Say You'll Remember Me. Katie McGarry

shoot the guys behind me if they had a carry-and-conceal license.

      But those moms have children, and their job is to protect them. The rest of the crowd fleetingly glimpse at me then at the jerks, but choose to remain silent. There’s this unwritten code in society that tells us not to get involved.

      Options:

      Stay the course, continue to listen to their taunts and eventually reach Andrew, so I can keep up the appearance of being a sane person.

      Destroy my pride and run while people stare.

      Grab that baseball on the game ledge, throw the ball straight and hard like Henry taught me, hope it knocks one of them out and then inform the other one in really big words I not only know, but can spell, the exact route he can take to hell.

      The third option is my favorite, it’s the one that is my most honest reaction down to the core of my being, but doing that will disappoint everyone but Henry. I promised Mom and Dad I would never lose my temper in public, that I would never let my emotions crack beyond the surface.

      “Hey, you!” one of the guys calls. “Let me show you a girl’s mouth is for—”

      Another round of happy screams from a ride, yet I catch the tail end of his statement. My body whiplashes forward as my feet abruptly become concreted to the ground. The sights and sounds of the midway fade, and all I hear is buzzing. I close my eyes as more pissed-off tears fill my eyes. Why won’t they go away?

      “You okay?” a guy asks.

      I open my eyes and focus on the ground. My eyes are red, I know they are. I can feel the puffiness of my skin. I take a deep breath, look up to explain I’m okay, and freeze.

      Holy hell. It’s the boy from Whack-A-Mole. He’s so much more breathtaking this close, and I have no idea how that’s possible.

      “Are those guys bothering you?” he asks.

      My forehead furrows. Yes, they are, but telling him the truth and inviting him into my problems seems wrong.

      “Since you’re so talkative, I’ll start the conversation,” he says. “If you want to get rid of those guys then stand here and talk to me, and I’ll stand here and talk to you. You can smile like you know me because it’s tough to make me smile, and it will seem fake. Then I can try to win you a stuffed animal. Won’t be a snake, but it will do. Those losers will catch on we’re friends. Eventually, they’ll keep walking, and then they’ll return to their loser frat house where they’ll play with themselves for the rest of the night because they don’t know how to properly talk to a girl.”

      I blink because all thought processes have taken a mini break. Either that or I’m having a stroke.

      “Just a smile. Maybe a few mumbled words. Tell me anything. Doesn’t have to be poetic. Just your lips moving in my direction without your current blank expression.”

      I blink again, many times, as the sights, sounds and smells of the midway blast back as if someone had pushed the play button on my life. I flash the perfectly practiced public smile I’ve used too many other times in my life.

      “I don’t know how to get them to leave me alone.” I pause, then the bitterness leaks out as well as a grim grin. “At least not without a baseball and a well-placed throw. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to continue their genetics.”

      The right side of his mouth tips up, and my eyes narrow on him. “I thought you didn’t smile easily.”

      “I have a twisted sense of humor, and I didn’t think a girl like you could make me laugh. You’ve done it twice now. That’s a record for the past year.”

      I bristle, still on the dangerous edge of anger. “A girl like me?”

      “Yeah, one that’s out of my league. Listen, if you want to get out of this situation without it escalating, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll take a step back, and you can do whatever you need. I’m all about helping, but I’m not looking to get into a fight. Your call on how this goes down, but if it’s violence, you’re on your own.”

      He says he doesn’t want to partake in violence, but there’s an essence about him that says he could drop anyone at any time and do it without breaking a sweat.

      He’s looking at me, I’m looking at him, and the flutter in my chest returns. “Thank you for the offer, but I can take care of myself.”

      Sure can. Just need that ball, a good throw, and then my mother will be seriously ticked off. I’m tired of people like those guys, and I’m also tired of pretending to be perfect. I rub my eyes at the exhaustion caused by the combination of both.

      “Don’t doubt you can,” he says, “but you really think they’re going to back off if you give them a reaction? And if you keep walking, do you think they’re going to leave you alone? They aren’t some third grade bully who’ll run when you sock him in the nose, and ignoring them isn’t working either. Guys like them get high off your anger, get off on your fear. Trust me on this one. I’ve spent almost a year in the presence of some real assholes.”

      “Why are you helping me?”

      He lifts one shoulder like he doesn’t know the answer or doesn’t care he has an answer, yet he answers anyway, “I have a younger sister. You met her earlier.”

      It’s not an explanation, but it is, and he inclines his head to the game. I move to stand in front of it, and as I go to retrieve money from my pocket, he shakes his head, and pulls out his wallet. “It’s on me.”

      The anger that had been boiling in me retreats because him paying for this game feels old-school James Dean. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome, but don’t expect much from me. Odds are I’m going to lose.”

      The urge is to perform a sweep of the area to see where my tormentors have settled. Predators like that don’t give up easily on their prey.

      “They’re off to our right,” he says as if reading my mind. “Next to the popcorn stand, but don’t look at them. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they have power over you.”

      “They don’t have power over me.”

      “Good.” He lays five dollars on the table. The carnie takes a long look at him and then a long look at me as if we’re a defunct science experiment, and eventually places three balls on the ledge.

      The two of us are different. Complete sliding scale different. The only thing we have in common, as far as I can tell, is that he appears about my age and that we are both wearing shoes. My sandals to his scuffed combat boots. His sagging jeans with rips and white T-shirt to my ironed khaki shorts and fitted blue top. My diamond earrings and gold bracelet with a heart charm to his black belt that has metal studs and silver chain that hangs from his belt loop to his wallet.

      By looks, I should have more in common with the loser college boys, but it’s this guy I’m comfortable with. “What’s your name?”

      He throws the ball, and he’s right, he sucks at it. While he has unbelievable power, his aim’s completely off. The ball hits the back curtain with a loud thud, then drops to the floor. “Drix.”

      “Drix?” I repeat to make sure I heard him correctly.

      “Drix. It’s short for Hendrix. Like Jimi Hendrix.”

      “That’s cool.” Because it is.

      I wait for him to ask for my name, but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Are you here alone?”

      He throws the second ball, and this time he hits the top of the three bottles, sending that one to the ground.

      “No. My parents are here. I’m supposed to meet them at the convention center. What about you? What happened to the people you were with? Or are you here alone now?”

      “Yes, but no.” Drix pulls his arm back, releases the ball and when