CHAPTER 156: A GLIMPSE INTO OLIVIA’S AND MAXWELL’S PAST

Maxwell’s POV - Twenty Years Ago

I sat behind the state library, wedged between a dumpster and the brick wall, trying to make myself as small as possible - which was nearly impossible given my size.

I was twelve years old and weighed over two hundred pounds. My face was a mess of red blotches and acne that no amount of expensive dermatologist visits could fix. My shirt - already too tight across my stomach - had a fresh stain from the chocolate bar I’d been eating earlier, back when I’d foolishly thought I could enjoy my book club meeting in peace.

Stupid. So stupid. The club kids will never see me as one of their own.

And that’s when I heard them coming. Their laughter. Their voices getting closer.

"Where’d the fat pig go?"

"Probably hiding somewhere eating again. That’s all he ever does."

"Bet he’s got more food in his pockets. He always does."

My hands were shaking as I pressed myself harder against the wall, as if I could somehow disappear into the bricks. I held my backpack which was filled with books - because reading was the only thing that made me feel less alone - tightly against my chest like a treasure.

Hiding wouldn’t help. It never helped.

They found me anyway. They always found me.

There were four of them - all older, all bigger, all crueler than anyone that age should be capable of being. Peter was their leader, a sixteen-year-old with dead eyes and a smile that promised pain.

"There you are, Wellington," Peter said, and my stomach dropped at the sound of my name in his mouth. "We’ve been looking everywhere for you."

"I wasn’t doing anything," I said, hating how my voice shook, how weak I sounded. "Just reading. I’ll go home now..."

"You’re not going anywhere." Peter grabbed the front of my shirt, hauling me up from my hiding spot. My shirt stretched, probably tearing, and I heard one of the others laugh.

"Look at him. He’s sweating already and we haven’t even started."

"What’s in the bag, fatty? More snacks?"

Before I could protect it, someone - Jason - ripped my backpack away and dumped its contents on the ground. My books scattered across the dirty floor, pages bending, covers getting scraped.

"Books," Jason said with disgust. "Just books. What a fucking nerd."

"What about his pockets?" Peter suggested, and then his hands were on me, roughly patting me down.

He found the candy bar in my jacket pocket - a Snickers I’d been saving for the drive home. He held it up like a trophy.

"See? I told you! Always eating!"

"No wonder you’re so fucking fat," another voice added - Steven, the shortest one but somehow the meanest. "You’re disgusting. You know that? You’re like a pig."

Peter unwrapped my candy bar and took a large bite. "Mmm. Thanks for the snack, Wellington."

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

"Can I go now?" I asked quietly, my eyes on my scattered books.

"Go? We’re not done with you yet."

Next thing I felt was a painful punch to my stomach. It was so hard that it knocked the wind out of me. I doubled over, gasping, and that’s when the real beating started.

They pushed me. Shoved me between them like I was a toy they were passing around. Someone kicked my leg, making me stumble. Another punched my shoulder. Someone slapped the back of my head.

"This is what you get for thinking you belong here," Peter hissed in my ear. "Rich fat boy coming to our neighborhood library. You think your money makes you better than us?"

"I don’t..." A punch to my gut cut off my words.

"Shut up when I’m talking!" Peter grabbed my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks. "You’re worthless. You know that? Your parents probably can’t even stand to look at you. That’s why you’re always alone."

The words hurt worse than the punches. Because they were true. My parents were always away on business trips, always too busy with their important careers to deal with their disappointing, overweight son who couldn’t seem to do anything right.

"Maybe if you stopped eating for five seconds, you wouldn’t be such a disgusting blob," Steven added, kicking my backpack farther away. "But you can’t, can you? You’re addicted. You’re weak."

I was on the ground now, curled up in a ball, trying to protect my head and stomach while they kicked at my sides, my back, my legs. Nothing that would leave visible marks - they were too smart for that. Just enough to hurt, to humiliate, to remind me that I was nothing.

"Say it," Peter demanded, now sitting on my back. "Say you’re a fat, worthless pig."

I didn’t respond fast enough, so he grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back.

"SAY IT!"

"I’m a fat, worthless pig," I whispered, tears finally breaking free and rolling down my face.

They laughed. God, how they laughed.

"Again! Louder!"

"I’m a fat, worthless pig!" My voice cracked, and I hated myself for giving in, hated them for making me, hated everything about my pathetic existence, while I silently prayed they wouldn’t piss on me this time.

"That’s right. Don’t forget it." Peter shoved my head down, and my face hit the hard floor. I tasted blood - had bitten my lip.

They were still laughing, still celebrating their victory over someone who’d never had a chance of fighting back, when a new voice cut through the air.

"HEY!"

The voice was small and high-pitched, but it made all four of them stop and turn around.

"What the..."

That’s when the screaming started.

I couldn’t see what was happening - my vision was blurry with tears and my face was still pressed against the ground - but I heard it. The yells of pain, the curses, the sound of them running away.

"MY EYES! WHAT THE FUCK..."

"IT BURNS! IT BURNS!"

"GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!"

Their voices faded as they ran away, and suddenly the alley was quiet except for my ragged breathing.

I heard small, light footsteps approaching, and I stayed curled up, trembling, waiting for whatever new torture was coming.

Instead, I felt a gentle hand touch my shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

The voice was soft. Concerned. Kind - a kind of voice I didn’t know existed.

I slowly lifted my head and looked up.

A girl was crouching beside me. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old, tiny and delicate-looking with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a pink jacket and jeans, and in her hand was a small canister of pepper spray that looked almost large compared to her small fingers.

She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

"Are you okay?" she asked again, her eyes wide with worry. "Did they hurt you badly?"

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except stare at this angel who’d appeared out of nowhere and saved me when everyone else had either hurt me or ignored my pain.

"Can you stand up?" She offered her small hand, like she actually thought she could pull me up despite the fact that I probably weighed three times what she did.

I took her hand anyway. It was warm and soft, and just the gesture - having someone offer to help me instead of hurt me - made my chest ache.

I struggled to my feet on my own, not wanting to pull her down with my weight. My entire body hurt, but nothing was broken. Just bruised, and battered.

"Thank you," I finally managed to say, my voice hoarse. "You... you saved me."

She smiled brightly, looking so unafraid despite having just chased off four teenagers with pepper spray. "That’s what heroes do, right? They save people."

"What’s your name?" I asked, needing to know, needing to remember this moment forever.

"Olivia," she said. "What’s yours?"

"Maxwell."

"Maxwell," she repeated. "That’s a strong name. Like a superhero name."

I almost laughed - me, a superhero? I was the opposite of everything a hero should be.

But then Olivia did something that changed everything.

She stepped closer and took my hand in both of hers, looking up at me with a serious expression.

"From now on," she said firmly, "you should stick by my side. And I’ll protect you. No matter what. I promise."

I stared at her, completely stunned. "You... you want to protect me?"

"Of course! That’s what friends do. And we’re friends now, right?"

Friends. When was the last time anyone had wanted to be my friend?

"But you’re so small," I said without thinking, then immediately regretted it. "I mean... not that... I just meant..."

She giggled. "I’m eight years old. I’m supposed to be small. How old are you?"

"Twelve."

Her eyes widened. "Wow. You’re so much older! That’s perfect. You can be the smart one who knows lots of things, and I’ll be the brave one who protects you from bullies. We’ll be the best team ever!"

Something broke open inside my chest - something that had been locked up tight for so long I’d forgotten it existed.

Hope.

This tiny pretty girl with pepper spray and a smile like sunshine wanted to protect me. Wanted to be my friend.