Chapter 4

My cheek hurt from Mom’s slap, but my heart hurt even more.

Back in the winter of eighth grade, Michael accidentally lost his certificate from a speech competition.

He had cried and said that the certificate meant a lot to him.

Brielle and my parents spent all night combing the route he had taken home in the snow.

Later, Brielle convinced the school to issue him a replacement, and Dad called in some favors with the school board to get it officially sealed.

No one had blamed him for not keeping his own certificate safe.

They were acting so differently when it came to me.

I merely asked if Michael did it on purpose, and I ended up with a slap on the face while everyone furiously accused me.

Michael’s eyes glistened with tears. He started sobbing so violently that he almost choked on his own breaths.

“It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have been a busybody and helped Fin to get his folder. Why did I even bother?

“Now, everyone’s mad because of me...”

The moment Mom saw him sob uncontrollably, she became even more furious.

She grabbed my hand and yanked it toward her own neck.

“Here, Finley. Kill me if that makes you happy.

“With a score like that, you’ve got no right to talk back to Mic. Don’t expect me to pay a single penny for whatever crummy school you end up at.”

Brielle pulled Michael into her arms and patted him on the back.

“It’s not your fault. He should’ve gotten those things by himself anyway.

“That’s on him. Don’t let it get to you.”

Everyone crowded around him and comforted him.

I was clearly the victim, yet everyone was blaming me.

I felt increasingly suffocated by the tension in that space.

Michael only stopped crying when Mom offered to bring him to a fine dining restaurant to eat.

Brielle hooked her arm through his and said, “Come on, let’s not waste our time on that petty jerk. A good meal will make you feel better.”

They ushered him out of the school gate.

I closed my eyes.

At that moment, I felt numb.

Seeing that no one had my back, Noah ended up rounding up every school staff member to help look for my folder.

Eventually, they discovered that Michael had left it sitting on the edge of a flower bed near the gate while he tied his shoe.

A janitor saw it, thought it was trash, and threw it into the trash bin.

I rushed to the back door and threw open all four green plastic dumpsters.

The stench was overwhelming. Without even putting on gloves, I reached in and dug through bag after bag of trash.

My fingers grazed sticky fruit peels, sodden tissues, and mysterious fluids.

At the bottom of the third bin, my fingertips brushed against a stiff manila envelope.

When I pulled it out, the folder was covered in stains, but the name “Finley Ashby” was still legible on the front.

Clutching that filthy folder, I slumped down in exhaustion and slid to the floor beside the trash bin.

At that moment, it finally hit me. No one in this family had ever been there for me.

They never were. They never would be.

But thankfully, I no longer needed them to.