Interim, page 19
Regan snorted. Casey always said the exact wrong thing before games. She was Regan’s biggest and worst cheerleader.
“And don’t worry about Brandon,” Casey added. “You two will work it out, but you’ve gotta communicate.”
Regan ignored Brandon’s calls all weekend. Thank goodness Monday was a holiday. She hid from him today because she still hadn’t decided how best to break up with him. Casey knew something huge happened between them over the weekend, and she only pried once before she realized it was better to leave her friend alone. She’d never seen that look in Regan’s eyes—like she could kill someone. Like she would kill her if Casey didn’t stop pressing.
“Um, okay,” Regan replied. She rolled her eyes.
“What? Not good?”
“No. Not good at all. Why are you even mentioning him to me right now?”
“I’m just trying to give you perspective!” Casey argued.
Pfsst. Perspective. Like this chick had any perspective. She was in a bad relationship with a bad guy from a bad crowd.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Regan replied curtly, lacing up her cleats.
“Whoa.”
“Just sayin’. I love you to death, but get out of the locker room, and stop giving me advice.”
“It’s compulsory.”
“Exactly. Leave, please.”
Casey huffed and leaned over. She pecked her best friend’s cheek—a ritual they started back in ninth grade when Regan made the varsity team. It was unheard of. Freshmen never made the varsity team.
“One for good luck,” Casey said automatically. A peck on the other cheek. “One for the goal.”
“I need ten,” Regan replied, and her heart dropped.
It was true. Well, her absurd truth. She’d convinced herself she needed at least ten goals to stamp her name and number on the scout’s brain.
Casey walked to the exit, then paused. She turned around.
“Did you wrap your boobs?” she asked softly.
“Jesus, Casey!” Regan cried, hands automatically going to her chest.
“Sorry. Sheer curiosity.”
“You’re a terrible friend right now!” Regan snapped.
“I know! I know!”
“Please, go away.”
“I’m going. I swear. It’s just—” Casey thought for a moment. “Hey.”
“Hey what?” Regan barked.
Casey smiled. “I believe in you. You’re gonna be great today. No no, fantastic. You’re gonna blow everyone’s minds.”
Regan scanned the bleachers even as her brain screamed for her to look away. But she wasn’t looking for the scout. She was looking for her best friend, who finally said something right! She needed encouragement, and she knew Casey would say it all over again: “I believe in you.”
“Well well well, if it isn’t the golden goddess herself,” Sydney teased, approaching Regan. Rival center forwards. Almost mirror images of one another.
Regan’s entire demeanor changed. She inhaled deeply, puffing her chest and trying hard to look down her nose at her opponent.
“I’m glowing, I know,” Regan replied in her most contemptuous voice. “Wanna know why?”
“’Cause you’re Katniss?”
“That’s right. I’m Katniss. And I’m about to set this field on fire,” Regan replied.
“You’re forgetting I’m from District 1, and we’re pretty much unstoppable,” Sydney argued.
“You’re good. I’ll give you that. But I’m the rogue bitch out here gonna start shit,” Regan said.
The girls stared each other down.
“You’re such a dork,” Sydney said finally, and they both burst out laughing.
“Stop talking to her!” Number 17 called to Sydney. “She’s the enemy and can’t be trusted!”
“Oh my God, your teammates are lunatics,” Regan observed.
“Hey, that’s what gets us our wins,” Sydney replied.
“You know I’m beating you today, right?” Regan asked.
“Single-handedly?”
“Well, if I have to.”
Sydney turned toward the bleachers and shaded her eyes from the sun. “Scout?”
“How the hell could you not know?”
“I maybe knew. And I couldn’t care less.”
“Bull. Shit.”
“It’s not bullshit,” Sydney argued. “I don’t wanna go to some lame ass all girls’ college. Hello. I wanna have sex with guys in my dorm room.”
“Well, I plan to have sex with guys in my dorm room at Berkshire,” Regan said.
