Saint Joseph School

'He's wrong.'

That one thought fills my head as I slam my fist into the bag suspended before me. The rythmic slap of skin meeting leather joins my own grunts and groans bouncing off the corner of the dojo. Despite the cool air, sweat dances on the ends of my hair and down my back, soaking my thin tank top. I swing my leg in a wide arc, grimacing as it meets the side of the bag.

It's just starting to get light, the first rays of dawn peeking in the windows and tinting my world in red and orange. I had deliberately kept the lights low when I let myself in half an hour ago. I like the dark, the quiet. It's safe. It's isolated. It makes me feel alone. I like being alone for a workout.

'He's just like the rest of them.'

Who am I kidding? This isn't a workout. Even a blind person could see that. I feel my jaw clench and my attacks speed up. Right jab, kick, elbow, left hook. This isn't a workout. This is punishment, a merciless and rageful assault. It almost makes me feel sorry for the bag. I know I'll probably feel this for days to come. But I just don't care.

Last night replays in my mind's eye. Over and over. The sparring, the training. That smug grin on his face as he deflects everything. Anger floods my vision again.

"Come on, Bethie. It's not always going to be this slow."

Strike takes another swing at me. I duck instinctively and kick out, aiming for his stomach. "I'm not slow!" He dodges back, my balance thrown from not connecting. "Hold still!" I'm a fighter, always have been. A good one too. He's taught me a thing or two, beaten me in practice spars, but I'm older now. And a hell of a lot more experienced. So why can't I hit him?

"Make me, Bethie. Force me to. You have two arms and legs. Use them." That stupid grin is still plastered on his face. He knows the moves he's shown me, practiced with me. But he's not the only one I've ever fought. I abandon the martial arts crap in the hope of throwing him off and send my fist at the smug smile.

And he blocks it, my fist slamming into his hand with a painful pop. He laughs and calls me slow again. I feel my anger rise another notch, that much closer to boiling over. I'm a great fighter. The best in my family. This is my domain. WHY CAN'T I HIT HIM?

A voice in the back of my head begins whispering. "Brandon probably hit him. Probably laid him out. That's why he's smiling. You have been found lacking. Again."

My eyes narrow as I feel a surge of power and speed. I know I've just broken his rules, tapping into my abilities, but he's out here healing every bruise I give him in a matter of minutes. I'm done playing by the rules. I yell as a I lay into him, my fists and kicks getting blocked at each turn. "I'm not slow! I'm ten times faster than you and better at this than him!"

The smile fades. His feet begin to drift backwards over the mat. He's not longer countering my attacks, focusing only on blocking them all.

"Better than who, Beth?"

No more Bethie. The childhood nickname is gone. I've gotten his full attention now. The anger builds more.

"Like you don't know! You're just like the rest of them! 'Why can't you be more like him, Beth?'" Getting close to the edge of the mat now. I can see it just behind him. A few more steps and I've proven that I'm better. That I have a place. That I deserve praise too.

"Like who, Beth? Come on, you're doing great."

He's playing me. He knows me better than most, probably better than my parents. I stole my first drink from his stash, but he never told them. He knew I smoked before they did, and even if he didn't approve, he never tried to stop me. He taught me the best way to fight is to end it was quickly as possible, with the least amount of injury. So why is this question such a mystery to him?

"'Straighten up, Beth! Follow in your brother's example, Beth!' The great f#@&ing Brandon Jordan and his misfit sister!"

I feel something spark in the back of my mind, next to the disapproving voice. The anger has hit the boiling point and I realize that my hand is wreathed in flame.

My yell of anger reverberates off the walls. I cough as I pull my hand from the smoldering hole in the punching bag. Lost control again. Figures.

I try to catch my breath, inhaling deeply. The air of the dojo smells of sweat, burning leather and... tea? Without even looking, I wave dismissively. "Hey, Erin." The petite asian woman in the corner has paused in her tai chi. Ten Strike's wife. My godmother. I owe her for the punching bag now.

"I made some tea. Do you want to talk about it?"

