Chapter 3: Little Liar: Chapter 3

When I get off the school bus, I pull my bag up my shoulder and head straight to where I know my sister will be standing. Olivia will be with her crowd of friends. She always is. Always getting attention—the popular girl. She leaves the house earlier than me on Tuesday—her friends have this thing they’ve been doing for years where they get to school an hour early and sit around gossiping.

As soon as I spot her, I stop walking and hide to the side, leaning my back against the wall. My usual standing position while the world still moves around me. My eyes follow her as she goes to the swings, her friend, Abigail, sitting on the one beside her as they talk. With their heads turned, I can’t read their lips—what if she’s talking about me?

I won’t go to stand with her, but as long as I can see her, I’m happy. The bottom of my foot rests against the wall, and I stop breathing as a group of three boys go to the swings too. They’re the year below me, maybe two years, and I tower over them.

Being the tallest in my year and the one above, plus not having any friends or talking, I’m not very liked here at school.

They call me a freak.

They say I’m strange and weird.

Olivia doesn’t think that, so their opinions are invalid and mean nothing to me. I like staying in my own corner and observing my little sister from afar in public, then as close as possible while we’re home. Not in a creepy way—Mom just says I’m far too protective of her, and Dad tells me regularly to chill out.

My blood boils as one of them pushes Olivia on her swing, but she pushes off it and turns away from him. I can’t be sure, but I think she tells him to go away and leave her alone.

He pulls the ribbon in Olivia’s hair just as the bell rings, and I feel rage rushing when she shoves the boy in the chest and walks away from the trio, Abigail trailing behind. He tries to grab her again, but Olivia runs.

The boy is laughing with his friends.

I push off the wall and head straight for them, gritting my teeth hard enough to hurt.

No one bullies my little sister and gets away with it.

I follow with one thing on my mind—pain. I want to hurt them. All three of them are the last to leave the playground. I move behind them, silent, sliding my bag down from my shoulders.

I grip the arm strap and swing it, the packed lunch Mom made and textbook making it heavy as it smacks into the side of one of their heads, knocking him down.

I smash it off the second’s head too when he tries to get away then go after the third, the one who pulled Olivia’s ribbon and laughed at her, right into the hallway.

“What the hell?” he calls out as I chase him.

I want to see him bleed.

He pulls a door open, and I run right into it, pain lashing my eye, but I keep going, kicking his ankles to make him trip up and land on his front.

A teacher grabs me just after I punch him in the face.

I’m dragged, kicking and throwing my fists, out of bed in the middle of the night by my dad and pulled from the bedroom I share with my sister—I’ve been in bed since after school, refusing to see anyone, not even Olivia. She’ll ask me what happened to my eye, and she’ll find out what I did. I can’t tell her I beat up kids for her.

She’ll be afraid. I can’t have her afraid of me.

Dad drops me and wraps his hand around my wrist tightly, leading me down the hallway, down the grand staircase, and into his office. He slams the door and paces, his hands running through his silvering hair.

“What the hell were you thinking? I had your principal and parents screaming down the line about you attacking their kids!”

They were bullying Olivia, I sign.

He stops pacing, his hands dropping to his sides.

Then he comes forward and grabs my jaw. “And what happened to your eye?”

Embarrassment has my cheeks turning red. I ran into a door while chasing one of them.

“You can’t go around beating people up. You’re twelve years old. You’re not even a teenager yet and you’re out there breaking noses!”

This is all I’ve been hearing all day—how someone my age can be so aggressive. Since when does age count? I stuck up for my sister—he should be grateful.

“What am I going to do with you?”

The question has my spine straightening, and my eyes widen a touch. Don’t send me back, I sign. I promise I’ll be good.

Dad walks to his desk, leans against it, and folds his arms. “I’m not sending you anywhere, Malachi. I just want you to behave. I’m a lawyer, and I can’t end up on the news because my son is out of control. Why couldn’t you have just threatened them? Told them to stay away? Or even better, tell a teacher or me.”

All I heard there was that he isn’t sending me away.

I silently sigh in relief, my shoulder untensing.

“I think your monthly therapy sessions need to be more frequent. I’ll speak to your doctor about weekly appointments. Olivia isn’t aware of this incident, and she won’t be told. She sees you as an anchor, and we need to keep it that way. I’d rather this stays between us. The boys have all been removed from the school because their parents don’t feel like it’s safe for them anymore. Please, for crying out loud, Malachi, no more fights.”

I nod and lower my head.

“You scared your sister with the way you were kicking around there. Go back and apologize and go to sleep. Your mother will take you to get that eye looked at tomorrow.”

I scared her?

I get to my feet and leave, heading to the bedroom. As soon as I open the door, Olivia sits up on her bed, rubbing her eyes. “Malachi?”

I’m sorry, I sign as I lower myself to the edge of her bed. I’m sorry, I sign again, this time more firmly as my fist rubs against my chest.

“Did Dad hurt you?”

I shake my head, but I don’t think she believes me. Dad hates me—I know he does. Sometimes he drags me to his office roughly for the most minuscule things, and he yells at me way more than he does Olivia, so I know he sees us differently.

I’m the son neither of them wanted but are stuck with. They already think the therapist needs to do more tests—I’m not ready for them yet apparently, whatever that means.

She tips her head, her hair falling in her face. It always smells like strawberries—soft, comforting.

“Do you want a hug?”

Nodding, I slip in beside Olivia. We wrap our arms around each other, keeping each other safe like we have done since we became brother and sister, and fall asleep.