Shine - Lauren Myracle [23]
The candy-colored pants ended up in a Dumpster, way down. That I did know, because I was the one who put them there. In the hall, Tommy tossed Patrick’s pants to me with a wink, and I panicked. I didn’t push through the crowd and return them to Patrick, and I didn’t seek out Beef or Christian, who would have done it for me. Instead, I turned from Patrick’s pain. I fled.
Patrick hid half-naked in the boys’ room for half an hour until a teacher got wind of it and rustled up a pair of gym shorts. He went home early, but he was back the next day. If he knew I’d thrown those pants away, he never said. In fact, he did his best to act as if everything was fine between us, even though it clearly wasn’t.
Now Patrick was in a coma, and I was partly to blame, because by turning a blind eye in high school, I’d said, Go on and hurt him. I don’t care. And by doing that, I’d opened the door to more hurt, because when a person did something wrong and got away with it, he tended to do it again. He upped the stakes. He pushed harder and further, until finally, if no one stopped him . . .
I felt sucker-punched. It wasn’t God’s fault Patrick had been treated worse than dirt, as I’d let myself believe. It was mine.
WHEN THE BUS ROLLED TO MY STOP, I HAD TO peel myself off the seat, and, once standing, I stumbled like a drunk to the door. Outside, I blinked in the bright light. I had a four-block walk ahead of me to get to the library, but that was good. That meant I had to move, and moving would surely clear the roaring from my head.
I’d read that when surfers were felled by a big wave, the water pummeled them until they no longer knew up from down. That was how I felt as I walked along Main Street. I knew I had to fight my way to the surface; it was just that every cell in my body was drowning in self-loathing.
But walking got me there. It got me out of my head, and it got me to the library, sweaty and hot, but back in breathable air. My feet hurt, however, because I made the mistake of wearing my silver plastic flip-flops with little jewels in the straps. The humidity made the straps rub wrong against the soft flesh above my insteps.
If I’d been in Black Creek, I’d have taken off my flip-flops and gone barefoot. But here in Toomsboro, I felt self-conscious enough already, even with shoes on. I worried that people would look at me and see a hick. Or, as the townies said, a hill girl.
But guess what? If I ever had to go up against a tender footed townie in a glass-walking contest, I’d be the one who emerged unscathed.
These were the thoughts I distracted myself with as I stepped into the cool, air-conditioned building. When I grew up, my house was going to have air-conditioning, and I was going to crank it down so low I’d have to throw a sweater around my shoulders even in the summer.
Miz Hetty, the librarian, looked up from the reference desk. She was wearing a cute little cardigan over her blouse, and I thought, See? Like that.
“Hey, Miz Hetty,” I said.
“Well, hey there, Cat,” she said. A worry line formed in her brow. “How are you, honey?”
Because of Patrick, she meant. Because he and I were both from Black Creek.
“I don’t know,” I said uncomfortably. “I mean . . . well . . . I sure wish they’d find whoever hurt him.”
“I do, too,” she said. “More than that, I wish he’d come on out of that coma. I’ve been praying for him.”
I drew my thumbnail to my mouth. I appreciated her concern, but I wished she’d go on and finish up.
She must have seen this, because she arranged her features to tuck away her sadness. “You here for a fresh book?”
“Naw,” I said. “Maybe later, but first I think I’ll use the Internet some.”
I claimed a seat at the row of computers. The guy next to me glanced up, frowned as if I smelled bad, and went back to his typing.
My heart beat faster, because this was my constant fear ever since my freshman year of high school: that in