Sydney snorted. “Yeah. Good luck with that. And this game.”
“You, too,” Regan replied. “I’ll try not to hurt your feelings too much.”
The girls shook hands as Regan’s coach yelled for a huddle.
She managed to forget about her birthday night with Jeremy until she was smashed between two teammates in a tight, perfume-spiked circle. Coach Allan walked away momentarily, and the girls started their ritual: divulge a secret—illegal or otherwise—and don’t judge. Or tell. They did it before every game, and it proved to be the best teambuilding exercise out of any they tried. The secrets built trust, making the girls unstoppable on the field.
“Got wasted at Regan’s birthday party and made out with Chad.”
Some girls snickered.
“Hey, no judgment!” And the snickering subsided.
“Stole money out of Dad’s wallet for a shopping trip. Swear to God I’m replacing it when I get paid tomorrow!”
“My life is so freaking boring right now because I’m grounded. Next.”
“Now don’t freak out. I would never do this to you guys, but I shared a secret about my friend to this chick in my neighborhood. Honestly, I don’t even know how she got me to reveal it, but now Kelsey hates my guts.”
Everyone stared.
“The girl doesn’t go here!”
More staring.
“She goes to a private school! The secret’s safe. I think. I don’t know. I’m a shitty friend, okay?”
“You’re off the team is what you are,” Tara snapped.
“Oh, come on. One little secret. And I swear to God I’d never do that to this group!”
“You better not,” Ashley threatened. “Or we’ll tell the entire universe about that time. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Enough!” Regan cried. “We don’t have time for this. Next.” She looked to her right.
“Me? Jeez, okay. Those weren’t stitches on my forehead last week. That bandage was covering a huge pimple—like a big ass cyst. I had to go to the dermatologist to have it worked on. So embarrassing, so I just lied about it.”
All eyes on Regan.
A boy wrote about shooting up the school in the springtime. He told me it was just a fantasy, and I believe him. I think. I mean, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would do something like that. I think, anyway.
“Regan? Hello?”
I wanna date this boy! I wanna be his girlfriend! I want to be the killer’s girlfriend! What’s wrong with me?
“Bitch, hurry up. They’re about to call for the coin toss!”
“I . . . I hung out with a person this weekend I never thought I would. And it was the best time ever.”
“Do we get a name?” Tara asked.
“Not yet,” Regan replied. “But soon.”
Secrets shared. Pep talk over. Coin tossed.
Game on.
The girls moved into position, ready to defend against River Run’s possession, as they won the coin toss. The game was brutal just as everyone anticipated—flags thrown at both teams, multiple fouls, one stretcher, a near fistfight, and lots and lots of filthy language . . . behind the backs of the referees, of course.
Well into the second half, with no score by either team, Regan made a decision. She was scoring a goal. If it killed her, she would push down the field again—clocking close to seven miles by then—and slam the ball into the goal.
“I’m knocking her hands off,” she huffed aloud, dribbling the ball around her opponent.
“Whose hands?” the opponent asked, chasing after her.
“Your goalie’s.”
“Bitch, please.”
Regan passed to her left, confident Tara was there to receive the ball and pass it farther up the field to Ashley, hanging left of center. Just like synchronized swimming, the ball spun fluidly down the field from player to player.
Regan pumped her arms and picked up her pace, blasting through center field to her final defender. Number 10 glanced at her and then at the ball, shooting forward in front of Regan, trying to catch her in an offside call.
“I don’t think so!” Regan cried, shoving her body in front of the defender and catching the ball with the inside of her foot.
A moment to shine. Some fancy footwork to trick her opponent. Fans screaming their heads off. It was the set-up of set-ups.
“Feet, don’t fail me,” she breathed, pushing toward the goal.
A sudden swarm of defenders. Tara to her left. She passed the ball and sprinted ahead, close enough to smell the goalie.
Wide. Open.