I shrug and towel off my face, unwrapping the singed tape from my hand. "About what?"

"About what the bag did to you to deserve such a fate."

I look back at the smoking crater. "Look, I'll talk to my folks and we'll figure something out to pay for it. But I don't want to talk about it. I got an early class." I pause long enough to take a drink of water and grab my gym bag. "Try not to have a heart attack that I actually go to class."

"I wasn't going to."

"Whatever." I push the doors of the dojo open and sprint across town to the school, one thought playing through my head.

'She's just like the rest of them.'

The party wasn't too hard to find. Just run through the many abandoned warehouses in the city long enough and I could hear the music. The low rhythmic thumping of some terrible techno song. I can already feel it sending shockwaves through my boots as I approach the door. There's some guy in a black ski jacket sitting outside the door. I can see a slight glow from his eyes behind his glasses.

Got a meta on security. Nice. Must be one hell of a party. I smirk and give a small wave to him as I walk up. He looks me up and down. The leather jacket, the red zippered dress, the boots. He must have seen something he liked cause he smiles back and waves me through.

Once inside, my senses are assaulted by the smell of alcohol and too many bodies shoved into one place for a good time. The music is so loud the bass threatens to dictate my heartbeat. The people move in time to the beat and the flashing lights that seem to come from everywhere at once. As I take off my jacket, some blonde guy pops up in the crowd before me, waving me over. I throw on my best flirty smirk and sway over to him and his friends. They smell of booze and sweat and smoke. My kind of mixture.

The blonde in the black t-shirt leans down next to my ear when I get close enough. He still has to yell to be heard over the music. "I thought you weren't gonna make it!"

I smile for a moment. I don't know whether he's trying a bad line or too drunk to realize he doesn't know me. Frankly, I'm fine with either. "Hell, no! Like I'd miss out on a party like this?" I spy a glass in his hand and slide it out of his grasp. He watches me as I put it to my lips and swallow a mouthful of the dark liquid. It's warm. And strong. My face tightens in a small grimace before my smirk slips back into place. I lean up next to the blonde's ear, almost brushing my lips against it. "We're gonna need more of these."

The guy nods, grinning widely. I can guess at the thoughts running through his head as he turns to his friend. "Mark! We need two more!" He holds up the near empty glass and points at it then holds up two fingers. Maybe ten feet away a guy nods and disappears into the crowd around us.

By the time Mark returns, I've found out that my new best friend's name is Kyle and he's realized he doesn't know me. And I found out he's a damn good dancer. The vaguely techno beat thrums through the floor and into my feet, travelling it's way up my body and Kyle's hands follow it. In this crowd, there's no such thing as personal space. I press in close to Kyle, one arm draped lazily over his shoulder as I move my hips in time with the music. His hands make their way down from my shoulderblades, settling just below the small of my back and pulling me in closer.

I take a glass from Mark, smiling and drink down a gulp in an effort to outpace my metabolism. This drink is stronger than the first. It's just as well. I plan to have fun tonight. To forget. To belong.

Unlike at that stupid dance on campus. I knew from the moment I stepped foot in the quad, I didn't belong there. It was all nuns and chaperones and well-censored music. Not exactly my scene. I was surprised the DJ played "I Kissed a Girl" for me and Billi and Dee. From the look on the chaperones' faces though I was one well-placed body movement away from getting kicked out of this dance too.

"I don't do school dances," I had told my friends. I should have added that I sure as hell don't do them as a third wheel. Everywhere I looked, it was couples. Sam and Tony. Luke and Aura. Diego and Joni. Even Billi'd asked that bunny kid to the dance.

You could have asked one of them. That stupid little voice. I shake my head slightly as I turn around in Kyle's arms, still moving my body up and down the length of him. I couldn't have asked any of them. That'd be a date.

And Bethany Jordan doesn't date.

Hell no.

Never get close. Never get exclusive.

That's right.

No matter how much you want to.

I frown and finish off the rest of my drink in an effort to drown the voice, the liquid warming in my stomach. I'm barely aware of Kyle's hands moving across my stomach as I lean back against him, still fighting with myself.

