"She was drunk." Cara crosses her arms. "She didn't know what she was doing."

I want to punch her in the face.

Taryn takes a step closer to Cara and leans in. "Whose side are you on, Cara? She raped my boyfriend!"

Why can't I tell them that Brandon forced himself on me? Took advantage of my drunkness, told me to stay still, and put himself inside me. I told him to stop. I didn't want to do it. Or did I? Oh my G.o.d, maybe I did. I'm, like, double his weight. I could've pushed him off me. Could I have? Maybe this is all my fault.

Taryn says, "I guess I don't have to worry about you coming after him again, b.i.t.c.h." Her voice lifts and fades. "Because I swear to G.o.d you look like you're about to explode. With. Just. One. More. Bite. Of. Food."

She pauses in between each word to emphasize her point. To be sure they cut me to the bone. My eyes decide to blink uncontrollably.

"Even if you lost weight you'd still look like an ugly man." Taryn turns on her heels, and all of her girls follow hera"all but one. Cara.

"I told you she'd attack." Cara gathers her backpack. "You should've told me; that way I could've done damage control. Why didn't you tell me?"

I can't speak.

"h.e.l.lo? Are you listening?"

Instead of answering her, I walk away.

Cara falls in stride with me. "It's just so unlike you to be aggressive with a guy. How many beers did you have?"

Her question shreds me to the core. I block Cara out. She hasn't once asked for my side of the story or even questioned the validity of Brandon's accusation. It sickens me to think that everyone just believes Brandon because he's popular and handsome. There is no justice for fat girls.

How am I going to make it through the entire school day? Facing cla.s.s after cla.s.s of people who, no doubt, will have heard Taryn's lies? And believed them?

"You know what, Dell?" Cara shouts, startling me. "I'm done with you ignoring me." I glare at her. She shakes her head. "And you can find your own way to the talent show tonight!" She stomps off, and I stand like a block of melting ice. The hallway is full of students scurrying around me.

The talent showa"I'm not doing it.

Chase and Jacob and a bunch of other baseball guys come barreling down the hall, mooing and laughing and pointing at me. The warning bell rings, and they disperse before they reach me. I unfreeze and stagger a bit as I head toward my locker. I can't do this. I can't. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Maybe I have a fever. I'll tell the nurse I threw up at home and puked in the bathroom herea"which is something I think may actually happen.

a a a.

I guess being called an ugly man by Taryn Anderson and the threat of being formally charged as a rapist can cause one's body temperature to rise, because I have a fever of 99.1. It's enough to get me a private cot in the nurse's office.

I'm curled up in the fetal position underneath a scratchy wool blanket, worrying if Brandon will press charges against me. It would be my word against his. How could I prove that I was the victim? I never reported it. h.e.l.l, I haven't told a single soul. Would the police believe me? If they're anything like the s.h.i.ts at my high school, I would be in serious trouble. I rock my body back and forth at the thought of having to go to jail.

There's a knock at the door, and the nurse peeks her head in. "You're awake. Good. Let me feel your head." She rests her open palm on my forehead, and it's freezing. I startle. "Sorry, sorry. My hands are always cold. Well, you still feel warm to me. It's fourth period now. If you want to go home, I'll have to call a parent."

I tell the nurse not to bother calling my mother, because she can't leave work, and ask her if I could just stay here.

"Let's give it another period and see how you feel. I'll be back with something to help settle your stomach."

The nurse cracks open my door, holding a package of crackers and a can of ginger ale. I am free to rest in here until I feel up to heading back to cla.s.s.

I gag for effect as I reach for the food. She says, "I'll lay them over here for later." If she only knew how stressed out I am right now, and how I eat when anxious. She'd be relieved I didn't filet her and eat her.

Magic Isn't Real.

A KNOCK WAKES ME UP. I STRETCH AND LOOK around. Oh yeah, I'm in the nurse's office. The details tumble from my head: the Facebook s.h.i.t, Taryn's attack, Cara's abandoning me. Good times.

The nurse peeks her head in. "Hon, the last bell rang ten minutes ago. I let you sleep."

"Oh, thanks." I sit up and run my fingers through my matted hair. She walks over and feels my forehead again.

"How do you feel?"

Like a humiliated piece of s.h.i.t. "Okay."

"Someone's here to see you."

My stomach tightens.

The nurse opens the door all the way, and I see that "someone" is the guidance counselor, Mr. Drueller. If Mr. Drueller's here, that means someone told him what's going on. That means he knows about the rape lie. The thought of discussing, addressing, mentioning, or referencing what Brandon did to me with Mr. Druellera"who is, like, ninety years olda"makes me nauseous. I seriously might throw up. I'm dying inside.

"Adele, is there anything you'd like to talk about?" He takes one step into the small room.

f.u.c.k no is what I'd like to respond. My mouth goes completely dry. I shake my head.

His forehead pinches. "Are you sure?"

h.e.l.l yeah, I'm sure.

We do that uncomfortable dance as we look at each other while trying to avoid eye contact.

