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ღ Finding Cinderella- 42 ღ

-Tristan-

It had been two years since I'd gotten into a fight. Some kids had been bullying Ryo, and I had stepped in, punched the ringleader in the mouth, got punched back, and continued to brawl until the teachers had pulled us apart.

It was one of my proudest moments because it was my first real fistfight, and I had won (that's what I believed, at least). But the aftermath was nasty. I was supposed to join a math tournament that week, but I was suspended. My parents understood my reason for fighting, but they still punished me by taking away all my gadgets, forbidding me to hang out with my friends, and making me do all the household chores. Since then, I hadn't been in a fight.

Until now.

I was sitting in the principal's office, facing Mr. Henderson's disappointed look once again. On the other chair beside me was none other than Erik son-of-a-bitch Taylor. A purple bruise was starting to show on his cheek, and I was pretty sure my nose looked crooked.

We received a long lecture from Mr. Henderson, but neither of us was willing to listen or even to speak up. And because of that, the old man just let out an irritated sigh and called us a bunch of knuckleheads.

Both of us faced two consequences: either a week's suspension or a week of community service. My parents would kill me if I were to undergo suspension in the final weeks of my senior year, so I decided to choose the latter even if it would mean spending my after-school hours repairing the damage in the greenhouse.

I didn't know about Erik since he silently stalked out as soon as the lecture ended. Fucking prick.

As expected, the news about the fight had immediately circulated the campus. Now, as I walked in the hallway, everyone was staring at me as if I'd just beheaded someone.

My friends were gathered at the lockers as if there was a solemn discussion going on, and the moment I walked past them, they followed me right away, firing a lot of comments.

"How are you feeling, man?" Ryo asked.

"Shit, dude. Your face is fucked," said Justin.

"He's no virgin to fighting, but this is the first time I saw him go crazy," Grey remarked with a lilting amusement. He sounded like those dads who were proud to hear their kid getting into fistfights and winning.

"It's my fault. I'm so sorry. I never should've brought up that question," Monique said; her face was full of genuine concern. Will encircled his arms around her for comfort.

"No, if it wasn't for that, I wouldn't have known the truth," I said. I swung my locker open, grabbed my backpack, and slammed the door shut.

As I turned around, I saw Clark and Lacey running toward me.

"Oh my God. Are you okay?" she exclaimed.

Erik could've been lying about Clark, but when Clark only stood frozen behind Lacey, I knew he was not as blameless as I wanted to believe. With his eyes fixed on me, he swallowed and twisted his mouth as if he wanted to explain something, but he couldn't utter a single word. I had the urge to shoot out a straight punch to his face, but I held it back and glowered at him instead. I hit his shoulder with mine as I walked out.

He'd been my best friend since we were kids. I had started third grade with an arm cast from falling off my bike, and Clark had been the one to help me with the note-taking. We would meet other kids, but we stuck with each other, supported each other, and boosted each other when bad times hit. Remembering Erik's words left me feeling betrayed. My own friend was the fucking catalyst for all this trouble. And I was done.

-Kylie-

One bad thing about worrying was that it fucked up my appetite.

Lacey had told me about Tristan and Erik's fight, and now we were both dead silent in front of the dining table, barely touching the casserole. Mom was giving us weird looks, and she slowed down her chewing as she asked, "What's with the long faces you two?"

My sister shook her head while I cracked an innocent smile, answering, "Huh? N-nothing."

She and I traded a look after that. Mom didn't reply, but of course, moms have a sixth sense that lets them know something is up. The tension was making the air stifling. I could feel that Lacey was hiding something from me.

After the dinner and chores, she bolted upstairs quicker than I could've expected, and I rushed after her before she could lock herself in her room.

"Hit me with it. What's wrong?" I asked, blocking her door with my hand.

Keeping her eyes on the floor, she opened her mouth slowly as if what she was about to say was so grave it was consuming all her physical strength.

"It's about Clark," she said in her softest voice; I almost couldn't hear her. "I think... I think he did something that might have to do with the fight. Tristan hates him right now; I can tell from the way they treated each other earlier. Clark refused to speak to me about it when I asked him. He... he only said sorry."

Asshole, I wanted to reply, but I didn't want to cause Lacey more pain by insulting him. I could sense her having an internal battle over whether she should squeeze the truth out of him and potentially ruin their relationship, or let him slide and continue the way things were.

"Oh, Lacey..." I was at a loss for a proper reply.

"Everything's going to be okay, right? He must've had a good reason for doing whatever he did, right?" Her face was contorted with desperation, but she fought to smile. She always strove to find the good in people—her trait I admired. But as someone who had seen people take advantage of her kindness over the years, sometimes I found it hard to agree with her.

"Yes, I think everything's going to be fine, but... I wouldn't assume his reason was good. You can't just excuse everyone all the time, Lacey. People do bad things for selfish reasons; other times, for reasons they think are good."

"But does that make them a bad person?"

The gears in my head stopped. I was unprepared for a philosophical discussion.

