Interim by S. Walden Page A

once more.
    She hesitated, and he knew she was debating if she should say it out loud.
    “It’s okay. You can say it,” he encouraged.
    “You lost a ton of weight,” she said, looking him up and down.
    “I grew six inches over the summer,” he replied. “And decided to start getting in shape.”
    She whistled low. “That’s a decent way to start high school.”
    “I think so,” he said.
    “Did you work on anything else over the summer?”
    He furrowed his brows. “Like what?”
    “Like your asshole personality?”
    He chuckled. “Gosh, you just say it, huh?”
    “No point in beating around the bush.”
    He dropped the footbag again. This time he didn’t retrieve it. He let it lay on the grass—take a much-needed break.
    “I picked on people because I was insecure,” he said softly. “You know, with my weight and stuff.”
    Regan listened.
    “I’m not that guy anymore,” he went on. “I’ve grown up.”
    “There’s not that much difference between thirteen and fourteen,” she said, unconvinced.
    “There is for me,” he insisted. He looked straight at her face.
    “Okay, Brandon. I sort of believe you,” she replied, picking up her hacky sack and gym bag. She slung the bag over her shoulder, signaling the end of their conversation.
    But he wasn’t ready to end it, and she sensed that. He gave her a really good once-over, taking in her fourteen-year-old hair, lips, breasts, legs. Cleats. He smiled.
    “Wanna know what I was laughing about?”
    “Please share,” she said.
    “I was looking at your cleats,” he said, pointing to her feet.
    “Oh, whoops,” she replied, looking down.
    She plopped on the ground and switched out her shoes.
    “Thanks. These are brand new. If Mom saw me walking in with them on, she’d have a fit.”
    He nodded. “So anyway, I was looking at your cleats, and I thought, wow, I’m a cleat chaser.” He paused, waiting for her reaction to his not-so-subtle proclamation of love. Or lust. Perhaps lust right now.
    “Girls are cleat chasers,” Regan said, distracted, lacing her shoe.
    Brandon sighed. “I know. That’s what made it funny. That I thought to myself, hey, I’m a guy, but I’m a cleat chaser.”
    “Who are you chasing after?” she asked, looking up.
    He shook his head. “God, Regan! You’re so oblivious! You! I’m chasing you!”
    She froze, flushed with flattery.
    “Like role reversal over here. You’re the athlete, and I’m going after you. See why that’s funny?”
    She hopped up. “You’re so sexist.”
    “I’m not. I swear. But come on. Can’t you see the humor in it?”
    She considered him. “I guess.”
    “Well, is that all you’re gonna say? I just confessed to liking you.”
    “But why? You never showed interest before,” she said.
    “Because before, I was an idiot.”
    She smirked.
    “Don’t say it,” he warned playfully.
    They stood avoiding each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to speak.
    “You were a really cruel kid,” she said softly.
    “I know. But I’m not that guy anymore, Regan. I swear. How about this: Let me show you that I’m not that guy,” he offered.
    “How?”
    “Hang out with me.”
    “Hang out with you?”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “Umm . . .”
    He waited.
    “Well, I guess so,” she said finally.
    He lit up. “You won’t regret it. I swear . . .”
    “Regan!” the secretary shouted.
    She jerked her face up, and in an instant, the memory faded. “Huh? Wha—?”
    “You’ve been standing there staring at me for ten minutes! What do you need?” Pam demanded.
    Regan clutched the red notebook against her chest. She was all ready to turn it in, report what she’d learned from those dark pages, but then her mind yanked her back to the summer before ninth grade.
    Brandon. He said all the right things. He halfway convinced her he’d changed. He showed her all during that school year until she fully believed him. She was unaware of the abuse he doled out in secret. She had no