Sympathy is written all over Rick and Blake's face when I walk over to them. Janitors rush over to clean up the mess I had made and I'm constantly cursing at that mirror and the locker now.
We walk down the halls silently. Some students are throwing sympathetic glances at me, while others just make way like I am contagious. I hate how they look at me. I don't like that they think I'm broken and need saving.
I will have to put Mason in his place. He does not get to switch places with me. He is charity, not me. Anger starts boiling inside me and for a moment I forget the pain. I forget the gaze. I hate him.
I'm however started off my gaze by a junior teacher who I recognize from my childhood days. She used to baby sit me and she taught me piano. That is not someone you easily forget.
"Mr. morsey," she says and I clench at that name. I detest hearing it in school grounds.
I suddenly want to disappear. Run. Hide.
But no. Hell no.
Why am I shrinking?
I should be proud.
They should be bowing to me, worshipping the name that pays their salaries.And here I am, flinching like a scared little kid.
"Proceed to the guidance and counseling room." She says.
What?
I am not psychic, I just had a normal break down. Anyone would. I guess anyone would hit a locker so hard the lock breaks and the door dents. Anyone would simply break a mirror in a dressing room and throw out a girl he just injured just because she pissed him off.
Wait, my shirt. That's right, I had walked down the hallway with a bare chest and a bloody shirt in my hands.
And why Ms. Isabel probably thinks I'm two seconds from biting someone's ear off. I smirk at the thought.
Smooth. Real smooth.
I put on the bloody shirt that had creased over pony… rael… raul.
Shit.
I push those thoughts away after seeing Isa's reaction. Of course I had made It worse. What psycho wears a bloody shirt in public or even at all. Rick and Blake look at me with that face that says she's right and I can't help but laugh about how everyone's loyalty is blurry today.
Figures.
"You are wasting your time. I am fine" I tell Ms. Jonson, head of the guidance and counseling department.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink.
"The earlier you start talking, the earlier you leave this room that we both know you have no interest in staying at Mr. smith." I slouch on the couch like a 12 year old and stare at her.
"Whatever." I mutter and pretend to busy myself with the neat room.
It's too neat.Too calm.Too...judgy.
The silence stretches. Long enough to make my skin crawl. I want to stand up. Storm out.Find Mason. Wreck Mason.
"You have always been a good kid, never one to fight, one to bully, I do not understand your change of behavior." She says and of course she can't. I don't like how she dismisses my right to be mad.
"You don't know me." I mutter under my breath.
She didn't get to judge my situation, I do not appreciate that. I bulge out of the door and hurry fast to get away from her voice yelling my name.
Mason is right there grinning and seated like nothing happened. Like he didn't just turn my life to a goddamn circus. I want to wrap my hands around his neck and cut off his air supply, but I decide against it.
Instead, I sit. Still in the same bloodied shirt. Still angry. Let them stare.
They follow me with their eyes, like I'm some wild animal in a cage.The professor clears his throat, and the room shifts its attention, but I don't.
I don't take my eyes off Mason.
Later after school...
"What now mason, you think that little excuse that you pulled today in desperation for attention will get you where you want? A place to be considered part of the family?" I ask as I drive past him walking home.
I don't wait for him to respond.Because if I do, if I stop this car, I'll wrap my hands around his neck and never let go.Right there. On that quiet, leafy path.Just me, him, and a very justified obituary.
This has to get better. Because if it doesn't, I'm going to lose my mind.
Do I even want to know why Mason's acting like this?
I want Lary back. I want him close.Because if I'm stuck in this house with Mason, this smirking, smug, manipulative scumbag. Sitting at the table.Smiling at my mom like he belongs.
He doesn't even look at me.Just laughs at something she says like I don't exist—like I didn't bleed today.
Did his jealousy run that deep?
It was a game! I don't really want Pony. Maybe that is the problem.
The little games?
The way I let things simmer just to see if he'd crack.
Maybe I was the problem all along?
No.No, I stop myself before I go there.
I shift focus instead to the fact that he actually felt threatened by me. How would he react if he knew she actually was interested in me? She didn't say it, but I've been around girls long enough to tell genuine interest from body language. The thought only pushes me harder to want to destroy him.
I don't care where his jealousy leads him now. I'm the bad guy in this story and he is not getting that.
"Logan, are you alright?" I hear mom call out.
I didn't even realize I was grinning until she pointed it out, yet I have not the slightest explanation. The startle causes Mason to look my way and our eyes meet.My jaw clenches so tight I can hear it crack. I did not know a human could contain such ability. The kind that makes your body tremble out of rage when seconds ago you were struggling to keep your amusement at bay.
He smiles lightly obviously noticing the discomfort. My plate turns sour so fast, I find it hard to contain the rage . Before I can focus,his face is deep in the lasagna. I figured since he felt so good praising the meal and smiling, why not eat directly from the source? Why not just dig into it? Let him eat every bit of his smugness with a mouthful of ricotta and marinara.
Mom stands to defend his ass and that only aggravates me more.
I see mom move, maybe say something, but I'm already moving.My fist crashes into his jaw and it's… satisfying.Sick, maybe. But satisfying.
