Chapter Text
This can’t be happening.
You stare at yourself in the mirror, urging yourself not to cry as you tug fruitlessly on the choppy strands still clinging to your head. Your gaze shifts between the cute inspiration picture you’d saved on your phone weeks ago, and the disastrous result your latest hairstylist had cursed you with.
You look terrible. You look ugly .
The tears that had threatened to fall since you left the stylist’s chair finally break free, bleeding down your cheeks and into the bathroom sink. Just a few hours ago, you’d had a beautiful head of long, wavy hair. You’d made that girl promise she could make you look like the picture, had insisted it was the only way you’d ever consider going that short—
You glance down at the kitchen scissors you’d snagged from your friend. In your panicked state, you’d tried to assure yourself that the damage wasn’t that bad, that you could fix it yourself with a few more snips. But now? The only thing that can possibly make you look good anymore was a fine razor and a high-quality wig.
“It’s not that bad,” your friend calls to you through the door. You can hear the lies in her voice, the hesitation as she tries her best to placate you despite the gravity of the situation. The door opens, and Lucy pokes her head in. She has the decency not to laugh, at least.
“Are you kidding me? It looks like she took a fucking weedwhacker to my head!” The burn of fresh tears sting your eyes. You collapse to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest to hide your tear-stained mess of a face from Lucy. She kneels down beside you and pulls you into a hug, shushing you as you sob into her chest.
“Look,” she says once your tears have slowed and your hiccuping cries quieted, “the bright side is that it’s gonna grow back. All we have to do is figure out how to manage for…” She takes a strand of hair between her fingers, mentally measuring it as best she can. “Six, maybe eight weeks.”
“That’s two months , Luce.”
“I know, but it’ll pass before you know it. Until then—” Lucy jumps up and leaves the bathroom. You can hear her fumbling around in her room, dumping out drawers and tossing clothes around until she finds what she’s looking for. She returns with a collection of beanies in her grasp.
“I’ve had my fair share of bad haircuts, if you can believe.” She smiles, brushing a piece of long hair out of her eyes. “It’s why I cut it myself now. But these—” Lucy holds up the collection of hats to you in a variety of colors, knits, and styles. “These babies helped me through even the worst cuts. Pick some.”
You thumb through the beanies, settling on a few dark, cuffed caps that hopefully won’t draw too much attention to your predicament. Lucy takes a plain black one from you and starts brushing out your hair before settling the cap just right on your head, leaving just bangs and face frame pieces visible.
“There! It looks better already.” She pulls you up with her and turns you towards the mirror. She isn’t wrong—in fact, it does look almost fashionable, in an early-2000s-alternative-retro kind of way. Lucy grins. “Hell, with a little eyeliner, some lipstick, maybe even a smokey eye, you’ll be one of the coolest kids in school.”
You can’t help but grin as you roll your eyes, wiping away a few residual tears. “Thanks, Lucy. I really owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it, babe. You can hold onto those for as long as you need. And if anyone gives you a hard time, I’ll help you kick their ass.”
* * *
By Monday, you’re ready. Lucy had helped you prep your outfit—dark wash jeans, a faded band t-shirt, and a flannel paired well with the black beanie you’d picked, while minimal eyeliner and some black statement lipstick drew attention away from your head and more to your face. Nothing fancy, but it was certainly a look, which Lucy was going for.
“You’ve got to own the look while it’s new,” Lucy had advised. “Don’t look at it like a mistake—more like a “new look, new me” moment. Remember, if you act like hot shit, people will believe you’re hot shit.”
You’re not entirely sure you believe her, but her confidence is infectious. As you pass through the doors of your high school and approach your locker, you hold your head high, repeating Lucy’s words of wisdom in your head like a prayer. Nothing bad will happen today. You won’t let it. Everything will be just fi—
Crash .
Your hand barely grazes the combination lock when something—no, some one collides with the locker next to yours. You jump back a foot as the guy swears loudly, wiping the blood dripping from his nose. You vaguely recognize him from one of your classes—long dark hair, goth rock wardrobe, and a perma-scowl you’re convinced is his only expression. You barely see him at school, let alone the single class you two share.