Tara immediately passed back. Regan would have to catch the ball with her left foot—would have to shoot with her weaker, less accurate side. She had no choice. The ball hurled toward her, higher than she wanted. No time to think. She jumped. Her foot flew out in front of her, and she caught the ball on that sweet spot right above her toes, swacking it with the force of a rocket launcher. It catapulted in a dangerous downward motion—the kind of motion that tricks even the most seasoned goalies. The goalie misjudged the rate of fall, and the ball slipped just under her fingertips, slamming into the far right corner of the goal.
Regan fell hard on her side, cleat digging into her inner thigh. Instant blood. Instant elation. Rough hands all over her—her teammates grasping and clawing to yank her up—encouraging a victory run. She jumped on Tara, bouncing up and down in a sweaty, sticky hug. And then she charged down and around the field, arms outstretched, screaming over and over, “Hells yeah! Hells to the yay-uuuuuhhhhh!!”
Hers was the only goal scored that game. Five minutes remained, and River Run worked tirelessly for a tie-up. But it was a futile objective because Regan made the decision. And it wasn’t the only decision she’d make that fateful afternoon.
***
“Go wait in the car, Mom,” Regan said. She never talked to her mother like that. It wasn’t exactly disrespectful. Just decided. And her mother understood.
She marched with purpose toward Brandon, whose face sported a premature smile. She wasn’t going to linger to hear all of his stupid excuses. No way. This was going to be fast and easy.
His lips parted for the first words.
“Shut up,” Regan said. “Shut your mouth, and don’t open it ’til I’m done.”
His eyes went wide.
“There is nothing going on here—” She waved her hands all over the front of him. “—that I like anymore. Nothing.”
“Regan—”
She thrust her face under his nose. “I said shut up. Shut the fuck up.”
He closed his mouth.
“You’re a bully. You always have been. You prey on weak people to make yourself feel good. You think you own everybody and everything. Well, guess what, buddy? You don’t own me. I can’t believe it took me three years, and I wish to God I could get those three years back, but whatever. I can’t. I can move forward, though. And I’m gonna. Don’t call me, look at me, or touch me ever again. You understand that? I will put you on the ground and rub my cleat in your face if you even think about it. I’m done with you. I’m done with your threats, your manipulations, your lies. I’m done with your psycho personality. I’m done with you. You got that? DONE. Now get the hell out of my way because I’ve got a life to live.”
She pushed past him and strolled away without a second glance in his direction. The euphoria started in her feet—those feet that didn’t fail her! It shot up her legs and burst in her heart, forcing her hands to the sky and a triumphant “YES!” from her lips. She yelled it over and over, a new firework exploding in her heart each time she proclaimed the word. She walked all the way to her mother’s car with her hands stretched above her head, feeling the feather-light high-fives from all the angels in heaven.
That night the music permeated every square inch of the Walters home. No one made her turn it down because they knew she deserved it—loud, fist-pumping melodies that signaled her victory on the field and her bigger victory of the heart.
“Should we be worried?” Mr. Walters asked, watching his daughter bounce up and down spastically, completely oblivious to her parents’ presence in her open bedroom doorway. Caroline was there, too, trying hard to match her sister’s moves.
“I’ll let you know if and when I find her stash of furry leg warmers and glow sticks,” Mrs. Walters replied.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “and I don’t wanna know.”
Mrs. Walters smiled. “Better you don’t.”
She knew Regan’s euphoria wasn’t solely the aftereffect of a soccer victory, no matter her performance. And it was one hell of a kickass performance. Nope, this wasn’t all about soccer. This was about a girl who finally made a decision. A girl who stood up for herself.
The melody built to a fantastic explosion, and the girls yelled at the tops of their lungs, pumping their fists in halftime to the downbeat.
“Must we deal with the screaming, too?” Mr. Walters asked.
“For tonight? Yes,” Mrs. Walters replied. She took her husband’s hand and led him down the hall. “I’ll explain,” she said softly.