He stumbles, stunned. I can feel the tremor through my knuckles.Something about that contact, solid and real, grounds me for just a second.
Mom just stands there, jaw unhinged, frozen in place.She's clutching what's left of the lasagna like it holds the answer. Like it can undo what's already done.
I am angry that Mason gets to laugh at my mom's lame jokes when he has no idea how long she has had to cry in silence.
I was the only one that would go to her door when dad left us for years in New York. Not even once taking time to pick up her calls or call us. Lary was lucky he got to leave with dad for college but we had to get left behind. Every holiday, easter, thanks giving, Christmas, new year, all he did was send a worthless sum of money.
Not even a text message to wish us well! Just lame kids got sent to live with us and go to my school.
We were the leftovers. The broken pieces he mailed his guilt to.
And now this clown thinks he gets to sit here and play "happy family"?He has no idea what it took just to survive one dinner without choking on resentment.
So no—I'm not sorry. Not for the punch. Not for the lasagna. Not for finally letting it burn.
I'm angry Mason even gets to sit at this table and eat my mom's lasagna after the stunt he had pulled. I'm angry I give my dad so much credit. I have never stepped foot in a school he didn't own. I thought he was just being charitable but, he is obsessed with them! He's obsessed with building perfect little people and collecting them like trophies.Mason is just his favorite new piece. Mason throws a few blows, I take them. But when mine lands, I make sure it counts.His lip bursts open, and Mom's shouting like her voice can hold us together.
"What's your problem?" He says tugging at my collars and I attempt to choke him, pushing him back until he hits the wall and his body bounces from the wall slightly. I watch him struggle to breathe, his eyes widening in the fear that is creeping in. Mom tugs at my shoulder to let go.
"What's my problem?" I hiss, loosening my grip just enough for him to suck in a breath."Fuck off."
I shove him off me like garbage and brush Mom's hands off my shoulders.
I walk away and ignore all her desperate and angry calls. I can hear her mumble something to Mason but I cannot look back, I could get tempted to go back and finish what I started.
It's beginning to get dark outside. Not pitch black, the kind of dark where everything is foggy, like the world's holding its breath.
Ironic.
That room couldn't contain me any longer.
Just to say, Come home. Fix this.But I already knew what he'd say.
"Be a man, Logan. I didn't raise no weak son."
Right.He didn't raise me at all.
I can't go to my brother, leaving mason alone here pestering mom was not even an option.
The thought of him worming his way in, laughing at her jokes, pretending he fits in this house makes me want to break something again.
I let my body lead me.It takes me back to where I first met Pony.Funny how pain drags you to where it all began.
I was running then too. From the quiet sadness that swallowed Mom after Dad went to trial for assaulting an employee.Of course, he won. He always does.Fearless. Untouchable.That's why I wanted to be like him.
But different. Fearless and able to protect the people I love.
I've never been a calm person—not really. When I was nine, they almost sent me to juvie. Since then, I've kept it all on a tight leash.
Now I smile and make sure I have my guard on check.
Since mason began the drama, that has not been easy for me. It is overwhelming having to pretend you are alright because the moment you lash out, they all point and say,"Of course he's angry. He has everything. Rich kid problems."
They do not get the amount of pressure this kind of reveal puts on you. Mason does not get it. Damn charity!
I spot pony ahead walking with earphones in her ears and I try to call out to her. Perhaps it is the loud music. I follow silently behind her, first to catch up and say hi then after I've followed too long and it would be weird if I said hi now.
I follow from a distance. Not really stalking her, I'm just trying to find myself a distraction or maybe making sure no one takes advantage of her.
She stops at a dirt lot where a bunch of kids are playing football—shirts off, barefoot, covered in grime. The kind of kids that size you up with one glance. Like if you flinch, they'll smell it and eat you alive.
What the hell is she doing here?
My thoughts drift.I pull my hoodie tighter over my head, the strings clenched between my teeth, sleeves yanked low to cover my hands hiding my skin.
Just as I think that someone is going to pop up with a gun held towards her face and I wouldn't know what to do, the kids run up to her and scramble to hug her. I cringe at the pain that must have caused her as I see her react silently to the pain. Typical Pony, she masks it with a smile. Everyone seems happy. They obviously know her judging by how their eyes glow when she unpacks the frosting filled donuts. Who is this girl?
We are miles away from the streets we live at. This might be the furthest I have had to go by foot and, why didn't she call a cub or more ask her music brother to take her? I throw those thoughts away.
Having to see her laugh like this is more satisfying. I don't hear anything they are saying, swahili and all, but at least I can tell they are happy.
The next few weeks are rough, a few fights here and there with Mason and a few other kids who think I am acting entitled just for behaving normal. Pony is not talking to me either but I have not stoped following her. To ensure her safety obviously, nothing more. I have even discovered that she loves listening to audio books rather. I could have thought it to be music but, the way she reacts to everything, sad emotions, her face twitching with disgust, sometimes she laughs so loud and sometimes her cheeks are flushed. No music can do that I'm sure.