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"People like you," she hisses, her voice low now, like she's trying to poison me with her words, "always end up just like their parents."

***

When I start paying attention again, the latest woman upset with me is no longer yelling and I've made a long, red line across my left wrist. I clench my hand, making myself stop before someone notices.

"You can contact the police, but her employment is my decision, not yours. If you would like to see the recording again where your daughter…"

The woman grabs her purse and storms out of the office, yanking her daughter behind her. Around the bloodied cloth, she gives me one last look before she goes, a little smirk on her face. It makes my skin crawl, and I know enough about her sort of person to know what it means. I clench my fists tighter. I wish I could wipe that look off her face all over again, but I know I can't. Not now.

When the door shuts behind them, the room feels too quiet. The tension lingers in the air like something heavy and awful. I can still hear Mrs. Harper's words echoing in my head, like a bad song that won't stop playing. On repeat for decades.

My boss lets out a long, tired sigh. "Olivia," he says softly, like he's exhausted. "Come sit over here."

I hesitate for a second, my feet feeling like they're glued to the floor. But I stand up, creeping toward the chair across from his desk. He gestures for me to sit, and I do, feeling small in the big, cushioned seat, mind distracted by the rough feel of the fabric and my attempts to get my skin away from it.

He looks at me for a moment then speaks, his voice not angry, just… tired. "You're not in trouble," he says quietly. "Well, not too much trouble, anyway."

I nod but don't say anything. My throat feels tight, like if I try to talk, I'll start crying, and I really don't want to cry. Not in front of him.

"Olivia," he says again, leaning forward with his elbows on his desk. "I'm not going to lie to you. What you did was serious. I don't tolerate violence. But…" He pauses, and for a second, he just looks at me, like he's trying to figure something out. "I understand why you did it."

That makes my head snap up. I stare at him, eyes skittering just shy of keeping eye contact, confused. "You… do?"

He nods slowly. "She shouldn't have touched you. That doesn't make it okay, but I get it."

I blink a few times, unsure of how to respond. Nobody's ever said something like that to me before. Usually, it's just “Violence is bad” or “You shouldn't have done that.”

No one seems to care how many times I have communicated that I hate being touched. That it makes me feel unsafe. Overwhelmed. Out of breath. And of course angry. They seem to like to ignore that one and then complain about not having a fully functioning body afterward.

I communicate just fine before it gets to that point.

In fact, telling people seems to make it more likely they will use it as a weapon, although I have made it a habit to tell anyone who is supposed to be in charge. Like my boss, who even asked if he should make a sign and put it up so people would know. I declined, though for legal reasons I can see now that it might have been a mistake.

"I don't want to fire you,” he says with a long sigh. “I mean, I think I should, but not for this. Not really. You're one of the brightest people I've ever met, and I don't know why you're wasting your time selling clothes."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure of how to react. I don't feel all that bright. Right now, I just feel like a mess. As always.

I frown at him, unsure why he's trying to make me feel better instead of yelling at me. "I'm not that smart," I mumble.

"Hitting a customer would be evidence, I guess. Please tell me that felt good, though? I've imagined hitting her a few times myself."

His blue eyes are unfocused. Is he's trying to imagine how good it felt? If he is, he’s probably remembering the dozens of times she's mouthed off to him or ordered him around.

"You better come to work with a sketch of that one tomorrow. Or better yet, go back to school and just drop it off as you go out into the world to do something better than this. Oh, that reminds me…"

Before I can ask what he means, he reaches into one of the drawers of his desk and pulls out a new sketchbook. He holds it out to me, and I just stare at it, confused.

"I got this for you."

I take it from him, still not sure what to say as I run my fingers over the glossy cover.

"I'm not all that good," I blurt out, my voice small.

He chuckles. "Stop lying to yourself. You're obsessed. You're good at that. Putting your heart into things, I mean."

I stare down at the book, unsure of what to say. I don't feel like I'm good at anything right now. But the way he says it… it almost makes me believe him. Almost.

A small smile creeps onto my face, and I glance up at him through my lashes. "Thanks," I whisper, my voice barely audible.