(Crush - Ethel Cain)

Shauna Shipman walks through school like the hallway owes her something.

She wears her hoodie up even when it’s hot, fingers torn up from chewing her nails, knuckles busted from fights she always starts and never really wins. Her flannel smells like Marlboro Reds and sweat and something sharp you can’t name.

You watch her from two rows back in homeroom. Every morning. She never talks. Just chews on a pen cap and stares at the clock like it’s threatening her.

You’ve heard the stories, her dad on death row, her brother walking the stage in gold cords while she skipped class to punch out a vending machine. Her locker’s got rumors written all over it. Everyone pretends not to see the way she shows up with her sleeves pushed up and her eyes dead.

But you see her.

And you can’t stop.

She couldn’t fight to save her life, not really. You’ve seen her lose, scraped palms, split lips, that quiet grunt she makes when someone actually lands a hit. But God, she looks good bleeding. Like she wants it. Like maybe pain is the only thing that makes her feel real.

You write her name in your notebook. You daydream about kissing her in the back of her mom’s Mercury, about pulling her hood down and seeing what kind of bruises she hides under all that black.

You know she’s bad for you. Hell, she’s bad for herself.

But still, when she lights a cigarette behind the gym and exhales like she owns the air, you swear it’s a religious experience.

“Can you read my mind?” you want to ask her.

Because you’ve been screaming in your head. Watching her like she’s the only thing moving in a world stuck in static. You’ve been thinking:

I owe her a black eye and two kisses. Tell me when you want ’em, Shauna. Tell me, and I’ll stop pretending I don’t want to ruin us both.

She walks past you in the hall, no eye contact, gum snapping, hands in her pockets, and it takes everything not to reach out, not to say her name just to see how it tastes on your tongue.

Good girls die too, you think, so I’d rather be with her.

Shauna Shipman. Who smells like gasoline and trouble. Who doesn’t say much. Who might kiss you just to start a fire.

And then, just as you’re about to look away, she stops.

One foot still in front of the other. Half-turned. Chin tilted. Eyes on you.

She smirks. And walks toward you.