I started to close the door. I figured Mark was up to something. Summer was my time.
"Wait," he said, and pushed passed me into the apartment. Unfortunately, my mom was out, so I was on my own.
"Get out of here!" I told him, raising my voice to show him I as angry.
He laughed at that.
"Relax."
"Leave!"
He folded his arms, calmly telling me, "No."
"What do you want?"
"Don't be so mad."
There was no point in saying it out loud: why wouldn't I be?
"I bet you're glad school is out."
I figured this was one of those times that I would wait it out, but if he tried to do something to me in my own home, I swore to myself I would just be a rabid monkey on him.
"Relax," he said again, glancing down at my hands both balled into fists, "Look at you, all ready to fight."
I didn't relax them. I wanted to be ready for anything.
He walked further into the apartment, back toward the bedrooms.
"Where's your room?"
"I said, leave!"
He looked over his shoulder, "You know you're not going to do anything about it."
The door to my mom's bedroom was closed, so he opened the only closed door—my bedroom.
"Why are you here?"
He stood in the doorway looking it over before he stepped inside. I followed him, hoping to defend my stuff. There was no telling what he might do.
After a few seconds, he turned to face me.
"You know, you're really immature."
I stayed quiet, waiting it out, but I felt my face get hot.
He nodded at the bed.
"You've got like five stuffed animals. Seriously?"
He walked over to my bookshelf and pulls out the one picture book I kept, because it was my first favorite book.
"Kiddie books?"
I grabbed it out of his hands, "Don't touch my stuff!"
Right away his face became angry, just like it was in school when he did something to me.
"You know why people do things to you? You know why you have no friends?"
"Get out of here!" My voice cracked with emotion.
He wasn't listening.
"I'll tell you why. Because you're immature. Because you're a baby."
"GET OUT OF HERE!"
He poked me in the chest, "I'm trying to be nice to you, little baby."
"What do you want?"
"Maybe I'm trying to apologize," he said, stepping back and sitting on my bed. I realized he was partly sitting on a pair of my underwear, but I didn't say anything, "Maybe I want to be your friend."
In my gut, I didn't believe him. I wanted to say, I don't want to be your friend!
But I had no friends. And what if he meant it? It would feel stupid to say no to someone—even Mark—who actually wanted to be my friend.
So I ignored my gut.
I glanced at my animals, then back at him.
"Just don't call me baby."
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