Page 40 of The Rebel of Raleigh High

I swallow, and the metallic tang of fear floods my mouth. I’m not afraid that he’s here, but my fight or flight response is still taking a second to cool its jets. “Go home, okay? This isnotokay.”

Silence rings like a bell in my ears again.

“All right. I’m gonna go get in the car. I’ll wait five minutes before I go. Take a beat. If you really want me to go, then stay inside. If you wanna talk, then come out.”

“I’m not gonna come out, Alex. You’re fucking mad!”

“Like I said. I’ll wait five minutes.”

I hear him walk away, footsteps moving away from the door and down the steps that lead up to the cabin’s porch. A second later, a car door slams again.

Fucking psycho.

Why would he do this?

Why would he drive all the way out here in the middle of the night?

This was a bad move on his part. A stupid fucking move.

I turn away from the door and hurl the knife, grinding my teeth together. Now it’s not fear that I taste in my mouth. It’s just blood. I must have bitten the inside of my cheek.

“Urrgghhh! ASSHOLE!” I yell the insult, even though he probably can’t hear me. Of all the dumb, shitty, cruel things he could do…

I oscillate wildly between anger and relief as I pace up and down in front of the door.

A minute passes.

I gouge my fingernails into the meat of my palms, digging so hard my hands begin to throb.

Another minute.

Another.

I’m going to fucking kill him. Dad won’t be so pally-pally with him when he finds out that he came up here and scared the shit out me like this.

Another minute.

Not that I can tell Dad. If I do, I’ll also have to tell him that I was here alone, and then he’ll never let me come again.

Another minute.

The engine revs to life outside. Light floods through the living room window, throwing everything into stark relief, shadows climbing the walls.

Shit.

I don’t even decide to do it. I act without thinking, throwing open the cabin door and storming barefoot out into the night. Alex is sitting in the driver’s seat of an old Camaro, his hands resting on the steering wheel. His eyes lock onto me as I charge toward him; he remains expressionless as I pitch up at the side of the car, raise my fist and smash it into the driver’s side window. Pain explodes through my hand, sharp and breathtaking, stars spangling, flaring in my vision.

“FUCK YOU, ALEX MORETTI!” I spin around, mud squelching up between my toes as I shake out my hand, walking away from the car. Fuck, that really, really hurts. I cradle my hand to my chest, holding it there, waiting for the pain to subside, but it only seems to get worse. The car door opens and closes again. Alex doesn’t say a word, which is almost the most infuriating part of all of this. He doesn’t even ask if I’m okay.

“You know,” I hiss. “You know what happened. You know…what they did. You know how fuckingfrighteningit would be…for me to have someone roll up here…in the dark, when I was alone…”

I’m crying, and I don’t know if it’s because my hand hurts so much, or because I’m still reeling from the fear and the panic of what might have been about to happen to me. Soon, I’m sobbing, and I can’t control it. I’m straining for breath, fighting not to collapse. I can feel myself slipping, drowning, tumbling, descending into some broken kind of madness that I have never allowed myself to succumb to before. Not even after it happened. Not even when my friends turned on me, and I found myself shunned…

I am breaking.

I am splintering.

I am finally shattered into pieces.