The Bodies We Wear (15 page)

Mrs. Orman sent muscle. Now, that’s not good.

A few students are in the hallway and they watch me go by. Even they can tell something bad is going down.

Dead Girl Walking.

No one greets me in the office. The vice principal and her secretary actually keep their heads down and their eyes averted as the two male teachers march me toward Mrs. Orman’s office. The biology teacher doesn’t even bother to knock on the door. He opens it and I’m roughly shoved inside.

“Faye.”

Mrs. Orman sits at her desk. On the table is my file, of course, a big heaping manila folder with all sorts of ugly secrets hiding inside of it. She told me once she even kept it apart from the other students’, heaven forbid someone try to break into the office and accidently find it.

She motions to the seat opposite her but I don’t accept it. Instead, I turn around and look at the door. Sure enough, the male teachers are standing guard, their backs to us. They’re here to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.

Oh boy. This is going to be bad.

“Sit down. Sit down.” She waves at the chair.

“No thanks,” I say. “I prefer to stand.”

Mrs. Orman shrugs. She crosses her hands over her chest and stares at me for several seconds.

I stare back.

“I gave you a chance, Faye,” Mrs. Orman begins what I’m sure is going to be a long lecture. “No one else wanted you. I know this. I know that your adoptive father applied to almost all the schools in the district. They all turned you down for good reason. And why shouldn’t they? Why should a school risk its students’ welfare for a Heam addict?”

I don’t say anything. At this point, there isn’t anything left to say.

“Once a Heam addict, always a Heam addict,” she continues. “The statistics show this time and time again. But I had on my silly rose-colored glasses, didn’t I? I was foolish to think that maybe it would be different with you. Such a young girl. How could I not feel pity? I thought maybe having a cop for an adoptive father might make you stronger. I can see now I was wrong.”

“I haven’t been using,” I say. “Not once. Whoever said otherwise is a liar.”

“So I agreed to take you in,” Mrs. Orman says, ignoring my outburst. “And when I agreed, the school and I set up guidelines. Certain policies we expected you to follow in order to maintain dignity and grace. I told you on your first day, disobey the rules and I’ll toss you out in a heartbeat.”

I can’t comment. She knows. The only question now is how much.

“On Friday night, you were seen in the presence of other students. There was a fight, I believe. I hear you severely hurt another child. Attacked him like a wild beast and had to be pulled off kicking and screaming.”

“No,” I said. “It didn’t happen like that.”

“It shouldn’t have happened at all!” Mrs. Orman slams the file down on her desk. The whole table vibrates, knocking over a stapler and another stack of papers. “You knew better. I gave you this chance and you embarrassed me. You’ve made me look like a fool to the other staff. Most of them were against you being here in the first place.”

“I didn’t—”

“Stop,” she shouts, and her voice echoes in the small office. “Don’t you dare. When I first heard this, I thought maybe it was just a rumor. It wouldn’t be the first time events got muddled. Many of the students like to gossip and I can see how you would catch their attention at one point or another. But then I saw the pictures.”

She turns the computer monitor toward me.

There I am.

In one picture, I’m drinking from a beer, a frown on my face.

Another pic has me beating the crap out of Switchblade.

Then she pulls up a YouTube video. Presses
play
. I finish off Trevor quickly while the others cheer and boo.

Apparently, every single person at that party had their phones turned toward me. And I didn’t even notice.

Oh shit. I look at the desk and yearn to bang my head against it. I’ve been very, very, very stupid.

She takes my silence for guilt and she’s dead-on.

“So you don’t deny it?”

“I guess not.”

“You know the rules!” Mrs. Orman screams so violently that spittle erupts from her lips and across my manila folder. “You are not to have any communication with these students. Not ever. And here you are? Drinking? Fighting?”

I want to explain it to her but there’s no point. No one is ever going to take my side here.

“You’re expelled,” Mrs. Orman says, and I can hear the delight in her voice. “You will be escorted to your locker and you will clean it out. Then you will leave these grounds and never come back.”

I want to protest. I want to scream at her. Can’t you see I need to graduate? How important it is to me? It’s all I have left.

But I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me beg.

Never.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the lesson. Even from her closed office, I can hear the sounds of students filing out of the rooms and into the hallway.

“You can stay here until everyone is back in class,” she says. “I don’t need you to cause any more of a disturbance. You’ve done enough damage.”

No, I haven’t. She has no idea what kind of harm I can still do.

“You’re an awful woman,” I say. “I have been an exceptional student the past four years. I’ve never done a single thing or said anything that would get me into trouble. You’re right; I never should have gone to that party. It was stupid of me. Forgive me for thinking that maybe once I could be normal. But that’s not possible, is it? Because people like you will always make sure that people like me are constantly beaten down.”

