Free The End of the World by Amy Matayo Page B

sister,” she says, doing a little quote thing with her fingers. A big part of me wants to chop them off at the knuckles, especially when I see the beginnings of yet another evil smile. “Who knows, maybe you have first-hand knowledge. After all, you do live together. Maybe that’s why you’re always so defensive of her.”
    Everyone deals with anger differently. I deal with it the same way I deal with everything else—hurt, abandonment, fear; I count. One, two, five, eleven. This time it isn’t all that effective. “I’m defensive of her because nothing you or anyone else ever says is true. Shaye’s a nice girl, not the piece of crap you and all your groupies make her out to be.”
    She slams the pencil on her desk, earning a look from the teacher. We’re supposed to be working in partners on a mock exam, not arguing over the positives and negatives of a classmate I happen to like.
    “Are you telling me you think she hasn’t slept with all those people, including your own father? Or that she didn’t break a Smart Board and a desk in English class because she threw a giant temper-tantrum? I saw that, Cameron—everyone saw it. And it happened way before you showed up. She’s been suspended twice and has had to leave for medical reasons more than once. Everyone here knows what those medical reasons are, whether you believe it or not.”
    My vision grows red. I don’t like her implication, and she’s right—I don’t believe it. Maybe I shouldn’t open my mouth…maybe I should stay quiet…but she threw down the gauntlet and there’s no way I’m going to kick it aside.
    “If we’re talking rumors, why don’t we talk about the one I heard yesterday? That the reason your boyfriend broke up with you was because you finally gave him what he wanted and it wasn’t worth much.”
    I’m acting like an eight-year-old girl and I regret the words the second I see her face blanch and drain of color. But like everything people say, words often wound and can’t be taken back. You can apologize, but you can’t undo the damage. I want to kill myself for stooping to her level, but at least now we both see eye to eye. The view isn’t pretty down here.
    “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” I say.
    It’s too late. Other people heard me, a few laughed, the damage was done, and I’m the same jerk as she is.
    “Leave me alone, Cameron. And from now on, work by yourself.”
    With a long look at her that I hope conveys both disgust and remorse at the same time, I turn around.
    For the rest of the class period, I do work alone.
    And when I finish the assignment and Abby only manages to tackle one more problem, part of me feels terrible. For my words. For her lack of help from me. For both.
    But another part of me doesn’t feel bad; that part of me just wants to know which things Abby said are true.
    And hopes that every single one of those things is a lie.
    *
    Shaye
    “This is becoming quite the problem, Miss McCormick,” the counselor says, taking a sip of coffee and setting the mug down on the desk in front of her. There’s a deep water ring on the golden wood that cuts through the finish, as though that mug never moves from that spot; a permanent home for an inanimate object. Some things are just lucky, I guess. She leans back in her chair and studies me. It’s what they always do—counselors, teachers, parents—but up to this point no one has been able to figure me out. They’ve come close, but never all the way. And they never will. I know the consequences of truth-telling.
    “At what point are your office visits going to stop?” she asks, making a tent with her fingers. I want to remind her that I didn’t come here voluntarily. I want to remind her that these visits are never my idea. Instead, I do what I always do. I state the obvious.
    “She threw a ball at my head. Why am I the one who’s in trouble?”
    The lady swirls a finger around the tip of her mug. The lipstick mark smears a little,