I don't date. It's too complicated and will never end well. I'd screw it up and end up hurting myself and the unlucky guy that gets attached. Besides, no one wants to date me anyway. Most of em want to get in a tumble and get gone.

Diego didn't. He pushed you away. He just wanted to talk. Luke didn't either. He has asked you out countless times.

I resolve to ignore the traitor in my head and grab Kyle's glass from his hands. It's half empty and I throw back all of it.

"Damn, girl! Save some for me!" I turn to see a wide grin on his face. He's not bad looking, maybe a little skinny, but that's fine. In this light I can barely make out some band name across his black t-shirt.

My smirk spreads itself back across my face as I answer. "Sorry, Kyle. Just trying to have a good time!" I know what he wants from the look in his eyes, the way his body is moving. I'm not ready. Not yet. "I'll get us a couple more!" I lean in, kissing his warm mouth deeply, nibbling his lower lip as I pull away. "Wait for me!"

My metabolism has always been hit or miss. Some nights, I can't outpace it. It's working too fast. Some nights, one drink'll do me in. When I step away from him, I realize what kind of night it's going to be. While the room isn't spinning yet, I feel shaky on my feet. I must have been slurring a little talking to Kyle. I zig-zag my way through the crowd to the edge of the room, where I watched Mark disappear earlier. Sure enough there's a makeshift bar set up. It's too crowded to get up next to it just yet, so I press in as close as I can.

I'm almost to the bar when I feel a hand on my shoulder, tugging me to turn around. I spin, angry at losing my spot in the order. "I said I'd be back, alright! Just give me a-" I cut myself off. It's a blonde, but not Kyle. The brown leather jacket, the blue eyes that seem to stare off at nothing sometimes. And that cocky smirk.

"Heya, Beth! Sorry, I'm late! 'Sup?" Luke grins at me, as if he just expects me to just throw myself at him in relief that he's here.

I grit my teeth, forgetting for a moment that I actually invited him to hang after the dance. "Nothing a couple more drinks can't cure. I made a new friend." I motion off in a general direction, having lost Kyle in the press of the crowd. "How'd you find me, anyway?" My mouth feels dry and I know that my speech is slurring by the way he's looking at me right now.

"I tracked your cell phone."

"Well, that's about the creepiest thing I've ever heard." I turn back to the bar and motion for a couple more glasses. The redhead pouring them doesn't seem to notice me, so I wave wildly trying to get his attention. My balance is thrown for a moment, but I manage to stay on my feet. I feel that hand on my shoulder again, steadying me.

"You weren't answering so I came looking. You okay?" Luke asks like he had just found me face down surrounded by Nemesis. Those damn blue eyes are focused on my face now, shot through with worry. My simple answer of "sure" doesn't appease him and he raises an eyebrow at me, then past me at the group of guys motioning for me out on the dance floor. "You sure? Ya seem pretty messed up to me."

"I said I'm fine!" I enunicate each word to minimize my slurring. He doesn't believe me and grabs my wrist loosely. "Come on, babe. Let's get you out of here. You're wasted." I angrily jerk my hand of of his grasp, causing me to stumbled back a little as I glare at him. I open my mouth to say something but he stops me. "Come on. You can't stay like this."

The rage in me boils up to the surface as I angrily spit out the words. "What do you care? You had a date tonight!"

Luke sighs and grabs my shoulder again, tugging gently. "Cause I care about you. Now come on." In the morning, I'll probably admire his patience. But right now I just want him to go away.

"No, you don't! You think you do, but you don't! Not in the end. Just like everyone else! Now leave me alone!"

He stops pulling and looks at me, blinking. "Just trust me, okay? I'm not gonna leave you here like this." I've shocked him. Go figure. It takes a couple strong ones to get me to let my guard down. I'll have to do damage control tomorrow.

For now, I can't seem to get my mouth to stop moving. "Yeah. Right. Poor little Beth needs someone to bail her out of trouble again." I realize that I'm already walking next to Luke, my jacket draped over my shoulders. When did that happen? He's laid his arm around my shoulders as he guides me out of the warehouse, nodding to the guy at the door.

