This Is Me Trying by Racquel Marie

Author:Racquel Marie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

chapter twenty-eight SANTIAGO

Kim sent me to class when I tried waiting outside of Principal Jefferys’s office for Bea, so I don’t learn about her suspension from Whitney until lunch. Abby also overheard someone in first period say that Rick’s parents picked him up to take him to the hospital, ignoring that Bea is probably more injured than he is. I tried to plead Bea’s case after school, but an hour of waiting left me with nothing but a request from Kim to go home, since Principal Jefferys wasn’t interested in any further discussion.

So now I’m here, walking home in rain-soaked clothes that weigh on me as heavily as the guilt, when a car behind me honks.

I flinch, shielding my eyes as I look for the culprit.

Bea slows her car to a crawl, taking a comically long time to crank her window down by hand.

“It’s raining,” she says.

“Oh, so that’s why I’m drenched in water.”

She stretches across the passenger seat and yanks up the lock. “Get in.”

I tug the door open and literally slip inside. Bea fiddles with her ancient dashboard, adjusting the heater until it blasts me with air that may as well be magic with how good it feels on my freezing skin, then throws a towel at me from the back seat. “You look like a wet dog.”

I ignore her and rub rain from my eyes. “Your punishment is bullshit.”

“One week of suspension is nothing.” She flashes me a wry look. “And I’ve done detention before.”

I clear my throat when I notice she’s steering with only one hand. “You shouldn’t have held your fist the way you did when you punched Rick.”

“We’re giving fighting advice now?”

“You don’t know if I’ve been in a fight before.”

Skepticism is painted on her skin as smoothly as her makeup.

“You need to press your fingers down instead of in,” I go on. “Your nails should be parallel to your palm instead of perpendicular.”

We’re paused at a stop sign, but after the obligatory few seconds, she lifts her uninjured right hand off the steering wheel instead of driving on.

“May I?” I ask. She offers me her fist in answer.

The cold is leeched from my flesh as I hug her hand in mine. Her skin is far softer than it looks, molding to my adjustments like warmed clay. I smooth my thumb over the topography of her bent fingers, a gentle act that manages to both intentionally correct their posture and unintentionally inflict me with goose bumps. Touching her has never been more natural and foreign than in this moment.

“This feels awkward,” she says, and I drop her hand immediately. She looks at me in confusion before I realize what she meant.

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Yeah, well, it’ll feel better than tearing your palm to shreds. Everything else stays the same: Hit with your knuckles and never tuck your thumb in, or you’re going to have more to worry about than your nails.”

She punches her thigh a few times, softly, then slightly harder. “How do you even know this?”

“Friend from California.

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