foster, the other students—became tiny as the darkness ate up the room, and I felt completely alone.
Just like before.
“Alright, everyone!” Ms. Wilkens, my fourth grade teacher, calls as we line up at the door inside the classroom. “If you’re staying in for recess, there’s no talking. You’re working.” Then she looks up to us. “The rest of you…walk, please.”
The line leader pushes through the door and everyone bolts, running outside to the playground. Some students dash for the tetherballs, others for the bars, and some stroll around the blacktop, figuring out what they want to do.
Everyone passes me by, and I slow to a walk, fidgeting and watching them as they find their groups and begin playing. The sun is hot, and I slowly step into the chaos, looking around and not sure where to go or who to talk to.
This happens every day.
Girls run up to other girls, smiling and talking. Boys play with other boys, tossing balls back and forth and climbing the equipment. Some of my classmates sit on the grass and play with little things they snuck into school, and everyone has found each other, pairing off.
But no one’s looking for me.
I shuffle my feet, feeling my stomach twist into knots. I hate recess. I should’ve just stayed in the classroom and colored or wrote in my journal or something.
I want them to know I’m here, though. I want them to see me.
I don’t like being forgotten.
I look over at Shannon Bell and a few other girls from class, their hair and clothes always so cool and pretty. Why can’t I ever look like that? I run my hands down my knee-length skirt and Polo shirt, looking like such a good girl. My mom always pulls my hair back in a ponytail, but I want to curl it like them.
I lick my lips, swallow the big lump in my throat, and walk over to them.
“Hi,” I say, feeling like I can’t breathe.
They stop talking and look at me, not smiling. I gesture to Shannon’s hand. “I like your nail polish.”
Actually, I don’t. Yellow grosses me out, but my mom said complimenting people is a good way to make friends, so…
Shannon lets out a little scoff, looking embarrassed that her friends see me talking to her. She shoots a look to them.
I feel an invisible hand pushing me away from them. They want me gone, don’t they?
But I force a smile and try harder. “Hey,” I tell another girl, seeing her Mary Janes. “We have the same shoes.” And I look down at mine, showing her.
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Ew.”
“You guys,” another girl chides her friends, but they don’t stop laughing.