"Okay, well, one of your peers is concerned about you and came to me. I am not at liberty to share who, but they said you may need to talk to an adult. That's all of the information that I could get out of the person. You know where my office is if you change your mind. It's my job to listen. I'm a pretty decent listener, and . . . " His voice trails off and he shoves his hands into his dress pants. He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel. I stare at the floor. "Okay, well, feel better," he says. The door clicks closed behind him, and I resume breathing.

Cara must have gone to see Mr. Drueller. Deep down this makes me want to forgive her. Again.

The nurse sets me free. As I walk, I clasp my hands together until my knuckles turn white. There are sure to be students in the building, and I don't want to see any of them. Not even for a split second.

I'm doing everything in my power to slink to my locker. A 286-pound girl is about as stealth as a rhino falling down the stairs. As I turn the corner there's a commotion up ahead. I come to a halt. What's going on at the end of the hallway could easily be cla.s.sified as my worst nightmare.

Brandon and the baseball team are suited up and getting a pep talk from Coach Lein. I'm going to have to walk by them to get to my locker. Maybe if I stop and wait, they'll head out to the field, and I can escape unscathed. I get a very long drink from the water fountain. They shout their "Go Chargers" chant, and I watch them all start grabbing their stuff. Coach Lein heads out the door.

Chase sees me and shouts, "Moooo!" His tone is different this time, stripped of his usual lightheartedness. This moo sounds evil.

Brandon stands silently, glaring at me.

I want to grow wings and take flight. I want disappearing dust sprinkled on me. I want a wand waved, a lamp rubbed, heels clickeda"anything to make me invisible right now. But I'm just your garden-variety fat girl, standing in her high school hallway. Magic isn't real.

Pain is real.

It's weird, this everyone-is-staring-at-everyone moment. My eyes dart from Brandon to Chase, back to Brandon. No one says a word. Then the spell breaks and everyone but Brandon turns their back on me and walks through the doors.

I'm alone in the hallway with Brandon. "Stay away from me, Dell!" He heads out into the sunshine.

My backpack feels weighted with bricks. I let it slide to the ground. I want to kick it. I want it to rocket through the doors and hit Brandon in the back, knocking the wind out of him. I want him to feel like I feel. Desperate for air.

My leg winds up and I unleash on my backpack. Upon impact, two things are immediately evident: 1. I have a wicked kick, because my backpacka"filled with two textbooks, two notebooks, and a bindera"has taken quite a ride down the waxed school floor.

2. I have broken my big toe.

I heard it crack. Like a stick snapping in half.

Halfway home I decide to pick up Meggie early. I am in excruciating pain, and the thought of having to navigate the stairs to my apartment twice is horrendous.

The rest of my walk to Mrs. McNash's is such a struggle. I try walking on my heel and hobbling on the outside of my foot to lessen the paina"nothing works. I know I can't tell my mother what I've done. She'll think it's ridiculous and blame my clumsiness on my weight, and then we'll wind up getting angry at each other. Each step, regardless of where my foot makes impact with the ground, hurts like h.e.l.l.

Mrs. McNash is pretty perceptive, because she notices something's wrong the second she opens the door. "Adele, what's the matter, honey? Why are you making that face?"

I swallow. Maybe I should tell her what happened. Unload every heavy detail onto her warm, kind shoulders. Maybe she'd listen to me. . . . Maybe she'd believe me.

"Nothing," I say. "I tripped on the sidewalk. Stubbed my toe. I'm good."

Confusion registers on her face. "I don't know about that. Want me to take a look? It might be broken."

"Nah, really, I'm all right. It feels better already. I'll ice it when I get home."

Total lie.

I'm doing everything in my power not to cry in front of the woman. I blink a bunch of times and bite the inside of my lip.

"Oh, honey, you're as white as a ghost. Come here." She wraps me in a hug. I am hushed by the perfection of the embrace. The way her arms put just the right amount of pressure on my body makes me know that I exist. She smells like dryer sheets. She draws back but holds on to my shoulders. "Let me have one of my girls drive you and Meggie home."

I nod. I don't want her to let me go. Her touch is gentle and kind, and I haven't been touched like that in a long time. She probably thinks I'm a clingy weirdo, so I let my eyes wander past Mrs. McNash, into her living room. I spot Meggie. She's sleeping on her mat, b.u.t.t up. Her blanket is tucked underneath her cheek. She's an angel.

"Let me get Meggie for you." Mrs. McNash skillfully steps over three kids, picks her up, and has Meggie in my arms without her making a peep.

"Dehwy!" she whispers in her groggy little voice. I gently smother her neck with kisses so Mrs. McNash can't see my tears. Her smell fills my nose, and I try to visualize Meggie's smell surrounding my body like a fog of perfection and innocence. Wrapping me in love.

I put Meggie down and change my mind about the ride. "I can walk, really. Thanks though." I shift my weight and gasp. Not healed. I want the love to heal my broken bone. Still broken.