"When Beth's smashed and surrounded by crazy horny guys, yeah. Let's go, girlie."

I make a hazy mental note to kick his ass in the morning for calling me "girlie". But for now, I lean against him and the rest of the night gets blurry. I won't remember much in the morning, I know. But I hope I remember this feeling. The feeling of having someone care enough about me to save me. Even from myself. Just for one night.

"Bethany, dear! Come on now, dinner's ready!"

I barely open my eyes as my grandmother's voice, kind even as she yells, breaks through the sounds of some obscure local band from a few years ago. As I lift my head off the bed to look at the door I slip the headphones off. The song was crap anyway, but it did it's job nicely, blocking out the rest of the world my parents had built for us.

I look up to find her standing in the doorway of my room, smiling down at me, sprawled across my bed. Her blonde hair is pulled back in an elegant twist, letting her pearl earrings peek out from under the edge of the gold mass. Her blue eyes sparkled kindly as she stepped into my room, her conservative housewife look constrasting jarringly with the posters and pictures that covered my walls. "Dear, you aren't even dressed."

I look down at the red and black frayed shirt and tattered jeans and have to stop a smirk from creeping on my face. "I am too."

Gramma folds her hands in front of her and sighs, obviously tired. "What's wrong with the outfit your mother picked out?" She motions to the closet door across the room. There, on a simple wooden hanger, hung my nightmare. The buttoned red shirt with little holly leaves embroidered on the cuffs and collar and knee-length black dress. The hose and strappy red heels. It was everything my parents wanted me to be. Conservative. Demure. Conformist.

I hated that outfit.

"I like these clothes just fine," I say, preparing to put my headphones back on.

She crosses the room with a grace I know very few 83-year-olds posses. Her dainty hand slowly takes the MP3 player from me and turns it off. I hide a look of shock that she even knows how to find the power button on the thing. Quickly her hands are back at her waist, folded over the pleats of her simple cotton dress. "I know you do, dear. But your mother would like it very much if you dressed up. This is important to her." Smiling kindly, she takes the hanger from the closet door and lays the dress out across my bed next to me. "When you're ready to come down, dinner is ready." With a simple nod she turns and quietly shuts the door behind her.

I cross my arms and stare that the fabric intruder to my wardrobe. It was always important to my parents that I look at least halfway normal. To keep to some dim shadow of their idea of the "good daughter", complete with a Stepford smile. Get good grades, date the right guys, get into some college to get a degree I'll never use because I'll be a housewife and mother and cape for the rest of my days. It's always been so crucial that I not be me. Me is never good enough. Me is lacking in just about everything.

Grudgingly, I stand and begin to change into the horrid thing. Never good enough. I'm doing something productive with my hobby designing clothes, standing to make some money. Not what they have planned for me. I'm going to that dumb Catholic school with very few complaints. Grades aren't good enough and I land in detention more than they'd like. I'm dating one guy exclusively. But did it have to be THAT guy? I'll admit, Luke is pretty much the exact opposite of what my parents would want for me. Maybe that's why I picked him.

You picked him because he was the only one asking.

I frown and zip up the side of the dress, slipping my arms into the smooth silk shirt.

You didn't want to be alone anymore and no one else wanted to touch you.

I can feel my eyes getting moist and my fists tightening.

You screwed it up with the one guy who liked you for who you were under the mask. Who liked you for you and not your bedroom acrobatics.

I force myself to strap on the heels rather than throw them across the room.

He's better than you deserve anyway.

I grit my teeth and throw my boots into the closet, letting them slam into the back wall.

"Bethany? Are you alright?" My mom, standing at the bottom of the stairs. I open my door and try not to scowl as a smile beams across her face. "Oh, Bethie. You look just lovely!" I slowly descend the staircase, arms crossed across my chest. The rest of the dinner, I sit and quietly answer my parents and grandparents' questions with as few words as possible.

He's better than you deserve...

Then why does it hurt so much?