The Scars Keeper Page 4

  Images of all that went wrong in my day flash like a slideshow in my head. I see the anger in my father’s eyes from this morning and feel the burn of his hand to my cheek.

  I picture the questions on my difficult test and the lewd looks from Mr. Bradford. I swear I can hear Blake’s condescending voice, so I clench my eyes shut and cover my ears.

  “Make it stop. Please, something–someone make this awful shit stop!” I yell.

  Picking up the nail from a shelf in the shower, I squeeze it in my fist. I pray for the courage not to do this again, but I know it’s going to happen.

  Nothing has changed to give me a reason not to do it, and it’s better than the alternative, which is me dying on the cold, wet ground as Hayden so eloquently put it.

  Leaning over, I pull taut the skin of my lower stomach, just above my pubic region. The water pours over my hair and onto my eyelashes. I blink several times so I can see what I’m doing.

  My emotions continue to swell, and it’s like lying in a bathtub that’s filling up with water. It rises and rises, and if you don’t push down the knob to release it, you’ll drown beneath.

  So for that release, I push the nail into my taut skin and drag it outward, making about a one and a half inch scratch. The relief it creates is instantaneous. It’s as if the water is draining, taking away my anxiety with it.

  I repeat this three times, breaking the skin enough for blood to bubble to the surface. It travels with the water to the floor, and I watch the pink color of it pool around the drain.

  While I examine the forming scars from where I did this two days ago, my new cuts start to sting, so I wrap my hair up in an oversized, fluffy towel and step out of the shower.

  To ensure there’s no blood left on the towel I wrap my body in, I dry carefully and use tissue paper to dab my wounds. I can’t leave evidence my parents could find.

  The scrapes sting worse and won’t stop bleeding, so I sit on the closed toilet seat and hold tissues against them, creating pressure.

  The side of my head falls against the wall below the window next to me. I let it rest there as I cry.

  Shame sets in, discrediting some of my relief. I hate that I can’t handle my anxiety like most of my friends are able to do.

  I don’t think any of them cut. No, I’m the weak one. My chest bounces and tears drip off my cheeks as I sob. A thought hits me. Maybe the stranger is playing music again. Hearing it would relax me.

  I open my window and sit back down. My wish is granted when the tune playing floats in. The mournful melody fuels my weeping, but gradually a calm comes over me, and my tears lessen. I’m unsure of how much time passes before the music stops.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Chapter Five

  Avery

  “Why didn’t you text me back last night?” Blake asks as I put books inside my locker.

  “I told you not to talk to me yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think you really meant the whole day.”

  I slam the door to my locker and turn to him. His blue eyes are droopy, like he hasn’t been out of bed long.

  “Well, I did.” I begin to walk away, but he grabs my arm.

  “Ave, I’m sorry.” Realizing what he said, he looks around to ensure no one was listening. “I was insensitive yesterday. You know I don’t think sometimes before I speak.”

  “No shit, but it’s getting old.”

  “There are things you do that are tiring, too, so sometimes I lash out because of them.”

  I cock my head to the side.

  “What do I do that’s tiring?”

  “Look, I don’t want to fight.” Conveniently for him, the first bell rings. “Let’s go to class, and we can talk later.” Leaning over, he plants a kiss to my forehead.

  This is why I always cave when we fight. Deep down, Blake is sweet. Or at least, he wants to be. I believe he loves me, but I can’t shake how different we are emotionally.

  He threads our fingers, and we start our walk to class. We’re almost to the door when I notice Hayden Jamison staring right at me as he comes toward us.

  He’s hardly ever given me a second glance at school, but today is different. His gaze moves to Blake and then to our entwined hands. In a flash, he looks away and enters the classroom right before we do.

  I tap my pen on my notebook as we wait for Mr. Bradford. He strolls in and drops his brown leather briefcase on his desk.

  “I was up late grading tests, and I must say I was disappointed. Overall, the grades were lower than on any other test this year, so we’re going to go over every problem in class today.

  “Then, I advise you to study similar problems at home because you’re getting a pop quiz next week.

  “If you score at least an eighty-two percent on it, I will add three points to this exam. Does everyone understand?”

  There are a few low groans as my classmates nod their heads. “Avery, could you please pass these back to the class.”

  Rolling my eyes, I stroll to the front of his desk. He looks up at me and hands me the tests.

  “I want you back in here at 3:15 today, or I’ll dock another two points from your test,” he whispers.

  “But I have tennis.”

  “And you’ll be late for it. You’ll understand why when you see your test. It’s at the bottom of the stack.”

  My face reddens as I turn away from him. He wanted me to pass them out so he could talk to me, but it’s also so he can check out my ass as I wander around the room. He’s told me before he likes the look of it.

  My lips purse in frustration, and I squeeze the tests in my hand. I move around the room, handing the papers out and not making eye contact with anyone.

  That is until I get to Blake. He shakes his head, appearing as equally irritated.

  “What the hell did he say to piss you off?”

  “I have to stay after school.” I hand him his test. The one he scored a 96% on.

  The second to last test is Hayden’s. I reach his desk at the back of the room, and before I hand him his few pages of stapled paper, I can’t help but notice the 98% in red at the top corner of it.

