There’s always a price.

“Sage? You okay?” I hear worry in Lila’s voice. She must be wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

I burst out in near-hysterical laughter. “No. Not even close. I can’t go to class. Please get me out of here.”

To my relief, she doesn’t argue. “Let me check the hall.” A few seconds later I hear her come back. “It’s clear for now. We’ll go out the back and circle around for your bike.”

“Sounds like you’ve cut before.”

“Trust me, I’m a pro. I’ll take you home.”

And she isn’t lying. She knows exactly how to slip out of school and get us off property before anyone notices. Pretty soon she’s pedaling my bike and I’m on the seat, which is good because I’d probably end up in a ditch. I can’t go back to school now. I can’t. I’d rather live in the group home again than face another day of this.

Once we get to my house, Lila makes tea, looking worried. “Should I call your aunt?”

“No, she’ll find out when she gets home. That’s soon enough to ruin her day.”

“So … what’s the deal? Obviously something happened with your mom or you would’ve told him to screw off. But why would some random dude know that about you?”

Since I don’t feel like spilling my guts, I tell her the truth—about Dylan and the private war we’ve been waging, which I escalated yesterday, and he shot back. This is a hot button for Lila, and she’ll forget about my past, at least for now. As expected, when she learns how he threatened to dig into my life and find something shitty to spread around, she starts pacing, ranting with more four-letter words than I’ve heard before in one breath.

“That son of a bitch,” she fumes. “If he thinks he can get away with this, oh, hell no.”

Well, he did warn me. I have no idea how he found out, but he won, fair and square. And he told me this was the way it would go down. I just … got cocky. I hoped that if we shamed him bad enough that he’d slink away, but that’s not how he rolls. He’s been the alpha dog for too long.

Eventually, she settles down long enough to ask, “Does Shane know what’s going on?”

“I should text him.”

For a few seconds, I just stare my phone. Then I type, went home early. Skipping Green World. TTYL.

“Do you have to work tonight?” Lila asks.

“No, that’s only on Monday and Thursday.”

Despite her trying to cheer me up, it’s just not happening. I brush my teeth and get in bed, pulling the covers over my head. In the end, Lila stays until Shane shows up, just past three. She’s eager to go out and implement some revenge scheme against Dylan, and I don’t have the energy to tell her it’s a bad idea. A part of me even admires how much he loves his mother. He ruined me, as promised, to make sure I can’t say anything about her and the principal. Who would listen now?

I’m feeling like crap when I hear Shane’s footsteps coming down the hall. “Sage? What the hell? There’s some crazy shit about your mom going around at school. Why’d you take off?”

I can’t look at him when I say this. I just can’t. “Because it’s true.”

If he had any common sense, this would be the last I hear from him, and what perfect timing for Dylan’s payback; I sleep with Shane, then he breaks up with me.

Right now, given what he’s probably heard, he should be walking. Instead, Shane sits down on the edge of the bed. “I’m supposed to believe that? You don’t even eat meat.” Gently, he draws the covers off and pulls me into his arms. “Talk to me. I’m not leaving until you do.”

Some shrinks say that it’s best to share your trauma. You become less sensitized to it. And I’ve done all kinds of therapy: group, personal, specialized, hourly, artistic, musical. Some of those programs even felt experimental; they were supposed to fix me. But none of the awful shit I had to do in order to be released into Aunt Gabby’s care horrified me half as much as the idea of telling Shane the truth.

But I have to. I owe him that much. He needs to know what I used to be. That way, he’ll understand why he needs to bail.

“I told you part of my story … but not the really bad stuff.”

“Okay.” It’s an encouraging word. I hate it.

Yesterday was perfect; yesterday was before. This is why before is a magical word.

I take a deep breath to offset the ache in my chest. “Things were fine with my dad. He died when I was seven. I spent a year in foster care, and that sucked, but I don’t have any horror stories. Just … I never felt at home, I guess.”

“I get it.”

No, you really don’t, I want to scream, but I’m not allowed to be angry. Anger is flames, showering sparks and death. And besides, I’m not even mad at him. I just want to burn the world down right now. And that’s the impulse I’m hiding from. Because at this moment, I can imagine Dylan Smith’s house on fire—and it makes me feel better.

“When I was eight, they found my bio-mom. She was clean, then. But it didn’t last long.”

Time for some show-and-tell. I sit up, pull off my hoodie, and show him my bare arms. There’s a reason I always have on a sweater or a jacket. Years later, I’m still marked with cigarette burns, the scars lined up in neat rows. They were punishments for when I didn’t do what my mom expected or sometimes even when I did. There was no pleasing her. She hated me, I think. I don’t understand why she took me in when the social worker contacted her. Guilt maybe, or possibly the welfare money. I’ll never know, now.

Shane takes my hands in his and runs his long fingers over the marks. I shiver; it’s been such a long time since anyone touched me here. Even last night, I didn’t strip down with him. I let him think it was because I’m shy, but that wasn’t the reason. I’ve always had darkness to hide.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

The question’s like a blade between my ribs. “It’s not exactly cafeteria chat.”

“We’ve had plenty of time alone, Sage.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin it how?”

“With this.” I bend my head, staring at my scars. “This happened when she was sober. Once she got back on junk, she stopped caring where I was … or who was in the house with us.” I’m relating this in a monotone because it’s just so ugly that I can’t think of an emotional tone that seems right.

This is me. This is where I’m from.

“Oh my God,” he whispers.

“I was eleven when I broke. Three years of this shit. We were renting this hellhole … and she couldn’t come up with the money. So she gets this idea—” I break off. Wow, this is harder than I expected. And I knew it would suck. “To use me. To pay. So she invites the landlord over.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“They drank a lot that night. And passed out before he could … you know. Then I set fire to the place. And I went outside.”

The memory surges to the front of my brain, how calm I felt, sitting on the curb across the street. It was summertime, and I was in my pajamas, too small since my mother hadn’t bought me any clothes in a couple of years. They had SpongeBob on them—funny I remember that. I watched the house burn for twenty minutes before a crackhead neighbor called the fire department.

The police found me, an hour later. At first they dubbed me a survivor, until I admitted to setting the fire. Stupid kid; I should’ve lied. After that, the nightmare didn’t end for years. They catalogued abuse: scars and malnutrition and had a doctor examine me down below. No sign of sexual assault. Then they put me where you stick broken people, ones who can’t be trusted around normal ones. I tell Shane all of that; there’s no point in hiding it now.

“I was in the group home for two years, where I went to a special school. They found Aunt Gabby when I was twelve, but I wasn’t released until I was thirteen. Then I had more counseling and medication … she took me home with her and I started junior high here.”