I dart my eyes to the sides, looking for an adult. But the hallway is nearly empty.
“You know what I think I’ll do?” He gives me a sick smile. “One of these nights, I’ll get you in the parking lot after you teach swim lessons, and I’ll spread those pretty legs and fuck you right there on the ground. Would you like that, baby?”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“But can you outrun me?” An amused look crosses his eyes. “Your boyfriend’s gone now. Every corner you turn, every night when you go to sleep, I’ll be there, and I’m going to find out exactly what I’ve been missing.”
He pushes off the wall, and I fist my fingers, realizing they’re chilled to the bone.
“You’re just like every other bitch in this school. They all wanted it.”
I take in deep breaths as I watch him walk down the hall to the lunchroom, trying to slow down my pulse.
I don’t care what he thinks he can get away with. I’ll talk to my mom tonight and take this to the principal. If she doesn’t handle him, then we’ll go over her head. He’s not threatening me again.
I move to make my way up the steps, but I see the men’s room door Trey came out of and remember the black necklace.
He must’ve taken it from Manny. If Manny’s in there, why hasn’t he come out yet?
I look around, not seeing anyone in the hall, and hurry to the bathroom door, slowly pushing it open.
“Manny?” I call out.
Why the hell am I doing this? He won’t want to see me. I’m sure he’s fine.
“Manny, it’s Ryen,” I say.
I don’t hear anything, and for a moment I think the bathroom is empty, but then I hear a shuffle and step inside.
Inching past the empty stalls, I walk along the sinks to the hidden space where the hand dryers sit.
Manny is standing with his back to me, his backpack dangling from his right hand, and his head bowed.
He’s shaking.
“Manny?”
He raises his head but doesn’t turn around. “Get out,” he demands. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“Manny, what happened?”
I step to the side, trying to see his face, but then I see something, and I stop. Blood trails off his ear and down his neck.
The hole on his lobe where a black gauge used to fit is now empty, and he’s bleeding, although it looks like it’s stopped.
Trey. Oh, my God, did he rip it out?
I take a step toward Manny, but he flinches, moving away.
Of course. Why would she help? He sees me just as dangerous as he sees Trey.
He thinks I’ll victimize him. And why not? I’ve done it in the past.
Grief fills my heart. How many times have I made him feel alone?
I stay rooted, not wanting to make him scared, but I want to help. “It won’t always be like this.”
“It’s always been like this,” he retorts.
I stand there, thinking back to grade school. Manny and I got along okay until fourth grade when I…changed. But even before that he was on the periphery of whatever was happening. He was small and lanky, never picked for sports and often got in trouble for not turning in assignments. I knew then that he had it a little stressful at home, but other kids don’t understand things like that. They just judge.
“When I was little,” he goes on. “I used to be able to go home and get away from it. But now we’re older. We have Facebook, and everything they say about me during the day, I get to see online every night.”
I can hear the tears in his voice, and I want to get him some napkins to clean up the blood, but I don’t want him to stop talking, either.
“One of you assholes pushes my tray into my clothes and dumps food all over me, and the first thing everyone does is take out their phones. And then I have to relive it through pictures on my newsfeed every hour—even days and weeks later. Over and over again. I can’t get away from it anymore. Not even when I leave school.”
I never thought about it like that. When we were younger, the dynamics of friendships and fitting in were only difficult at school. When we went home, we were free, and most of us, hopefully, felt safe there. Now, the only thing we leave at school is school. The pressure, the gossiping, the bad feelings, it follows us home online. There’s no break from it.
“It’s constant. The humiliation…”
“It won’t always be like this,” I say again, moving closer.
“My family sees it, my sisters and their friends. I embarrass them.” He shakes, sobbing again. “That’s why I get high.”