Maladaptive

21. Sarah Jane

SARAH JANE

“How did the talk with Andy go?” Conner asks. I sense the cautious tone in his voice and the way his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as he clutches it tightly, preparing for anything.

“Good,” I reply. “Andy apologised, and I accepted his apology.”

Conner’s hands relax, and his shoulders ease.

“So, are you going to hang out at the back of the building for recess and lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Would I be able to join?”

“Why?”

“I want to hang out with you, but I know my other friends make you uneasy.”

“No.” My arms wrap around my chest. “I wouldn’t want you to stop hanging out with your friends for me.”

“But what if I wanted to?” He leans toward me and smiles. “Besides, I’d rather hang out with you.”

“What about Aaron and your other friends?” I murmur, my face burning.

“We are going to spend time with them this Friday. They also know I do whatever I want and wouldn’t care if I hang with you.”

“Oh…”

“You don’t want me to hang out with you?”

I shake my head. “No, Conner. That’s not it. I like you—hanging with you, I mean,” I blurt. “But I don’t want you to choose.”

He stops at the red light and leans back with his arms resting on my headrest. “You aren’t used to people choosing you.”

“Sorry?”

“You are acting like you’re undeserving of someone choosing to hang with you. It makes me wonder…”

My hands tighten against my black denim jeans, my voice small when I say, “What?”

“What happened for you to feel that way?” He says, staring ahead. “Because you’re worth every moment of my time, and I’d give up hanging with my family for you.”

“Don’t do that!” I squeak and lean toward him.

“I’m kidding, Noya,” he laughs. “I’d bring you with me.” My eyes widen. “Would you like to meet them this weekend?”

“Um…” I bite my lower lip, struggling to find a suitable lie to explain why I don’t go anywhere on weekends. Dad is usually home on weekends because he has those days off. I rarely go anywhere out of fear that he will search the entire town for me and drag me back home by my hair.

“Your parents won’t let you?” he asks. I nod, remembering telling him my parents were strict. “What if I get my mum to talk to your dad?”

“No,” I say, my voice straining and my mind racing, imagining every horrible scenario.

“How about on a weekday? Your parents don’t seem to mind when you come home later than usual.”

“That’s because Dad isn’t home,” I say, the words coming out unfiltered and in a rush.

Crap. With a quick look at Conner, I imagine the gears turning in his head, twisting in the direction I don’t want them to turn, and clanking together as he understands what I mean.

Static zips at the light bulb above his head.

Soon enough, if I don’t grab the metal pole and stick it between the gears, he will find out.

Would that be so bad?

My inner thoughts force images of Conner lying in a pool of his blood. In a wheelchair, bruised, broken, and disturbed when he finds out. I imagine him getting involved, calling the cops, causing my lifeline to fade.

I imagine Dad packing up our belongings to leave. I envision Conner battling the beast, but luck was not on his side as the dice landed on a one, sealing his fate. They all rush to the surface. It’s enough for me to keep my home life separate from everything.

“I don’t work this Friday night. I can come over then if you aren’t busy…”

“Done,” he says after a few hard blinks. “My mum can be a little overbearing because she will probably assume you’re my girlfriend.”

“Oh…”

“Troy, Aaron, Finch, and Sarah Jane are the only ones who have been to my place before.”

“Who is Sarah Jane?” I say. I’ll leave it at that, not wanting to persist since overhearing Aaron and Conner talking about her after our D&D game.

“We dated for a few months last year, but it didn’t work out.”

“Ah…” My fingernails dig into my jeans.

“You’re curious about the reason, aren’t you?”

I tense. “What gives you that impression?”

“You’re getting a little easier to read,” Conner answers, a hint of a smile on his face.

That’s not a good sign at all.

“Sarah Jane came over to my house. She always came over every Saturday when we were dating. We would watch a movie, hang out for a few hours, and then I’d drive her home.

But the last time I dropped her off, she went to leave the car when a necklace slipped out of her pocket.

I handed it to her and thought nothing of it until Mum complained she had lost her necklace a few days later.

” He turns into the car park. “I told my mum to describe it, which made me realise the necklace Sarah Jane had in her pocket was my mum’s.

” Conner parks in his usual spot and switches the car off before turning to me.

“I confronted her, but she denies it to this day, denying that she stole anything. Mum says she doesn’t care, but I know losing it hurts her because it was an anniversary gift from my dad. ”

“I’m sorry,” I say, leaning towards Conner but hesitating before placing my hand over his. “And I’m sorry your mum lost something dear to her.”

