Marcus
I sat in the detention room, my shirt still damp from Betty's impromptu shower that morning. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, 4:15 PM. Fifteen minutes late, and she still wasn't here.
Maybe she wasn't coming. Maybe she'd just take the failing grade rather than sit in the same room with me.
The door creaked open. Betty walked in, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching her oversized sweater like armor. She chose a seat as far from me as possible—three rows back, by the window.
"Thought you weren't gonna show," I said.
Betty didn't look at him. "Thought about it."
Silence stretched between us. I drummed my fingers on the desk, waiting for the supervising teacher who was apparently running late.
"So we're just gonna sit here and pretend—"
"You're sick." Betty's voice cut through the air like glass. "You know that?"
I turned in my chair to face her. "What?"
"Don't." Betty finally looked at me, and the hurt in her eyes hit harder than I'd expected. "Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."
"I honestly don't."
Betty laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The porn, Marcus. On our presentation. You think I'm stupid?"
I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "You think I did that?"
"Who else? You made the slideshow. You had the flash drive."
"Betty, I swear to God, I didn't—"
"Stop lying!" Betty's voice cracked. "Just stop. I get it, okay? The whole thing was a joke to you. The project, me touching you, all of it. Ha ha, let's humiliate the ugly fat girl."
I stood up abruptly. "That's not what happened."
"Then what did happen? Because from where I'm sitting, you played me perfectly. Get the freak to draw on your abs, record it all, then make sure everyone sees exactly how pathetic I am."
"I didn't make that slideshow." I moved closer, my voice urgent. "Someone switched the files."
Betty shook her head. "Right. Sure they did."
"Think about it. Who else was in that classroom? Who else had access?"
For a moment, doubt flickered across Betty's face. Then her expression hardened again.
"It doesn't matter. You still... you still let her touch you. In front of me. After I..." She trailed off, wrapping her arms around herself.
I felt something twist in my chest. "After you what?"
Betty's composure finally cracked. Tears spilled over, and she pressed her hands to her face.
"After I thought maybe someone actually wanted me," she whispered.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stood there, frozen, watching Betty fall apart in front of me. She was crying—not the pretty, delicate tears that girls like Stacey produced for effect, but ugly, raw sobs that shook her whole body.
I had no idea what to do. My experience with crying girls involved expensive dinners and shallow apologies, not this kind of genuine heartbreak.
"Betty..."
"Don't." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Just don't, okay? I can't take any more lies."
But I found myself moving toward her anyway, crossing the space between our desks. Betty looked up as my shadow fell across her, her glasses fogged and crooked.
Betty looked away, fresh tears falling. “I’m so stupid. I actually thought… when you came back to my room, when you let me…” She shook her head hard, choking on the words. “God, what’s wrong with me?”
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to just walk away from this mess. But then my father’s voice came roaring back, like it always did in moments like this:
That girl is your ticket to the NBA. Don’t screw it up, son.
I knelt beside her desk, bringing myself to her eye level. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”
Her breath hitched, then came the crash. “Everything’s wrong with me.” Her voice cracked, thick with self-disgust. “I don’t fit in here. I don’t know how to be pretty, or cool, or whatever it is guys like you want. I’m just…”
She glanced down at herself—baggy sweater, tear-streaked face, thighs pressed together on the chair like they were trying to hide. Her hand swept over her body, not delicately but like she was erasing something she hated. “This. Too big. Too much. I’m just... too everything.”
She laughed, bitter and hollow. “Girls like Stacey get noticed. Girls like me get passed over. Or worse—used. Just long enough to be a joke in a locker room.”
Her father is Richard Branson, I reminded myself. Sports agent to half the NBA.
"Betty." I kept my voice controlled. "Look at me."
She did, reluctantly.
"You're not stupid. And you're not what you think you are."
Betty's breath hitched. We were close now, and I could see she was vulnerable, broken. Perfect.
My father's voice rang in my ears: Make that girl fall for you. You do it as a hobby anyway.
Without hesitation, I reached up and brushed a strand of hair back from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. Betty went very still, her eyes wide and uncertain.
I held her gaze, knowing exactly what I was doing.