She glanced back to see Regan facing her direction, smiling brightly as she nodded her head to the music. Her mother nodded back—the unspoken understanding between them. And then she lifted her hand to her hip discreetly and curled it into a fist: the devil’s sign.
Rock on, baby. Rock on.
~
The scariest part of my plan is the realization that I’ll be caught. There’s no other way. I’ll be caught, arrested, tried for murder, convicted, and jailed. I know this, and it’s something I’ve been preparing myself for ever since I devised the plan. Sure, there are outs. 1. I could kill myself, but I’ve no reason to do that. Haven’t done anything wrong. Killing the bad guys is what’s saving my life, so why on earth would I turn around and take it? Makes no sense. 2. I could have a shootout with the police. But I don’t wanna do that either. I don’t want to risk an innocent person becoming a victim. Not trying to sound like a badass or anything, but I’m a pretty fucking good shot. If they kill me, that’s fine. I understand they can’t see me as anything other than the perpetrator. The bad guy. It’s not their fault. So dying that way is okay. I wouldn’t blame them for doing what they thought was right. 3. I could give someone inside the building the opportunity to kill me. That could work, too. An altercation. They magically get the gun somehow. Maybe I can even help them sort of pull the trigger. They end up being the hero! Who doesn’t want to be the hero? Although, maybe they don’t want to be that kind of hero. People are weird about self-defense. Even justified, if they’re defending themselves with a gun, they still believe they did something wrong. I can’t have that on an innocent person’s conscience.
I guess that leaves me with surrendering. I’ll kill the bad ones, put down my guns, and wait for my justice.
~
“Are you seeing this?” Hannah asked, standing next to Jeremy at his locker.
He nodded.
“I mean, not like I really care or anything, but man. She’s getting hit pretty hard.”
He said nothing, watching in silence as Regan called out to Casey, who ignored her and walked away.
“She’ll go cry about it and then, in a week or so, wanna hang with us,” Hannah joked.
“Would that be bad?” Jeremy asked.
“Considering she’s dating my mortal enemy, uh, yeah. That would be bad.”
Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe she’s changed.”
“Putting shiny stickers on your face does not mean you’ve changed,” Hannah replied. She paused, thinking. “She must have broken some popular kid code, and they’re punishing her for it. I’m sure everything will be better tomorrow.” Her sarcasm-laced words instantly irritated him.
“Maybe,” Jeremy said.
He wanted to approach Regan, but it still didn’t feel safe to speak to her at school. He wasn’t afraid of Brandon anymore, but he also wasn’t searching for a fight. Not yet, anyway.
Regan stood fixed to her spot, staring down the hallway. Confusion twisted her face, and he thought she momentarily forgot where she was. Forgot where to go. Forgot her name. She lifted her hand to her cheek and picked off a jewel with her fingernail. He watched it fall to the floor. And then another. And then another until they all disappeared from her face. Her sparkle, gone.
He couldn’t stand it and headed toward her. He heard Hannah’s voice behind him, her words tinged with disbelief and bitterness: “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Hey,” he said tentatively, standing close to Regan.
She looked up at him, brows knitted close together, like she was trying to remember who he was.
“You okay?” Jeremy asked.
“They’re ignoring me,” she replied. A faint whisper he couldn’t hear.
He bent his head closer and asked again.
“They’re ignoring me!” she screamed, and he reared back, shocked.
He shook his head. “Who’s ignoring you?”
“My friends! All my friends!” She looked back, staring down the hallway and whispered, “Casey.”
“Why?”
Regan whipped her head around, lips drawn in a thin line, eyes narrowed. The words were fighting to break through, and she clamped her mouth tighter.
“Just say it,” Jeremy said. He had an idea. He wanted her to confirm it.
Her breathing came faster as the anger rose—an emotional locomotive building steam at dangerously swift speeds. She knew she was about to derail, and she was taking him with her.
“You,” she said low and threateningly.