“Me too,” he agrees. “But you have nothing to worry about, Noya.”

“About what?”

He leans in with a wicked grin on his face. “I like you and only you, so you don’t have to worry about Sarah Jane.”

“I wasn’t…” My words fall flat. I don’t know what to say, and not saying anything seems to broaden Conner’s grin as he enjoys my loss for words.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

A shaky breath trembles out of my parted lips.

My body leans forward, and my hands tighten against the seat.

Cool air gushes from the vents, keeping my flushed cheeks at bay.

Smoky, ashen breath brushes against my face as Conner’s lips grow nearer.

The beat of my heart turns rapid, piercing, and harsh.

I close my eyes, and my breath hitches when Conner’s lips graze against mine.

His thumb moves across my jawline, caressing my cheek.

“Noya?” I blink, noticing myself staring at Conner. The door is open on my side, and he smiles warmly. “You spaced out again.”

“Oh…” I duck my head, suddenly embarrassed to look him in the eye. “Sorry.”

“What were you thinking about?” he asks as we walk into the school grounds.

“Um…” I clutch the straps of my bag and bite the inside of my cheek. “Nothing important,” I say after I can’t think of a good reason.

Conner chuckles as he says, “You’re such a bad liar.”

I glance at him, then down at the footpath.

“Oh, it reminds me of a song by Imagine Dragons.”

“If you say ‘Bad Liar’…”

Conner barks a laugh and says, “Yeah. You are a Bad Liar. That song suits you perfectly.”

“At least a terrible liar is better than a good one.”

“True.”

We stop at the flight of stairs of Block B. Samantha hovers near us as if she’s waiting for Conner to leave so she can walk the rest of the way with me. “I’ll see you at recess, Noya.” Then, he raises his arm, waves behind me, and says, “Hey, Sammy.”

“Hi!” she chirps. Samantha gravitates towards us, a brimming smile on her face. As Conner leaves, she leans into me and says, “He likes you.”

I blush as I say, “Yeah.”

“Do you like him?”

I stay silent, which, to Samantha, seems to confirm my feelings for Conner.

We sit in our seats when I notice Samantha has a stack of flyers sticking out of her schoolbag. “What are those?”

“Oh, did you want one?” Samantha takes one out and hands it to me. I scan the bold letters: SCHOOL TALENT SHOW!!!

I can tell Samantha created those flyers.

Her excessive use of exclamation marks, glittery paper, and clip art makes it seem like she attacked the paper.

I place the flyer in my bag while she speaks about it at great length because she and a few others are running the show and creating the theme in her drama class.

After English, we walk to math. Miss Moore—our year adviser—waits with Mr Brown. He points to me, and Miss Moore turns and smiles, her glassy lips shiny in the fluorescent light.

“Noya,” she calls, yet my name sounds awkward on her tongue. It’s as if she doesn’t know how to pronounce or say it and has only seen it on paper. My name comes out like a question. “May I speak to you for a minute?”

I eye Samantha when she tells me she will write notes in the back row. My Brown glares at Samantha as if her saying that means she will write the answers, too.

Miss Moore waits until the class has entered and the hallway is empty.

I spoke to Miss Moore once during high school. In the seventh grade, Edward’s friends dared him to jump off the second floor of Block C and into a bush. Miss Moore was on lunch duty, so I told her about the incident. It was brief, but that was our only conversation.

Now I’m going back through my memories, wondering if anything stands out as Conner comes to mind and when he pumped his music and sang at the top of his lungs. She was there, wasn’t she?

“Noya, how are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good,” she says while bobbing her head. “I wanted to talk to you because I sent out the permission slip at the beginning of the year, and you are the only one who hasn’t returned it.”

“What permission slip?”

“For the years Eleven and Twelve Girls’ excursion this weekend.

” She folds her arms across her chest, wanting to look more intimidating.

Little did she know that there was only one intimidating person in my life.

Everyone who tries is like a flea I could get rid of with some treatment.

“Now, if more girls decided not to go, I wouldn’t be so persistent—but I’d also love it if you could go. ”

She digs her hand into her shoulder bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I don’t need to open it to confirm it’s the permission slip. “It will be an amazing wilderness experience.” She leans in, cups her hand to the corner of her mouth, and says, “And there are no boys.”

I smile, strained and unbelievably forced, and reply, “I’ll talk to my parents again.”