"I don't know. Not... inherently... I guess." I shrugged stupidly.

"I just don't want them fighting," she murmured.

"I know... But they'll be okay soon." Jesus, I felt useless. I couldn't comfort her in any way.

Lacey nodded and entered her bedroom. As soon as I heard the click of the lock turn, I proceeded to my bedroom as well and glanced at Tristan's window. His curtain was blocking the light of his desk lamp. Sighing, I threw myself on the bed and felt my phone underneath me. I picked it up, shutting my eyes halfway to adjust to the glaring light of the screen in my dark room. I tried to decide whether to ask him if he was okay. In the end, I pushed my phone away and covered my eyes with my arm.

Maybe Lacey's assumption was right—that Clark had done something terribly wrong. I recalled the time when I'd seen him, and Erik engaged in some sort of argument. Just what started the fight, really? Was it a 'boys-only' issue, or was it something much more? Because I felt like the fight was in some ways connected to the picture. Who had taken and posted it anyway? How did things spiral this far?

Great. I felt like Nancy Drew, but without the sleuthing skills and the nerve to solve shit.

It seemed that Lacey and I were fearing the same thing right now—that the people we thought we knew well were people we didn't know at all. Clark... and Erik.

I wanted to talk to Tristan about this. Like, badly. We hadn't talked for more than a week. Would he still even want to see my face after everything? I felt ashamed for what I'd done and for letting my prejudices get the best of me. I couldn't help imagining how bad the fight had been, knowing the degree of hatred he had for Erik. I hoped he wasn't hurt terribly.

After a while, I heard footsteps coming and the door opening. Then the ceiling light came on.

"Kylie, do you always have to be told not to leave your clothes in the dryer after they're done?" blasted Mom. She didn't even knock. Oh, groan.

Taking my arm off my eyes, I pulled myself up and sat cross-legged. Mom dumped a pile of clothes on the bed and put her hands on her hips.

"You're not the only one in this family who uses the machine. Fold your clothes immediately!"

"Yeah, yeah," I murmured, scratching my head. Why do parents have a knack for making your bad mood worse?

As I began folding my clothes, she asked, "What's the matter with you and Lacey? Are you in a fight?"

Ah, now there was her real reason for barging into my room. "No," I said.

"Don't use that tone with me, Kylie. I'm just asking because I'm concerned. I can't get your sister to come out of her room."

"She always does that when she's in a bad mood," I muttered.

"That's why I'm asking you. You two are acting very odd tonight."

"We're not in a fight. It's just... puberty mood swings. Whatever."

She sat on the edge of the bed, her appearance shifting from austere to gentle. My face turned pale. Were we about to have a heart-to-heart talk? Ugh, no. No thanks. I could talk with my mom about everything EXCEPT gushy, emotional subjects. There was just something awkward and embarrassing in doing it. For me, at least.

"Mom, it's not that serious," I said, to make her go away and give me some personal time again.

"How are you and Tristan?"

I felt my blood pressure rise. "Mom, why would you ask that? It's really none of your business!"

She drew her eyebrows together. "Don't be hostile. We used to talk about everything, but lately, you just clam up."

"I'll just share what I want to share," I answered defiantly, sifting my clothes.

"I saw you two arguing outside the house a few nights ago," she said out of nowhere.

It almost made me choke on my spit. "W-were you spying on us?"

"Oh, honey, no. I was going to the bathroom when I heard you."

"It was nothing. Forget it. It was dumb, anyway." The shirt I had folded was a mess, so I set it aside and grabbed another from the pile. My cheeks were getting hot, and I wanted to hide under the covers already.

Mom sighed and made a little smile. "You really are a lot like your dad... well, before he married me."

At the mention of him, I slowed down my working pace. I felt my stomach drop, and I clenched my jaw hard to keep my emotions under control. I loved my dad, and I thought about him occasionally—all of us did—but I didn't want to talk about him. Talking made me feel uneasy and sad. I'd had enough of being sad.

But tonight, for some reason, I couldn't help but relive some of my memories of him.

"In what way are we alike?" I asked quietly.

Mom didn't give a direct reply, as if she were choosing her words carefully. "Strong and tough, but avoids things that touch your emotional side."

I frowned. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I'm your mother, so I know that one for sure."

I scoffed, holding back a smile. What a classic mom line. Strangely, along with this amusement, I felt a certain kind of sadness. The lump in my throat hardened, and I quickly clutched my blanket.

Please, not now. Not in front of Mom.

She tapped her lap, puffing out air. "Okay, this has been awkward enough. I'll go and wash up." She stood up and turned to me. "But Kylie, keep in mind that it's okay to face your feelings and confront your insecurities head-on. It's okay to feel all kinds of emotions and accept them. Sometimes, that's just what it takes to be brave."

As she shut the door behind her, I collapsed on the bed at the same time the barriers around my mind and heart did. And for the first time since Dad died, I cried. A hell lot. For what I'd become and for what I'd denied myself.

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