were times she didn’t have the chance. When I saw the unmistakable rash of an Indian burn on her wrist, I asked her if she wanted me to take care of it. Rae said no. When she came home with a black eye from a “dodgeball accident,” I asked again. Rae insisted everything was under control. But I got the feeling that the constant bullying was starting to break her.
I had just picked up Petra from her apartment and we were on our way to a movie when my cell phone rang. Petra answered it.
“Hello. No, it’s Petra, Rae. Izzy is right here. Uh-huh. What happened to your bike? Yeah. We’re not far. Sure. ’Bye.” Petra hung up the phone. “We need to pick up your sister at school.”
“What happened to her bike?”
“She said it doesn’t work.”
We were five minutes away. Rae was sitting on the grass outside, her bike in pieces in front of her—the five-hundred-dollar mountain bike that David had given her for her birthday. I saw several boys standing some distance back, laughing at her expense. Rae told me to pop the trunk and Petra helped her gather the spoils of the wreckage and put them inside. Rae jumped into the backseat, took out one of her schoolbooks, and pretended to read. I could see her eyes watering, but I couldn’t quite believe it. I hadn’t seen Rae cry since she was eight years old and ripped open her arm on a barbed-wire fence. She had bled so much that day that it had been impossible to see the actual wound.
“Rae, please. Let me handle this,” I said, dying for a chance to set things straight. We sat in silence for a few minutes, then she looked over at the flock of boys and caught sight of Brandon waving cheerily at her. And that was it.
“Okay,” she whispered. I was out of the car.
As I swaggered across the grounds to the pack of future frat boys, I tried to gauge what level of bully I was dealing with. I have a knack for looking menacing (at least for a woman), so I made sure to walk slowly and purposefully, deep down hoping that a few of the boys would scatter before I got too close. Three answered my prayers and took off, leaving four behind. At five foot eight, I had at least three inches and fifteen pounds on Brandon, the tallest. And I knew I could take him. But if all four boys decided to stick around, I could not predict the outcome. Petra read my mind and got out of the car. Leaning against the passenger door, she slipped a knife out of her back pocket and started cleaning her fingernails with it. The blade reflected the sun and before I reached Brandon, the rest of the boys decided that it was time to go home. In fact, so did Brandon.
“You. Stop,” I said, pointing at my target. Brandon turned around and forced a sneer in my direction. I moved closer, backing him up against a chain-link fence.
“Wipe that dumb-ass smile off your face,” I seethed.
The smile disappeared, but not the attitude. “What are you gonna do? Beat me up?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m bigger than you, I’m tougher than you, I’m angrier than you, and I fight dirtier than you. Plus, I’ve got backup. You don’t. So if I were to make a wager on how this fight would turn out, I’d bet on me.”
“What’s the big deal? We were just joking around,” Brandon said, his nerves showing through.
“Joking. Interesting. Do you think destruction of property is funny? A black eye is funny? Intimidating a girl half your size is funny? Well, then we are going to have a good time.” I grabbed his shirt by the collar, twisted it around, and shoved him against the fence.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered nervously.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” I whispered back. “If you lay a finger on my sister or her property ever again—if you even look at her the wrong way—I will fuck you up. Got it?”
Brandon nodded his head.
“Say ‘I understand.’”
“I understand.”
I released my grip and told him to get lost. Brandon ran away, a
I had just picked up Petra from her apartment and we were on our way to a movie when my cell phone rang. Petra answered it.
“Hello. No, it’s Petra, Rae. Izzy is right here. Uh-huh. What happened to your bike? Yeah. We’re not far. Sure. ’Bye.” Petra hung up the phone. “We need to pick up your sister at school.”
“What happened to her bike?”
“She said it doesn’t work.”
We were five minutes away. Rae was sitting on the grass outside, her bike in pieces in front of her—the five-hundred-dollar mountain bike that David had given her for her birthday. I saw several boys standing some distance back, laughing at her expense. Rae told me to pop the trunk and Petra helped her gather the spoils of the wreckage and put them inside. Rae jumped into the backseat, took out one of her schoolbooks, and pretended to read. I could see her eyes watering, but I couldn’t quite believe it. I hadn’t seen Rae cry since she was eight years old and ripped open her arm on a barbed-wire fence. She had bled so much that day that it had been impossible to see the actual wound.
“Rae, please. Let me handle this,” I said, dying for a chance to set things straight. We sat in silence for a few minutes, then she looked over at the flock of boys and caught sight of Brandon waving cheerily at her. And that was it.
“Okay,” she whispered. I was out of the car.
As I swaggered across the grounds to the pack of future frat boys, I tried to gauge what level of bully I was dealing with. I have a knack for looking menacing (at least for a woman), so I made sure to walk slowly and purposefully, deep down hoping that a few of the boys would scatter before I got too close. Three answered my prayers and took off, leaving four behind. At five foot eight, I had at least three inches and fifteen pounds on Brandon, the tallest. And I knew I could take him. But if all four boys decided to stick around, I could not predict the outcome. Petra read my mind and got out of the car. Leaning against the passenger door, she slipped a knife out of her back pocket and started cleaning her fingernails with it. The blade reflected the sun and before I reached Brandon, the rest of the boys decided that it was time to go home. In fact, so did Brandon.
“You. Stop,” I said, pointing at my target. Brandon turned around and forced a sneer in my direction. I moved closer, backing him up against a chain-link fence.
“Wipe that dumb-ass smile off your face,” I seethed.
The smile disappeared, but not the attitude. “What are you gonna do? Beat me up?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m bigger than you, I’m tougher than you, I’m angrier than you, and I fight dirtier than you. Plus, I’ve got backup. You don’t. So if I were to make a wager on how this fight would turn out, I’d bet on me.”
“What’s the big deal? We were just joking around,” Brandon said, his nerves showing through.
“Joking. Interesting. Do you think destruction of property is funny? A black eye is funny? Intimidating a girl half your size is funny? Well, then we are going to have a good time.” I grabbed his shirt by the collar, twisted it around, and shoved him against the fence.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered nervously.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” I whispered back. “If you lay a finger on my sister or her property ever again—if you even look at her the wrong way—I will fuck you up. Got it?”
Brandon nodded his head.
“Say ‘I understand.’”
“I understand.”
I released my grip and told him to get lost. Brandon ran away, a
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