“I also placed my number there if they had further questions or needed reassurance.”

Throughout math, I dwell on what to do with the permission slip. I can ignore it and pretend Miss Moore never approached me. It would stand out to Miss Moore because everyone turned in their slips except for me. But it’s not like they care if I don’t go.

Samantha tries to convince me, telling me she and two other friends will share a cabin and conveniently have a spare bed. This allures me because I won’t be home on the darkest nights of the week, so I can avoid it all and have a peaceful sleep for once.

Then, there is the thought of coming home Sunday afternoon to see my room destroyed: my mattress flipped, clothes torn, and sticky with beer.

We descend the stairs when I sense a hovering presence behind me. I turn my head slightly, my body jolting forward, and I stumble down the steps and roll my ankle. A spark of pain shoots through, aching as I rest my foot on the cement and rise.

The group of girls walking past laughs, “Loser.”

Samantha touches my shoulder and says, “Hey, are you okay?”

I squeeze my ankle, and at the point where the pain sparks the most, but sadly, this is nothing.

Pressing my lips inwards, I nod. Samantha suggests I go to the front office for an ice pack, but I shrug it off. Dad kicks me in the stomach often, and most days, bruises wrap around the abdomen, creating blooming purple pain whenever I stretch. Except I am smart enough not to show the pain.

So, rolling my ankle is nothing. With that said, the girl who shoved me was the same girl who nudged my shoulder when Conner and I walked down the stairs.

“Who was that?” I ask Samantha.

“Sarah Jane,” she answers.

I nod, the gears clicking and rotating in my head about why this woman has some sort of animosity towards me. She’s Conner’s ex, and I guess she is jealous of me because I talk to him.

“Are you sure your ankle is all right? It looked painful when you rolled it,” Samantha says as we round the corner and onto the back of the school building.

“What happened?” I bite the inside of my cheek at Conner leaning against the building, cigarette between his fingers, and the tendrils of smoke burning from the orange glow.

“Sarah Jane pushed Noya, and she fell down the stairs and rolled her ankle,” Samantha explains.

Conner’s eyes dilate. Samantha jolts her head back as we both notice his slouched form turn rigid. He stands before me, tips his head to the sky and blows upwards before stomping the cigarette into the dirt.

Then, out of nowhere, he leans down, and suddenly I’m in his arms, clinging to him in a desperate attempt not to fall. “Conner!” I gasp.

“I’m taking Noya to the office. Could you hand me her bag, Samantha?”

She hands my bag to Conner as Andy, Dylan, and Wylan round the corner. If I had been embarrassed earlier, I wish I had become a puddle and soaked into the soil.

“What’s happening here?” Dylan asks. Andy keeps walking, and Wylan follows, but that’s because Andy likely has his stash. “You all right, Noya?”

“Just a twisted ankle, but we all check it out in case it’s swollen,” Conner answers.

“If it’s just a twisted ankle, can’t I walk?”

“You don’t want to add more pressure until we diagnose the problem.” His grin broadens. “Relax and enjoy the ride, Noya.”

My grip tightens on his shirt, and with flushed cheeks, I say, “Could you at least walk around the buildings? I don’t want anyone to see.”

I sigh with relief when Conner listens and heads down the back of the buildings, out of sight. All I need is more unwanted attention after he sucked up all my attention with this stunt, blaring the music while singing “Natural” by Imagine Dragons.

“Sorry,” he says.

Tearing out of my thoughts, I notice his eyes are still dilated. “For what?”

“The reason you’re hurt is because of me.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say with a shake of my head. “You have no control over the other people’s reactions.”

“I’ll deal with it in class after recess.” He looks at me and then away. “You will tell me if she tries to do something like that again?”

“Sure.”

Conner huffs a breathy laugh. “Wow, that was convincing. Perhaps you should take drama because that acting performance was immaculate.”

I smile as I look away. We are nearing the office building.

“Promise me you will, Noya.”

My hands reassuringly tighten on his shoulders. “I will,” I reply.

“I don’t want to see you hurt,” he breathes.

A bittersweet nectarine with a rind taste fills my mouth. I imagine myself standing in front of Conner. Peeling off the layers hiding the hurt and pain, I show him my swollen stomach. Blister rings of purple, yellow, and blue blotch, spotting across my skin.

I imagine standing there, wearing only my underwear. My arms wrap around my chest, but also show him that someone got to me before Sarah Jane.

She’s nothing compared to the monster haunting my home.