I stood up right away.
I knew instantly that my mom had called Mark's dad. Somehow, all made me into the bad guy.
And I was sick of it.
Mark's bandage didn't seem as huge as when I'd seen it from a distance.
"Your mother called us," his dad explained.
Did he think I was stupid?
"Let's go outside and have a talk."
I sat down again. I knew they wouldn't tell me what they thought of me in a crowded restaurant.
I took a drink of water like they weren't there.
Mark sat down opposite me.
"It's my table, so get up," I seethed, then repeated what I'd said hours before: "I'm in charge."
Mark wouldn't move. He glanced up at his parents, then said, "I told them what happened."
I stared at him but didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry."
"What did you tell them?" I asked.
"What?"
"What did you tell them?"
I could tell he was nervous.
He repeated his dad's question, "Can we talk outside?"
"NO!" I shouted at him, "WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM?"
I assumed everyone in the restaurant was looking at me, but I kept my eyes on Mark.
His mom tried calming me down, "We should take this outside. I'm sure other people don't want—"
Mark interrupted her, admitting, "—that I hit you first. I'm sorry."
His dad looked right at me, "Okay. Let's all go back to the cabin and talk this out."
I didn't care. His dad wasn't nice to me, either.
Denise came by, "Can I get you anything?"
I smiled at her, "No, thank you. The check, I guess?"
"We paid already," Mark's mom told me.
I folded my arms, sat back in my chair, and asked Mark, "That's all you said?"
He looked confused.
"I don't understand."
I smirked at him. I hated him so much.
"Did you tell them how you treat me?"
I loved how clueless he looked. He couldn't say a word.
I shouted at him so the entire restaurant could hear, "DID YOU TELL THEM HOW YOU TREAT ME?"
He glanced anxiously at his parents, then leaned over the table like he wished he could whisper to me, "Charlie—"
"DID YOU TELL THEM HOW YOU TREAT ME?"
Denise came back over to the table. I was glad she talked to me. I was the customer, after all.
"You should talk outside," she told me gently.
I thanked her for the pie, grabbed my backpack, and headed out the door. Mark and his parents followed me.
I still had no intention of going back to the cabin.
As soon as we were outside, in front of a dozen people waiting for a table, I spun around and faced Mark again, "DID YOU TELL THEM HOW YOU TREAT ME?"
His father still tried to play the good guy, using that same kind of annoying talk-to-little-Charlie tone my mom had used, "Let's go to the cabin and talk this out."
Instead, I walked right up to Mark the way he did when he tried to intimidate me with his height.
But this time, he was the one who stepped back.
I closed the gap to stay close to him, and he stepped back again. I kept it up until we were in front of the closed gift shop next door.
I thought about swinging my backpack around and smacking him with it. But, instead, I threw it on the sidewalk.
He flinched and stepped back yet again. Maybe he thought I was going to hit him.
Maybe I wanted to.
Throwing a backpack on the ground was his thing. That was his signal.
Walking home from school, I dreaded seeing Mark and his friends. I feared what was coming when he slammed his backpack to the ground and came at me. It meant a punch in the stomach, a kick to the balls, or a slap to the face. Getting rid of the backpack meant that he wanted his hands free to hurt me.
Why did I ever let him inside our apartment? Why did I believe he wanted to be friends?
My hands were clenched into fists so tight that they hurt. I didn't care if he was a foot bigger than me or if his parents were right there. I hated myself for having been so scared for so long.
And I hated that I kept it to myself.
I wanted to hit him so badly.
His dad stepped between us to keep us apart, "That's enough!"
But I wasn't done.
I looked over at Mark's mom and calmly asked her, "Did he ever tell you about Charlie Day?"
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