  Left in my hand is my own exam, and I spot the 79% in bright red. I made a 79%.

  My hand grips the side of his desk as I stare at the bold numbers glaring back at me. My eyes are round, and I clench my test enough for it to crinkle.

  “You lost?”

  My already wide eyes flit down to meet Hayden’s. He’s smirking, but the humor doesn’t lighten his dark eyes.

  “I must be,” I spout. So, this is how it’s going to be. I guess he’s playing the character “asshole” in this show called life. Scurrying back to my seat, I feel the flush in my face spread to my chest that’s in a V-neck t-shirt.

  I glance up and catch Mr. Bradford staring at me. I’m sure he’s having some sick fantasy about my blushful skin. The thought reminds me of the bright red stain of marker on my test. Then I think of blood. My blood and how I need to see it.

  I stare at my grade again, trying to fathom how it’s so low. My chest constricts, and the ringing in my ears begins. I’m breathing hard, the rise of my chest almost as fast as the fall.

  I feel Blake’s hand grip my shoulder. I want to jerk away from him, but it will piss him off, so I try to slow my breathing and allow him to continue.

  He rubs my shoulder as if he’s giving me a massage. It helps calm my nerves, so I sink down into my seat a little and let him do it.

  “Hands to yourself, Mr. Lewis.”

  Blake releases me and mutters, “Fucker,” under his breath.

  “What was that?” Mr. Bradford asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s what I thought,” my teacher says as he narrows his gaze on Blake.

  I mentally check out of class as my creepy teacher works through the problems on the board. I should be paying attention, absorbing all I can, but it’s taking every ounce of my focus to suppress a full-blown panic attack.

>   If I’m unable to ward it off, I will flee this room and end up huddled in a ball on the floor of the disgusting bathroom. I know this because it’s happened before.

  “Let’s go,” Blake says. The bell is ringing, and I hadn’t even noticed. Grabbing my backpack, I shove everything inside it and hurry from the room.

  For once, Blake doesn’t say anything. He escorts me all the way to sociology and once our feet stop moving, he gazes at me.

  He’s waiting for me to say something, fearful he’ll put his foot in his mouth if he speaks first. I’m realizing how my anxiety affects him, too. Oh, my god, this is one of the things about me that’s tiring to him.

  He’s always walking on eggshells, waiting for me to snap. He’s left to pick me up every time I crumble. Shit, Madison probably feels this way, too. I conjure up a fake grin and squeeze his hand.

  “Thanks for walking me to class. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  “Ave, you’re not OK.”

  “Really, I’m good, and I don’t need you to say or do anything.” Leaning up, I kiss his cheek and amble into my classroom.

  A few students are already seated, and Hayden’s in his chair at the back corner. When I reach my seat, I can’t help looking at him. He’s staring straight at me, but like other times, he’s divulging nothing.

  “What? Do you have something snide to say in here, too?” A hint of surprise flashes in his eyes before I turn to sit.

  My memories of yesterday when we were discussing social classes come to mind. From the opinion he gave, it sounded like he has patient and understanding parents. It must be nice.

  ***

  “I swear I’d stand right at this door and wait for you if I didn’t have track practice,” Blake says as we stand outside Mr. Bradford’s classroom after school.

  “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Lie, lie, lie.

  “I, uh, got a 79% on my test. It’s the lowest grade I’ve had since grade school. It’s the only reason he wants to talk to me.”

  “Damn, Avery. I’m sorry. I …” He hesitates, swallowing back his words. He wants to ask me what the problem is … why I’m so off my game.

  “It’s fine. Like I said, I’m sure he just wants to warn me about my grade dropping.”

  “Text me tonight.”

  “I will.”

  Knocking on Mr. Bradford’s door, he yells for me to come in.

  “You wanted to see me.” I shut the door and lean back against it.

  He swivels his chair to face me.

  “Turn off my light, drop your backpack to the floor and walk toward me … slowly.”

  I flip the switch down to dim the room, but it’s like I flipped it up, turning on by body’s tremor, and as if it’s some sort of security blanket, keeping my body less exposed, I’m hesitant to drop my backpack.

  On my first step, his gaze starts at my ankles and worms its way upward. It lingers at my thighs … then my breasts ... before it pierces my eyes.

  “I should probably report you to the office for wearing too tight of jeans, but I like looking at your firm ass in them too much to do that.”

  Coming to a stop a few feet away from him, I cup one of my hips.

  “What did you want to discuss with me?”

  “Since when do you get C’s on exams?”

  “This is a first for me in high school. Maybe you’re not doing a good enough job teaching.”

  Furrowing his brow, he stands and stalks toward me. The toes of his shoes meet mine, and he grazes two fingers down my cheek.

  “Or maybe you’re too distracted thinking about all the ways I could make you feel incredible.”

  “I assure you that’s not the reason.”

  He grips my chin and tilts it up.

  “Then you better start studying harder. The low grades in this class, especially yours, make me look like a bad teacher.”

  His hand slithers around my hip and clutches my ass. I shut my eyes as his heated breath hits my face. “You smell good enough to eat, and I really want a taste.”

