Craig Manning was breathing fast, his heart beating so hard that he thought it might just stop, and he wished it would. The school had called his father because he skipped class-again. When he skipped he knew the school would probably call his father and that that would result in this. The yelling. The anger. The twisted expression, the raised fist. But at the time he didn't care because he hated school. He was all about immediate gratification these days.

"Craig, what in the hell are you thinking?" Albert said, teeth clenched, fist wrapped around his belt. Craig licked his lips and didn't answer. Any answer he gave wouldn't matter. But his father continued.

"You're in 10th grade, you can't skip class. Your marks are, they are of utmost importance,"

He thought about that. He didn't give a shit about his marks. It didn't matter. He was flunking out of most of his classes anyway. There was the very real possibility that he would have to repeat 10th grade. So he just waited for his father to hit him with the belt in his hand, waited as his heart tried to beat right out of his chest.

And when it came, that familiar sting of the strap, the hard leather cutting across his back, he didn't even care. He was almost glad it had started because that meant soon it would be over.

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He went to school because his father forced him to and he didn't dare disobey. He went. That didn't mean he stayed there. The sun was bright in the morning and hurt his eyes, and he squinted against it as he walked toward Sean and Jay.

"Craig, hey, man, what's up?" Sean said, slapping him on the back. For some reason Sean usually ended up aggravating his injuries. He sucked in his breath and tried not to wince as Sean's hand came down on his back.

"Uh, nothing," he said, and he heard the funny hurt tone to his voice. He looked at Sean and Jay. They didn't appear to have noticed.

"Jesus, you look like shit," Jay pointed out, and Craig nodded in agreement. Jay was right. He did look like shit. He felt like shit. He'd barely gotten any sleep last night, he hadn't eaten anything for days. He was running on fumes. His father expected him to care about his marks? He could just laugh.

He watched as the popular kids glided by in their little pack. The popular, polished, smart, together kids. Paige. Marco. Jimmy. Ashley. He looked down as they walked by. He knew they would have nothing to do with him.

"Forget it, man," Jay said, following his gaze.

"What?" Craig said sharply, his brow furrowed.

"That chick you were staring at. Ashley. Forget it. She's way out of your league,"

He sighed. As usual, Jay was right.

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"Craig, go to the office," Simpson said the minute he saw him. Craig just stood there looking at him dully. What had he done now? Why was Simpson always on his back? He didn't treat the other kids that way. Only him and Sean and Jay. It sucked. It was unfair.

"Why?" he said, defiant. His hands were clenched in fists. He wanted to punch him, kick him. His anger was there like it usually was, fierce and out of the blue.

"Just go!" Simpson said, stepping toward him. Craig itched to punch him, to punch someone. But he just stared at him a second longer and turned and walked away. In the hallway he thought of just walking right out of the school. Fuck this. He didn't need this. Was Raditch going to lecture him about something? About skipping school? About flunking out? Well, what did they expect? He was a screw up, a fuck up, he couldn't do anything right so what was the big deal?

But he didn't leave. His body still ached from the belt last night and he didn't want his father to get angry with him again. He went to the office, his fear and anxiety overpowering the anger. Maybe they'd called his dad, maybe he was there in the office waiting for him. Maybe he'd been suspended for something, for the bottle of wild turkey in his locker, for smoking pot in the boys' bathroom, for skipping so many classes. Maybe his father was going to take him home and give him the beating he'd never forget. By the time he reached the office he could hardly breathe.

"Craig," It was Ms. Souve, her voice calm and nice. He tried to breathe through his fear. Maybe she wanted to see him.

"Yeah?" he said, feeling dizzy. Maybe not. He glanced around for his father, didn't see him. God, he was a surgeon for god's sake, he couldn't just leave someone's cut open guts to come and pick him up.

"Come into my office," she said, and he followed her to the little room filled with all the green hanging plants and sand trays and glass knick knacks. He sat down in the leather chair and looked at the sun reflecting through the glass of the little animals and figurines she had all around.

"Craig, is anything wrong?" she said in her nice calm way. He just stared at her. She asked him again, but patiently. He closed his eyes and then opened them slowly.

"No," he said.

She looked at him. What did she see? The dark circles under his eyes? The weight loss? The long messy hair, the ill fitting clothes? He didn't care. He didn't care how his clothes looked or how his hair looked or that even when he did eat he could hardly keep anything down.

"Things aren't going too well for you," she said, and the hint of sadness in her voice made him want to cry. Almost. He didn't cry anymore. He was all cried out.

"You're going to have to repeat 10th grade. There's no way around it. But all of your teachers say you're not working up to your potential. They say you fall asleep in class, if you're there at all. They say you're having anger management issues,"

He sucked in his breath. Repeating 10th grade. His father was going to kill him. Kill him. He licked his lips, already feeling his dad's rough hands around his wrists, his sharp kicks to his ribs.

"Craig, you're a bright kid. Your teachers are worried about you, and so am I. Is there anything you want to talk about?" Her voice was so kind, so nonjudgmental. It almost reminded him of his mother's voice. And it trembled there for a second, telling her. Telling her how scared and hurt he was all the time, how he couldn't concentrate in class and so it was easier to just not be there. How the only time he felt halfway normal was if he was drunk, or high. But he couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell anyone. His dad wouldn't let him. And it was all his fault anyway, he made his dad angry. He deserved it. He deserved to be hit because he was worthless. It wouldn't make a difference.

"No," he said, and gripped the armrests of the chair he was sitting in. He couldn't tell anyone anything.