Speechless(24)

                When class ends, Lowell walks by and shoves the books and                     papers off my desk. I don’t know why someone wrote RAT on my locker when Lowell is the one who looks like a rodent.                     Beady eyes and pointy nose and thin mouth. The only reason anyone gives him the                     time of day is because he can shoot a stupid basketball and always knows where                     to score the best weed.

                “Finally decided to keep your mouth shut, huh?” he says with                     that rodent smirk.

                I shoot a quick glance to Mrs. Finch, but she’s sitting at her                     computer, clacking away on the keyboard, totally oblivious. Even if she was                     looking, she wouldn’t be able to tell anything out of the ordinary was going on.                     It would look like I was talking with friends, Lowell leaning his palm casually                     on my desk, Derek flanking my other side. I’m trapped.

                “We all know your mouth’s only good for one thing,” Derek                     chimes in, “and it’s definitely not talking.”

                I’m kind of taken aback, despite everything, because—because                     Derek was my friend. Yeah, Lowell’s always been a creep, but Derek’s always been                     a decent guy when he’s not hanging around getting high or drunk with Lowell and                     Warren and Joey. We run in the same circles. He’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t                     mind if I copied his homework or asked to borrow a pencil, someone I’d wave                     hello to when we crossed paths in the halls. I even helped set him up with Allie                     Dupree last year after I figured out he was crushing hard on her and he asked me                     to find out if the feeling was mutual.

                And now he’s standing in front of me with the cruelest smile                     I’ve ever seen. Carelessly cruel, which is maybe why it hurts the way it does. I                     train my gaze straight ahead and sit statue still.

                Lowell shoves his face in front of mine so I have no choice but                     to look at him. “I think Derek’s right,” he says, all mock serious and                     wide-eyed. “Hey, maybe at lunch, you can come by our table and suck my dick.                     Then Derek’s. Then everyone else’s. Think you owe that much to the team after                     costing us our two best players, don’t you?”

                If I were speaking, I’d retort that the very idea makes me want                     to vomit, and inform them that contrary to popular belief, guys do talk, and from well-placed locker room sources, I                     am aware that neither have impressive dick sizes anyway. I’d watch that comment                     land and saunter away, secure with the knowledge I’d one-upped them both.