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Maybe if Billy keeps telling himself he's okay with this, it'll eventually be true. He traces the constellations meticulously drawn on the inside of his wrist and tries not to wish he knew the name of the artist. His soulmate.
The bell rings. He tugs the sleeve of his red hoodie over the drawings. If Kessler doesn't see them, he might get away with just a little roughing up and a few coarse words.
He's not that lucky. Kessler peels back the cloth like he knew the sketches were there. "More nerdy art from your faggy boyfriend, Kaplan?"
Billy doesn't correct him, doesn't want to tell the bully that he doesn't even know if his soulmate is a guy. He's so pathetic. He should just ask his soulmate not to draw them anymore, but he can't give them up. A few scribbled words and the doodles on his skin are the only pieces of his other half he gets. When they disappear, when his soulmate washes them away, he has to fight away the tears and the bitter disappointment. It might be days before they appear again, before the pressure of the phantom pen on his skin makes his heart stutter.
Then Kessler pulls a cheap plastic pen out of his pocket. No. Billy's eyes widen; he erupts into motion, struggling to get away. But the bully's friends hold him in place. They hold onto his arm as Kessler scribbles over the map of stars. Tears burn Billy's eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. But Kessler isn't done.
The pen comes toward Billy's face, and he struggles with all the energy he has. Though he's no match for the brawny boys holding him down, he fights to escape even as the F and the A and two Gs are scrawled across his forehead. By the T, he's given up, barely notices when the penis forms on his right cheek. He can feel the tears burning down his cheeks, but the rest of him is numb. He's pathetic, a loser, and his soulmate has that fact confirmed on their face.
He can't bear if this hurts them too.
When the bullies finally release him with horrible laughter, he slumps against the lockers. Kessler snaps the pen in half and throws the pieces at him. He bends over to pick it up, but his hands are shaking too much to hold it. I'm sorry. He wants to write it over and over again on every surface of his body. His eyes follow the shape of the imaginary words just above the obliterated stars. Please forgive me. I'm sorry. I don't deserve you.
He sits on the ground as the other students walk around him, curled in on himself to make himself look smaller. The drawings on his face feel like brands; he buries his face in his knees. No one speaks to him, but he can feel their eyes on him. Finally the hall clears, and he runs to the bathroom.
Thankfully the bathroom is empty. He grabs a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and loads soap on them. The water is freezing, but he doesn't care. He scrubs at the pen markings, water and soap streaming down his face. Some of the soap leaks into his eye, but he ignores the burning, rubbing his face harder. The paper towels start to come apart in his hands and on his skin, but he can't stop. Billy rubs the skin raw until finally—finally!—he can't see a hint of the ink.
He uncaps a pen, a deep rich blue, and writes just underneath the scribble on his wrist.
I'm sorry.