Short Stories (bxb)

Skin and Bones Pt. 6: See What I See

I felt like this was something I'd absolutely have to do before I finished this story, and I think it suits the chapter well enough. You're welcome.

"Jesus," I breathed, putting a hand on my chest after Callie grabbed my arm from behind, scaring the shit out of me.

"You better be in study hall today," she said. "I've got some tea that's too damn good to spill over the phone."

"Why don't you just tell me now?"

"Because Isaac's not here, dipshit," she said, as if it were obvious. "Study hall. Be there."

"Okay," I nodded. "I will."

When my phone started buzzing in fourth period, I pulled it out of my pocket with a roll of my eyes, figuring it was some random number calling me. But then I saw that the caller was Isaac, and it was so unusual for him to call me in the middle of class that I didn't hesitate to pick up.

Mr. Harrow's eyes zeroed in on me as soon as I pressed the phone against my ear, but I ignored him and said, "Hey, what's up?"

"Mr. Matthews—"

But I put my hand up to stop him so that I could hear what Isaac was saying. A question: could I come to the 200 building's hallway?

Again, I didn't hesitate, this time because I was almost sure I could hear something off in his voice, even if it was slight. Something had happened.

"I'll be there," I said, and he hung up. Then I looked at Mr. Harrow, who was still glaring at me with his arms crossed. "Sir, can I go to—"

"You want to distract my class and ask to leave?" He scoffed as I began to rise. "Sit down."

So I ignored him entirely, grabbing my backpack from the floor and wordlessly leaving the class. Mr. Harrow didn't call after me, and I knew he wouldn't call administration, either. His policy was: if you want to waste your education, that's on you.

As I crossed the school to the 200 building, my pace kept increasing on its own until I was flat-out jogging and had to tell myself to chill. Isaac hadn't sounded like he was in a state of emergency.

I saw him right away; he was on the floor, sat up against the lockers, staring at the wall in front of him. What told me there had been trouble was his chair. It was a few feet away from him, knocked onto its side.

"What happened?" I asked as I approached. Isaac turned to look at me, and I could see that he was teary-eyed.

"Exactly what you think happened," he said, his voice weirdly empty. "Calum saw an opportunity and he took it."

I was almost surprised. Calum hadn't laid a hand on Isaac in weeks—the sticks and stones were usually reserved for me. But then again, he was Calum Berkeley. He was a pure-blooded-bully, and he'd known what he was doing—everyone knew the 200 building hadn't had working cameras since before we were born, so it was the perfect place to get stoned and hook up and, in this case, harass someone. It was unexpected, but not shocking.

I righted the wheelchair, tossed my bag to the tiled floor, and slid down the lockers next to him. "Talk to me."

He huffed, his hand rubbing his neck, as a lone tear tried to escape his eye, but he wiped it away before it could so much as reach his cheek. "I don't—I don't care that he pushed me. That's what bullies do. If I got upset every time I got shoved . . ."