Allison.
“She’s not going to DO it.”
“Oh no?”
Shar got down next to me, knee on my textbook, and took my arm in her hands. “Look at your poor little bruise,” she mocked. “Maybe you’ll have to miss YOUR exam, bully.”
“It’s not even a bruise.”
“You want me to kiss it better?”
That same smile.
“No!” I said, maybe a little too fast and too loud.
“As if,” she cooed, planting a loud smooch on the pink outline the brush had left behind.
The next day I slept in and had to make a mad dashto the auditorium for my East Asian History exam. The last question involved drawing a map of China. AN ENTIRE MAP. I drew a half-hearted rectangle with jagged edges and added in some rivers where I could remember there being rivers. Later on I found out that someone had taped a map to the back of the third toilet in the women’s bathroom. So apparently there are a few reasons to stay in touch with your classmates.
I saw Rattles in the hallway before I heard the news. She was walking stooped, bent almost to a ninetydegree angle. Paler than ever with black circles under her eyes. She had a tensor bandage wrapped around her right wrist, a flesh-coloured wrap wound so thick it looked like a turnip.
“What happened to Ra— Nat?” I asked Carly, who was sitting on the floor in her room,econds later">OH surrounded by a sea of Cultural Studies notes I was hoping to borrow.
“She hurt her wrist.” Carly shrugged, not looking up, twirling a highlighter in her fingers.
“Doing what?” I tried to perch myself on Carly’s bed without disturbing what seemed to be a delicate study system.
Carly’s walls were covered in black and white movie posters—all of them movies you’d have to rent at some obscure retro place to watch. I wondered if she had. Rented them.
She shrugged. “I don’t know actually. I mean, I guess it was from practising too much because she plays piano, right? Hmmmm. Did you download the videos for Cultural Studies, because you need those too.”
I got the whole story from Shar during her celebratory feast at Chicken! Chicken!
“Well she’s TELLING PEOPLE that she tripped and fell. That girl is such a liar.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think? She beat her fucking wrist! With a stapler!” Shar chuckled. “A STAPLER! Can you imagine? Guess someone didn’t have a BRUSH!”
“WHAT?”
Pausing over her plate, Shar tapped her fork on her wrist in demonstration. “You know, like BANG BANG BANG!”
“She actually did it.”
“Of course. Because she’s a spineless pushover and I—WE—gave her a genius way to get out of her exam. Although”—Shar picked up a bit of chicken finger and proceeded to drown it in ketchup—“I’ll say this, Rattles outdid herself. She CHIPPED a bone.”
“NO!”
“Yep.”
Watching Shar suck the ketchup off her chicken finger, it occurred to me that she was kind of glowing, with a look on her face like a mom holding up her kid’s first-place ribbon. In front of her a feast of french fries lay smothered under a bloody blanket of ketchup. One of the fries was poking through like a bone splinter. Sort of.
The sickly sweet smell of tomato and the image of that little fry was making my stomach hurt.
“Wow. So. Huh.”
It was hard not to picture Rattles alone in her room, maybe sitting on the bed next to her stapler. Her face all sweaty from constant crying. No one around to buy her chips and tell her to chill out, that exams are no big deal.
“I feel bad,” I said, twirling the straw of my Coke.
“Why?”
“Because …”
“Allison. We did not do anything to that girl, okay? Not that she didn’t WANT us to, the lazy slug. Like we’re going to do her dirty work for her. Like we’re going to leave the door open for her to charge us with ASSAULT.”
“She WANTED you—she wanted US—to hit her?”
Shar shrugged. “Who knows WHAT that girl wanted? Look, whatever you do, do not feel bad for the Rattles of this
“She’s not going to DO it.”
“Oh no?”
Shar got down next to me, knee on my textbook, and took my arm in her hands. “Look at your poor little bruise,” she mocked. “Maybe you’ll have to miss YOUR exam, bully.”
“It’s not even a bruise.”
“You want me to kiss it better?”
That same smile.
“No!” I said, maybe a little too fast and too loud.
“As if,” she cooed, planting a loud smooch on the pink outline the brush had left behind.
The next day I slept in and had to make a mad dashto the auditorium for my East Asian History exam. The last question involved drawing a map of China. AN ENTIRE MAP. I drew a half-hearted rectangle with jagged edges and added in some rivers where I could remember there being rivers. Later on I found out that someone had taped a map to the back of the third toilet in the women’s bathroom. So apparently there are a few reasons to stay in touch with your classmates.
I saw Rattles in the hallway before I heard the news. She was walking stooped, bent almost to a ninetydegree angle. Paler than ever with black circles under her eyes. She had a tensor bandage wrapped around her right wrist, a flesh-coloured wrap wound so thick it looked like a turnip.
“What happened to Ra— Nat?” I asked Carly, who was sitting on the floor in her room,econds later">OH surrounded by a sea of Cultural Studies notes I was hoping to borrow.
“She hurt her wrist.” Carly shrugged, not looking up, twirling a highlighter in her fingers.
“Doing what?” I tried to perch myself on Carly’s bed without disturbing what seemed to be a delicate study system.
Carly’s walls were covered in black and white movie posters—all of them movies you’d have to rent at some obscure retro place to watch. I wondered if she had. Rented them.
She shrugged. “I don’t know actually. I mean, I guess it was from practising too much because she plays piano, right? Hmmmm. Did you download the videos for Cultural Studies, because you need those too.”
I got the whole story from Shar during her celebratory feast at Chicken! Chicken!
“Well she’s TELLING PEOPLE that she tripped and fell. That girl is such a liar.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think? She beat her fucking wrist! With a stapler!” Shar chuckled. “A STAPLER! Can you imagine? Guess someone didn’t have a BRUSH!”
“WHAT?”
Pausing over her plate, Shar tapped her fork on her wrist in demonstration. “You know, like BANG BANG BANG!”
“She actually did it.”
“Of course. Because she’s a spineless pushover and I—WE—gave her a genius way to get out of her exam. Although”—Shar picked up a bit of chicken finger and proceeded to drown it in ketchup—“I’ll say this, Rattles outdid herself. She CHIPPED a bone.”
“NO!”
“Yep.”
Watching Shar suck the ketchup off her chicken finger, it occurred to me that she was kind of glowing, with a look on her face like a mom holding up her kid’s first-place ribbon. In front of her a feast of french fries lay smothered under a bloody blanket of ketchup. One of the fries was poking through like a bone splinter. Sort of.
The sickly sweet smell of tomato and the image of that little fry was making my stomach hurt.
“Wow. So. Huh.”
It was hard not to picture Rattles alone in her room, maybe sitting on the bed next to her stapler. Her face all sweaty from constant crying. No one around to buy her chips and tell her to chill out, that exams are no big deal.
“I feel bad,” I said, twirling the straw of my Coke.
“Why?”
“Because …”
“Allison. We did not do anything to that girl, okay? Not that she didn’t WANT us to, the lazy slug. Like we’re going to do her dirty work for her. Like we’re going to leave the door open for her to charge us with ASSAULT.”
“She WANTED you—she wanted US—to hit her?”
Shar shrugged. “Who knows WHAT that girl wanted? Look, whatever you do, do not feel bad for the Rattles of this
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