Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
If he was in front of me now, I’d have no problem staying still and silent for as long as it took.
I’d do anything for him. Even just to see him for a fraction of a second.
But he’s not here, and I’m alone. The desire to fight is almost overwhelming.
I close my eyes for a few seconds and take deep breaths.
“Be good,” I whisper to myself beneath my breath. “Play nice. Let them think you’re broken.”
I repeat it a few more times until I’m sure my fear is hidden. A broken person doesn’t let people know who they care about because a broken person doesn’t care about anyone.
“I don’t care,” I whisper. It’s them I don’t care about. I can’t even lie to myself about him. I will only say that if that’s what it takes to buy myself some time. Nothing I say to them means anything.
It’s all fake. I’m just faking it so I can get out of here. I’m just playing the part that will lead to me getting free.
Thunk, thunk. Footsteps ricochet in the hall. I let go of the chair and fold my hands in my lap and sit up straight.
Mr. Jay comes into the room with no cameras. He doesn’t try to hide how much he likes it in here. He sneers at me, his eyes roaming over my body.
I bite my tongue to stop any words from coming out of my mouth. He’s a creep and a monster. If he decides to touch me, then he’ll do it, and nothing I say will stop him.
He plants his feet a short distance away from my chair. If he leaned forward, he could reach me. I don’t move.
Don’t move a muscle, I remind myself.
Mr. Jay stares at me until my breath gets shorter. I hate waiting to find out what they’ll do. It’s always bad, always humiliating, and somehow I never guess right.
“Have you reflected on your actions?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.” What he’s really asking is whether I feel sorry for the riot. I didn’t start it. While we were running, someone said something about the lunchroom. I just got swept up in it, and there was no way I was going to fight to come back to the school.
“And?” he prompts.
“And I’m sorry I broke the rules.”
“You did more than break the rules. You put our school at risk.”
“I’m sorry.” I’m not actually sorry. I don’t know how I could be. The riot felt like a dream. I was almost outside my body, going along with everybody else.
“I don’t think you are.”
I don’t answer him. I’m playing nice. Faking it. If he expects me to argue, he’ll be disappointed. I’m not going to. I just look up at him, my hands demurely in my lap.
The corner of his lip curls. He wanted me to put up a fight. The man doesn’t need an excuse to hurt me, but he likes to have one, and I’m not giving it to him.
With a disgusted sigh, he jerks his head toward the door. “Get up. Follow me.”
I do.
The whole school is silent except for the voices of some of the teachers. It was so loud when we were escaping. It really felt like we were about to be free. The energy was electrifying. It’s the same feeling I had during those playground games when I would reach the slide that meant safety, my heart pounding and my body flooded with relief.
I’ll feel that again someday. I will. I don’t know how or when, or what I’ll have to do to guarantee I have that feeling, but I’ll get it.
No matter what.
Now, I have just have to fake it.
Mr. Jay stops at another room and gestures me inside.
I stop myself from letting out a gasp at the last second.
The room is a nightmare. Blood and dirt cover the floor, some of the mess in wide streaks, like they dragged someone who was bleeding into the room and used them to mop the concrete.
“This is your punishment.”
I blink, not wanting to look at Jay. “This?”
“Clean it up.”
I lift my hands in front of me. “I don’t have—”
“With this.”
He holds a toothbrush. Whose is this? It’s been used—I can tell that from how the bristles are sticking out. It’s not mine. I thought I was used to the horrible things they did here, but my stomach clenches.
I take the toothbrush.
It’s dry, not wet, so he didn’t pull this out of someone’s mouth.
“Get down on your knees.”
I get down on my knees at the edge of the mess. “I don’t have anything to—”
“Start scrubbing.”
The dry toothbrush can’t clean the blood and dirt off concrete but I do as I’m told. “Spit,” he orders and I do. It doesn’t take long for my knees to ache from my position on the floor. When I try to balance on my heels, Mr. Jay barks at me to get back on my knees.