The one exception was at the party. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was just the night air. Maybe she felt it was simply the right moment. But that was the first and only time she’s let the shield down. She showed me a glimpse of who she really is; the flippant devil-may-care new girl with a penchant for practical mischief has a heart-rendingly tender center, still untouched by the world and its cruelties. With such a strong shield, I expected her to be empty on the inside, hardened all the way through. But when she thanked me for kissing her, when she confessed to having given up on ever being kissed, I was almost afraid to look, as if my gaze alone would be pressing too hard on the gentle petal of a girl that was peeking out. A girl who expected nothing. A girl completely different from the seemingly confident one who strode the halls with snark to spare. A girl who thought so little of herself, she truly, honestly, purely believed she didn’t even deserve to be kissed.  It wasn’t even an option for her.

Will Cavanaugh has destroyed her.

She was probably a trusting, naïve girl before him, like a daisy. And then he came, and pulled her petals off one by one, forcing her to surround herself with thorns to survive.

But he missed one petal. And she guards it with a tiger’s ferocity.

I’d stolen a glance at something she works hard to pretend doesn’t exist.

And in my anger at her interference with my life, I threatened the petal.

Part of me feels guilty. Part of me feels proud. I protected Sophia, who has no one left in the world but me. I’m her only protection against the same evils that’ve scarred Isis so deeply. Sophia came so close to becoming like Isis – angry and bitter and sad – that it gives me chills. Isis is what Sophia could’ve become, if I hadn’t acted on that sweltering August night.

Isis justifies me.

She justifies what I did – she’s the embodiment of the pain that twists girls into tortured things. Seeing her every day is proof I did the right thing. It silences the doubting voices in my head, if only for a few seconds. Wren’s avoiding gaze and Avery’s fearful one don’t sting as much when Isis is around. I know what I did was right, and that conviction is stronger in me when she’s near.

I wonder how Isis would’ve turned out, if I had been there like I was for Sophia. If I, or someone else, had done what I did for Sophia for Isis, what would Isis be like now? Would she smile more? Not that contrived, kitten-smile she makes when she’s being sly or feeling satisfied, but a true, happy smile. She’d be just as batshit insane, of course, but she’d do her practical jokes and pranks out of joy, not because she’s running from her demons. Not because they’re the only thing that distracts her from the pain.

“Jack?” Mom’s voice wafts through the door.  “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

She opens it carefully, and steps in with equally careful movements. Blue paint is smeared on her cheek, her hair in a messy bun.

“I think –” She takes a deep breath. She’s never been good at discipline. I’ve always had Grandpa for that. But when she’s worked up about something, she never backs down from saying it. She’s much like Isis in that regard.

“I think she was a really sweet girl. I really liked her. What you said to her wasn’t fair. And it was cruel.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because I was panicking. She and I – Mom, she and I have this thing –”

“You aren’t going out, are you?”

“No, Jesus no. I have Sophia.”

“I know, but, Jack, she doesn’t really –” She cuts off, eyes darting around the room. “I love Sophia, I really do. And I know she loves you. But I don’t think she loves you the same way you –”

“I’ll apologize to Isis.”

Mom drops the train of thought I hate to talk about, and smiles.

“Thank you, sweetie.” She comes over and pats my shoulder. “I’d hate to see you lose a potential friend. You have so few of them.”

“That’s because none of them were interesting,” I say, and peer out the window one last time, to where Isis is pulling away from the curb. “Until now.”

***

3 Years

17 Weeks

5 Days

I sleep for an entire day.

And when I wake up I’m a new person.

I’m empty. I’ve cried out everything I had in me. I’m an empty shell waiting to be filled with what comes next.

Or I’m just being a total drama queen.

I’m not empty. I’m still a person. I cried over a bad thing that happened in my life, but I probably shouldn’t have. Compared to Mom’s crisis, mine was small. Compared to a thousand other girls’ around the world, mine is insignificant. It wasn’t bad. Not compared to everyone else.

It was just a couple seconds.

It wasn’t years. It wasn’t months, like Mom. It wasn’t a family member. Wasn’t someone I see anymore. It didn’t even hurt. There was no blood.

It wasn’t bad.

Not compared to others’.

So I should stop crying.

I get dressed slowly, carefully. It’s a fancy place, but not too fancy, so I choose a shirt and jeans. My hand hovers in my closet, right over the Chanel box with the beautiful pink blouse. The beautiful pink blouse that doesn’t suit me at all. I could still wear it. I could wear it, with a jacket over it so no one could see. Mom wouldn’t see. No one would see how dumb it looks on me, but it would get some use, at least. It’s an expensive blouse. I don’t want it to go to waste.

I know this beautiful blouse doesn’t suit me. But for once, for one night, I want to be pretty. Not hot, not fabulous, not loud or pushy or annoying. Just…pretty. Pretty and sweet and nice, like Kayla. Like so many other girls who are better than me at being a girl.

I pull it on, the chiffon like smooth flowers against my skin. I put my jacket on, and check my makeup in the mirror. I look pale and exhausted. A bit of lip gloss and eyeliner can’t hide that. I can’t even meet my own eyes in the reflection. Everything is too fresh, too open and bleeding.

But Kayla’s waiting for the date she’s wanted her entire life. Mom’s waiting for me to smile at her and tell her everything is fine. I have to be fine. I have to be the one person she can always count on, the one person who’s always fine – the huge sturdy stable as hell rock in the confusing ocean of her recovery.

Mom looks up from her newspaper. “Going out?”

“Yeah, with some friends to the mall.” I’m sure it’d go over fantastically if I told her I’m paying an escort to take my friend on a date and subsequently snooping on said date to make sure I get my money’s worth.

“Have fun! And drive safe.”

“There’s leftovers in the fridge. If you need me, I’ll have my cellphone on –”

She waves me off. “Just go!”

“Are you sure? Like, concrete-around-diamond sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine! You’re not the mother here, alright? So please, go have fun.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

It almost comes out. Right there, with her face shining with a smile, I almost tell her what happened. But I immediately do a one-eighty. If she knew, she’d be disappointed. She’d be devastated it happened to me. She’d coddle me and try to be strong for me, instead. But that’s not what she needs right now. She can barely comfort herself, let alone me. She’s broken. Trying to fix me would be stupid when she isn’t fixed, either. It’s better if she doesn’t know.

I’ve kept it inside this long.

I can do it for a lot longer.

Because I’m strong. Because I’m Isis Blake, and she might not be pretty, or sweet, or well-mannered, but she’s very, very strong.

***

The sun is just barely kissing the horizon as it sets for the night when I park at the Red Fern. The dimming blue sky is marbled with peach-cream clouds and streaks of blood orange. It’s like someone took a bunch of gasoline and poured it all over the sky, then lit a match. But in a beautiful way, not a generally-deadly arson way. The Red Fern is clean and quiet, with sleek polished tables and comfy chairs and potted palms and tropical flowers everywhere. The hostess flashes me a smile. I crane my neck over her and look to the tables. There he is, on his phone. I point, and she waves me past. I sit opposite Jack, who’s in a dark shirt and jeans, his hair combed and slightly gelled to one side. He looks bored, slouching in his chair and eyeing everything with the air of someone who’s seen it all before. He makes the place look like a photo shoot for Prada or something. Seeing him makes me queasy – how he ripped into me yesterday still fresh in my mind. But this is for Kayla. It’s everything she’s dreamed of. For her, it’s better than an apology, so technically it’s also what I’ve been fighting the war for.