“Sally? Sally Fellowes?”She turned, and gasped. “Di ... Diane?” She did recognise the other woman, though the intervening sixteen years had no... been kind to her. Her natural body form would have been lush, but she was emaciated, her eyes and cheeks sunken, the remains of bruising apparent on her face.“You remember me?”“Of course!” Diane had been the one person Sally had felt able to confide in. Perhaps it was because she detected that the other girl had similar problems. They were able to share. I looked at the door for what was probably the last time, took a deep breath and settled my face into a neutral expression. Then I opened it and entered.Thirty-six faces turned to stare at me.“Settle down,” I said. “Jackson, go and sit in your own seat and leave Cummings alone. He’s not your play toy.”Reluctantly, the rat-faced teenager left off tormenting the overweight boy that he’d targeted for the past month. Stanley Jackson was a bully, and quite honestly, a mean little fuck. I knew about. It was cool and cloudy on Sunday morning, typical February weather. It would warm up in the afternoon, but I was doubtful it would rise to 60°. I had booked a city tour that would include the Alamo. The trolley-style bus would leave a nearby hotel at ten in the morning with hop-off, hop-on permitted. That left plenty of opportunity to shop if either of them wanted to do that. We could return anytime in the afternoon.It was a good day for Sue and Jan. They loved the city and the Mexican-American. I was nervous sitting at the same table as the boy I had a crush on. I kept on looking into his eyes or trying to memorise his face. Had he always had that small scar under his left eyebrow. I thought that was interesting. I had a scar by my left eye too. It was very faint. It looked almost like a sideways v. But it didn’t touch, so it was more like two lines.I was still thinking of the similarities of our scars when he asked, “So if you were 8 when you came to America then why did you wait.
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