Mrs. McNash insists, so we get a ride home from Miss Kelly, the skinny twentysomething with superwhite teeth and neon orange hair who got the part-time job instead of me. The drive home is less than five minutes, but Miss Kelly manages to tell me that she went to my high school, got accepted to West Chester University for early childhood ed, hated studying, flunked out, and got the job with Mrs. McNash because she agreed to take cla.s.ses at the community college, which she's not studying for either.

Fascinating.

I pant through my thank-you and hobble to the front landing with Meggie, her stroller, and my backpack in tow. Miss Kelly makes no move to help me. She's too busy texting up a storm. She honks as she drives away. There is no way in h.e.l.l I will make it up the stairs while carrying everything, so I leave Meggie's folded stroller behind the main door.

The walk up the stairs is torture. I have to peel my fingers from the banister when Meggie and I reach the top. My teeth are probably nubs from all of my clenching and gritting. The f-word slips out as I unlock our door.

Meggie bounces into our apartment. "f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k."

I shout to her as I close the door behind me, "Megs, that's not a nice word. You can't say that word. Okay?"

She scrunches her face into the cutest scowl. I get her set up with a snack and a video while I gobble ibuprofen. When I wrestle my foot out of my sneaker I almost puke. It's black and blue and swollen to twice its normal size. After a quick Internet search I learn that I have to stabilize my mangled toe. We don't have the right kind of tape, so I use regular, clear wrapping-paper tape. After much panting and sweating, I have squished my broken big toe and the one next to it together into one painful mess.

I lie down on the sofa and put a pillow underneath my foot to elevate it. Meggie is engrossed watching colorful little creatures dance and sing about friendship. I close my eyes, take deep breaths, and try not to pa.s.s out from the rolling waves of agony. The underlying hum of the traffic pa.s.sing by calms me down.

My cell beeps, startling me, and I listen to a rambling voice mail from Cara. "I hope you're not going to weasel out of the talent show and stay home sulking, Dell. It was just s.e.xa"even if it was with the most popular girl's boyfriend. It was just s.e.x. Besides, you can't hide out forever. Meet me at six, backstage by the lion head. Wear makeup, like, a lot. It's called stage makeup, and you need to make it dark or it won't show out in the audience."

I sit up because I can't believe what I just heard. Just s.e.x? She still believes Brandon's story. I'm in the middle of texting Cara something along the lines of "Wow, you're lucky you told the guidance counselor you were worried about me, because if you hadn't, I'd be really mad at you right now" when my toe explodes with pain. I let out a long moan. I abandon the text and limp to the medicine cabinet to inspect prescription bottles. I know what I'm looking for. Vicodin. That oughta take the edge off. "Yessss," I hiss. I pop two and head back to elevate my toe and finish my text.

There is a lot of me to get situated, so it takes a while, and by the time I'm comfortable, I lose the desire to text Cara. She obviously doesn't get it.

After twenty minutes of robotically staring at the television, I feel the Vicodin kick in. When I blink, it's like my inner windshield wipers are turned on slow, because my eyes take a while to open. My heartbeat isn't racing anymore either. Everything has slowed down. But my toe still hurts like a mother.

My cell buzzes with a new text from Cara. She demands I get over the whole Taryn incident by blowing everyone's mind onstage tonight. She says it will show everyone that I've moved on. Then she reminds me about my makeup again.

I put my phone down. I blink, and my eyelids are in no hurry to open. If I took another Vicodin, I probably wouldn't care about being up onstage. h.e.l.l, with that much Vicodin in me, I probably wouldn't care if I were naked onstage. Doing jumping jacks.

A Demented Circus Clown.

I IMAGINE THE HOT STAGE LIGHTS WARMING MY skin, my voice filling the auditorium. The audience loving me, clapping and chanting my name. Mountains of love and adoration directed at me. That sounds so good right now.

I want that.

A landslide of objections form. I have nothing to wear. I have a broken toe. How am I supposed to get to school? I can't walk. What if the baseball d.i.c.ks show up and start mooing in the audience? What if Taryn is there? That would get ugly.

It seems like the universe or G.o.d or whatever is trying to give me signs. Don't do it, Adele. Just stay home and eat a sandwich. Stay away from that stage. Stay away from those people. Stay away from that moment.

That moment.

But I love that moment.

The rehearsals have been dipped in perfection. The applause and cheering. My stomach flipping with joy. The skin around my mouth tingling as my face burst into a smile. I want to feel that again. It made me feel seena"really seen. And alive. Even Mrs. Salvatore cheered.

I need to feel joy, especially after all the c.r.a.p I went through at school today. It might fill some of the empty s.p.a.ce inside of me.

I text Cara and ask her if she can pick me up because I hurt my toe on my walk home (lie) and don't feel like walking (truth). She texts back that I'm a klutz and she'll honk at quarter of six.

I guess I'm actually going to sing.

I look at my watch. I've got an hour and a half until my mother gets home. I didn't tell my parents about the show because they wouldn't care. My father is too busy gallivanting around with Donna anyway. But if I'm going to sing, then I need to shower so I'm ready to go as soon as Cara honks.