Page 67 of The Intruder

“Of course it is,” she says, like it’s not even worth discussing. “That’s why you come to school in dirty clothes that smell. And that’s why you have to steal other kids’ crappy lunches.”

A blood vessel throbs in my left temple. That last part isn’t even true anymore, because Anton’s been bringing sandwiches for me every day. I open my mouth to tell her so, but nothing comes out. And the worst part is that she isn’t even finished.

“Do you even shower?” she continues. “Or wash your hair?”

I shower every day. One thing we have in our house is plenty of soap and shampoo.

“Ella smells great!” Anton blurts out. Even though he’s the one who used to call me Smella. “At least she’s not a stuck-up bitch.”

“Oooh. Is that the best you’ve got, Peterson? No wonder you’re failing every class.” Brittany laughs to herself, revealing teeth that are perfectly straight and white. It’s clear her parents could afford braces. “You two deserve each other. You’re both totally pathetic.”

It’s so unfair. So unfair that somebody so pretty could have a perfect family too. And even so, still be so mean. I feel this pulse throbbing in my temple, and maybe my lack of pulse control is what does it, because I find myself shoving Brittany in the chest—hard. She’s just lucky I left that X-Acto knife back at home today.

The shove barely throws her off-balance. I expected Brittany to walk away. It’s not like she would want to get into a fistfight with me. Girls like Brittany don’t do that. But to my surprise, she pushes me back—hard.

Brittany is only about average size for our age, but I am one of the skinniest and shortest kids in the class. So when she pushes me, I stumble backward, trip over my own feet, and then I go down.

I hear the sharp inhalation of breath coming from Anton as he glares at Brittany. He was upset that Brittany was trash-talking me, but now that she pushed me, his face is turning red with fury. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m all right,” I say quickly, brushing off my hands.

But he’s not even listening—his attention is completely focused on Brittany. “How could you push her like that?”

“She pushed me first!” Brittany cries, her voice shrill. “Your girlfriend is a total psycho!”

His face is almost purple now, and whatever pulse control he had, it’s gone. He moves toward Brittany, and I remember all those weights he’s got in his closet and how he’s been lifting them every day. And a split second later, he slams his fist into Brittany’s pretty face.

“You stuck-up bitch,” he hisses at her. “You’re going to pay. For everything.”

Brittany goes down harder than I did. And if that is all that happens, maybe it all will be okay. She’ll have a black eye, and Anton might get suspended for the zillionth time. It won't be great, but everything will go back to the way it was before in a few days.

But Anton isn’t thinking straight anymore—he’s too angry. His pulse control is gone. He picks up a large rock from the ground—about the same size as the one I used to knock out Devin way back when—and he raises it over his head.

“You’re not better than anyone, Brittany,” he says. “Especially not Ella.”

And then he brings it down on Brittany Carter’s beautiful face. Again and again.

And again.

Meredith won’t stop screaming and crying as we hear the sickening sound of the fragile bones in Brittany’s face cracking and then falling apart. He’s knocked out all her straight white teeth. I shout Anton’s name over and over, and I try to grab him, but he just shakes me off. It’s like he’s in a trance. He keeps hitting Brittany with that rock, and by the time a teacher comes over and they manage to pull him away, there’s so much blood. So much blood.

When the paramedics load Brittany inside the ambulance, she is still unconscious, and her face is unrecognizable. Anton has his head down the whole time, and two teachers each have their hands on him, keeping him from moving. The police arrive next, and when they show up, one thing is very clear:

I will never see Anton ever again.

48

NOW

CASEY

I brace myself for the flash of blinding pain—the sting of the blade entering my flesh, the blood dripping down my neck. I have spent the last two hours expecting this, but that doesn’t make it any less horrific.

Except strangely enough, I don’t feel any of that.

What I do feel is that I can now move my ankles. That’s when I realize Eleanor has cut the duct tape binding my legs and chest to the chair.

“You let me go,” I breathe.