Now, he’s collapsed at your feet, bleeding profusely, with an ugly bruise already forming around his right eye.
“Come on, fucker, you can do better than that!” You turn to see a group of guys across the hall, led by one tall blond cracking his knuckles. “Don’t tell me you’re done after just one punch?”
The goth’s lip curls, revealing a row of too-sharp teeth. Without a word he picks himself up and lunges at the blond. The crowd that had started to develop gasps as he seizes the boy by his throat, pinning him up against the locker, his feet dangling inches above the ground. He scratches at the goth kid’s grasp, every word and breath coming out in choked gasps.
“Don’t fucking start a fight you can’t finish,” the goth boy snarls. He reels his arm back—
“Peter King!”
The goth freezes, though his blood-hungry expression doesn’t change. The remaining crowd splits, and the principal steps forward. Her glare shifts from the goth boy—Peter—to the gathered students watching and doing nothing. Though she doesn’t seem to notice you among the swarm, your face still burns.
“All of you, get to homeroom before I start handing out detentions. Go!” The principal’s voice carries in the dead silence of the hall. The students scatter like roaches, leaving just Peter, the blond, and you, still clutching your locker combination.
Thankfully, the principal is far too occupied with the boys to worry about you.
“Put. Him. Down,” she says through gritted teeth. Peter stares at her. How the older, smaller woman doesn’t cower under the intensity of his gaze, you haven’t a clue. It’s enough to glue you to your spot, and you’re not the one he’s looking at.
“Fine.” Peter lets go of the boy’s throat, and he falls to the ground, coughing and sputtering as he sucks in breath.
“Now. Are you going to tell me what happened, or—”
“I’ll tell you what fucking happened!” The blond scrambles up, careful to hug the lockers as he keeps his distance from Peter.
“Mr. Schaeffer, please—”
“This freak just fucking attacked me!” the blond snaps. His face twists into one of the ugliest expressions you’ve ever seen. “He tried to kill me—fuck, I think I need a rabies shot–”
“Enough, Ryan.” The principal shoots him a look, and Ryan falls silent. “Peter, do you have anything to say?”
The goth boy doesn’t say a word. She sighs.
“Peter, this is the fifth fight you’ve gotten into since term started. It’s still September,” she stresses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If you’re not going to at least come to your own defense, you don’t leave me much choice. I’m afraid—”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
All eyes fall to you. Your chest feels tight, and a hard, hot lump in your throat makes it almost impossible to breathe. No way you just said that, right? No way you’re actually getting involved in someone else’s mess when you have your own shit to worry about, right ?
The principal eyes you silently, and you gnaw the inside of your lip.
“I, um…” Should you even say anything, since you didn’t see the fight start? Then again…You glance at Peter, at the blood still pouring from his nose. Wasn’t someone gonna get him a tissue? “I just got to my locker…and he—Peter—got thrown into the one next to mine. He was bleeding, and…the other guys were goading him into a fight. They didn’t have a scratch on them.”
“She’s lying!” Ryan yells. You stare at your feet.
“Mr. Schaeffer, please.” The principal turns to you. “And your name?”
You murmur your name, careful to avoid Ryan’s seething gaze. You try to find something else to focus on, and your eyes fall to Peter. He is staring directly at you, an odd expression on his face. It isn’t anything close to gratitude.
What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
“All right. Return to class,” the principal says. “I’ll deal with these two.”
You don’t need to be told twice. Without hesitation you abandon your locker and bolt down the hall, turning the corner and sprinting into class like your life depends on it. If your teacher notices your tardiness, he doesn’t comment on it.
Lucy isn’t so kind.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she whispers as you throw your stuff down into the seat next to her. Your teacher finishes taking attendance and begins reciting that day’s special announcements.
“I…” What can you tell her? “I may have just signed my own death warrant.”
