clean

thirty-three

Benedict comes up to me at my locker and I don't see his face. All I can see is the kiss and I can't make my arms and legs and mouth work properly anymore. I was finally making a friend, and now I can't even look him in the eyes. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Hey," he says.

I don't respond.

"Anette?"

I want to tell him we ruined a perfectly good friendship, that I don't want to date him, that I can't be tied down right now and that I am bad news for him and that we should go back to being strangers, but all that flies out of my mouth is:

"I don't see the bruises."

His mouth hangs open slightly and his eyes look wet. I almost retract my words, but they're gone and floating away.

"What?" he whispers.

I shrug. "The bruises."

Suddenly, he rips his shirt off in the middle of the school hallway, exposing his pale stomach and chest that isn't toned but isn't fat, his ribs spotted with brown and purple, his stomach and back scratched. People whisper and stare.

I run to the washroom so he doesn't see me cry.