Rumor Has It — A Young Adult Short Story

By Makayla Love

I heard it from Justine who heard it from Vivi who heard it from her boyfriend Travis who heard it from Miranda who swore to God she was there, but she also lies a lot because she thinks it makes her cool and it really doesn’t.

Justine came up to my locker practically vibrating with the juiciness of the story.

Ryan Walters beat the crap out of Hank Quigly.

“It’s wild!” Justine talked with her hands when she got excited. That particular afternoon between fourth and fifth period she was all smiles and jazz hands. “I heard Ryan was sitting at his table—you know, the one in the back next to where that senior in the seventies carved the F-word into the wall—” Justine also didn’t cuss, which was mildly annoying when she got really mad but it was hilarious too. I don’t think I had ever heard anyone use the phrase That Biotch Can Go Fudge Herself in such rapid succession before Justine found out Francine Tuttle had screwed around with her boyfriend.  “And Hank and his friends came up behind him and started messing with him. I heard Hank even smacked him, you know, on the back of the head like this—” Justine pantomimed the action, palm flat and open. “—Bap! Like that!”

“That’s shitty of him.”

“I thought so too, especially after . . . well . . . you know.”

I did know. Everyone knew. Justine and I were just two of the small handful of people with the good grace not to draw attention to it. 

“So? What happened?” I shut my locker, math book in hand, and we started the long trek to Mr. Galligher’s class.

“Oh! So anyway—so Ryan is mad, right? Like maaaaad. Understandable, right? Well he pushes himself out of his chair so loud it made everyone in the cafeteria go dead silent and he got riiiight up in Hank’s face like this—” Justine illustrated by pushing her hands together until they were almost touching but not quite. “—and said ‘Do you want to repeat that?’ all mean and menacing-like. I really thought he was going to pull a knife on him or something. Ryan’s scary.

“Anyway, as I heard it, Hank gets this smirk on his face and shoves Ryan back until he falls over his chair and hits the floor. Then he says ‘Didn’t you hear me the first time, Orphan?’”

My gut twisted. The loud roar of the hallway, where every Rosenfield High student was packed in like sardines, grew considerably quieter. The bright sunlight from outside the windows grew a little darker. “He didn’t.”

“He did!”

“What’d Ryan do?”

“Lost his crap of course! He got this real dark look on his face and got back up super quick and knocked Hank down and started punching him as hard as he could! Ryan kept on punching him until Coach Wilson and Coach Evans pulled him off—and by then Hank’s nose was completely busted and Ryan’s fists were all bloody!”

I tried to picture it and tried not to picture it at the same time.

“What happened to Ryan?” I asked. I had him in Mr. Galligher’s class. He always sat in the back by the window and sometimes I caught little glimpses of him when I was sure he wouldn’t notice. He just looked so sad.

Justine shrugged. “Beats me. Honestly? I’m not surprised he snapped. Like I said, he’s scary. I wish he’d go to school somewhere else or something—I know that’s mean of me, but it’s true. I’m sorry about what happened to him and everything, that wasn’t fair, but it’s got to have messed him up right? You never know what guys like that are capable of.”

I didn’t respond because what was someone supposed to say to that?

We walked into Mr. Galligher’s class together. Ryan sat in his usual spot at the back of the class by the window. He had a black eye and a busted lip. I figured there must’ve been a big part of the story that Justine left out.

Justine and I sat side-by-side in the middle of the classroom. She liked it because it was the thoroughfare for all the juicy gossip. She put her book and her green purse down on her desk and sat. I started to drop off my messenger bag at the foot of my chair like I did every day, but that day I didn’t. That day I looked at Ryan Walters, with the left side of his face all scarred up from the fire that killed his parents and his right eye a black-and-blue crater and the gash on his lip and the look of utter emptiness in his face. No one ever sat with him. Not in any classes or at lunch or anywhere they weren’t forced to. No one picked him for teams in P.E. and no one invited him for pizza after school.

And I didn’t like that.

I slung my bag back over my shoulder and headed for the desk next to his. Justine hissed my name, asking what I thought I was doing, demanding I come back. I plopped my bag down on the floor and sat my book down on the surface of the desk. Ryan looked at me from behind his curtain of dark hair.

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m sitting here.” I said. “It’s nice back here—quiet, I bet. Hey, do you want some candy?” I fished a hard caramel candy out of my bag and handed it to him. The gold wrapper gleamed in the sunlight from his window. “They’re so good, and they’ve got this filling that tastes like green apple.”

He eyed the candy as if he didn’t know what it was or what to do with it. Then, just when I almost withdrew my olive branch, he reached over and took it.