* * *
By lunch, everyone knows about the fight. Most are surprised that Peter King, the goth boy you’d foolishly tried to stand up for, is still in school that day. He seems to have a reputation for fights—whether starting or finishing them, you’re not sure—and is allegedly on the fast track towards getting suspended by the end of the month. Some students are jokingly placing bets as to whether he gets expelled by Christmas.
“This is so dumb,” Lucy says, waving a french fry around to emphasize her point. “Why can’t anyone at this school just mind their damn business?”
You flush at her comment, and she raises a brow.
“Not you, hun. You were just tryna be nice. But these other jerks?” She gestures to the rest of the cafeteria. “They just live for other people’s pain and drama. Like, get over yourselves. It’s not fucking junior high. Get a life.”
At least nothing’s come back to you…yet. Only Ryan, Peter, and the principal know your name, and the latter two haven’t approached you at all since this morning. As far as anyone knows, you’re just another bystander, a face in the crowd that had as much to do with the fight as anyone else. You hope that if you’re lucky, it will stay that way.
But you’re never that lucky.
Ryan doesn’t show up for class the rest of the day, or the next day, or the day after that. Instead of relief, your anxiety grows like a lead balloon in your gut. You know he can’t have gotten expelled from just one fight—even Lucy admitted it was likely a few days’ suspension at best—and yet, when you see his face in the hall early Friday, you feel ill.
“Can you believe him?” Lucy asks as you two gather your things and set off for homeroom. You adjust the burgundy cap on your head, the bangs scratching against your forehead. Lucy once again helped you with your look, this time even sharing some of her own clothes with you. One of her favorite jean jackets hides your off-the-shoulder bodysuit and cream skirt, complete with black tights and some ankle boots. She’d taken care with your makeup, adding a bit more feminine flair as a means of boosting your confidence.
“Typical jock,” you mutter. He doesn’t notice you when you and Lucy pass him in the hallway, though with all the people crowded around him, that isn’t unexpected. “Just because they’re fit and good at sports, people treat them like they’re gods.”
“I know, but—I mean seriously, a neck brace?” Lucy throws up her hands. “How dramatic can you get? He got a little bruised up because someone didn’t take his shit for once, and he’s acting like he’s the victim. Speaking of which, what happened to the other guy? What was his name, Peter?”
You nod. Truth be told, you haven’t seen Peter at all since the fight. He’s still in school, or so the rumors say—in addition to fistfights, he has a reputation for skipping school whenever he feels like it, so you’re not surprised that he would up and disappear after Monday. Maybe he’s hiding out from Ryan’s friends, in case any of them try to get revenge? Somehow, that doesn’t fit the image you have of him, from what little time you actually spent with him up close. Then again, who are you to say? You don’t know him. And if the look he gave you Monday was any indication, he has no positive interest in you, either.
Seeing your expression, Lucy squeezes your arm and shoots you a smile.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. He owes you . If he wants to be a dick, then he can go fuck himself.”
The first bell rings. You and Lucy say your goodbyes, and you make your way to your respective classes. You don’t see Ryan for the rest of the day, nor do you see Peter. In fact, the day passes by so normally it’s almost boring. When the final bell sounds, you can feel a week’s worth of anxiety finally start melting away. You dare to hope that after all this time, you are finally in the clear.
Lucy has a meeting with one of her “study buddies” that afternoon, and your parents texted at lunch to let you know they would be late picking you up. After wandering the halls absentmindedly for a while, you decide to suck it up, grab a snack, and wait outside in the parking lot until your ride arrives. The sun is already beginning to set. The cool stone curb nips at your skin through a cut in your tights, and Lucy’s thin jacket doesn’t do much against the crisp autumn air. Still, you can’t complain. At least it isn’t raining.
You put on your headphones and let your music wash over you. For the first time all week, you feel at ease. You close your eyes, at one with your own little corner of the universe.
Then your headphones are yanked from your ears.
“The hell—”
“Problem, snitch?”
Oh, fuck . You recognize that voice. The temperature drops several degrees.
Ryan dangles your headphones in front of your face. Behind him are several of his friends. You recognize some from Monday’s brawl. Your chest tightens.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage.
