Who Can Really Blame You?

I sit quietly in class, unaware of the fact that I’m rocking back and forth a bit with boredom. I idly wonder if I should go visit my dad again. It’s been nearly three weeks. I jump slightly when the door bangs open and an administrator stomps into the room, handing a piece of paper to my teacher, who glances at the paper, and then to me.

“Gather your things, Mr. Jacobs. You just got a new schedule,” she says.

“But I didn’t apply for one,” I say, confused.

“They have to make adjustments where they can,” she says shortly. I gather my things quickly, and go take the paper, my schedule, from her lazy grasp. I hated this class anyways.

Once in the hallway, I look at my new classes. I’m still in math and history, but they’ve put me in the advanced English for all grades. It’s mainly a writing course. I scowl and head down the hall to my new English class. Everything else is mainly the same. Well, the classes that matter anyways.

I walk down the hallway, glancing at room numbers every so often, until I finally arrive at my new English class. I knock on the door quietly. I feel bad for interrupting class. Well, mostly I’m just worried that the teacher will be bothered by it. Some people…

“Can I help you?” a large man asks at the door.

“I’ve gotten a schedule change,” I say meekly, and show him my paper. I glance into the room behind him, where kids are all sitting on desks and goofing off. I swallow. I hate classes where I’m the only good kid.

“It seems you have,” he says, glancing at the schedule before handing it back to me, “Ainsley?”

“Yeah,” I reply, folding it back into my pocket and entering the door he’s held open for me. He goes back to his desk.

“Uh,” I say, unsurely, refusing to look at the class, “Where do I sit?”

“Oh, anywhere. We’re spending our first quarter brainstorming. We’re going to all write a something that means a lot to us and we’ll compile them all, and then we’ll have it printed,” he says, rifling through some drawers. He pulls out a sheet of paper, and hands it to me. I look at it. It’s a table, with four rows and two columns. First quarter, the first box, only reads brainstorming. The second says that we’ll write, as does the third, while the fourth only says that we’ll brainstorm titles and contact publication companies.

“Is this… a joke?” I ask him, glancing at him unsurely.

“Literature is no joke,” he scorns me playfully, “Go have a seat, anywhere you like.”

I turn back to the class and scan for a familiar face. Someone turns and waves to me. I look and smile at Adler, who motions me over. I don’t move though, feeling my stomach drop slightly as a black-haired gangly senior next to him turns to see who Adler’s waving at, and turns back around as soon as he sees me. Everyone else they’re sitting with glance at me, and shrug it off. They don’t know me. I shrug apologetically and shake my head at Adler, and go to the only group of empty desks, avoiding his eyes.

I shrink down in my seat, focusing on the fake wood pattern of my desk top and ignore the pair of bright green shoes I see coming my way.

“Why don’t you sit with us?” Adler asks. I glance up at him.

“I—I… Uh, I don’t think your group all wants me over there,” I say, stumbling over my words. He looks surprised and glances back at them. No one’s looking our way.

“I don’t think any of them know you…” he trails off, “Please? You look desperately emo over here.”

I look up at him.

“I can’t,” I reply, quietly.

“Why not?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” I mutter. Adler doesn’t say anything for a moment, until he falls into the seat behind me. I turn to look at him.

“Tell me,” he says, propping his chin up with his hand.

“I will later,” I reply, “I just don’t want to talk about it with everyone around.”

He sighs, and stands up.

“Oh, yeah. What happened to your face?” Adler asks. In the corner of my eye, I see Carter turn to hear what I say.

“A box in my closet fell on me,” I lie with a shrug. He laughs at this.

“Wow, bad luck,” he replies, just as Carter stands and heads our way. I look at him walking towards us. Adler looks back and smiles at him. “Oh yeah, I forgot you guys know each other!” Adler says happily.

“Yeah,” Carter says, then looks to me, “Come sit with us.”

I stare at him.

“Uhm,” I say, “Okay.”

Adler smiles, and takes my book bag across the room to their group of desks. Carter walks slightly ahead of me, and I feel distinctly sick. Carter plops down in his previous seat unceremoniously as Adler pulls up a desk for me in between his and Carter’s.

“Thanks,” I say, sitting down. He flashes a smile and moves back onto the desk top, his feet in the seat, and starts back up talking to everyone.