“Now listen here—”

“No. I’m done listening. It’s your turn.” I drop my books on her desk and they make a satisfying thumping noise. “You want a monster? I think it’s time the truth came out.”

As I’m talking, I reach up and grab the front of my school blouse. I yank hard, buttons popping, as the shirt tears away to reveal my scars in all their glory.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Enjoy your life,” I say, and I turn. Opening the door, both male teachers immediately jump into action but I’m too quick for them. I shove the biology teacher, sending him flying back against the secretary’s desk. The other teacher is dumbstruck, staring at my scars. It doesn’t take much to get past him. I just push him aside and start walking.

One of the secretaries stands up to block my way but cowers once she realizes I’m not stopping. I march through the office, ignoring Mrs. Orman’s screams at me to stop. I hear someone pick up the phone, probably to call the cops, but I don’t care.

I’m done caring.

The entire school is my audience. I walk tall down the halls, heading toward the front doors, pushing my shirt off my shoulders so that everyone can see what I’ve been hiding. I march along in my bra but there are no catcalls. No whistles from the boys. No, everyone I pass is struck silent.

There are no whispers from behind me.

Only row after row of eyes watching.

I see Paige before she sees me. As I get closer, she turns, curious about whatever is going on that has struck the students dumb.

She sees me and her face instantly goes pale. Clutching her books tightly to her chest, she steps back and against her locker. Her face is covered in curiosity and uncertainty.

I walk past her and the group of friends surrounding her. The girls whisper at each other and someone squeals.

She thinks the scars are ugly. She said she’d rather die than have them. But now, watching her face, I can tell she’s wishing she could take back those words.

Different worlds. Some people just aren’t meant to be together.

Paige opens her mouth, but I’m not about to give her the chance. I’m not about to let anyone have the last word but me. Keeping my head high, I turn and walk down the hall. I reach the front door, turn around, and give everyone one last good look at my scars.

Still silent.

Turning, I leave.

I don’t tell Gazer I’ve been expelled. I don’t know how to get the words out. When he asks me how my day went, I smile and pretend it was the most randomly boring day in existence.

So I get up every morning, even though I’m exhausted. I train with him and go running before getting into my uniform and heading off to spend the day wandering the streets. Every afternoon I stop in by the Heam center and visit with Beth for an hour or so. Her recovery is coming along slowly; she still refuses to open up to her counselor.

No school official calls to inform Gazer. I guess they really don’t care. You’d think they’d at least want their uniforms back.

I’ll have to tell him eventually. I owe him that much. How am I going to break his heart? Each night I remove the necklace and place it on my dresser. Each night I look at the Celtic knot with its symbols of water, fire, earth, and wind. What a lousy job it’s doing. Protection, my ass.

I will tell him. Each night when I lie down, I make myself promise that I will tell him over breakfast.

Each morning I chicken out.

“What the hell did you do to my daughter?”

I’m not crying. I’m not screaming or begging or trying to throw myself into my mother’s arms. I’m a motionless doll, left out in the rain and frowned upon. Is it worth it to try to fix me up or easier to just toss me in the trash?

My mother stands at the door, her entire body puffed out against the frame as if trying to barricade it. She’s in her stockings and I can see her feet are swollen from a long day’s work. Her face is bright red with anger. Gazer is trying to explain to her what happened. But she’s not listening very well.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” my mother screeches. She’s smoking a cigarette and the smoke snakes its way up along the side of the doorframe. Her hand is shaking. “My husband went to jail for dealing Heam. I can’t have this sort of thing in my house. They’re still watching me!” She turns to look at me but turns her head away. She can’t stand to look at me. “How could you do this to me, you stupid brat? What were you thinking?”

“We can go down to the station and make a statement,” Gazer tells her. “Maybe Faye can give a proper description of the men that did this. I’m an ex–police officer. I assure you, no one is going to accuse you of anything.”

“I don’t believe you,” my mother says. “I know how you cops work.”

“Ma’am, she’s been through a very traumatic experience. If you’ll just let us inside, we can talk—”

“She’s lying to you,” my mother snaps. “Can’t you tell? Damn kid lies all the time. Made it all up, didn’t you, brat? Trying to get out of it. Killed that boy next door, didn’t you? Shame on you! Shame on you. Bad girl!”

“Ma’am.”

I have to give Gazer credit for trying. But the fear is too strong. Even at eleven, I’m aware of this. I saw them take my father away.

“Get her out of my sight,” my mother finally says. She tosses the cigarette in my direction and I have to step sideways to avoid the burn. “I have no daughter. I don’t give a damn what you do with her.”

She slams the door in our faces and I hear the dead bolt slide into place.