“I think you do.” He squats down so that he is eye level with you. “Y’know, you caused a lot of trouble Monday. Could’a really messed shit up for me.”
His gaze never leaves yours. He wants a reaction. Fear, hesitation, guilt. He wants you to beg for his forgiveness, to know your place. Your lip curls.
“I didn’t do anything.” You keep your tone level, but narrow your eyes. Hopefully it’s enough to hide the thunder-like pounding in your chest. “You wanna be a bully? Deal with the consequences.”
Oh fuck. This is bad. Your mouth is cotton-dry, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have to maintain this bullshit facade. You don’t know where this is headed—nowhere good, you’re sure—but you can’t show them you’re afraid.
Where the fuck is your ride?
Ryan blinks—and then starts to laugh.
“Consequences, huh?” He tosses your headphones around his name. His neck brace is notably absent. “Well, seeing as you’re the bitch that got me suspended ,” he spits the word and several droplets at you, “maybe you deserve some consequences of your own.”
Someone shoves you from behind. Your face meets asphalt, and your cheek throbs. You taste blood. You try to pull yourself up and earn a sharp kick to the ribs.
“Get up.” Ryan grabs you by the collar of your shirt. Your feet barely touch the ground. “You wanna stand up for freaks? We can treat you like one.”
Your voice sticks in your throat. You want to scream for help, to fight back, to do something , but it’s like your body isn’t your own. Tears blur your vision. You can’t even manage the word “stop.”
“I dunno, man, I think she likes it,” one of the other boys says. They reach up over your head. You feel the warmth of your cap slip away.
“N-No!” You struggle against Ryan’s grip, and feel your foot hit bone. He lets go and drops to the ground with a yelp, but the deed is done. As you scramble to right yourself and catch your breath, you notice his friend still holding a knit burgundy cap. Your cap.
“G-Give it back!” you demand. Your jaw shakes. You try to blame the tremor in your voice on the dipping temperature. He raises a brow.
“Damn, Ry. Looks like someone fucked her up before you could,” he says with a snicker.
Your face burns. It’s not that bad, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad —
You feel the tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.
“Just—just give me my shit back!” You lunge at the boy, but he steps aside, and another shoves you down.
“Aww, you made her cry! What’s the matter?” one asks.
“No wonder she likes that loser. He makes her look good by comparison,” another says.
Ryan gets up and stumbles over. He glances between his friends and you. Your teeth scrape together painfully as you clench your jaw.
“Jesus Christ.” He grabs you by the topmost tuft of your hair, twisting your head side to side. When he sees you wince, his grin returns. “And I thought that emo fuck looked like shit.”
He throws you to the ground, and you let him. You no longer register the sting of your scalp where he pulled your hair, or the bite of the pavement, or their needling laughter. Everything is a wet, hot, blurry mess anyway. You try to let yourself go.
The laughing dies down. You hear Ryan raise his voice, and curl into yourself, waiting for his fury.
Something hits the ground. Something that isn’t you.
You wipe your eyes. The stress of your building headache and the lack of light make it hard to focus, but you can make out something—no, some one wrestling with Ryan, holding something to his throat that you can’t make out. The others back away. You see your cap on the ground and scramble for it, paying attention to nothing and no one until you’ve safely pulled it back over your messy hair.
When you finally look up, everyone but Ryan and the dark blur is gone. The figure stands, pocketing whatever was in his hand. Ryan doesn’t move. You shuffle closer to his body.
“He’s not dead.”
You should have expected the voice, and yet you jump. The figure is much, much closer to you now, close enough that you can make out the face behind the long, black hair.
“...Peter?”
He grimaces. “The fuck you sound so surprised for?”
You flinch at his raised voice and take a step back. He grabs your wrist, and you almost jump out of your skin.
“Wait—fuck. Sorry.” He lets you go, and you can see his signature pissed-off expression soften. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Those bastards probably did enough.”
