My head can't wrap around how distant he's been. It doesn't make sense. He held my hand as I drove him home the other day, he kissed me before he got out of the car. We texted all night long, until I fell asleep with the phone in my hand.
Now this? Is he ghosting me?
Class is more of a foggy dream than my reality. I run the track, going through the motions. Coach has us race the four hundred, the eight hundred, and the sixteen-hundred. He times us as usual, my times are weak, much slower than the last few practices. Coach isn't happy, but he's quick to write it off as one of those days. We all have bad days, no one is perfect.
No one is perfect.
The words stick with me after he says them, and I know he's right. We're all human, and Max has a lot on his plate. His brother's in jail, because of me. He spends several hours a week cleaning the beach, because of me.
I'm blaming myself still, even though I know it's not my fault. It's guilt. Guilt is a cruel emotion that eats you from the inside out.
He told you not to blame yourself, so don't. He asked you to prom, he kissed you, he likes you, Prairie.
“Oops.”
Turning around, I see Stacy Caldwell; head cheerleader, most popular girl in school, always homecoming queen—Stacy Caldwell. Her hair is perfect, her skin is perfect, her makeup still perfect even after cheer practice. Because that's the type of girl she is.
Perfect skin, perfect body, perfect everything.
Her hand is over her mouth as she glances between her friend and me. “Oh, I'm sorry, Prairie Dog, I didn't see you there.” She giggles, tucking her hands under her arms as she purses her lips.
“Is there something you need, Stacy?” I ask, arching a brow.
Obviously she saw me, there's no way she didn't. That little move was done on purpose.
“No, just wondering when you're going to realize that Max is using you.”
Clenching my jaw, I calmly ask, “What?” Facing her head on, I challenge her. “Why would you say that?”
The other girls in this school might tread on water around Stacy, but I'm not like everyone else. She doesn't scare me.
Her hip juts out as she flaps a hand in the air. “Isn't is obvious?” Holding out her arms, she looks me dead in the eyes. “He got what he wanted from you. That's what boys like Max do when they're done with their trash, they throw it away.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” Shaking my head, I take a step back. I'm getting pissed, the anger is starting to bubble under the skin, causing my fingers to open and close at my side.
Stacy takes a small step in, a smile creeping across her face. “Oh come on, I saw you two at Chad's sneaking out to the pool house. You think you're the only girl he's ever played? He's done with you now. Can't you see it?”
“That isn't true, you don't know what the hell you're talking about.”
“Are you really that fucking stupid?” Her lids lower to half mast, head ticking a hair to the side. Folding her arms across her chest, she leans forward with a smile. “You're just a walking hole for him to stick his dick in.”
Growling, my fists clench at my side. “Fuck you, Stacy, you don't know shit.”
Her smile thickens. “I know that a newbie slut like yourself won't get anywhere if she can't keep her legs shut.”
That's it. I lose it.
Leaping at Stacy, I shove her to the ground. Her hands are in my hair, yanking on my head as I swing my fists at her face. In that moment I want her to feel pain. I want her to know she can't treat anyone she wants to like shit.
We're rolling on the field, hands in hair, fists flying back and forth. A crowd of students gather around us, some cheering, others are just watching.
“Break it up! Break it up!” Mr. Holloway grabs us both off the ground, tearing us apart. He's got my arm in one hand, hers in the other. “All right, the show is over! Get to class, go on.” The group around us disperses, heading into the school.
I'm breathing heavily, hair is in my face and I can taste the iron tang of blood in my mouth. The metallic flavor seeps down my throat as I swallow. The adrenaline slowly starts to seep away as I come down from the high.
We're both dragged to the office and placed on a bench in front of the secretary. I can't look at Stacy, I know if I do, I'll hit her again.
And that's not what I want. I'm not that person, I'm not aggressive or violent. But damn, I'd be lying if I said my goal isn't to make that girl hurt.
Don't be her, Prairie. That's what she wants. She wants to push you.
Grass bits are stuck in my shorts, dirt and green stains smear my shirt and skin. Raw flesh and fresh wounds spot my arms and legs. My lip is starting to swell as the taste of blood begins to fade.
Picking the blades of grass out of my shorts, I drop them to the floor. I have to clear my head, come down from this outburst of emotion and ground myself. Stacy wants to get under my skin, that's the whole goal of her little stunt.
Unfortunately, it worked.
“Stacy,” the principal opens his door, and keeps it open until she's inside.
I strain my ears, leaning a little closer to his office, trying to hear what she's saying to him, but I can't hear shit.
Miss Chris, the secretary, gives me a look, so I lean back in the seat. My stomach is a ball of nerves as my foot starts to tap against the tiles.
I'm not someone who gets in trouble, I've never even had detention. This is actually my first fight too. I'm not sure where all that rage came from, but when it hit, I couldn't control it.
Fuck, Prairie, you can't act like that. You want a spotless record for college.
The door opens after several minutes. Stacy comes out, her head down, sniffling and wiping her nose. One of her eyes is puffy, her hair is knotty and frizzy, with grass and debris still tangled in the locks.
She glances as she walks by me, just one quick look. Our eyes connect briefly, but it seems like so much longer. There's a flicker in her gaze; satisfaction.
My muscles resurge with adrenaline, hands clutching the bench at my hips, holding me down. She thinks she won this. But her pouty little face and fake ass tears don't mean shit.
“Prairie,” Principal Murphy says my name, his voice stern.
Sucking in a breath of air, all the anger that's coming back to life is swiftly knocked back down, contorting into a wave of anxiety. The twisting, the coiling, the rolling, it all makes my knees weak, and my palms sweaty.
“Sit,” he says, pointing at the chair in front of his desk.
I do as he asks, taking the seat, and not saying a word. I'm not going to start blurting out apologies or excuses, because honestly, I don't feel bad about it. She deserves to be knocked down a notch or two.
Mr. Murphy is peering at me. He's a big man, intimidating still for his older age. It's his eyes, the seriousness they hold, the way they stay steady, as if he's able to control even the slightest of muscles movements.
The bright green tie he has on is decorated with yellow bananas, and it stands out boldly against his navy blue shirt. With an army haircut, short and flat on top, I know he's a no bullshit dude instantly.
Steepling his fingers, he tilts his head, watching me carefully. I think he's waiting for me to speak, but I'm not sure where to start. So, I stay quiet, letting him take the lead.