“So, everyone that doesn’t know, this is Ainsley,” Adler says. One guy stares at me for a second longer than everyone else. “This is Marky,” Adler says, pointing to a kid with very straight blonde hair, who waves. “This is Carter, you know him,” Adler says. I nod, but don’t look at Carter, who doesn’t seem to notice. “This is Jon and this is Josiah. Brothers,” Adler says. The two boys with the same nose acknowledge me. I mutter a hello. “And I’m Adler, as you know,” Adler says, and throws an arm around my shoulder awkwardly, since there’s a two foot difference in height the way we’re sitting. I shrug him off of me, and he pouts.

I sink down in my seat a bit as the conversation starts back up.

“Everyone!” the teacher calls. We all fall silent and turn to him.

“Today I’m checking in on your brain storm progress. I’ll call you up in groups of four, alphabetically. Ainsley, you’re excused, since it’s only day one for you,” he says. I nod, and he continues, calling out the first four names. I watch in slight horror as Marky, Jon, Josiah, and Adler are all called up. I turn back in my seat and face the center of the circle our desks form.

“So what really happened to your face?” Carter asks me. I don’t look at him for a moment.

“What do you mean?” I question, studying his face for the first time in a long time. He looks the same, if not better.

“You don’t keep boxes in your closets,” he says, “You think it’s impossible to find stuff then. You told me yourself.”

I stare at him.

“What are you saying?” I ask him.

“I’m asking who hit you,” he says. I feel what little color there is in my face drain. I actually consider telling him for a moment. Carter would help me, wouldn’t he?

“No one,” I lie, “A box really did fall on me. I’m not fully moved in yet.”

He stares at me.

“Okay,” he says finally. We fall into silence. “So who’s been forbidding you from eating?” he asks.

“What?” I ask, looking at him.

“You’re really thin,” he shrugs.

“That doesn’t mean someone isn’t letting me eat,” I inform him.

“You count as someone,” he shrugs.

“I’m not starving myself,” I say incredulously.

He gives me a look that says Bull Shit, in all capital letters.

“Could have fooled me,” he says. I turn away from him with an annoyed sigh. “I’m just concerned for you,” he defends.

“Well, you seemed too busy to be concerned all summer,” I shoot back, my voice cracking.

“Shouldn’t Mitchell be the concerned one?” he replies venomously.

“Mitchell really cares about me!” I argue. Carter rolls his eyes. “Why do you have to be like this?” I ask, staring at him with his face turned away from me. He turns back to me.

“You broke my heart,” he says bluntly. I fall silent. Something inside of me roars in disapproval.

“You were wrong,” I tell him.

“About?” he asks boredly.

“Everything,” I say, just as the four others return and the bell rings.

“Class! Wait one moment!” my teacher calls out, “We’ll be going outside next class to write, so please, bring something to sit on or anything you might need! Have a good day!”

I leave the room and merge into traffic.

I try to casually mention it to Mitchell that I’m in a new class; that Carter’s in it with me. I’d rather him hear from me. I don’t know why. He’s always mad either way.

He glares at me all night. I’m on edge about it the entire night.

He doesn’t say anything until he’s obviously drunk and obviously horny.

I say no, and he makes me sit bleeding in the living room all night. I don’t fall asleep.

I push Mitchell off of me, and try not to tell him to fuck off.

“Why are you such a bitch?” he asks me. I flinch at his volume.

“I’m not,” I snap, “You’re just always too fucking horny.”

“Because you never put out!” he exclaims.

“Because it doesn’t feel good!” I retort, and grab my cheek after he’s slapped me.

He says nothing, just glares at me, and finally throws me backward on the bed. I try to sit up, annoyed with him, but he simply pushes me back, and straddles me.

I’m glad he left. I’m glad he went to the bar.

I sit on the floor of the shower, hot water running over me, and I feel like such a baby lately, crying all the time. I can’t help it though, right now. My entire body is shaking and it all hurts. Everything hurts. I press my palms into my eyes and wince at the black eye I feel forming on my left eye. That’s nothing compared to the now throbbing pain that’s resonating up my spine, but that itself is nothing compared to the stabbing sensation it evolved from.

A part of me can’t believe that he forced himself on me like that, that he managed to do this, but another part of me is completely self satisfied, because it was right all along. I stick with the part that helps me stay with him through all this, the part that thinks he’s a good person.