TMI (2014 Collector's Dream Winner)

TMI - Chapter 25

By Monday, Bailey's Facebook post had earned so many comments and Likes, Meg walked to school to escape facing the taunts on the bus. Huddled in her hoodie, she heard a car pull up beside her. She didn't bother to look. She knew it would be Chase. He’d had his license for a year now. Meg had her learner's permit but had never been behind the wheel; her mother just didn't have time to teach her.

The car sped ahead with a sudden burst of acceleration and Meg figured Chase was still mad.

Good.

As long as he was mad, he'd stay away. She adjusted her backpack and shoved her hands in her pockets. She would eventually have to face him. She knew this – didn't like it – but accepted it. She also knew she'd have to tell him why she kept turning him down and spare none of the gory details.

She owed him that much.

If, at the end of the tale, he still wanted to be friends, well, she'd have to turn down that request, too.

It was too painful.

Kissing Chase was a mistake. It forced her to face the truth — she was in love with Chase, too.

And that had to remain her little secret.

She reached the school with only seconds to spare before the final bell. She didn't bother with her locker, just headed to her first class and slid behind her desk, aware of the hush that fell over the room when Bailey looked up, saw Meg, and quickly turned away.

Trigonometry was not one of Bailey's favorite subjects. Actually, Bailey had no favorite subjects. But Meg enjoyed it. She focused on the lesson, something involving polar coordinate equations, and soon lost herself plotting intricate shapes, like a petal curve. She glanced next to her, saw Bailey struggling to understand the concepts but today, did not swoop in with the answers. Forgiveness, when she gave it, would be hard-earned.

The bell rang and Meg scooped her work into her backpack, ready to flee before anyone could stop her. She'd just zipped her bag when a pair of Fruit of the Looms landed on it, accompanied by loud laughter. Her face blazed but she did not make eye contact with anyone and fled, leaving the briefs behind.

In home room, the entire class lauded her with all manner of undergarments – from tiny thongs to granny panties. Mr. Allen asked her if she was taking up a collection and the class howled. Meg tossed them all in the waste basket on her way out of class when the bell rang. In each class, she was pelted with underwear. In the hall, briefs were snapped at her head. In the stairwells, underwear rained down on her. In the cafeteria, leak pads landed on her tray. By the end of the day, Meg was certain she was immune to further embarrassment until Chase approached her at the bus stop, his face twisted in an expression of confusion.

"Hey," he greeted her. "Um… Bailey handed me this and said I had to give it to you right away – that it was an emergency." He handed her a paper bag. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Awesome." She poked inside the bag, flung the scarlet red lace panties at Chase and turned dark, hurt eyes to his. "You, too? I can’t believe you’d do this!"

Chase looked at the underwear in his hand and cursed. "No, Meg, I-"

"Shut up, Chase.

She turned and went home on foot, slammed the door behind her and sank to the floor against it. She hated crying, hated how weak it made her feel, how desperate. It took a long time, but she fought it, managed to come out on the top of the crushing urge to curl up and die. All it took was one thought.

Her dad.

Meg slowly rolled to her knees, pulled out her cell phone and texted Ryder.

I apologized. I even told you I’d back off. But that wasn’t good enough. You had to get rid of me. Well, congratulations — it worked. I don’t know what you told Bailey, but she’s really pissed off. When you hurt her - and we both know you will - I will come after you. Yeah, that’s a threat.

Since she'd spent lunch dodging flying underwear and leak pads, Meg dragged herself to the kitchen for a snack. Again, there was little to choose from, so she snagged the last apple, grabbed a jar of peanut butter and headed to her room only to discover she'd forgotten a knife. With a loud sigh, she plucked an Xacto blade from her brush jar and started slicing the apple into wedges.

"Damn it!" The knife clattered to her desk, leaving a long bloody gash in the webbing between the thumb and index finger of her left hand. She hurried to the bathroom and ran the wound under cool water, watched blood drip into the sink. It was a deep cut, but it didn't hurt much. She wrapped a towel around it, figured it would stop bleeding soon, and went back to her room to uncover her test project.

She mixed paints — acrylics this time. She stared at the test project for a long time and then tore it from the clips on her easel. She fastened her last canvas, grabbed a wide brush and laid down a flesh-toned foundation, switched to a smaller brush to put down the shadows and angles for a face. She moved with precision, certainty. Bold strokes and soft blended edges. Light and shadow. Lines, curves, shapes. Slowly, the image appeared. The image she couldn't get out of her mind, her dreams, her heart. Chase. Always Chase.

Perspective. That's what she needed. More perspective. She imagined the contour of his jaw under her hand the day she'd kissed him, the strength in his broad shoulders, the stubborn set of his mouth. She imagined those lips on hers, the scrape of stubble against her cheek. Her own lips parted. She switched brushes, painted hair. Oh, his hair. Her fingers itched to feel all that silk again. She imagined his nose – straight and perfect. He was beautiful. She could not deny that. But it was his eyes that always drew her in, made her wish she'd studied the Old Masters. She dabbed on color, stroked on contours, smoothed out rough edges with the tip of her finger.

She painted until the light faded, until her hands cramped and her head spun. When she finally put down her brushes and stepped back, she gasped.

She'd done it. She’d finally done it. She'd rendered Chase on canvas. Her eyes studied the play of color, the sepia-toned mood she'd managed to capture. There was blood on her palette, blood mixed with the paint and blood on the portrait, the portrait that perfectly captured his pain, his disappointment. Her betrayal. She lifted her hands, saw that her wound was still dripping. The towel was saturated.

Maybe that had been the key all along? To hurt like she'd hurt him.

Somehow, that felt entirely appropriate.

Meg capped her paints, cleaned her brushes, and wrapped a clean towel around her hand. She grabbed her keys and some money from the meager stash in her wallet, and locked the front door.

It would be a long walk to the hospital.