  “You’re not supposed to do this.”

  “And what fun would that be?” He releases my chin and skims the back of his fingers down my throat, then to my chest, before they graze between my breasts.

  Blake …

  Mr. Bradford makes me feel disgusting and used, yet to my boyfriend it would appear I’m cheating.

  A harsh tap on the door causes me to jump. It opens about the time Mr. Bradford jerks his hands away from me.

  “Sorry. I thought this was your office hours,” a familiar raspy voice says. I glance over my shoulder, but only a second long enough to see that it’s Hayden.

  This is bad.

  “It is my office hours, but next time wait for me to answer.” Mr. Bradford’s eyes fall back on mine. “Ms. Hollingsworth, be sure to study over the problems we went through today on the board. Have a good rest of your day.”

  “I’ll stop back by tomorrow,” Hayden says before shutting the door.

  “I don’t think he saw anything, but he might be suspicious seeing how your backpack is in the floor by the door.” He grasps my chin again. “I think you should come to my house soon where we won’t be interrupted.”

  “And I think you should find a girlfriend.”

  His thumb and finger dig into my chin.

  “Don’t give me attitude, Avery, or I’ll ensure you barely pass this class.”

  Scurrying away, I grab my backpack and slam the door behind me. Keeping my head tucked, I stride down the hallway, the tunnel vision materializing with every step.

  When I reach the locker room, I run into a bathroom stall and vomit up my disgust and fear … embarrassment and shame.

  I wish I could tell someone about Mr. Bradford’s inappropriate behavior, but that’s not an option. I have to find another way to stop him.

  Once I’ve changed into my tennis uniform, I shove my stuff inside a locker. I swipe my racket from the bench behind me and hurry outside.

  “You’re late,” Coach Riley says. She’s standing at the gate to the tennis courts with her hands on her hips.

  Her black gym pants are shiny from the sun, and her white visor is pulled down over her short chestnut hair and matching eyes, but it’s not shielding them enough to mask her frustration.

  “Our matches start in only two weeks,” she adds.

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Bradford made me stay after to speak with him.”

  “Next time, tell Mr. Bradford he needs to email me when he wants to meet with you during our tennis practices. Now, get out there.”

  She waves her hand, so I hustle to the courts for the next person who has high expectations of me.

  Chapter Six

  Avery

  My phone rings while I’m driving home, so I reach over to my purse in the passenger seat. I’m glancing from the road to my bag as I search for it.

  “Mom, hello.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Driving home from practice.”

  “How did tennis go?”

  “Fine.”

  “How did you do on your physics test?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What did you get on your test?” Her tone is stern. Damn, I’m not getting out of this. I guess I’d rather break it to her than Dad.

  Turning onto the country road that leads to our house, I sigh. “I got a seventy-nine percent.”

  “Avery Ann!”

  “I know,” I say in a whine. “I swear I studied. The entire class had a hard time with it, but I have a chance to bump it up with a quiz next week.”

  “I don’t care about everyone else. You should’ve done better. You’re grounded until Monday, and I’m not telling your father. You get to do that tomorrow.”

  “Grounded? I’m eighteen years old.”

  “Yes, and you still live under our roof.”

  “Madison’s having a party Saturday night, and I really want to go.”

  “Then you
should’ve put more effort into your class.”

  “I’m home. I’m hanging up.”

  “You better be studying all evening. There’s a salad made up in the fridge you can have for dinner, and don’t junk on a bunch of sweets afterward. It’ll eventually show on your already curvy figure.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I hit the end call button on my phone and put my silver Volvo S80 in park. I storm into my house and stomp up the stairs to my room.

  My anger shows through my aggressive movements of stripping off my uniform and yanking on the knob to the shower.

  This time I want the water scalding to wash away the asshole Stephen’s dirty touch. After grabbing towels, I get in and lather up as fast as I can, but as my hand glides over my chest, it feels like his fingers moving along it.

  I picture telling my parents about Mr. Bradford’s inappropriate behavior, but then I envision their reactions. I swear I think they would find a way to blame me for it.

  There’s no way they’d report it, either, because that would stir up gossip and ugly rumors in our small community that could potentially hurt their reputations.

  I feel trapped by my teachers, parents, and my coaches. It’s a slow suffocation from the pressures they place on me.

  Sometimes instead of cutting myself to release me from the suffocation, I want to tighten a plastic bag over my head and end it all now.

  I even feel confined by my relationship with Blake. The pressure to keep up with him academically and socially overwhelms me.

  It doesn’t help that our relationship ran its course months ago. I haven’t wanted to accept it, but I can’t get the truth out of my head any longer.

  Once I’ve dried off, I run a comb over my wet blond hair and put on a red top, along with a pair of navy skinny jeans.

  Pulling open the top drawer to my nightstand, I squat down and look underneath it. I find my blade from a box cutter and pull it free from the tape holding it to the underside of the drawer.

  I grab some tissues, too, and run out the back door of my house. I trot down the steps of the deck and head toward the tree line. I’m going to ease this suffocating pain, and surely Hayden won’t show at the same time again.