My Dirty Little Secret

Chapter Twenty Three

Chelsea's POV

"Overreaction much?" Ms. Hernandes laughed after Brooke took off to find ice somewhere at a football game.

I shook my head. "I don't know where she thinks she's gonna find ice," I said.

"She'll probably buy a drink and pour it out," she said. "She's completely head over heels, you know."

I had to smile, but I was kind of in shock. I didn't even know she knew about us. "Really?" I said excitedly, sounding like a little kid.

She laughed again. "Oh yeah. Why else would she get so freaked out over that ankle? I mean, it's hardly even red."

I agreed. Though it did hurt, I would be okay. "She was acting like an EMT," I commented.

"No kidding," she said. Then after a while, she added, "Look, Chelsea, don't think I'm a bitch, but I have to say this."

I just nodded, somewhat shocked that a teacher would use the word "bitch" with me. 

"Brooke has a kind of a problem. She gets really into someone, and she lets them take over her life. Then they hurt her, and she gets completely beside herself, not knowing what to do, how to react. She just gets broken, and she lets people do it. I've seen it happen too many times already."

I continued to nod my understanding silently, feeling completely for Brooke and understanding that what Ms. Hernandes said was true. 

"Just...I guess I'm trying to say, please be careful with her, okay? Because she cares about you a lot, and that gives you the power to break her down. I just don't want to see it happen again. She's my best friend."

"I know," I told her. "And I promise. I care way too much about Brooke to ever think about hurting her. I know she's fragile, and I hate seeing her get hurt. I was ready to fight her last girlfriend..."

"Ugh," she groaned loudly. "Kate."

She said "Kate" the same way Brooke had when she'd come into her apartment, as if it were a curse.

I had to laugh. "That's the one."

"The crazy, anal, neurotic bitch," she illustrated. "That's the one."

"I take it you didn't like her," I said.

"You know what's even worse? I had to pretend to. For two damn years, I had to sit there pretending to like her. And Brooke was always like, 'Try to get along, for my sake." When she impersonated Brooke, she put on an exaggerated high pitched voice. "I mean, how do you get along, with that?"

I smiled, understanding. "I don't blame you."

That's when Brooke came back, holding a plastic bag full of ice. Halftime was almost over by now, but I figured it could only do more good than harm.

"How did you manage that one?" Ms. Hernandes asked, skeptically.

"I had to bully the guy at the concession stand into it," she explained. She took my ankle in her hands and applied the pressure for me. On the outside, it just looked like a coach helping one of her cheerleaders, but to me, it felt like fireworks. 

Throughout the second half, my ankle had gone from not-so-bad to worse. Standing on it had made it swell, and doing jumps on it certainly did not help. By the time the game ended, our football team losing by an embarrassing margin, I could barely walk. I came off the field limping, reading Brooke's look of concern the entire time. My entire team was increasingly apprehensive, wondering if I'd been seriously injured, which I doubted I had.