You stare at the ground.You can’t deny what he said: your face and eyes are bright red, and you can’t stop shaking. You want to ask a million questions—what is he doing here? Why did he help you? Is he sure Ryan isn’t dead because he’s not moving and you really didn’t need attempted murder on your record—but the moment you open your mouth, you start to cry. Everything hurts. You want to go home. You want to shave your fucking head. You want to go over and beat the shit out of Ryan yourself and make him need that fucking neck brace—
Warm arms wrap around you and hold you tightly. You’re met with the smell of cigarettes, cheap body wash, and the lingering scent of sweat and boy-musk that honestly doesn’t smell all that great, but fuck is he warm. He’s warm and he’s hugging you and now you’re on the ground and you’re hugging him too and how the hell did he manage to stay so warm in those stupid fishnet sleeves?
You cry harder.
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?” he asks for the fifth time.
You shake your head. Nothing seems broken. Your lip is busted, and you’d scraped your cheek on the asphalt. There are likely a few new bruises you would have to explain to Lucy. But you aren’t spitting up blood, so as far as Peter can tell, you don’t have any major internal injuries. He insists he isn’t a doctor, and that maybe you should consider going to a real medical professional (albeit in not-so-nice terms). You can’t help but remember him on Monday, all bruised and bloodied yet completely unbothered, and decide to trust his initial judgment.
At least he took the time to patch you up in his van. He’d parked on the outskirts of the school lot, underneath a collection of oak trees that kept it mostly hidden. That was probably for the best. You’d always gotten a sort of off vibe about him, but knowing he drives a nondescript white panel van doesn’t help. You wonder how many times it got reported before he started parking it this far away.
He gives you a halfway decent onceover and makes sure you aren’t bleeding profusely, then hands you a pillow he found lying around the back of the van. It’s a bit dusty, and probably hasn’t been washed in ages, but it smells like him. You hug it gently against your chest, conscious of the bruises forming. Now the two of you are sitting at the edge of the back, not really looking at each other but not avoiding each other, either. It’s an…unusually comfortable silence.
“Why did you help me?” The words slip out without you even realizing. Peter doesn’t look at you. Instead, he just shrugs. From his pocket he pulls out a packet of cigarettes—already half empty, you can see—and sets one ablaze. He inhales deeply.
“I thought you hated me.” You try again. You’re being dramatic, but just a little. His expression Monday didn’t outright scream murder , but it did have you looking over your shoulder for the rest of the day.
Peter glares at you. “Why the fuck would you think that?”
Something about his tone makes you cringe. Every word out of his mouth feels like a reprimand, like you’re a kid being told off by your parents for saying something stupid.
“...nevermind.”
Peter takes another long drag of his cigarette. The silence starts to settle in again.
“Why’d you open your mouth?” Until he breaks it.
You glance at him, unsure of what he means. He rolls his eyes.
“Monday. I crashed into your locker, the fucker got suspended. Ring any bells?”
You swallow. Part of you is wondering if he’s serious—any decent person would do the same, you reason—while the other part is asking yourself the same question.
“I don’t know,” you say at last. You hold the pillow closer to you. “I didn’t see the fight start. But I knew you were on the wrong end of it.”
Peter snorts. “I was fine.”
“You were bleeding ,” you stress. You shift your weight so you can look more directly at him. “Ryan and his asshole friends didn’t have a scratch between them. Any idiot could figure out who started that fight. Someone needed to call them on it.”
You wait for Peter to press you further, but he seems to accept your answer. A few puffs later, he opens his mouth again.
“We’re even now, just so you know.”
“Excuse me?”
Now it’s his turn to face you. Something burns in your chest as you realize how close he is. You fight the urge to tug your hat lower on your face.
“I don’t owe you anything, got it? You saved my ass, I saved yours. Don’t expect me to come to your aid every time you fuck yourself over.”
…why does that disappoint you?
You blink, and exhale slowly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t look at it like that. You owing me, I mean. And…” You wring your hands in your lap, searching for the right words. “I’d do it again. You don’t deserve that.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then—
“Thanks.” Nothing more. Nothing less. You look up in time to see the dying embers of his cigarette chase the shadows from his cheeks, revealing the lightest tinge of pink you’ve ever seen.
Suddenly, it’s more than enough.